All 46 Surviving Works, Newly Translated from the Greek, with the Bekker References Kept in the Text · First Edition (2026)
1| Categories. Things are called homonymous when they have only a name in common, while the account of substance that corresponds to that name is different — for example, an animal, meaning both a man and a picture. For these have only a name in common, while the account of substance corresponding to the name is different; for if someone is to state what it is for each of them to be an animal, he will give a distinct account for each. Things are called synonymous when they have the name in common and also the account of substance that corresponds to that name is the same — for example, an animal, meaning both a man and an ox. For man and ox are both addressed by the common name "animal," and the account of substance is the same; for if someone states the account of each of them — what it is for each of them to be an animal — he will give the same account. Things are called paronymous when they get their designation from something else, differing from it in inflection, in accordance with the name — for example the grammarian gets his name from grammar, and the courageous man from courage. Of things said, some are said in combination, others without combination. Those in combination are, for example, "man runs," "man wins"; those without combination are, for example, "man," "ox," "runs," "wins."
2| Of things that are, some are said of a subject but are not in any subject — for example man is said of a subject, the individual man, but is not in any subject. Others are in a subject but are not said of any subject (by "in a subject" I mean what belongs in something, not as a part, and cannot exist separately from that in which it is) — for example the individual instance of grammatical knowledge is in a subject, the soul, but is not said of any subject, and the individual white is in a subject, the body (for every color is in a body), but is not said of any subject. Others are both said of a subject and are in a subject — for example knowledge is in a subject, the soul, and is said of a subject, grammar. Others are neither in a subject nor said of any subject — for example the individual man and the individual horse; for nothing of this kind is either in a subject or said of a subject. Speaking generally, individual and numerically single things are said of no subject, but nothing prevents some of them from being in a subject; for the individual instance of grammatical knowledge is among the things that are in a subject but are said of no subject.
3| When one thing is predicated of another as of a subject, everything that is said of the predicate will also be said of the subject — for example man is predicated of the individual man, and animal of man; therefore animal will also be predicated of the individual man, since the individual man is both man and animal. The differentiae of genera that are different and not subordinate one to the other are themselves different in kind — for example of animal and of knowledge: the differentiae of animal are, for instance, footed, two-footed, winged, and aquatic, but none of these is a differentia of knowledge; for one kind of knowledge does not differ from another by being two-footed. But of genera that are subordinate one to the other, nothing prevents their having the same differentiae; for the higher genera are predicated of the genera under them, so that all the differentiae of the predicate will also be differentiae of the subject.
4| Of things said without any combination, each signifies either substance, or quantity, or quality, or a relative, or where, or when, or being in a position, or having, or doing, or being affected. Substance is, to give a rough example, a man or a horse; quantity is, for example, two cubits long or three cubits long; quality is, for example, white, grammatical; a relative is, for example, double, half, larger; where is, for example, in the Lyceum, in the marketplace; when is, for example, yesterday, last year; being in a position is, for example, is lying, is sitting; having is, for example, has shoes on, is armed; doing is, for example, cutting, burning; being affected is, for example, being cut, being burned. Each of the things mentioned, taken just by itself, is asserted in no affirmation or denial; it is by the combination of these with one another that an affirmation or denial comes about. For every affirmation and denial is held to be either true or false, whereas none of the things said without any combination is either true or false — for example man, white, runs, wins.
5| Substance, in the truest, primary, and most fundamental sense of the word, is that which is neither said of a subject nor is in a subject — for example, the individual man or the individual horse. Secondary substances are the species in which the primarily-called substances are found, both these species and the genera of these species — for example, the individual man is found in the species man, and the genus of the species is animal; these, then — both man and animal — are called secondary substances. It is clear from what has been said that, of things said of a subject, both the name and the account must necessarily be predicated of the subject — for example man is said of a subject, the individual man, and the name is certainly predicated of it, for you will predicate man of the individual man; and the account of man will also be predicated of the individual man, since the individual man is both man and animal. Hence both the name and the account will be predicated of the subject. But of things that are in a subject, in most cases neither the name nor the account is predicated of the subject; in some cases, though, nothing prevents the name from sometimes being predicated of the subject, but the account is impossible — for example white, being in the subject body, is predicated of the subject (for a body is said to be white), but the account of white will never be predicated of the body.
6| All other things are either said of the primary substances as subjects, or are in them as subjects. This is clear from an examination of particular cases — for example animal is predicated of man, and so it will also be predicated of the individual man; for if it were predicated of none of the individual men, it would not be predicated of man at all either. Again, color is in body, and so it is also in some particular body; for if it were not in some one of the individual bodies, it would not be in body at all either. So all other things are either said of the primary substances as subjects, or are in them as subjects. If, then, the primary substances did not exist, it would be impossible for any of the other things to exist.
7| Of secondary substances, the species is more a substance than the genus, since it is closer to the primary substance. For if someone is to state what the primary substance is, he will give a more informative and more fitting account by giving the species than by giving the genus — for example, in giving an account of the individual man, he would give a more informative account by saying man than by saying animal, since the former is more distinctive of the individual man, while the latter is more general. And likewise in giving an account of an individual tree, he will give a more informative account by saying tree than by saying plant. Further, it is because the primary substances are the subjects for all the other things, and all the other things are predicated of them or are in them, that the primary substances are called substances most of all. And as the primary substances stand to all the other things, so the species stands to the genus; for the species is a subject for the genus (the genera are predicated of the species, but the species are not predicated reciprocally of the genera). Hence on these grounds too the species is more a substance than the genus. But of the species themselves, as many as are not genera, none is more a substance than another; for you will give no more fitting an account by predicating man of the individual man than by predicating horse of the individual horse. Likewise too, of the primary substances, none is more a substance than another; for the individual man is no more a substance than the individual ox.
8| It is reasonable that, after the primary substances, only the species and genera among all other things are called secondary substances; for only they, among the things predicated, make the primary substance clear. For if someone is giving an account of what a particular man is, he will give a suitable account, and one that makes him more familiar, by giving the species or the genus, saying "man" or "animal"; but whatever else he gives, he will be giving an account that is foreign to the thing, as when he gives "white" or "runs" or anything of that sort. So it is reasonable that, of all other things, only these are called substances. Further, the primary substances are called substances in the most proper sense because they underlie all the other things; and just as the primary substances stand to all the other things, so the species and genera of the primary substances stand to all the rest; for all the rest are predicated of these. For you will call a particular man literate; therefore you will also call both man and animal literate. And likewise in the other cases too.
9| It is common to every substance not to be in a subject. For the primary substance neither is in a subject nor is said of a subject; and of the secondary substances too it is plain, in this way as well, that they are not in a subject. For man is said of a subject, the particular man, but is not in a subject; for man is not in the particular man. And likewise animal too is said of a subject, the particular man, but animal is not in the particular man. Further, in the case of things that are in a subject, nothing prevents the name from sometimes being predicated of the subject, but the account, it is impossible. But in the case of the secondary substances, both the account and the name are predicated of the subject; for you will predicate the account of man of the particular man, and likewise that of animal. So substance would not be among the things that are in a subject. But this is not peculiar to substance; the differentia too is among the things not in a subject. For footed and two-footed are said of man as subject, but are not in a subject; for two-footed or footed is not in man. And the account too of the differentia is predicated of that of which the differentia is said; for instance, if footed is said of man, then the account of footed will also be predicated of man; for man is footed. And let it not trouble us that the parts of substances are in their wholes as in subjects, lest we be compelled to say they are not substances; for that was not the sense in which "the things in a subject" was meant — things present in something as parts.
10| It belongs to substances and to differentiae that all things said from them are said synonymously. For all the predications from them are predicated either of the individuals or of the species. From the primary substance there is no predication at all; for it is said of no subject. But of the secondary substances, the species is predicated of the individual, and the genus is predicated both of the species and of the individual. And likewise the differentiae too are predicated of the species and of the individuals. And the primary substances admit the account both of the species and of the genera, and the species admits that of the genus; for whatever is said of the thing predicated will also be said of the subject. And likewise the species and the individuals admit the account of the differentiae as well. And things were synonymous whose name was common and whose account was the same; so all the things said from the substances and from the differentiae are said synonymously. And every substance seems to signify a this something. Now in the case of the primary substances it is undisputed and true that it signifies a this something;
11| for what is indicated is individual and one in number. But in the case of the secondary substances, it appears, from the form of the appellation, that it likewise signifies a this something, when one says "man" or "animal"; but this is not true — rather it signifies a certain qualification; for the subject is not one, as the primary substance is, but man and animal are said of many things. Yet it does not signify a qualification simply, as white does; for white signifies nothing else but a qualification. But the species and the genus mark off the qualification with respect to substance; for it signifies a substance of a certain qualification. And the genus marks off a wider range than the species does; for one who says "animal" encompasses more than one who says "man." It also belongs to substances that nothing is contrary to them. For what would be contrary to the primary substance — for instance, to the particular man or to the particular animal? Nothing is contrary. Nor again is anything contrary to man or to animal. But this is not peculiar to substance; it holds also of many other things, for instance of quantity; for nothing is contrary to two cubits or to three cubits, nor to ten, nor to anything of that sort — unless someone should say that the much is contrary to the little, or the great to the small. But of the determinate quantities none is contrary to any other.
12| Substance also seems not to admit of more and less. I do not mean that one substance is not more or less a substance than another substance — for that has already been said to be the case — but that each substance, with respect to what it itself is, is not said to be so more or less. For instance, if this very substance is a man, it will not be more and less a man, neither itself than itself nor another than another; for one man is not more a man than another, as white is more white and less white than another white thing, and one thing is called more beautiful and less beautiful than another. And a thing is also called more and less than itself; for instance, a body that is white is said to be more white now than it was before, and a thing that is hot is said to be more hot and less hot. But substance is not said to be more or less anything; for a man is not said to be more a man now than before, nor is anything else that is a substance. So substance would not admit of the more and the less.
13| But the most distinctive mark of substance seems to be this: that while remaining one and the same in number, it is receptive of contraries. In the other cases one could not bring forward anything of this sort, among things that are not substances, that is one in number and receptive of contraries — for instance, color, which is one and the same in number, will not be at once base and excellent; and likewise in the other cases too, among things that are not substances. But substance, being one and the same in number, is receptive of contraries; for instance, a particular man, being one and the same, becomes at one time white and at another black, and hot and cold, and base and excellent. In none of the other cases does anything of this sort appear — unless someone should object, saying that an account and a belief are receptive of contraries. For the same account seems to be both true and false; for instance, if the account that someone is sitting were true, then, once he has stood up, this same account will be false. And likewise too with belief; for if someone should truly believe that a certain person is sitting, then, once that person has stood up, he will believe falsely if he holds the same belief about him.
14| But even if someone grants this too, still substance differs in the manner of it. For in the case of substances, it is the very things themselves, by changing, that admit the contraries: what was hot becomes cold and has changed (for it has been altered), and what was white becomes black, and what was base becomes good. Likewise in the other cases too, each thing itself, by admitting change, is receptive of the contraries. But an account and an opinion themselves remain wholly unmoved in every way; it is the thing that changes, and the contrary comes to hold with respect to them. For the account that someone is sitting remains the same; but when the thing changes, the account is said to be true at one time and false at another. And likewise with opinion. So that, in the manner of it, it would be a property of substance to be receptive of the contraries by its own change. But if someone grants even this much — that account and opinion are receptive of the contraries — this is not true. For an account and an opinion are not said to be receptive of a contrary by themselves admitting anything, but because the affection has come to be about some other thing. For it is by the thing's being or not being that the account is said to be true or false, not by the account itself being receptive of the contraries.
15| For in the strict sense nothing whatsoever moves an account or an opinion, so that they would not be receptive of the contraries, since no affection comes to be in them. But substance is said to be receptive of the contraries by itself admitting them: for it admits disease and health, and whiteness and blackness; and by itself admitting each such thing it is said to be receptive of the contraries. So that it would be a property of substance to be, while remaining the same and one in number, receptive of the contraries by its own change. Let this much, then, be said about substance.
16| Of quantity, one kind is discrete, another continuous; and the one kind is composed of parts that have position in relation to one another, the other of parts that do not have position. Discrete quantity is, for instance, number and speech; continuous quantity is, for instance, line, surface, body, and besides these, time and place. For of the parts of number there is no common boundary at which its parts join together — for instance, if the five is a part of the ten, the five and the five do not join at any common boundary, but are marked off separately; and three and seven likewise join at no common boundary; nor in general could you find any common boundary of the parts in the case of number, but they are always marked off separately. So that number belongs among discrete quantities. And likewise speech too belongs among discrete quantities. That speech is a quantity is clear, for it is measured by short and long syllable. I mean the speech that occurs with spoken sound. For its parts join at no common boundary: there is no common boundary at which the syllables join, but each is marked off, separate in itself.
17| But a line is continuous: for it is possible to find a common boundary at which its parts join, a point — and for a surface, a line; for the parts of a plane join at some common boundary. And likewise in the case of a body you could find a common boundary, a line or a surface, at which the parts of the body join. Time and place too belong among such things. For the present time joins to the past and to the future. Place again is among the continuous things: for the parts of a body occupy some place, which join at some common boundary; and so the parts of the place, too, which each of the parts of the body occupies, join at the same boundary at which the parts of the body join. So that place too would be continuous: for its parts join at one common boundary.
18| Further, some quantities are composed of parts that have position in relation to one another, others of parts that do not have position — for instance, the parts of a line have position in relation to one another: for each of them lies somewhere, and you could distinguish and state where each lies on the plane, and to which of the remaining parts it joins. And likewise the parts of a plane too have some position: for in the same way it could be stated where each lies, and which parts join to one another. And so too with the parts of a solid, and of place. But in the case of number one could not point out that its parts have some position in relation to one another, or lie anywhere, or which of the parts join to one another. Nor the parts of time either: for none of the parts of time endures; and how could something that does not endure have some position? Rather you would say it has a certain order, in that one part of time is prior and another posterior. And likewise with number too, in that the one is counted prior to the two, and the two prior to the three; and so it would have a certain order, but you could not really take it to have position. And speech likewise: for none of its parts endures, but once spoken it can no longer be recovered, so that there would be no position of its parts, seeing that nothing endures. Some quantities, then, are composed of parts having position, others of parts not having position.
19| Properly speaking, only the things mentioned are called quantities; all the others are called so accidentally. For it is by looking to these that we call the other things quantities too — for instance, white is called much because the surface is much, and an action is called long because the time is much, and motion is called much likewise. For none of these is called a quantity in its own right. For instance, if someone states how great an action is, he will mark it off by time, calling it a year long or something of the sort. And in stating how great the white thing is, he will mark it off by the surface: for however great the surface is, so great, he would say, is the white too. So that only the things mentioned are properly and in their own right called quantities, and none of the others is so in its own right, but if at all, accidentally.
20| Further, nothing is contrary to quantity. In the case of the determinate quantities it is clear that nothing is contrary — for instance, to the two-cubit or three-cubit, or to a surface, or to any such thing there is nothing contrary — unless someone should say that the much is contrary to the little, or the great to the small. But none of these is a quantity; rather they belong among relatives. For nothing is called great or small in its own right, but by being referred to something else — for instance a mountain is called small, and a grain of millet large, because the one is greater than things of its own kind and the other smaller than things of its own kind. The reference, then, is to something else, since if great or small were said in its own right, the mountain would never be called small, nor the millet grain large. Again, we say there are many people in the village, and few in Athens, though the Athenians are many times more numerous; and many people in the house, few in the theater, though those in the theater are far more numerous. Further, the two-cubit and the three-cubit and each such thing signify a quantity, but the great or the small does not signify a quantity but rather a relative;
21| For the large and the small are observed relative to something else. So it is clear that these belong to relatives. Again, whether one posits these as quantities or not, they have no contrary; for what cannot be taken in its own right but is referred to something else — how could one say anything is contrary to it? And further, if the large and the small are to be contraries, it will follow that the same thing admits contraries at the same time and is itself contrary to itself. For it happens sometimes that the same thing is at once large and small; for it is small relative to this, but the same thing is large relative to something else. So the same thing turns out to be both large and small at the same time; so it admits contraries at the same time. But nothing seems to admit contraries at the same time — take substance, for instance: it seems to be receptive of contraries, but it is not at the same time ill and healthy. Nor is a thing at the same time white and black. Nor is there anything else that admits contraries at the same time. And moreover it turns out that these are contrary to themselves. For if the large is contrary to the small, and the same thing is at once large and small, then it would be contrary to itself.
22| But it is among the impossibilities for a thing to be contrary to itself. Therefore the large is not contrary to the small, nor the many to the few. So even if one calls these not relatives but quantities, they will have no contrary. Contrariety in quantity seems to hold especially in the case of place; for people set up above as contrary to below, calling the region toward the middle 'below,' because the middle is at the greatest distance from the limits of the universe. And it seems that they derive their definition of the other contraries too from these: for they define as contraries those things within the same genus that stand furthest apart from one another. Quantity does not seem to admit of the more and the less — take, for instance, the two-cubit: one thing is not more two-cubit than another. Nor with number either — for instance three is no more three than five is five, nor is five more five than three is three. Nor is one period of time said to be more a time than another. Nor, in general, is the more and the less said of any of the things mentioned. So quantity does not admit the more and the less.
23| What is most distinctive of quantity is that it is spoken of as equal and unequal. For each of the quantities mentioned is called equal or unequal — a body, for instance, is called equal or unequal, and a time is called equal or unequal. Likewise each of the other things mentioned is called equal and unequal. But of the rest, whatever is not a quantity would not, it seems, be called equal or unequal at all — a disposition, for instance, is not really called equal or unequal, but rather similar; and white is not really called equal or unequal, but similar. So it would be most distinctive of quantity to be called equal and unequal.
24| Things are called relatives when, whatever they are, they are said to be of or than something else, or are related to something else in some other way — for instance, the larger is called what it is in relation to something else, for it is called larger than something; and the double is called what it is in relation to something else, for it is called double of something. Likewise with all other such cases. Also of this kind are: state, disposition, perception, knowledge, position. For all the things mentioned are said to be, just what they are, of something else, and not anything else — for a state is called a state of something, and knowledge is knowledge of something, and position is a position of something, and the others likewise. So relatives are whatever are said to be, just what they are, of other things, or related to something else in some other way — for instance a mountain is called large in relation to something else, for it is called large relative to something; and the like is called like something, and the other such things are likewise called relative to something. Further, reclining and standing and sitting are certain positions, and position is one of the relatives. But lying-down or standing or sitting are not themselves positions, but are called, by derivation, from the positions mentioned.
25| Contrariety belongs among relatives too — for instance virtue is contrary to vice, each being a relative, and knowledge to ignorance. But not every relative has a contrary; for there is nothing contrary to the double, nor to the triple, nor to any such thing. But the more and the less do seem to be admitted by relatives; for like and unlike are said more and less, and equal and unequal are said more and less, each of them being a relative — for the like is called like something, and the unlike unlike something. But not all relatives admit the more and the less: the double is not called more and less double, nor is any such thing.
26| All relatives are spoken of in relation to correlatives that reciprocate, as when the slave is called slave of a master, and the master master of a slave; and the double is called double of the half, and the half half of the double; and the greater is called greater than the lesser, and the lesser lesser than the greater. Likewise with the others too, except that they will sometimes differ in grammatical case in the wording — for instance knowledge is called knowledge of the knowable, and the knowable is called knowable by knowledge; and perception is perception of the perceptible, and the perceptible is perceptible by perception. Yet sometimes it will not seem to reciprocate, if the correlative to which it is related is not properly assigned but the one making the assignment errs — for instance if a wing is assigned as of a bird, bird does not reciprocate with wing. For the first term, wing of a bird, was not properly assigned; for it is not insofar as it is a bird that the wing is said to be its, but insofar as it is winged — for many other things too have wings, which are not birds. So if it is properly assigned, it does reciprocate too, as wing is a wing of a winged thing, and the winged thing is winged by a wing. Sometimes it is perhaps even necessary to coin a name, if no name is available to which the assignment could properly be made — for instance if the rudder is assigned as of a boat, the assignment is not proper;
27| for it is not insofar as it is a boat that the rudder is said to belong to it — for there are boats that have no rudders. Hence it does not reciprocate; for a boat is not called a boat of a rudder. But perhaps the assignment would be more proper if it were made something like this: the rudder is a rudder of a ruddered-thing, or in some other such way — for there is no name for it. And it does reciprocate, if properly assigned; for the ruddered-thing is ruddered by a rudder. Likewise too with the others — for instance a head would more properly be assigned as of a headed-thing than as assigned to an animal; for it is not insofar as it is an animal that it has a head, since many animals have no head. In this way, perhaps, one might most easily grasp the terms for which no names are available, if one assigned names based on the primary terms and their reciprocating correlatives, just as in the cases mentioned, 'winged' from 'wing' and 'ruddered' from 'rudder.' So all relatives, if properly assigned, are spoken of in relation to reciprocating correlatives, since if they are assigned in relation to something incidental and not to the very thing in relation to which they are spoken of, they do not reciprocate. I mean that not even among things agreed to be spoken of in relation to reciprocating correlatives, with names available for them, does anything reciprocate, if it is assigned in relation to some accidental attribute and not to the very thing in relation to which it is spoken of — for instance if the slave is assigned not as of a master but of a man, or of a biped, or of any such thing, it does not reciprocate;
28| For the correlate has not been given properly. Further, if something has been given properly relative to that to which it is said, then when everything else that is accidental to it is stripped away, and only that is left to which it was properly given, it will always be said relative to that. For example, take a slave: if he is said relative to a master, then when everything else that is accidental to the master is stripped away — such as being two-footed, being receptive of knowledge, being a human being — and only being a master is left, the slave will always be said relative to that; for a slave is called a slave of a master. But if what a thing is said relative to has not been given properly, then when everything else is stripped away and only what was given is left, it will not be said relative to it. Suppose the slave were given as relative to a human being, and the wing as relative to a bird, and being a master were stripped away from the human being: the slave will no longer be said relative to a human being, for if there is no master there is no slave either. Likewise if being winged is stripped away from the bird, the wing will no longer be among the relatives, for if there is no winged thing there will be no wing of anything either. And so one must give the correlate to which a thing is properly said.
29| And if a name already exists for it, the giving of the correlate is easy; but if not, it is presumably necessary to coin one. When correlates are given in this way, it is clear that all relatives are said relative to things that reciprocate. It is thought that relatives are simultaneous by nature, and in most cases this is true. For the double and the half are simultaneous — when there is a half there is a double — and when there is a master there is a slave, and when there is a slave there is a master; and likewise with the others of this kind. And these also destroy one another together: if there is no double there is no half, and if there is no half there is no double; and likewise with the other such cases. But it does not seem true of all relatives that they are simultaneous by nature; for the knowable would seem to be prior to knowledge. For as a rule we acquire knowledge of things that already exist beforehand; in few cases, if any, could one see knowledge coming into being at the same time as the knowable object. Further, when the knowable is destroyed it destroys knowledge along with it, but knowledge does not destroy the knowable along with it. For if there is no knowable there is no knowledge — since there will then be knowledge of nothing — but if there is no knowledge, nothing prevents there being something knowable, as, for example, the squaring of the circle: if indeed it is knowable, there is not yet knowledge of it, but it is itself knowable.
30| Further, if animal is destroyed there will be no knowledge, but many knowable things can still exist. The same holds for the case of perception. For the perceptible seems to be prior to perception. For when the perceptible is destroyed it destroys perception along with it, but perception does not destroy the perceptible along with it. For perceptions concern body and are in a body, and when the perceptible is destroyed the body is destroyed too (for the body is among perceptible things), and when there is no body perception too is destroyed; so the perceptible destroys perception along with it. But perception does not destroy the perceptible along with it: for when an animal is destroyed, perception is destroyed, but the perceptible will still exist — such as body, hot, sweet, bitter, and all the other perceptible qualities. Further, perception comes into being at the same time as the thing capable of perceiving; for perception comes into being at the same time as the animal. But the perceptible exists even before there is an animal or perception: for fire and water and the like, of which even the animal is composed, exist even before there is any animal at all, or perception. So the perceptible would seem to be prior to perception.
31| There is a puzzle as to whether no substance is spoken of as a relative — as it seems — or whether this is possible in the case of some secondary substances. In the case of primary substances it is true: neither wholes nor parts are spoken of as relatives. For a particular human being is not spoken of as somebody's particular human being, nor is a particular ox somebody's particular ox. And likewise with parts: a particular hand is not spoken of as somebody's particular hand, but as somebody's hand, and a particular head is not spoken of as somebody's particular head, but as somebody's head. And likewise with secondary substances, at least in most cases: for example, man is not spoken of as somebody's man, nor is ox somebody's ox, nor wood somebody's wood, but is spoken of as somebody's possession. In such cases, then, it is clear that they are not among the relatives; but with some secondary substances there is dispute — for example, a head is spoken of as somebody's head, and a hand is spoken of as somebody's hand, and each such case is similar, so that these would seem to be among the relatives. If, then, the definition of relatives has been adequately given, it is either very difficult or impossible to show that no substance is spoken of as a relative;
32| but if it has not been given adequately, and relatives are rather those things for which being is the same as standing in some relation, then perhaps something could be said about these. The earlier definition applies to all relatives, but it is not the same thing for them to be relative as for them to be said to be just what they are of other things. From this it is clear that if someone knows determinately some relative, he will also know determinately that to which it is said. This is clear from the cases themselves as well. For if someone knows some particular thing, that it is among the relatives, and being for relatives is the same as standing in some relation, then he also knows that to which this stands in some relation; for if he does not know at all what it stands in some relation to, he will not know whether it stands in some relation either. This is clear also in particular cases: for example, if someone knows determinately of a particular thing that it is double, he also immediately knows determinately what it is double of; for if he does not know it to be double of any determinate thing, he does not know at all whether it is double. Likewise too, if someone knows of a particular thing that it is finer, he must for the same reason immediately know determinately what it is finer than.
33| He will not know indeterminately that this is finer than something inferior; for that sort of thing is supposition, not knowledge. For he will no longer know precisely that it is finer than something inferior — since if it so happened, there might be nothing inferior to it. So it is clear that whatever relative someone knows determinately, he must also know determinately that to which it is said. But the head and the hand and each such thing, which are substances, can be known determinately in what they themselves are, without its being necessary to know that to which they are said. For whose head this is, or whose hand, cannot be known determinately. So these would not be among the relatives. And if these are not relatives, it would be true to say that no substance is a relative. But perhaps it is difficult to pronounce confidently on such matters without having examined them often; still, to have worked through the puzzles concerning each of them is not without use.
34| By quality I mean that in virtue of which people are called qualified in some way. Quality is one of the things spoken of in several senses. Let one kind of quality be called state and condition. A state differs from a condition in being more lasting and more stable. Knowledge and virtue are of this sort; for knowledge seems to be among the things that are lasting and hard to change, if one has acquired even a moderate grasp of it, so long as no great change is brought about by disease or something else of that kind; and virtue is the same way — justice, temperance, and each of the others of that kind do not seem easily changed or easily shifted. Conditions, by contrast, are called those things which are easily changed and quickly shift, such as heat, chill, disease, health, and other things of that sort; for a person is disposed in some way in respect of these, but quickly changes, becoming cold from hot and passing from being healthy into being sick, and likewise with the rest, unless one of these very conditions should already, through length of time, have become ingrained and incurable or very hard to change — a thing one might by then perhaps call a state. It is clear that people wish to call states those conditions which are more lasting and harder to change; for those who do not have a firm hold on the branches of knowledge but shift easily are not said to have a state, even though they are disposed in some way, better or worse, with respect to the knowledge. So a state differs from a condition in that the one is easily changed, while the other is more lasting and harder to change. States are also conditions, but conditions are not necessarily states; for those who have states are also disposed in some way in respect of them, but those who are disposed in some way do not in every case also have a state.
35| Another genus of quality is that in virtue of which we call people good boxers, good runners, healthy, or sickly, and in general whatever is spoken of in respect of a natural capacity or incapacity. For none of these is called qualified by being disposed in some way, but by having a natural capacity or incapacity to do something easily or to be affected by nothing; good boxers or good runners, for instance, are so called not by being disposed in some way but by having a natural capacity to do something easily, and people are called healthy by having a natural capacity to be unaffected by ordinary things easily, sickly by having a natural incapacity to be unaffected by ordinary things easily. Hard and soft stand in a like case: the hard is so called by having a capacity not to be divided easily, the soft by having an incapacity for this same thing.
36| A third genus of quality is affective qualities and affections. Things of this sort are, for instance, sweetness, bitterness, sourness, and everything akin to these, and further heat, cold, whiteness, and blackness. That these are qualities is clear, for the things that have received them are called qualified in respect of them, as honey is called sweet by having received sweetness, and a body white by having received whiteness; and likewise with the rest. They are called affective qualities not because the things that have received the qualities have themselves been affected in some way — for honey is not called sweet by having been affected in some way, nor is any other such thing — but heat and cold, likewise, are called affective qualities not because the things that have received them have themselves been affected in some way, but because each of the qualities named is productive of an affection in respect of the senses; for sweetness produces a certain affection in the taste, and heat in the touch, and likewise the others. But whiteness and blackness and the other colors are not called affective qualities in the same way as the things just mentioned, but by having come about from an affection.
37| That many changes of color come about through affection is plain: a person who feels shame turns red, one who feels fear turns pale, and so for each such case; so that if someone by nature has undergone one of these affections as the result of some natural constitution, it is likely that he has the corresponding color; for whatever bodily disposition now arises in feeling shame could also arise from one's natural makeup, so that a similar color comes to be by nature as well. So whatever cases of this sort of occurrence take their origin from certain affections that are hard to change and lasting are called affective qualities. For whether pallor or blackness has come about in the natural constitution, they are called qualities (for we are called qualified in respect of them), or whether this same thing, pallor or blackness, has resulted from a long illness or from heat, and does not easily go away, or even remains throughout life, these too are called qualities; for likewise we are called qualified in respect of them. But whatever cases arise from things that are easily dissolved and quickly restored are called affections, not qualities; for we are not called qualified in respect of them. For neither is the man who blushes from shame called ruddy, nor the man who turns pale from fear called pallid, but rather he is said to have been affected in some way.
38| So things of this sort are called affections, not qualities. And in the same way, in respect of the soul too, there are affective qualities and affections spoken of. For whatever has come about right from birth from certain affections hard to change is called a quality, such as the manic derangement, anger, and things of that kind; for people are called qualified in respect of these — irritable and manic. And likewise whatever derangements are not natural but have come about from certain other occurrences that are hard to shake off or altogether immovable, these too are qualities; for people are called qualified in respect of them. But whatever arises from things quickly restored is called an affection, as when someone who is distressed is more irritable; for the man who is more irritable in such an affection is not called irritable, but rather is said to have been affected in some way. So things of this sort are called affections, not qualities.
39| A fourth genus of quality is shape and the form that belongs to each thing, and further, besides these, straightness and curvedness, and whatever is like these. For in respect of each of these something is called qualified; a thing is called qualified by being triangular or square, and by being straight or curved. And each thing is also called qualified in respect of its form. Rare and dense, rough and smooth, might seem to signify something qualified, but these appear to be foreign to the division concerned with the qualified; for each of them seems rather to indicate a certain position of the parts. A thing is dense by having its parts close to one another, rare by having them stand apart from one another; and smooth by having its parts lie in some way on a straight line, rough by having some part project and some fall short. There might perhaps appear to be some other manner of quality as well, but those most properly so called are more or less these.
40| These, then, are the qualities that have been named, and qualified things are those called paronymously after them, or in some other way derived from them. Now in most cases, and practically in all, the term is used paronymously, as white is derived from whiteness, literate from literacy, and just from justice, and likewise with the rest. But in some cases, because no names have been established for the qualities, it is not possible to speak of them paronymously from the qualities; for instance, a man called a good runner or a good boxer in respect of a natural capacity is not so called paronymously from any quality, for no names have been established for the capacities in respect of which such people are called qualified, as they have been for the branches of knowledge in respect of which people are called, by a condition, good at boxing or good at wrestling — for boxing and wrestling are called branches of knowledge, and people disposed in respect of them are called qualified paronymously from these. And sometimes, even when a name has been established, the thing called qualified in respect of it is not spoken of paronymously, as the excellent man is not so called from virtue; for he is called excellent by having virtue, but not paronymously from virtue. This is not so, however, in many cases. Qualified things, then, are said to be those spoken of paronymously from the qualities named, or in some other way derived from them.
41| There is also contrariety in respect of quality — for instance, justice is contrary to injustice, and whiteness to blackness, and so on with the rest — and likewise with the things called qualified in virtue of these, for instance the unjust in relation to the just, and the white in relation to the black. But this is not so in every case: for to red or yellow, or other such colors, nothing is contrary, though they are qualities. Further, if one of two contraries is a quality, the remaining one will be a quality too. This is clear if one runs through the other categories: for instance, if justice is the contrary of injustice, and justice is a quality, then injustice too is a quality; for none of the other categories fits injustice — not quantity, not relative, not place, nor anything else of that kind, but only quality. And it is the same with the other pairs that are contrary in respect of quality.
42| Qualities admit of more and less. For one thing is called white, or less white, than another, and one thing more just than another. And a thing itself admits of increase: being white, it can still become whiter. Not everything, however, admits of this, but most things do. For whether justice is said to be more or less justice than justice, one might be at a loss; and likewise with the other states. Some indeed dispute about such cases: they say one ought not, strictly, to speak of one justice as more or less justice than another, nor one health as more or less health than another, though they allow that one person has health in a lesser degree than another, and justice in a lesser degree than another, and likewise grammatical skill and the other states. But at any rate the things named after these unquestionably admit of more and less: one man is called more grammatically skilled than another, and more healthy, and more just, and so on with the rest. Triangle and square, however, do not seem to admit of more: nor does any other figure. For things which admit the definition of triangle, or of circle, are all alike triangles or circles; and among things that do not admit it, none will be called more one than the other — for a square is no more a circle than an oblong is, since neither admits the definition of circle. In general, unless both admit the definition of the thing in question, one will not be called more that thing than the other. So not all qualities admit of more and less.
43| None of the things mentioned, then, is distinctive of quality, but likeness and unlikeness are spoken of only in respect of qualities: one thing is like another in no respect but that in virtue of which it is qualified. So it would be distinctive of quality to be spoken of as like and unlike in virtue of itself. One need not be troubled that, in undertaking to discuss quality, we should be found reckoning in many things belonging to relatives; for we said that states and dispositions are among the relatives. In pretty much all cases of that sort, it is the genera that are spoken of as relative, none of the particulars. For knowledge, being a genus, is called just what it is of something else — for it is called knowledge of something — but none of the particular kinds of knowledge is called just what it is of something else: grammar, for instance, is not called grammar of something, nor is music called music of something. Rather, it is in virtue of the genus that these too, if at all, are called relative: grammar is called knowledge of something, not grammar of something, and music is called knowledge of something, not music of something. So the particulars are not among the relatives. But it is by the particulars that we are called qualified: for it is these that we possess; we are called knowers by possessing some one of the particular branches of knowledge. So these — the particulars, in virtue of which we are sometimes called qualified — would indeed be qualities; and these are not among the relatives. Further, if the same thing should happen to be both relative and qualified, there is nothing absurd in its being reckoned under both genera.
44| Acting and being acted upon also admit of contrariety and of more and less. For heating is contrary to cooling, and being heated to being cooled, and being pleased to being pained, so that these admit of contrariety. And they admit of more and less as well: for one can heat more or less, and be heated more or less. So acting and being acted upon admit of more and less. So much, then, is said about these. It has also been said, in discussing the relatives, about being-in-a-position, that it is spoken of paronymously from the positions. Concerning the remaining categories — the when, the where, and the having — because they are self-evident, nothing further is said about them beyond what was said at the start: that having signifies being shod, being armed, and where signifies, for example, in the Lyceum, and the rest as was said about them there. On the proposed genera, then, what has been said is enough. We must now speak of opposites, of the number of ways in which one thing is customarily opposed to another. One thing is said to be opposed to another in four ways: either as relatives, or as contraries, or as privation and possession, or as affirmation and negation. Each such pair is opposed, to put it in outline, as relatives — for instance the double to the half; or as contraries — for instance the bad to the good; or in respect of privation and possession — for instance blindness and sight; or as affirmation and negation — for instance he is sitting — he is not sitting.
45| Whatever is opposed as relatives is spoken of, in what it itself is, as being of its opposite, or in some other way in relation to it — for instance the double, in what it itself is, is called double of something else, for it is double of something. And knowledge too is opposed to the knowable as relatives, and knowledge is spoken of as being, in what it itself is, of the knowable. And the knowable too, in what it itself is, is spoken of in relation to its opposite, knowledge: for the knowable is called knowable by something, namely by knowledge.
46| Whatever, then, is opposed as relatives is spoken of, in what it itself is, as being of other things, or as related to one another in some way. But things opposed as contraries are, in what they themselves are, in no way spoken of in relation to one another, though they are called contrary to one another: for the good is not called good of the bad, but contrary to it, nor is the white called white of the black, but contrary to it. So these two kinds of opposition differ from one another. Among contraries, those such that, in the things in which they naturally arise, or of which they are predicated, one of the two must necessarily belong — of these there is nothing intermediate. But those of which it is not necessary that one belong, of these there is always something intermediate. For instance, disease and health naturally arise in the body of an animal, and it is necessary that one of the two belong to the animal's body, either disease or health. And odd and even are predicated of number, and it is necessary that one of the two belong to a number, either odd or even. And there is nothing intermediate between these, neither between disease and health nor between odd and even. But of things where it is not necessary that one belong, there is something intermediate: for instance black and white naturally arise in a body, and it is not necessary that one of the two belong to the body —
47| for not everything is either white or black. And base and virtuous are predicated both of man and of many other things, but it is not necessary that one of the two belong to the things of which they are predicated: not everything is either base or virtuous. And there is indeed something intermediate between these: between white and black, gray and yellow and the other colors; between base and virtuous, what is neither base nor virtuous. Now in some cases names are given to the intermediates — for instance gray and yellow and the other colors are intermediate between white and black. But in other cases it is not easy to supply a name for the intermediate, and it is defined instead by the negation of each of the extremes — for instance, what is neither good nor bad, and neither just nor unjust.
48| Privation and possession are spoken of in connection with some one thing, as sight and blindness are spoken of in connection with the eye. And speaking generally, each of them is spoken of in connection with whatever it is in whose nature it is to possess the state. We say that each of the things capable of receiving a state has been deprived of it when the state is not present at all in the thing in which it is natural for it to be present, and at the time when it is natural for the thing to have it. For we do not call a thing toothless simply because it lacks teeth, nor blind simply because it lacks sight, but rather because it lacks these when it is natural to have them. For some things from birth have neither sight nor teeth, but they are not called toothless or blind. Being deprived and having the state are not themselves privation and possession. For sight is a possession, and blindness is a privation; but having sight is not sight, nor is being blind blindness. For blindness is a kind of privation, but being blind is being deprived, not privation itself. Further, if blindness were the same as being blind, both would be predicated of the same subject; but a man is called blind, while a man is never called blindness. These too, being deprived and having the state, do seem to be opposed as privation and possession are; for the manner of the opposition is the same. For just as blindness is opposed to sight, so too being blind is opposed to having sight.
49| Nor again is what falls under an affirmation or negation itself an affirmation or negation. For an affirmation is an affirmative statement and a negation is a negative statement, whereas none of the things that fall under an affirmation or negation is itself a statement. But these too are said to be opposed to one another in the way affirmation and negation are; for in their case too the manner of the opposition is the same. For just as an affirmation is opposed to a negation, as in "he sits" to "he does not sit," so too the thing that falls under each is opposed, sitting to not sitting. That privation and possession are not opposed as relatives are is clear; for a relative is not called what it is of its opposite. For sight is not called the sight of blindness, nor is it in any other way spoken of in relation to it. Likewise blindness would not be called the blindness of sight; rather, blindness is called a privation of sight, but sight is not called a sight of blindness. Further, all relatives are spoken of in relation to their converse, so that if blindness were among the relatives, that in relation to which it is spoken of would convert with it. But it does not convert; for sight is not called the sight of blindness.
50| That the things spoken of in respect of privation and possession are not opposed as contraries either is clear from the following. In the case of contraries between which there is nothing intermediate, it is necessary that one or the other of them always belong to whatever it is natural for them to arise in, or of which they are predicated; for there was nothing intermediate between these, one or the other of which it was necessary should belong to what is receptive of them, as with disease and health, and odd and even. But in the case of things that do have an intermediate, it is never necessary that one or the other belong to everything; for it is not necessary that everything receptive of them be either white or black, nor hot nor cold, since nothing prevents something intermediate between these from belonging to it. Further, among these there was also something intermediate, for which it was not necessary that one or the other belong to what is receptive of it, except for things to which the one belongs by nature, as being hot belongs to fire and being white to snow. In these cases it is necessary in a determinate way that one of them belong, and not whichever it happens to be; for it is not possible for fire to be cold, nor for snow to be black. So it is not necessary that one or the other of them belong to everything receptive of them, but only to those things to which the one belongs by nature, and to these in a determinate way, the one and not whichever it happens to be.
51| In the case of privation and possession, neither of the things just said is true. For it is not always necessary that one or the other of them belong to what is receptive of them; for what is not yet naturally disposed to have sight is called neither blind nor sighted, so that these would not belong to the class of such contraries as have no intermediate. But neither do they belong to the class of contraries that do have an intermediate; for it is necessary at some time that one or the other of them belong to everything receptive of them. For when a thing is already of a nature to have sight, then it will be called either blind or sighted, and of these, not the one in a determinate way, but whichever it happens to be; for it is not necessary that it be blind or that it have sight, but whichever it happens to be. But in the case of contraries that have an intermediate, it was never necessary that one or the other belong to everything, but only to some things, and to these in a determinate way, the one. So it is clear that the opposition of privation and possession is opposed in neither of these two ways in which contraries are opposed.
52| Further, in the case of contraries, where the receptive subject exists, a change into one another is possible, unless the one belongs to something by nature, as being hot belongs to fire; for what is healthy can fall sick, and what is white can become black, and what is cold can become hot, and it is possible to become base from being excellent, and excellent from being base. For the base man, being led into better company and better arguments, might even make a little progress toward being better. And if he once takes even a small measure of progress, it is clear that he would either change completely or make very great progress; for he always becomes more readily moved toward virtue, however small a measure of progress he has taken from the start, so that it is likely he will take on still more progress. And this happening continually restores him completely to the contrary state, provided he is not shut out by time. But in the case of possession and privation, a change into one another is impossible. For a change occurs from possession to privation, but from privation to possession is impossible. For no one who has become blind has regained sight again, nor has a bald man grown hair again, nor has a toothless man grown teeth.
53| As for the things opposed as affirmation and negation are, it is clear that they are opposed in none of the ways already mentioned; for only in their case is it necessary that one of them always be true and the other false. For neither in the case of contraries is it necessary that one always be true and the other false, nor in the case of relatives, nor in the case of possession and privation. For instance, health and disease are contraries, and neither of them is either true or false. Likewise the double and the half are opposed as relatives, and neither of them is either true or false. Nor are the things spoken of in respect of privation and possession, such as sight and blindness. And in general, none of the things spoken of without any combination is either true or false; and all the things mentioned are spoken of without combination. Still, it might seem that this happens most of all in the case of contraries spoken of in combination; for Socrates being healthy is contrary to Socrates being sick. But not even in these cases is it necessary that one always be true and the other false. For if Socrates exists, one will be true and the other false, but if he does not exist, both will be false;
54| For neither Socrates' being sick nor his being healthy is true if Socrates does not exist at all. But in the case of privation and state, if the subject does not exist at all, neither is true, while if it does exist, it is not always the case that one is true and the other false: for having sight is opposed to being blind, as privation and state, and even when the subject exists it is not necessary that one of them be true or false (for when it is not yet natural for it to have the state, both are false), and when Socrates does not exist at all, both are likewise false, both having sight and being blind. But in the case of affirmation and negation, always, whether the subject exists or not, one will be false and the other true. For take Socrates' being sick and Socrates' not being sick: if he exists, it is clear that one of them is true or false, and likewise if he does not exist; for being sick is false if he does not exist, while not being sick is true. So it would be peculiar to these alone, that one of them is always true or false, namely those that are opposed as affirmation and negation.
55| Contrary to good is necessarily bad: this is clear by induction over particular cases, for instance disease is contrary to health and cowardice to courage, and likewise in the other cases. But to a bad thing sometimes a good thing is contrary, sometimes a bad thing: for to deficiency, which is bad, excess is contrary, being bad; and likewise the mean is contrary to each of them, being good. One could see this in a few cases, but in most cases it is always the good that is contrary to the bad. Further, in the case of contraries it is not necessary, if one is present, that the remaining one also be present. For if all people are healthy, there will be health but no disease; and likewise if all things are white, there will be whiteness but no blackness. Further, if Socrates' being healthy is contrary to Socrates' being sick, and it is not possible for both to belong to the same subject at once, then if one of the contraries is present, it would not be possible for the remaining one also to be present: for if Socrates' being healthy is present, Socrates' being sick could not be. It is clear too that contraries naturally occur in relation to the same thing, either in species or in genus: for disease and health naturally occur in the body of an animal, whiteness and blackness in body without qualification, and justice and injustice in the soul of a human being.
56| It is necessary that all contraries be either in the same genus, or in contrary genera, or be themselves genera. For white and black are in the same genus, since their genus is color; justice and injustice are in contrary genera, since the genus of the one is virtue and of the other vice; while good and bad are not in a genus, but happen themselves to be genera of certain things. One thing is said to be prior to another in four ways. First and most properly, in respect of time, according to which one thing is called older than another and more ancient: for it is by having a greater amount of time that a thing is called both older and more ancient. Second, that which does not reciprocate as to the implication of being, as the one is prior to the two: for if there are two, it follows immediately that there is one, but if there is one, it is not necessary that there be two, so that the implication of being does not reciprocate from the one to the remaining term. And a thing seems to be prior when the implication of being does not reciprocate from it. Third, priority is spoken of in respect of some order, as in the case of the sciences and of speeches. For in the demonstrative sciences there is a prior and a posterior in order (the elements are prior in order to the diagrams, and in grammar the letters are prior to the syllables), and likewise in speeches: for the introduction is prior in order to the narration.
57| Further, besides what has been said, the better and the more honorable seem to be prior by nature. And most people are accustomed to say that those they hold in higher honor and love more are prior in their own regard. This way is nearly the most foreign of the ways mentioned. The ways of speaking of the prior, then, are roughly this many. But besides those mentioned there would seem to be yet another way of the prior: for among things that reciprocate as to the implication of being, whichever is in some way the cause of the being of the other might reasonably be called prior by nature. That there are some such cases is clear: for a man's being reciprocates, as to the implication of being, with the true statement about him. For if there is a man, the statement by which we say that there is a man is true; and it reciprocates too: for if the statement by which we say that there is a man is true, there is a man. But the true statement is in no way the cause of the thing's being, whereas the thing does seem in some way the cause of the statement's being true: for it is by the thing's being or not being that the statement is called true or false. So there are five ways in which one thing is said to be prior to another.
58| Things are said to be simultaneous, in the strict and most proper sense, when their coming to be is at the same time: for neither of them is prior or posterior to the other. Such things are said to be simultaneous in time. Things are simultaneous by nature when they reciprocate as to the implication of being, but neither is in any way the cause of the other's being, as in the case of the double and the half: for these reciprocate (if there is a double there is a half, and if there is a half there is a double), but neither is the cause of the other's being. Also things that are derived by division from the same genus, set over against one another, are said to be simultaneous by nature. Things are said to be set over against one another by the same division when they fall under the same division, as the winged does against the footed and the aquatic: for these are set over against one another from the same genus, since animal is divided into these, into the winged, the footed, and the aquatic, and none of these is prior or posterior to the others, but such things seem to be simultaneous by nature. Each of these could again be divided into species, for instance the footed, the winged, and the aquatic. So those too will be simultaneous by nature, whatever is derived from the same genus by the same division. But genera are always prior to species: for they do not reciprocate as to the implication of being, as when there is an aquatic thing there is an animal, but when there is an animal it is not necessary that there be an aquatic thing.
59| Things are said to be simultaneous by nature, then, whatever reciprocates as to the implication of being while neither is in any way the cause of the other's being, and things derived from the same genus by opposed division. But things are simultaneous without qualification when their coming to be is at the same time. Of motion there are six species: coming to be, perishing, increase, decrease, alteration, and change of place. That the other motions are different from one another is clear: coming to be is not perishing, nor is increase decrease, nor is change of place either of these, and likewise for the rest. But in the case of alteration there is a certain puzzle, whether what is being altered must not perhaps be being altered in respect of one of the remaining motions. This is not true: for it happens that we are altered in respect of nearly all or most of our affections without sharing in any of the other motions; for what is moved in respect of an affection is not necessarily increased or decreased, and likewise in the other cases, so that alteration would be distinct from the other motions. For if it were the same, what is being altered would have to be increasing or decreasing as well, or to be undergoing one of the other motions immediately; but this is not necessary. Likewise what is increasing, or moving with some other motion, would have to be altering as well; but there are some things that increase without being altered, for instance the square, when a gnomon is placed around it, has increased, but has become no more altered; and likewise in the other such cases. So the motions would be distinct from one another.
60| Now rest, taken without qualification, is opposed to motion; and and particular motions are opposed by particular ones — destruction to generation, decrease to increase, and rest in place to change of place, decrease to increase, and rest in place to change of place. Change to the contrary place seems most of all to be the true opposite, as change upward is opposed to change downward, and change downward to change upward. But for the remaining kind of motion we have listed, it is not easy to state just what is opposed to it; indeed it seems that nothing is opposed to it, unless one were to set against it, in this case too, rest in respect of quality, or change to the contrary quality — just as, in the case of change of place, we set against it rest in place, or change to the contrary place. For alteration is change in respect of quality. So rest in respect of quality, or change to the contrary quality, will be opposed to motion in respect of quality — for instance, coming to be white is opposed to coming to be black; for a thing is altered by a change occurring between contrary qualities.
61| 'Having' is spoken of in several ways. It is spoken of either as a state and disposition or some other quality — for we are said to have some piece of knowledge and to have virtue. Or as a quantity, as when someone happens to have a certain size — for a thing is said to have a magnitude of three cubits or four cubits. Or as the things around the body, such as a cloak or a tunic. Or as in a part, as a ring is in a hand. Or as a part, as a hand or a foot. Or as in a container, as the bushel has wheat or the jar has wine — for the jar is said to have wine, and the bushel wheat; all these, then, are said to have in the sense of being in a container. Or as a possession — for we are said to have a house or a field. We are also said to have a wife, and a wife to have a husband; but this last-mentioned way of having seems to be the most alien of all the senses, for by 'having a wife' we signify nothing other than that he lives together with her. Perhaps other ways of having might also turn out to exist; but pretty much all the ones customarily spoken of have now been enumerated.
1| On Interpretation. First we must settle what a noun is and what a verb is, then what a negation is, and an affirmation, and a statement, and a sentence. Now spoken sounds are symbols of affections in the soul, and written marks are symbols of spoken sounds. And just as written marks are not the same for all men, neither are spoken sounds. But the affections of the soul themselves, of which these are primarily signs, are the same for all; and the things of which these are likenesses are also, already, the same. This has been discussed in the work on the soul, for it belongs to a different inquiry. Now just as in the soul there is at one time a thought without truth or falsity, and at another time a thought to which one of these must already belong, so it is also in speech; for falsity and truth have to do with combination and division. Nouns themselves and verbs by themselves resemble a thought without combination and division — for instance 'man' or 'white,' when nothing further is added; for it is not yet true or false. A sign of this is that even 'goat-stag' signifies something, but not yet anything true or false, unless 'is' or 'is not' is added, either simply or with reference to time.
2| A noun, then, is a spoken sound significant by convention, without time, no part of which is significant in separation. For in 'Callippus' the 'horse'-part signifies nothing by itself, as it does in the phrase 'fine horse.' Yet it is not the same with compound nouns as with simple ones; for in simple nouns the part is in no way significant, while in compound nouns the part is meant to be significant, but not in separation from the rest — for instance in 'pirate-boat' the 'boat'-part signifies nothing by itself. 'By convention' means that no noun is a noun by nature, but only when it becomes a symbol; for even inarticulate noises — for instance those of beasts — make something clear, yet none of them is a noun. Now 'not-man' is not a noun. Nor indeed is there a name laid down for what one should call it, for it is neither a sentence nor a negation. Let it be called an indefinite noun, since it holds alike of anything whatever, whether existing or not existing. Again, 'of Philo' or 'to Philo' and the like are not nouns but inflections of a noun. Its account is the same as that of the noun in other respects; but whereas with 'is' or 'was' or 'will be' added it is not true or false, the noun always is — for instance 'of Philo is' or 'of Philo is not': nothing here is yet either true or false.
3| A verb is what additionally signifies time, no part of which signifies anything by itself, and it is always a sign of things said of something else. I say that it additionally signifies time in this sense: 'health' is a noun, but 'is healthy' is a verb, for it additionally signifies that this holds now. And it is always a sign of what is said of something else — of what holds of a subject, or is in a subject. I do not call 'is not healthy' or 'does not ail' a verb; for though it additionally signifies time and always holds of something, there is no name laid down for this difference — let it be called an indefinite verb, since it holds alike of anything whatever, whether existing or not existing. Likewise 'was healthy' or 'will be healthy' is not a verb but an inflection of a verb; it differs from the verb in that the verb additionally signifies the present time, while the inflections signify the time around it. Verbs said just by themselves are nouns and signify something — for the speaker fixes his thought, and the hearer comes to rest — but they do not yet signify whether a thing is or is not; for not even 'to be' or 'not to be' is a sign of the fact, not even if you say simply 'being' itself, unqualified. For by itself it is nothing, but it additionally signifies some combination, which cannot be thought without the things combined.
4| A sentence is a spoken sound significant by convention, some part of which is significant in separation — as an expression, though not as an affirmation or negation. I mean, for instance, 'man' signifies something, but not that it is or is not; but it will be an affirmation or negation if something is added. But a single syllable of 'man' is not significant.: for in 'mouse,' the '-ouse' is not significant, but is now only a sound. In double words the part does signify, but not in its own right, as said before. Every sentence is significant, not as an instrument, but, as said, by convention. But not every sentence is a statement-making sentence — only one in which truth or falsity is present. It is not present in all: a prayer, for instance, is a sentence, but neither true nor false. Let the others be set aside, for their study belongs more properly to rhetoric or poetics; the statement-making sentence belongs to the present inquiry.
5| The first single statement-making sentence is the affirmation, then the negation; all the others are single by conjunction. Every statement-making sentence must be made of a verb or an inflection of a verb; for even the account of 'man' is not yet a statement-making sentence unless 'is' or 'was' or 'will be' or something of that kind is added. Why 'the two-footed land animal' is one thing and not many is a further question — for it is not simply by being said in close succession that it will be one. But this belongs to another inquiry. A statement-making sentence is single either when it makes clear one thing, or when it is single by conjunction; sentences are plural when they make clear several things and not one, or when they lack conjunction. Let the noun or the verb by itself be called just an expression, since it is not possible to signify something in speech in such a way as to make a statement — whether one is answering a question or speaking on one's own initiative. Of these, the simple statement is one in which something is said of something, or something is said to be absent from something; while the statement composed of these is already a kind of compound sentence. A simple statement is a spoken sound significant about whether something holds or does not hold, in the way the times are divided.
6| An affirmation is a statement of something about something; a negation is a statement of something away from something. Now since it is possible to state as not holding what does hold, and as holding what does not hold, and as holding what does hold, and as not holding what does not hold — and likewise for the times outside the present — it would be possible for anything that has been affirmed to be denied, and for anything that has been denied to be affirmed. So it is clear that to every affirmation there corresponds an opposite negation, and to every negation an opposite affirmation. And let this be called a contradiction: an affirmation and a negation that are opposite. I call opposite the affirmation and negation of the same thing about the same thing — not homonymously — together with whatever other qualifications we make against sophistical objections.
7| Since some things are universal and some particular (I call universal what is by nature predicated of several things, and particular what is not — for instance 'man' is among the universals, and 'Callias' among the particulars), it is necessary to state that something holds or does not hold, sometimes of one of the universals, sometimes of one of the particulars. Now if one makes a universal statement about a universal, affirming or denying that it holds, the statements will be contrary. I mean by making a universal statement about a universal, for instance 'every man is white,' 'no man is white.' But when the statements are about universals, though not made universally, these are not contrary, even though what they signify may sometimes be contrary. I mean by not making a universal statement about universals, for instance 'a man is white,' 'a man is not white'; for though 'man' is universal, the statement does not use it as universal — for 'every' does not signify the universal, but that it is taken universally. But to predicate the universal universally of what is predicated universally is not true; for no affirmation will be true in which the universal is predicated universally of what is predicated universally — for instance, 'every man is every animal.'
8| I call an affirmation opposed to a negation contradictorily when the one signifies the universal and the other signifies the same thing as not universal — for example, every man is white — not every man is white, no man is white — some man is white. And I call an affirmation of the universal opposed to a negation of the universal contrarily, for example every man is white — no man is white, every man is just — no man is just. Hence these latter cannot both be true at the same time, but the ones opposed to them can sometimes both be true of the same subject at the same time, for example not every man is white and some man is white. Now among the contradictions that are universal-of-universals, one of the two must necessarily be true or false, and likewise among those that concern particulars, for example Socrates is white — Socrates is not white; but among those that concern universal terms taken not universally, it is not always the case that one is true and the other false. For it is true at the same time to say that there is a white man and that there is not a white man, and that there is a beautiful man and that there is not a beautiful man. For if a man is ugly, he is also not beautiful; and if something is coming to be, it also is not.
9| It might seem strange at first sight, because "there is not a white man" appears to signify at the same time that no man is white; but in fact it neither signifies the same thing nor does so of necessity. And it is clear too that a single negation belongs to a single affirmation. For the negation must deny the very same thing that the affirmation affirmed, and of the same subject — either of some particular subject or of some universal subject — and it must do so in the same way, either as universal or as not universal. I mean, for example, Socrates is white — Socrates is not white. But if something else is denied, or the same thing denied of something else, that will not be the opposite statement but a different one. To "every man is white" the opposite is "not every man is white"; to "some man is white" the opposite is "no man is white"; to "there is a white man" the opposite is "there is not a white man." It has been stated, then, that to one affirmation one negation is opposed contradictorily, and which these are; and that the contrary statements are different ones, and which these are; and that not every contradiction is true or false, and why, and when it is true or false.
10| An affirmation and a negation are single when they signify one thing of one thing, whether the subject taken universally is taken as universal or not in the same way — for example, every man is white — not every man is white, there is a white man — there is not a white man, no man is white — some man is white, provided that "white" signifies one thing. But if one name is imposed on two things which do not make up one thing, there is not a single affirmation nor a single negation — for example, if someone were to set the name "cloak" on both a horse and a man, then "the cloak is white" would not be a single affirmation nor would its negation be single. For this is no different from saying "the horse and the man are white," and this in turn is no different from saying "the horse is white and the man is white." If, then, these signify many things and are many statements, clearly the first statement too signifies either many things or nothing — for some particular man is not a horse. So in these cases too it is not necessary that of the contradiction one member be true and the other false.
11| In the case, then, of things that exist and have come to be, the affirmation or the negation must be true or false; and in the case of universals taken universally, it is always necessary that one be true and the other false, and likewise in the case of particulars, as has been said; but in the case of universals not taken universally, it is not necessary — and this too has been discussed. But in the case of particulars that are future, it is not the same. For if every affirmation and negation is true or false, then everything must either hold or not hold; so that if one man says something will be and another says this same thing will not be, clearly one of them must be speaking the truth, if every affirmation and negation is true or false — for both cannot hold at once in such cases. For if it is true to say that a thing is white or that it is not white, it must be white or not white; and if it is white or not white, it was true to affirm it or to deny it; and if it does not hold, one is lying, and if one is lying, it does not hold — so that either the affirmation or the negation must be true or false. Nothing, then, either is or comes to be by chance or as it chances, nor will it be or not be so, but everything happens of necessity and not as it chances.
12| For either the one who affirms will be speaking the truth or the one who denies. For otherwise the thing would equally have come to be or not have come to be; for what happens as it chances is no more thus than not thus, either now or in the future. Further, if it is white now, it was true to say beforehand that it would be white, so that it was always true to say of anything that has come to be that it is or will be. But if it was always true to say that it is or will be, it is not possible for this not to be, or not to come to be. And what cannot fail to come to be, it is impossible for it not to come to be; and what it is impossible for not to come to be, it is necessary for it to come to be. Everything that is going to be, then, comes to be of necessity. Nothing, therefore, will happen as it chances or by chance; for if by chance, it is not by necessity. But neither is it possible to say that neither of the two is true — that is, that it neither will be nor will not be. For, in the first place, if the affirmation is false, the negation is not true, and if this in turn is false, it follows that the affirmation is not true either. And besides this, if it is true to say that a thing is white and large, both must hold of it; and if they will hold tomorrow, they will hold tomorrow. But if it is neither going to be nor not going to be tomorrow, then there would be no such thing as what happens as it chances — for example, a sea battle;
13| for it would have to be that a sea battle neither takes place tomorrow nor fails to take place. These, then, and others like them, are the absurdities that follow, if it is necessary, of every affirmation and negation — whether the statements concern universals spoken of universally or concern particulars — that one of the opposed pair be true and the other false, and that nothing that comes to be is as it chances, but everything is and comes to be of necessity. It would follow that there would be no need to deliberate or to take trouble, on the assumption that if we do this, this will result, but if we do not, it will not. For nothing prevents someone from having said ten thousand years ago that this would be so, and another having denied it, so that whichever of the two it was true to say at that time would necessarily come to be. And indeed it makes no difference either whether anyone actually spoke the contradiction or not; for it is clear that the facts are as they are even if one man did not affirm it and another deny it. For it is not on account of its being affirmed or denied that a thing will be or will not be, nor is this any more so for ten thousand years back than for any length of time whatever. Hence if in the whole of time the state of things was such that one or the other of the two was truly assertible, it was necessary for this to come to be, and each thing that has come to be always was such that it came to be of necessity. For what anyone truly said would be, it was not possible for this not to come to be; and of what comes to be, it was always true to say that it would be.
14| If then these consequences are impossible — for we see that there is a starting point of future things both from deliberating and from doing something, and that in general, among things that are not always in actuality, the possible to be and not to be alike is present; things in which both are admissible, both being and not being, and so also coming to be and not coming to be. And many things are plain to us as standing this way — for instance, that this cloak is capable of being cut up, and yet will not be cut up, but will instead wear out first. Likewise it is also capable of not being cut up; for the wearing out first would not have occurred, if not being cut up were not possible. So too with the other comings-to-be, all those spoken of in terms of this kind of capacity. It is plain, then, that not everything is or comes to be of necessity; rather, some things are as chance has it, and neither the affirmation nor the negation is more true than the other, while for other things one alternative holds more, and as a rule, yet it is still possible for the other to come about instead, and for the first not to.
15| That what is, is, when it is, and that what is not, is not, when it is not, is necessary. Yet it is not necessary that everything which is, is of necessity, nor that everything which is not, is not. For it is not the same thing for everything that is to be of necessity when it is, and for it to be of necessity without qualification; and likewise for what is not. The same account holds for the contradiction. It is necessary that a thing either be or not be, and either will be or will not be; but it is not necessary, once you have divided the alternatives, to say which one is necessary. I mean, for example: it is necessary that there will be a sea battle tomorrow or that there will not be one, but it is not necessary that a sea battle take place tomorrow, nor that it not take place — only that it take place or not take place is necessary. So, since statements are true in the same way as the facts are, it is plain that wherever things stand so that the alternatives are open by chance and admit of the contraries as well, the same necessity must hold for the contradiction. This is what happens with things that are not always, or not always not. In their case, one part of the contradiction must be true and the other false — not this one determinately or that one, but whichever it turns out to be — and one is more true, but not already true or false. So it is plain that it is not necessary, of every affirmation and negation of a pair of opposites, that one be true and the other false; for the case is not the same with things that are not but are capable of being or not being as it is with things that are — rather, it is as has been said.
16| Since an affirmation signifies something said of something, and this something is either a name or the nameless, and what is in the affirmation must be one thing said of one thing (the name and the nameless have been discussed earlier; for I do not call 'not-man' a name but an indefinite name, since the indefinite too signifies, in a way, one thing — just as 'does not recover' is not a verb but an indefinite verb), every affirmation and negation will be composed either of a name and a verb or of an indefinite name and a verb. There is no affirmation or negation without a verb; for 'is', 'will be', 'was', 'comes to be', and all such words, are verbs among those already laid down, since they additionally signify time. So the first affirmation and negation will be 'a man is' — 'a man is not', then 'a not-man is' — 'a not-man is not', and again 'every man is' — 'not every man is', 'every not-man is' — 'not every not-man is'. And the same account holds for the tenses outside the present. But when 'is' is predicated as a third element, the oppositions are then spoken of in two ways. I mean, for example, 'a man is just';
17| I say that in that case 'is' is composed as a third element, either a name or a verb, in the affirmation. So because of this there will be four such statements, of which two will stand to the affirmation and negation as the privations do, following the same line, and two will not. I mean that 'is' will be attached either to 'just' or to 'not just', and likewise the negation. So there will be four. We grasp what is meant from the examples set out below. 'A man is just' — the negation of this is 'a man is not just'. 'A not-just man is' — the negation of this is 'a not-just man is not'. For here 'is' and 'is not' will be attached both to 'just' and to 'not just'. These, then, are ordered as stated in the Analytics. And it is the same way if the affirmation is of the universal name, for example 'every man is just'. The negation of this is 'not every man is just'. 'Every man is not-just' — 'not every man is not-just'. Except that these do not admit of being true together in the same way as the diametrically opposed pairs do; though sometimes they do. These two, then, are opposed to each other, and there are two others opposed to 'not-man' taken as a subject with something added to it;
18| 'A not-man is just' — 'a not-man is not just', 'a not-man is not-just' — 'a not-man is not not-just'. There will be no more oppositions than these. These stand apart from the earlier ones, by themselves, using 'not-man' as a name. In cases where 'is' does not fit, as with 'recovers' and 'walks', the same effect is produced by the verbs so placed as if 'is' had been attached; for example, 'every man recovers' — 'not every man recovers', 'every not-man recovers' — 'not every not-man recovers'. For here one must not say 'not every man', but must attach the 'not', the negation, to 'man'. For 'every' does not signify the universal but that the term is taken universally. This is clear from the following: 'a man recovers' — 'a man does not recover', 'a not-man recovers' — 'a not-man does not recover'. These differ from the former by not being universal. So 'every' or 'no one' signifies nothing further than that the name is taken universally, either in the affirmation or in the negation; the rest must be added just as it was.
19| Since the contrary of 'every animal is just' is the statement signifying that no animal is just, it is plain that these two will never be true together, nor of the same subject; but their opposites will be true together at times, for example 'not every animal is just' and 'some animal is just'. And these follow from them: from 'every man is not-just' follows 'no man is just', and from 'some man is just' follows the opposite of that, namely 'not every man is not-just'; for there must be some who are not. It is also plain that in the case of particulars, if it is true, when asked, to deny, it is also true to affirm; for example, 'Is Socrates wise?' 'No.' Then Socrates is not wise. But in the case of universals, the statement made in the same way is not true; rather, the negation is true. For example, 'Is every man wise?' 'No.' Then every man is not wise — but this is false. Rather, 'not every man is wise' is true; and this is the opposite statement, while the other is the contrary.
20| Names and verbs opposed by way of the indefinite, as with "not-man" and "not-just", might seem to be denials without a name and a verb. But they are not; for a denial must always be either true or false, and one who says "not-man" has stated no more truth or falsehood than one who says "man" — indeed less — unless something further is added. "Every not-man is just" signifies the same as none of those other statements, nor does its opposite, "not every not-man is just," signify the same as any of them; but "every not-just thing is not-man" signifies the same as "no just thing is not-man." When the names and verbs are transposed they signify the same thing, as in "a man is white" and "white is a man." For if this were not so, there would be more than one denial of the same affirmation. But it has been shown that there is one denial of one affirmation. For the denial of "a man is white" is "a man is not white"; and of "white is a man," if this is not the same as "a man is white," the denial will be either "white is not a not-man" or "white is not man." But the one is the denial of "white is a not-man," the other of "a man is white," so that there will be two denials of one affirmation. It is clear, then, that when the name and the verb are transposed, the same affirmation and denial results.
21| To affirm or deny one thing of many, or many things of one, is not a single affirmation or denial unless what is signified by the many is itself some one thing. By "one" I do not mean simply that a single name is applied when there is not some one thing arising from those components — man, for instance, is perhaps both animal and two-footed and tame, but a single thing also comes to be out of these; whereas out of white and man and walking there is no one thing. So neither, if one affirms some one thing of these, is it a single affirmation — it is a single utterance but many affirmations — nor, if these are affirmed of one thing, is it single; rather it is likewise many. If, then, the dialectical question is a request for an answer — either of the premise or of one part of a contradictory pair — and the premise is one part of a single contradictory pair, there could not be a single answer to such statements; for neither is the question one, even if it is true. This has been discussed in the Topics. At the same time it is clear that "what is it?" is not a dialectical question either; for the question must allow one to choose whichever part of the contradiction one wishes to state. Instead the questioner must further specify whether man is this or is not this.
22| Since some things are predicated in combination, such that the whole predicate is one thing made of things predicated separately, while others are not, what is the difference? For it is true to say of man both "animal" separately and "two-footed" separately, and these together as one, and also "man" and "white," and these too together as one. But it is not the case that, if "shoemaker" and "good" each hold, then "good shoemaker" holds too. For if, because each is true, the combination of both must also hold, many absurd consequences will follow. For "man" is true of man, and "white" is true of man, so the whole combination would be true too. Again, if "white" holds of that itself, then the whole would be true too, so that it will be "white white man," and this to infinity. And again, "musical white walking"; and these combined repeatedly, to infinity. Further, if Socrates is Socrates and is man, then Socrates is "Socrates man." And if he is man and two-footed, then he is "man man two-footed."
23| It is clear, then, that if one asserts without qualification that combinations occur in every case, many absurd things follow in what one says; how the matter should be laid down, we now state. Of things predicated, and of the subjects of which they happen to be predicated: whichever are said accidentally — either both of the same subject, or one of the other — these will not be one, as when a man is white and musical, but "white" and "musical" are not one; for both are accidents of the same subject. Nor, even if it is true to say "the white is musical," will "the musical white" be some one thing; for "the musical is white" holds accidentally, so "the white musical" will not be some one thing. This is why "shoemaker" is not, without qualification, "good," but "animal" and "two-footed" are; for the latter combination is not accidental. Further, neither do things already contained within the other combine to form something new. This is why "white" is not said repeatedly, nor is man called "man animal" or "man two-footed"; for "animal" and "two-footed" are already contained in man. But it is true to say something both of a particular thing and without qualification, as when a particular man is called man, or a particular white man is called a white man; not always, however, but when one of a pair of opposites is contained in the term added on — a term to which a contradiction attaches — then it is not true but false, as in calling a dead man a man; but when no such thing is contained, it is true.
24| Or rather: when it is contained, it is always not true; when it is not contained, it is not always true — as with "Homer is something," for instance a poet. Is he, then, also without qualification? Or not? For "is" is predicated of Homer accidentally; it is because he is a poet, and not in its own right, that "is" is predicated of Homer. So that in whatever predications there is no contrariety present — if accounts are used in place of names, and the predicate is predicated in its own right and not accidentally — in these cases it will be true to say both "a certain" and "without qualification." But of what is not, because it is an object of opinion, it is not true to say that it is something that is; for the opinion about it is not that it is, but that it is not.
25| Now that these matters have been settled, we must examine how the denials and affirmations of "possible to be" and "not possible to be," "admissible to be" and "not admissible to be" stand in relation to one another, and likewise those concerning the impossible and the necessary; for they involve certain puzzles. For among composite statements, it is those contradictories that are opposed to one another which are arranged by "to be" and "not to be" — for instance, the denial of "a man to be" is "a man not to be," not "a not-man to be"; and the denial of "a white man to be" is "a white man not to be," but not "a not-white man to be." For if the affirmation or the denial held of everything, it would be true to say that a piece of wood is a not-white man. And if this is so, then also in cases where "to be" is not added, whatever is said in place of "to be" will do the same — for instance, the denial of "man walks" will not be "not-man walks," but "man does not walk"; for it makes no difference to say "man walks" or "man is walking." So that if this holds everywhere, then also the denial of "possible to be" will be "possible not to be," and not "not possible to be." But it seems that the same thing can both be and not be;
26| for everything capable of being cut, or of walking, is also capable of not walking and not being cut. The reason is that everything possible in this way is not always in actuality, so that the denial will hold of it too; for what is capable of walking can also not walk, and what is visible can also not be seen. But surely it is impossible for opposite statements to be true of the same thing; therefore "possible not to be" is not the denial of "possible to be." For from this it follows either that the same thing is affirmed and denied at once of the same subject, or that affirmations and denials do not come about by adding "to be" and "not to be." If, then, the former is impossible, the latter must be the one to choose. The denial of "possible to be," then, is "not possible to be." The same account holds also for "admissible to be"; for the denial of this too is "not admissible to be." And likewise for the others, such as the necessary and the impossible. For just as in those earlier cases "to be" and "not to be" were additions, while the underlying things were, in one case the white, in another the man, so here "to be" and "not to be" become, as it were, the underlying thing, while "to be possible" and "to be admissible" are additions that determine it — just as in those other cases "to be" and "not to be" determined the true and the false, so here these additions determine "to be possible" and "to be not possible."
27| The denial of "possible not to be" is not "not possible to be," but "not possible not to be"; and the denial of "possible to be" is not "possible not to be," but "not possible to be." Hence "possible to be" and "possible not to be" might seem to follow from one another; for the same thing can possibly be and not be — these are not contradictories of one another, "possible to be" and "possible not to be." But "possible to be" and "not possible to be" are never true together of the same thing at the same time; for they are opposed. Nor indeed are "possible not to be" and "not possible not to be" ever true together of the same thing. Likewise, the denial of "necessary to be" is not "necessary not to be," but "not necessary to be"; and of "necessary not to be" it is "not necessary not to be." And of "impossible to be" the denial is not "impossible not to be," but "not impossible to be"; and of "impossible not to be" it is "not impossible not to be." And in general, as has been said, one must posit "to be" and "not to be" as the underlying subjects, and treat affirmation and denial as what these produce in relation to being and not being, by
28| combining with them. And one must think that these are the opposed pairs of statements: possible — not possible, contingent — not contingent, impossible — not impossible, necessary — not necessary, true — not true. And the entailments come out logically when the terms are set down this way. For "possible to be" is followed by "contingent to be," and this converts with it, and so do "not impossible to be" and "not necessary to be"; "possible not to be" and "contingent not to be" are followed by "not necessary not to be" and "not impossible not to be"; "not possible to be" and "not contingent to be" are followed by "necessary not to be" and "impossible to be"; and "not possible not to be" and "not contingent not to be" are followed by "necessary to be" and "impossible not to be." Let this be examined from the table, as we lay it out: possible to be — not possible to be contingent to be — not contingent to be not impossible to be — impossible to be not necessary to be — necessary not to be possible not to be — not possible not to be contingent not to be — not contingent not to be not impossible not to be — impossible not to be not necessary not to be — necessary to be
29| Now "impossible" and "not impossible" follow upon "contingent" and "possible," and upon "not contingent" and "not possible," contradictorily, but in reversed order. For "possible to be" is followed by the denial of "impossible" — that is, "not impossible to be" — and the denial "not possible to be" is followed by the affirmation "impossible to be"; for "impossible to be" follows upon "not possible to be." For "impossible to be" is an affirmation, and "not impossible to be" is a denial. How matters stand with "necessary" must now be examined. It is clear that it is not the same here, but the contraries follow one another, while the contradictories go their separate way. For "not necessary to be" is not the denial of "necessary not to be"; for it is possible for both to be true of the same thing at once, since what is necessary not to be is also not necessary to be. The reason why "necessary" does not follow in the same way as the others is that "impossible" is assigned in a manner contrary to "necessary," though it has the same force. For if it is impossible for a thing to be, it is necessary for it not to be, rather than for it to be; and if it is impossible for it not to be, it is necessary for it to be. So that if those terms correspond to "possible" and "not possible" in the same way as before, these correspond in a contrary fashion, since "necessary" and "impossible" do not signify the same thing, but, as has been said, in reversed fashion. Or is it impossible for the contradictories of "necessary" to be set out this way?
30| For what is necessary to be is possible to be; for if it were not, its denial would follow — for it is necessary either to affirm or to deny. So if it is not possible for it to be, it is impossible for it to be; and then it would be impossible for what is necessary to be to be — which is absurd. But then "not impossible to be" follows upon "possible to be," and "not necessary to be" follows upon that; so it turns out that what is necessary to be is not necessary to be — which is absurd. But then again, neither does "necessary to be" follow upon "possible to be," nor does "necessary not to be"; for both can hold of what is possible, and whichever of the two necessity-statements is true, the possibility-statements will no longer both be true. For a thing is possible both to be and not to be at once; but if it is necessary for it to be or not to be, both will no longer be possible. It remains, then, that "not necessary not to be" follows upon "possible to be." For this is true also of what is necessary to be. Indeed this statement is the contradictory of the one that follows upon "not possible to be": for that is followed by "impossible to be" and "necessary not to be," whose denial is "not necessary not to be." So these contradictories too follow in the manner stated, and nothing impossible results when they are set out this way.
31| One might raise the difficulty whether "possible to be" follows upon "necessary to be." For if it does not follow, its contradictory will follow, namely "not possible to be"; and if someone should deny that this is the contradictory, he would have to say "possible not to be" instead — and both of these are false of what is necessary to be. But again, the same thing seems capable of both being cut and not being cut, and of being and not being, so that what is necessary to be would turn out to be contingently not to be — and this is false. It is clear, then, that not everything possible to be, or to walk, is also possible for its opposite; there are cases where this is not true — first of all among things possible not by way of reason, as for instance fire is capable of heating, and has a nonrational capacity. Now capacities that involve reason are the same capacities for several things, including contraries, but the nonrational ones are not all so; rather, as has been said, fire is not capable of both heating and not heating, nor are the other things that are always in activity. Some things, however, even among those with nonrational capacities, can admit contraries at once. But this has been said for the sake of showing that not every capacity is a capacity for opposites, not even all those spoken of as belonging to the same kind.
32| And some capacities are equivocal. For "possible" is not said in a single sense: in one sense a thing is called possible because it is true of it as actually being the case — for instance, a thing is "possible to walk" because it is walking, and in general a thing is "possible to be" because what is called possible to be already actually is; in another sense, a thing is called possible because it could be actual — for instance, a thing is "possible to walk" because it could walk. This latter capacity belongs only to things capable of change, while the former belongs also to unchangeable things. In both cases it is true to say that it is "not impossible" to walk or to be, both of what is already walking and in activity and of what merely has the capacity to walk. Now it is not true to say "possible" in this second sense of what is necessary, without qualification, but the other sense is true of it. So that, since the universal follows upon the particular, what necessarily is is followed by its being possible to be — though not in every sense of "possible." And perhaps the necessary and the not-necessary are indeed the starting point of everything's either being or not being, and the rest must be examined as following upon these. It is clear from what has been said that what necessarily is is in actuality; so that if eternal things are prior, actuality too is prior to potentiality. And some things are actualities without potentiality — the primary substances, for instance — while others exist with potentiality, being prior in nature but posterior in time; and others are never actualities but only potentialities.
33| Is an affirmation contrary to a negation, or is an affirmation contrary to an affirmation — is the statement "every man is just" contrary to the statement "no man is just," or is "every man is just" contrary to "every man is unjust"? For example: "Callias is just" — "Callias is not just" — "Callias is unjust." Which of these is the contrary of the first? If what is in speech follows what is in thought, and there the opinion of the contrary is the contrary opinion — for example, that every man is just is contrary to that every man is unjust — then the same must hold of affirmations in speech as well. But if there the opinion of the contrary is not the contrary opinion, then neither will the affirmation be contrary to the affirmation, but rather the negation we mentioned will be. So we must examine which true opinion is contrary to a false opinion: the one expressed by the negation, or the one that holds the contrary to be so. I mean this: there is a true opinion of the good, that it is good, another that it is not good, which is false, and a third, that it is bad. Which of these is contrary to the true one? And if there is only one, in virtue of which is it the contrary? To suppose that contrary opinions are defined by this — by being opinions of contraries — is false.
34| For the opinion that the good is good and the opinion that the bad is bad may well be the same and true, whether there are several such opinions or only one. Yet these things — good and bad — are contraries. But opinions are not contrary by being opinions of contraries, but rather by being held in a contrary way. Now if there is an opinion of the good that it is good, and another that it is not good, and there is also something else which does not belong to it and cannot belong to it, then none of the other opinions should be posited — neither those that hold what does not belong to belong, nor those that hold what does belong not to belong (for both kinds are unlimited in number: both those that opine that what does not belong belongs, and those that opine that what belongs does not belong) — but only those in which the deception properly lies. And these are the ones from which comings-to-be arise. Comings-to-be are from opposites, so the deceptions are too. If, then, the good is both good and not bad, and one of these belongs to it in its own right and the other accidentally (for it is accidental to it to be not bad), and the opinion that grasps a thing in its own right is more true of each thing than the other, and likewise more false, if indeed it is also more true — then the opinion that the good is not good is false of what belongs to it in its own right, while the opinion that it is bad is false of what belongs to it accidentally.
35| So the negative opinion about the good would be more false than the opinion holding the contrary. But the one who holds the contrary opinion is the one most deceived about each thing, for contraries are among the things that differ most from one another concerning the same subject. If, then, one of these opinions is the contrary of the true one, but the opinion of the contradiction is more contrary still, it is clear that this latter would be the contrary one. The opinion that the good is bad is a composite opinion; for the same person must also, probably, suppose that it is not good. Further, if the same must hold in other cases too, then on this ground as well the account would seem to be well stated; for either the rule of contradiction holds everywhere, or nowhere. In cases where a thing has no contrary, the opinion opposed to the true one is false — for instance, one who thinks that a man is not a man is deceived. If, then, these opinions are contraries, so too are the other pairs that stand as contradictions. Further, the opinion of the good, that it is good, stands in the same relation as the opinion of the not-good, that it is not good, and besides these there is the opinion of the good, that it is not good, and the opinion of the not-good, that it is good. What, then, would be the contrary of the true opinion of the not-good, that it is not good?
36| It is surely not the opinion saying that it is bad; for then at some point both could be true at once, and a true opinion is never contrary to a true opinion — for something not good may be bad, so that it is possible for both to be true together. Nor again is it the opinion that it is not bad, for this too is true; for in that case as well both could hold together. What remains, then, is that the opinion of the not-good, that it is good, is contrary to the opinion of the not-good, that it is not good — for this is false. So too the opinion of the good, that it is not good, is contrary to the opinion of the good, that it is good. It is clear that it will make no difference even if we take the affirmation universally; for the universal negation will be the contrary — for instance, to the opinion holding that whatever is good is good, the contrary is the opinion that none of the good things is good. For the opinion of the good, that it is good, if the good is taken universally, is the same as the opinion holding of whatever is good that it is good; and this differs in no way from holding that everything that is good is good. And likewise for the not-good. So if this is how it stands with opinion, and affirmations and negations in speech are symbols of what is in the soul, it is clear that the negation about the same subject taken universally is contrary to the affirmation — for instance, to "every good thing is good" or "every man is good," the contrary is "nothing is good" or "no one is good," while the contradictory is "not every" or "not everyone."
37| It is clear too that a true opinion cannot be contrary to a true opinion, whether as opinion or as negation. For contrary opinions concern opposites, and concerning these it is possible for the same person to hold the truth; but it is not possible for contraries to belong to the same thing at the same time.
1| Prior Analytics, Book 1. First we must say what our inquiry is about and what it concerns: it is about demonstration and demonstrative knowledge. Then we must define what a premise is, what a term is, and what a syllogism is, and what kind of syllogism is complete and what kind incomplete; and after that, what it is for one thing to be in another as in a whole, or not to be, and what we mean by saying something holds of every case, or of none. A premise, then, is a statement affirming or denying something of something; and this is either universal, particular, or indefinite. By universal I mean that something holds of every case or of none; by particular, that it holds of some case, or does not hold of some, or does not hold of every case; by indefinite, that it holds or does not hold without any specification of universal or particular, as in "the same knowledge covers contraries" or "pleasure is not a good." A demonstrative premise differs from a dialectical one in this: the demonstrative premise is the taking of one side of a contradiction (for the one who demonstrates does not ask a question but takes something as given), whereas the dialectical premise is a question about a contradiction. But this will make no difference to whether a syllogism results from either: for both the one who demonstrates and the one who asks a question reason by taking something as holding, or not holding, of something.
2| So, without qualification, a syllogistic premise will be an affirmation or denial of something about something in the manner stated; it is demonstrative if it is true and has been taken through the primary hypotheses; and it is dialectical, for the one asking, a question about a contradiction, but for the one reasoning from it, the taking of what appears to be the case and is generally accepted, as has been said in the Topics. What a premise is, then, and how the syllogistic, the demonstrative, and the dialectical premise differ, will be stated with precision later; for our present purpose let what has been said suffice for now. I call a term that into which a premise is resolved -- that is, both the predicate and that of which it is predicated -- with "is" or "is not" added. A syllogism is an argument in which, certain things being posited, something other than what was posited follows of necessity from their being so. By "from their being so" I mean that it results because of them, and by "resulting because of them" I mean that no further term from outside is needed for the necessity to come about. I call a syllogism complete if it needs nothing else besides what has been taken in order for the necessity to be apparent; incomplete, if it needs one or more further things which are necessary given the underlying terms but have not been taken through premises. For one thing to be in another as in a whole, and for one thing to be predicated of every case of another, are the same. We say that something is predicated of every case when nothing can be found belonging to the subject of which the other term will not be said; and "of no case" is understood likewise.
3| Since every premise states either that something holds, or that it holds of necessity, or that it may possibly hold, and since of these some are affirmative and some negative according to each kind of statement, and again, among the affirmative and negative premises some are universal, some particular, and some indefinite -- it is necessary that a universal negative premise about what holds converts with respect to its terms: for instance, if no pleasure is good, then no good will be pleasure either. A universal affirmative premise must also convert, but not universally -- only in part: for instance, if every pleasure is good, then some good is pleasure. Among particular premises, the affirmative must convert in part as well (for if some pleasure is good, then some good will be pleasure); but the negative need not convert (for it is not the case that, if man does not belong to some animal, animal does not belong to some man). First, then, let the premise A-B be a universal negative. If, then, A holds of no B, then B will hold of no A either; for if it held of some, say of C, it would not be true that A holds of no B, since C would be one of the B's. But if A holds of every B, then B will hold of some A; for if it held of none, then A would hold of no B either -- but it was assumed to hold of every B. The same holds if the premise is particular: for if A holds of some B, then B must hold of some A; for if it held of none, A would hold of no B either. But if A does not hold of some
4| B, it is not necessary that B does not hold of some A -- for instance, let B be animal and A man: man does not hold of every animal, but animal holds of every man.
5| The same will hold in the case of necessary premises. For the universal negative converts universally, while of the affirmative premises each converts only in part. For if it is necessary that A holds of no B, it is also necessary that B holds of no A; for if it could hold of some, then A too could hold of some B. And if A holds of necessity of every B or of some B, then B must hold of necessity of some A; for if it were not necessary, then A would not hold of necessity of some B either. But the particular negative does not convert, for the same reason we gave before. Now with regard to possible premises, since "possible" is said in many ways (for we call both the necessary and the not-necessary and the potential "possible"), in the case of affirmative premises the conversion will work the same way throughout. For if A may hold of every B or of some B, then B may hold of some A; for if it could hold of none, then A could hold of no B either -- this has been shown already. But with negative premises it is not the same: rather, whenever "possible" is said in the sense of holding of necessity, or of not necessarily not holding, the conversion works the same way -- for instance if someone says that man may possibly not be a horse, or that white may possibly hold of no garment (for of these, the one of necessity does not hold, while the other need not hold, and the premise converts in the same way:
6| for if it is possible that horse holds of no man, then it is also possible that man holds of no horse; and if it is possible that white holds of no garment, then it is also possible that garment holds of nothing white -- for if it held of necessity of some, then white would hold of some garment of necessity, since this has been shown already), and likewise for the particular negative. But whenever "possible" is said in the sense of what holds for the most part and by nature -- the sense in which we define the possible -- the negative conversions will not work the same way; rather, the universal negative premise does not convert, while the particular negative does convert. This will become clear when we speak about the possible. For now, let this much be evident to us in addition to what has been said: that "it is possible to hold of nothing" or "of not every case" has the grammatical form of an affirmative statement (for "is possible" is arranged like "is," and "is," whatever it is added to as predicate, always and in every case makes an affirmation -- for instance "is not-good" or "is not-white" or, without qualification, "is not-this"; this too will be shown in what follows) -- and with respect to conversion these will behave in the same way as the others do.
7| Now that these points have been distinguished, let us next say through what means, when, and how every syllogism comes about; afterward we must speak about demonstration. We must speak about syllogism before demonstration, because syllogism is the more general thing: demonstration is a kind of syllogism, but not every syllogism is a demonstration. Whenever three terms are related to one another in such a way that the last is contained in the whole of the middle, and the middle is contained in the whole of the first (or excluded from it), it is necessary that there be a perfect syllogism of the extremes. I call "middle" that term which is itself contained in another and contains another in itself, and which also becomes middle in position; and I call "extremes" both the term that is in another and the term in which another is. For if A is predicated of every B, and B of every C, then A must be predicated of every C: we have already said earlier what we mean by "of every." Similarly too, if A belongs to no B, and B belongs to every C, then A will belong to no C. But if the first follows every one of the middle, and the middle belongs to none of the last, there will be no syllogism of the extremes; for nothing necessary results from these being so, since the first can belong to every one or to none of the last, so that neither the particular nor the universal conclusion becomes necessary; and if nothing is necessary through these premises, there will be no syllogism. Terms for belonging to every: animal-man-horse; for belonging to none: animal-man-stone. Nor again is there a syllogism when neither the first belongs to the middle nor the middle to any of the last. Nor in this case either will there be a syllogism. Terms for belonging: knowledge-line-medicine;
8| for not belonging: knowledge-line-unit. When the terms are universal, then, it is clear in this figure when there will be a syllogism and when there will not, and that when there is a syllogism the terms must be related as we have said, and that if they are so related, there will be a syllogism. But if one of the terms is universal and the other particular in relation to the other term, then whenever the universal is set at the major extreme, whether affirmative or privative, and the particular is set at the minor extreme, affirmative, it is necessary that there be a perfect syllogism; but whenever the universal is set at the minor extreme, or the terms are related in any other way, it is impossible. I call "major extreme" that in which the middle is, and "minor extreme" that which falls under the middle. Let A belong to every B, and B to some C. Then, if to be predicated of every is what was said at the start, A must belong to some C. And if A belongs to no B, and B belongs to some C, A must fail to belong to some C; for we have defined what we mean by "of none."
9| so that there will be a perfect syllogism. Similarly too, if the premise BC were indefinite, so long as it is affirmative: for the same syllogism results whether it is taken as indefinite or as particular. But if the universal is set at the minor extreme, whether affirmative or privative, there will be no syllogism, whether the indefinite or particular premise is affirmative or negative-for instance if A belongs, or does not belong, to some B, and B belongs to every C. Terms for belonging: good-state-practical wisdom; for not belonging: good-state-ignorance. Again, if B belongs to no C, and A belongs, or does not belong, or does not belong to every, some B, there will be no syllogism in this case either. Terms: white-horse-swan, white-horse-raven. The same terms serve also if B is indefinite. Nor when the term next to the major extreme is universal, whether affirmative or privative, and the term next to the minor extreme is privative and particular, will there be a syllogism-for instance if A belongs to every B, and B does not belong to some C, or does not belong
10| to every C. For whatever thing the middle fails to belong to, the first will follow that thing either universally or not at all. Suppose the terms are animal-man-white; then, among the things of which "white" is not predicated, let swan and snow be taken: then "animal" is predicated of the one, of all of it, and of the other, of none of it, so that there is no syllogism. Again, let A belong to no B, and let B fail to belong to some C; and let the terms be soulless-man-white; then take, among the things of which "white" is not predicated, man, swan, and snow: for "soulless" is predicated of all of one and of none of the other. Further, since "B does not belong to some C" is indefinite, and it is true both when B belongs to none of C and when it does not belong to every C-that it does not belong to some-and since, when such terms are taken that B belongs to none of C, no syllogism results (for this has been said already), it is clear that no syllogism will result from the terms being related in this way, for it would have resulted in these cases too. It will be shown in the same way also if the universal is set as privative. Nor when both intervals are particular, whether both affirmative, or both privative, or one affirmative and the other privative, or one indefinite and the other definite, or both indefinite, will there be a syllogism in any way.
11| Terms common to all these cases: animal-white-horse, animal-white-stone. It is clear, then, from what has been said, that if there is to be a syllogism in this figure in the particular mode, the terms must be related as we have stated; for if they are related otherwise, no syllogism results in any way. It is clear too that all the syllogisms in this figure are perfect (for they are all completed by means of what was assumed at the start), and that all the problems are demonstrated through this figure: belonging to every, belonging to none, belonging to some, and not belonging to some. I call this sort of figure the first. But whenever the same term belongs to one thing wholly and to another not at all, or to both wholly, or to neither, I call this sort of figure the second; and in it I call the middle the term that is predicated of both, the extremes the terms of which this is said, the major extreme the one lying next to the middle, and the minor extreme the one further from the middle. The middle is placed outside the extremes, and is first in position.
12| A perfect syllogism, then, will never result in this figure, but it will be possible whether the terms are universal or not universal. If the terms are universal, there will be a syllogism whenever the middle belongs to one of them wholly and to the other not at all, whichever of the two the privative premise concerns; but in no other way. For let M be predicated of no N, and of every X. Since the privative premise converts, N will belong to no M; but M was assumed to belong to every X; so N will belong to no X-for this has been shown already. Again, if M belongs to every N and to no X, neither will X belong to any N (for if M belongs to no X, neither does X belong to any M; but M belonged to every N; therefore X will belong to no N-for again the first figure has resulted); and since the privative premise converts, N too will belong to no X, so that the same syllogism results. These things can also be shown by leading to the impossible. It is clear, then, that a syllogism results when the terms are so related, but it is not perfect;
13| For the necessary conclusion is brought about not only from the original premises but also from others. But if M is predicated of every N and of every X, there will be no syllogism. Terms for belonging: substance—animal—man; for not belonging: substance—animal—number; the middle term is substance. Nor will there be a syllogism when M is predicated of neither N nor X at all. Terms for belonging: line—animal—man; for not belonging: line—animal—stone. It is clear, then, that if there is a syllogism when the terms are universal, the terms must be related as we stated at the outset; for if they are related otherwise, the necessary conclusion does not result. But if the middle term is universal in relation to one of the extremes—when it becomes universal in relation to the major term, either affirmatively or privatively, while in relation to the minor term it is particular and opposite to the universal premise (I call it opposite in this sense: if the universal premise is privative, the particular is affirmative; if the universal premise is affirmative, the particular is privative)—then a particular privative syllogism must result. For if M belongs to no N but belongs to some X, then N must not belong to some X. For since the privative premise converts, N will belong to no M;
14| but M was assumed to belong to some X; hence N will not belong to some X. For a syllogism results through the first figure. Again, if M belongs to every N but does not belong to some X, N must not belong to some X. For if it belonged to every X, and M is also predicated of every N, then M would have to belong to every X; but it was assumed not to belong to some X. And if M belongs to every N but not to every X, there will be a syllogism that N does not belong to every X; the proof is the same. But if M is predicated of every X and not of every N, there will be no syllogism. Terms: animal—substance—raven; animal—white—raven. Nor will there be a syllogism when M is predicated of no X and of some N. Terms for belonging: animal—substance—unit; for not belonging: animal—substance—knowledge. When, then, the universal premise is opposite to the particular one, we have stated when there will be a syllogism and when there will not. But when the premises are of the same form—both privative or both affirmative—there will never be a syllogism. Let them first be privative, and let the universal premise be placed in relation to the major extreme, so that M belongs to no N but does not belong to some X;
15| then N can belong to every X or to no X. Terms for not belonging: black—snow—animal; but terms for belonging cannot be found, if M belongs to some X and does not belong to some other X. For if N belonged to every X, and M to no N, then M would belong to no X; but it was assumed to belong to some X. So in this way terms cannot be found, but the point must be shown from an indefinite premise. For since it is true that M does not belong to some X even when it belongs to no X, and since when M belongs to no X there was no syllogism, it is clear that there will be none now either. Again, let the premises be affirmative, and let the universal premise be placed in the same way, so that M belongs to every N but to some X. Then N can belong to every X or to no X. Terms for belonging to none: white—swan—stone; but terms for belonging to every one cannot be found, for the same reason as before, and the point must be shown from an indefinite premise. But if the universal premise is in relation to the minor extreme, and M belongs to no X but does not belong to some N, then N can belong
16| to every X or to no X. Terms for belonging: white—animal—raven; for not belonging: white—stone—raven. But if the premises are affirmative, terms for not belonging: white—animal—snow; for belonging: white—animal—swan. It is clear, then, that when the premises are of the same form, one universal and the other particular, no syllogism ever results. Nor does one result if each term belongs or does not belong to some part, or belongs to one and not to the other, or to neither wholly, or is stated indefinitely. Terms common to all these cases: white—animal—man; white—animal—inanimate. It is clear, then, from what has been said, that if the terms stand to one another as has been stated, a syllogism results of necessity; and if there is a syllogism, the terms must stand in this way. It is also clear that all the syllogisms in this figure are imperfect (for all of them are completed by the assumption of something further, which either belongs to the terms of necessity or is laid down as a hypothesis, as when we prove through the impossible), and that no affirmative syllogism results through this figure, but all are privative, both the universal and the particular ones.
17| But if one term belongs to every instance of the same subject and another to none of it, or both belong to every instance or to none, I call a figure of this kind the third; and I call the middle term in it the one of which both terms are predicated, and I call the extremes the terms predicated of it; the major extreme is the one farther from the middle, the minor the one nearer. The middle term is placed outside the extremes, last in position. No perfect syllogism results in this figure either, but one will be possible whether the terms are universal or not universal in relation to the middle term. When they are universal, then, whenever both P and R belong to every S, it will follow of necessity that P belongs to some R. For since the affirmative premise converts, S will belong to some R; so that, since P belongs to every S and S belongs to some R, P must belong to some R; for a syllogism results through the first figure. The proof can also be made through the impossible and by exposition. For if both belong to every S, then if some one of the S's is taken, say N, both P and R will belong to it, so that P will belong
18| to some R. And if R belongs to every S but P belongs to no S, there will be a syllogism that P will not belong to some R of necessity; for the manner of proof is the same when the premise R-S is converted. It could also be shown through the impossible, just as in the previous cases. But if R belongs to no S and P belongs to every S, there will be no syllogism. Terms for belonging: animal—horse—man; for not belonging: animal—inanimate—man. Nor will there be a syllogism when both are said of no S. Terms for belonging: animal—horse—inanimate; for not belonging: man—horse—inanimate; the middle term is inanimate. It is clear, then, in this figure too, when there will be a syllogism and when there will not, if the terms are universal. For when both terms are affirmative, there will be a syllogism that the extreme belongs to some instance of the other extreme; when they are privative, there will not be one. But when one is privative and the other affirmative, if the major term becomes privative and the other affirmative, there will be a syllogism that the extreme does not belong to some instance of the other extreme; but if it is the other way around, there will not be one. But if one premise is universal in relation to the middle term and the other particular, then, if both are affirmative, a syllogism must result, whichever of the two terms is universal.
19| For if R belongs to every S, and Π belongs to some S, then Π must belong to some R. For since the affirmative converts, S will belong to some Π; so, since R belongs to every S and S belongs to some Π, R will also belong to some Π; therefore Π belongs to some R. Again, if R belongs to some S and Π belongs to every S, then Π must belong to some R; for the manner of proof is the same. It can also be demonstrated through the impossible and by exposition, as in the earlier cases. If one premise is affirmative and the other privative, with the affirmative universal, then whenever the minor is affirmative, there will be a syllogism. For if P belongs to every S, and Π does not belong to some S, then Π must not belong to some R. For if it belonged to every R, then, since R belongs to every S, P would belong to every S as well;
20| but it did not so belong. This can also be shown without reduction to the impossible, if something is taken among the S's to which Π does not belong. But when the major is affirmative, there will be no syllogism, for example if P belongs to every S but R does not belong to some S. Terms for belonging to every: animate—man—animal. But for belonging to none it is not possible to get terms, if P belongs to some S and not to some S; for if Π belongs to every R, and R belongs to some S, then Π will belong to some S as well; but it was assumed to belong to none. Instead we must proceed as in the earlier cases; for since 'not belonging to some' is indefinite, it is also true to say of what belongs to none that it does not belong to some; but when it belongs to none, there was no syllogism. So it is clear there will be no syllogism. If the privative premise is universal among the terms, then whenever the major is privative and the minor affirmative, there will be a syllogism. For if P belongs to no S, and R belongs to some S, then Π will not belong to some R; for again the first figure will result once the premise R–S is converted.
21| But when the minor is privative, there will be no syllogism. Terms for belonging: animal—man—wild. For not belonging: animal—knowledge—wild; the middle term in both is 'wild.' Nor when both premises are taken as privative, one universal and the other particular. Terms, when the minor is universal in relation to the middle: animal—knowledge—wild, animal—man—wild; when the major is universal, terms for not belonging: raven—snow—white. For belonging, it is not possible to get terms, if R belongs to some S and not to some S; for if Π belongs to every R, and R belongs to some S, then Π would belong to some S; but it was assumed to belong to none. Instead it must be shown from the indefinite premise. Nor again if each premise belongs to some of the middle term, or does not belong, or one belongs and the other does not, or one belongs to some and the other not to every, or both are taken indefinitely — in no case will there be a syllogism. Terms common to all these: animal—man—white, animal—inanimate—white. It is clear, then, in this figure too, when there will be a syllogism and when not, and that when the terms stand as described a syllogism necessarily results, and if there is a syllogism, the terms must stand so. It is also clear that all the syllogisms in this figure are incomplete (for they are all completed by the assumption of something additional), and that it is not possible to reach a universal conclusion through this figure, neither privative nor affirmative.
22| It is also clear that in all the figures, whenever no syllogism results, if both terms are affirmative or both privative, nothing necessary follows at all; but if one is affirmative and the other privative, with the privative taken universally, there always results a syllogism of the minor extreme in relation to the major, for example if A belongs to every B or to some B, and B belongs to no C; for once the premises are converted, C must not belong to some A. The same holds for the other figures too; for a syllogism always results through conversion. It is also clear that substituting the indefinite premise for the particular affirmative will produce the same syllogism in all the figures. It is also clear that all the incomplete syllogisms are completed through the first figure. For they are all brought to a conclusion either directly or through the impossible, and in both ways the first figure results: when completed directly, because they were all brought to a conclusion through conversion, and conversion produced the first figure; and when demonstrated through the impossible, because once the false premise is posited, the syllogism comes about through the first figure — for example in the last figure, if A and B both belong to every C, it can be shown that A belongs to some B; for if it belonged to none, and B belongs to every C, then A would belong to no C; but it belonged to every C. The same holds in the other cases too. It is also possible to reduce all syllogisms to the universal syllogisms in the first figure. Those in the second figure are clearly completed through those, though not all in the same way, but the universal ones through conversion of the universal privative premise, and each of the particular ones through reduction to the impossible. The particular syllogisms in the first figure are completed
23| through themselves as well, but it is also possible to demonstrate them through the second figure by reduction to the impossible, for example if A belongs to every B, and B belongs to some C, to show that A belongs to some C; for if it belonged to none, and A belongs to every B, then B would belong to no C — for this we know through the second figure. The demonstration will proceed similarly for the privative case too. For if A belongs to no B, and B belongs to some C, then A will not belong to some C; for if it belonged to every C, and A belongs to no B, then B would belong to no C — and this was the middle figure. So then, since the syllogisms in the middle figure are all reduced to the universal syllogisms in the first figure, and the particular syllogisms in the first figure are reduced to those in the middle figure, it is clear that the particular syllogisms too will be reduced to the universal syllogisms in the first figure. Those in the third figure, when the terms are universal, are completed immediately through those syllogisms; but when they are taken as particular, through the particular syllogisms in the first figure; and these were reduced to those, so that the particular syllogisms in the third figure are reduced to them as well. It is clear, then, that all will be reduced to the universal syllogisms in the first figure. We have now stated how matters stand for the syllogisms that show belonging or not belonging — both those within the same figure taken by themselves, and those from different figures compared with one another.
24| Since belonging, belonging of necessity, and possibly belonging are different (for many things belong but not of necessity, and other things neither belong of necessity nor belong at all, but can possibly belong), it is clear that the syllogism for each of these will also be different, and that the terms will not be arranged in the same way — one syllogism will be from necessary premises, another from premises of belonging, another from premises of possibility. Now for necessary premises the case is much the same as for premises of belonging: for when the terms are laid down in the same way, there will or will not be a syllogism alike for belonging and for necessarily belonging or not belonging, except that it will differ by the addition, to the terms, of necessarily belonging or not belonging. For the negative converts in the same way, and we will render "being in the whole" and "said of all" in the same way. In the other cases, then, the necessity of the conclusion will be shown in the same manner, through conversion, as in the case of belonging. But in the middle figure, when the universal premise is affirmative and the particular one negative, and again in the third figure, when the universal is predicative and the particular negative, the demonstration will not proceed in the same way; instead one must set out that thing to which each term fails to belong, and construct the syllogism about it — for the syllogism will then be necessary about these; and if it is necessary of the thing set out, it is necessary also of some part of that original term, since the thing set out is precisely some part of it. Each of these two syllogisms comes about in its own proper figure.
25| It also happens sometimes that, though only one of the premises is necessary, the conclusion still comes out necessary — but not from just any premise being necessary, only from the one connected to the major term. For example, if A has been taken as belonging or not belonging to B of necessity, while B merely belongs to C (without necessity), then, the premises being taken this way, A will of necessity belong or not belong to C. For since A of necessity belongs or does not belong to every B, and C is some part of the Bs, clearly one or the other of these will hold of C as well, of necessity. But if A-B is not necessary, while B-C is necessary, the conclusion will not be necessary. For if it were, it would follow that something belongs to some B of necessity, both through the first figure and through the third — and that is false, since B may be of such a kind that it is possible for it to belong to nothing. Further, this is clear from terms as well: let A be motion, B be animal, and C be man. A man is of necessity an animal, but an animal is not of necessity in motion, nor is a man. The same holds if A-B is negative, for the demonstration is the same. In the case of particular syllogisms, if the universal premise is necessary, the conclusion too will be necessary; but if the particular premise is necessary, the conclusion will not be necessary, whether the universal premise is negative or affirmative.
26| Let the universal premise be necessary first: let A belong to every B of necessity, and let B belong only to some C (without necessity). Then A must belong to some C of necessity, since C falls under B, and A belonged to every B of necessity. The same holds if the syllogism is negative, for the demonstration will be the same. But if the particular premise is necessary, the conclusion will not be necessary (for nothing impossible results), just as in the universal syllogisms. The same holds again for the negative cases. Terms: motion — animal — white.
27| In the second figure, if the negative premise is necessary, the conclusion too will be necessary; but if the affirmative premise is necessary, the conclusion will not be necessary. Let the negative premise be necessary first: let A be possible to belong to no B, but let it merely belong to every C (without necessity). Then, since the negative converts, it is also not possible for B to belong to any A; but A belongs to every C, so it is not possible for B to belong to any C, since C falls under A. Likewise if the negative premise is placed with C: if it is not possible for A to belong to any C, then it is not possible for C to belong to any A either; but A belongs to every B, so it is not possible for C to belong to any B, for we again get the first figure. Therefore B does not belong to C either, since it converts in the same way. But if the affirmative premise is necessary, the conclusion will not be necessary. Let A belong to every B of necessity, but let it merely belong to no C (without necessity). Converting the negative premise, we get the first figure; and it has been shown in the first figure that when the negative premise attached to the minor term is not necessary, the conclusion is not necessary either — so it will not be necessary of necessity in these cases either. Further, if the conclusion were necessary, it would follow that C fails to belong to some A of necessity. For if B belongs to no C of necessity, then C too will belong to no B of necessity. But B must belong to some A, at least, since A belonged to every B of necessity. So C must fail to belong to some A of necessity. But nothing prevents A being taken as something
28| to which C can possibly belong, in every case. Further, by setting out terms one can show that the conclusion is not necessary without qualification, but only necessary given these particular terms. For example, let A be animal, B be man, and C be white, and let the premises be taken in the same way: it is possible for animal to belong to no white thing. Man, then, will belong to no white thing, but not of necessity, since it is possible for a man to become white, only not so long as animal belongs to no white thing. So given these particular terms the conclusion will be necessary, but not necessary without qualification. The same holds for particular syllogisms too. For when the negative premise is both universal and necessary, the conclusion will also be necessary; but when the affirmative premise is universal and the negative premise particular, the conclusion will not be necessary. Let the negative premise be universal and necessary first: let it be possible for A to belong to no B, and let A belong to some C. Then, since the negative converts, it is not possible for B to belong to any A either; but A belongs to some C, so B will of necessity fail to belong to some C. Again, let the affirmative premise be universal and necessary, and let the affirmative be the one attached to B. If A belongs to every B of necessity, but does not belong to some C, then it is clear that B will not belong to some C — but not of necessity, since the same terms will serve for the demonstration as in the universal syllogisms. Nor, again, if the negative premise, taken as particular, is necessary, will the conclusion be necessary; for the demonstration proceeds through the same terms.
29| In the last figure, when the terms are universal with respect to the middle term and both premises are affirmative, then if either one is necessary, the conclusion too will be necessary. But if one is negative and the other affirmative, then when the negative one is necessary, the conclusion will also be necessary, but when the affirmative one is necessary, it will not be necessary. Let both premises be affirmative first, and let A and B both belong to every C, with
30| and let A-C be necessary. Since B belongs to every C, C will also belong to some B, because the universal converts with the particular; so that if it belongs to every C of necessity, and C belongs to some B, then A must also belong to some B of necessity — for B falls under C. This, then, gives the first figure. The same will be shown in the same way if B-C is necessary: for C converts with some A, so that if B belongs to every C of necessity, it will also belong to some A of necessity. Again, let C be privative and B-C affirmative, and let the privative be necessary. Since C converts with some B, and A belongs to no C of necessity, A will not belong to some B of necessity either — for B falls under C. But if the affirmative is necessary, the conclusion will not be necessary. For let B-C be affirmative and necessary, and let C be privative and not necessary. Since the affirmative converts, C will also belong to some B of necessity, so that if A belongs to no C and C belongs to some B, A will not belong to some B —
31| but not of necessity. For it has been shown in the first figure that when the privative premise is not necessary, the conclusion will not be necessary either. This is also clear through terms. Let A be good, B be animal, and C be horse. It is possible for good to belong to no horse, while it is necessary that animal belong to every horse; but it is not necessary that some animal not be good, since it is possible for every animal to be good — or, if that is not possible, let being awake or being asleep serve as the term, since every animal is receptive of these. If, then, the terms are universal with respect to the middle term, it has been stated when the conclusion will be necessary. But if one term is universal and the other particular, and both premises are affirmative, then whenever the universal premise is necessary, the conclusion will also be necessary. The demonstration is the same as before, for the particular affirmative also converts. If, then, it is necessary that B belong to every
32| C, and this falls under C, it is necessary that B belong to some A. And if B belongs to something, A too must belong to some B of necessity, for it converts. Likewise also if A-C should be necessary and universal, for B falls under C. But if the particular premise is necessary, the conclusion will not be necessary. For let B-C be particular and necessary, and let A belong to every C, though not of necessity. Then, once B-C is converted, the first figure results, and the universal premise is not necessary while the particular premise is necessary. But when the premises stand this way, the conclusion was not necessary, and so it is not necessary in this case either. This is also clear from terms. Let A be being-awake, B be two-footed, and C be animal. Then B must belong to some C of necessity, while A can possibly belong to C, and A need not belong to B of necessity — for it is not necessary that something two-footed be either asleep or awake.
33| It will be shown in the same way, and through the same terms, if A-C should be particular and necessary. But if one of the terms is affirmative and the other privative: when the universal premise is privative and necessary, the conclusion too will be necessary. For if A can belong to no C, while B belongs to some C, then A must not belong to some B of necessity. But when the affirmative premise is posited as necessary, whether universal or particular, or when the privative premise is particular, the conclusion will not be necessary. The rest is the same as what we said before; and for terms — when the universal affirmative is necessary: being-awake, animal, man, with man as middle; when the particular affirmative is necessary: being-awake, animal, white — for it is necessary that animal belong to some white thing, but being-awake can belong to none, and it is not necessary that being-awake fail to belong to some animal. And when the particular privative is necessary: two-footed, moving, animal, with animal as middle. It is clear, then, that there is no syllogism concerning simple belonging unless both premises are premises of simple belonging, but there is one concerning necessity even if only one premise is necessary. In
34| both cases — whether the syllogisms are affirmative or privative — one of the two premises must be similar to the conclusion. By 'similar' I mean: if the conclusion is of simple belonging, the premise must be of simple belonging; if it is necessary, the premise must be necessary. So this too is clear: the conclusion cannot be either necessary or a matter of simple belonging unless a necessary premise, or a premise of simple belonging, has been taken. Concerning the necessary, then — how it comes about, and what difference
35| it has in relation to simple belonging, has been stated at sufficient length. Concerning the contingent, let us next say when, how, and through what sort of premises there will be a syllogism. I call 'contingent' — and 'the contingent' — that which, not being necessary, but posited as belonging, will involve nothing impossible on that account; for we also apply the word 'contingent' to the necessary, but homonymously. It turns out that all premises expressed in terms of contingency convert into one another. I do not mean the affirmative converting with the negative, but those which have an affirmative form in respect of their opposition — for instance, 'contingently belongs' converts with 'contingently does not belong,' and 'contingently belongs to all' with 'contingently belongs to none' and 'not to all,' and 'to some' with 'not to some.' The same holds for the others as well. For since the contingent is not necessary, and what is not necessary admits of not belonging, it is clear that if it is contingent for A to belong to B, it is also contingent for it not to belong; and if it is contingent for it to belong to all, it is also contingent for it not to belong to all. The same holds for particular affirmations too, for the demonstration is the same. Such premises are affirmative, not privative; for 'being contingent' is ranked together with 'being,' in the same way as was said before.
36| Now that these points have been distinguished, let us say again that 'being contingent' is spoken of in two ways: in one way, of what happens for the most part and falls short of necessity — for instance, a man going gray, or growing, or declining, or in general whatever belongs to a thing by nature (for this does not have necessity in an unbroken way, because a man does not always exist, yet when a man does exist, it holds either of necessity or for the most part); in the other way, of what is indeterminate, which is capable of being so or not being so — for instance, an animal walking, or an earthquake occurring while it is walking, or in general whatever comes about by chance; for such a thing is no more disposed by nature to happen this way than the opposite way. Each kind of the contingent converts with its opposite premises, but not in the same manner: the natural kind converts with 'not belonging of necessity' (for in this way it is contingent that a man not go gray), while the indeterminate kind converts with 'no more this way than that.' Scientific knowledge and demonstrative syllogism do not concern the indeterminate, because the middle term is disorderly, but they do concern the natural kind, and arguments and inquiries are, for the most part, concerned with things contingent in this way —
37| But regarding those cases, a syllogism can come about, though it is not usually the object of inquiry. These points will be settled more fully later on; for now let us say when, how, and what sort of syllogism will result from premises of possibility. Since it is possible to understand "this is possible of that" in two ways—either of that to which the thing actually belongs, or of that to which it is possible for it to belong (for "A is possible of that of which B holds" signifies one or the other of these: either that of which B is said, or that of which it is possible for B to be said, and it makes no difference whether we say "A is possible of that of which B holds" or "A may possibly belong to everything that B may belong to")—it is clear that "A is possible of all B" could be said in two ways. Let us first say, then, what sort of syllogism will result, and of what kind, if B is possible of that of which C holds, and A is possible of that of which B holds; for in this way both premises are taken in respect of possibility, whereas when A is possible of that of which B actually holds, one premise is assertoric and the other is a premise of possibility. So we must begin from the premises that share the same form, as in the other cases too.
38| When, then, A is possible of all B and B is possible of all C, there will be a perfect syllogism that A is possible of all C. This is clear from the definition: for this is what we meant by "possible of belonging to all." Similarly too, if A is possible of no B, and B is possible of all C, then A is possible of no C; for A's not being possible of anything that B is possible of—this was what we meant by leaving out none of what falls under B's possibility. But when A is possible of all B, and B is possible of no C, no syllogism results from the premises as taken; but when the B–C premise is converted according to possibility, the same syllogism results as before. For since it is possible for B to belong to no C, it is also possible for it to belong to all C; this was stated earlier. So if B is possible of all C, and A is possible of all B, again the same syllogism results. And similarly too if the negation is attached to both premises together with possibility. I mean, for example, if A is possible of no B and B is possible of no C:
39| through the premises as taken, no syllogism results, but when they are converted, again the same one results as before. It is clear, then, that when the negation is attached to the minor term, or to both premises, either no syllogism results, or one results but is not perfect; for the necessary conclusion is reached only by conversion. But if one of the premises is taken as universal and the other as particular, when the universal one is placed toward the major term, the syllogism will be perfect. For if A is possible of all B, and B is possible of some C, then A is possible of some C. This is clear from the definition of possibility. Again, if A is possible of no B, and B is possible of belonging to some C, then A must be possible of not belonging to some C; the proof is the same. But if the particular premise is taken as negative, and the universal one as affirmative, with the same arrangement (that is, A is possible of all B, and B is possible of not belonging to some C), then through
40| the premises as taken, no evident syllogism results; but when the particular premise is converted and it is instead taken that B is possible of belonging to some C, the same conclusion results as before, just as in the cases from the start. But if the premise toward the major term is taken as particular, and the one toward the minor as universal, then whether both are taken as affirmative, or as negative, or as differing in form, or both indefinite or particular, there will be no syllogism at all; for nothing prevents B from extending more widely than A and not being predicated of an equal range. Let C be taken as that of which B extends beyond A: for it is possible for A to belong to it neither in every case, nor in none, nor in some, nor not in some, given that premises of possibility convert and B is possible of more things than it actually belongs to. This is also clear from terms: for with the premises so arranged, it is possible for the first term to belong to the last in no case, and also necessary for it to belong to it in every case. Terms common to all these cases: for necessary belonging, animal–white–man; for impossibility, animal–white–garment. It is clear, then, that when the terms stand in this way, no syllogism results.
41| For every syllogism is one either of actual belonging, or of necessity, or of possibility. That it is not one of actual belonging or of necessity is clear: for the affirmative conclusion is refuted by the negative example, and the negative by the affirmative one. It remains, then, that it should be one of possibility; but this is impossible, for it has been shown that, with the terms so arranged, the first term must belong to the last in every case, and also may possibly belong to it in no case. So there could be no syllogism of possibility; for the necessary was not the possible. It is clear that, when the terms are universal in premises of possibility, a syllogism always results in the first figure, whether the premises are affirmative or negative—perfect if they are affirmative, imperfect if they are negative. But possibility must be taken not in the sense of necessity, but according to the distinction we have stated. Sometimes this distinction goes unnoticed. If one of the premises is taken as assertoric and the other as a premise of possibility, then when the premise toward the major term signifies possibility,
42| all the syllogisms will be perfect, and of possibility according to the distinction we stated; but when it is the premise toward the minor term that signifies possibility, all the syllogisms will be imperfect, and the negative ones among them will be of possibility not in the sense of the distinction stated, but of belonging to none, or not to all, by necessity; for if it belongs to none, or not to all, by necessity, we say that it is also possible for it to belong to none and not to all. For let A be possible of all B, and let B be assumed to belong actually to all C. Since, then, C falls under B, and A is possible of all B, it is clear that A is possible of all C as well. A perfect syllogism results. Similarly, if the A–B premise is negative and the B–C premise is affirmative, one taken as a premise of possibility and the other as assertoric, a perfect syllogism will result that A is possible of belonging to no C. It is clear, then, that when the assertoric premise is placed toward the minor term, perfect syllogisms result; but that syllogisms will result when the arrangement is the opposite must be shown by reduction to the impossible. At the same time it will also be clear that they are imperfect, since the proof does not proceed directly from the premises as taken. But first it must be said that if, when A is the case, B must be the case, then, when A is possible, B will also be possible by necessity.
43| For suppose things stand thus: let A stand for what is possible, and B for what is impossible. If, then, the possible, when it is possible for it to be, might come to be, while the impossible, when it is impossible, could not come to be, and if the possible A and the impossible B held at the same time, then it would be possible for A to come to be without B, and if it could come to be, it could also be; for what has come to be, is, at the time when it has come to be. We must take the impossible and the possible not only with respect to coming to be, but also with respect to being truly said and to actually holding, and in however many other senses the possible is spoken of; for the argument will hold alike in all of them. Further, when we say that if A is, B is, we must not take this to mean that B will be if some single thing, A, is the case; for nothing follows of necessity from a single thing's being the case, but only from at least two, namely when the premises stand as was stated in the case of the syllogism. For if the
44| C holds of D, and D holds of Z, then C holds of Z of necessity; and if each premise is possible, the conclusion too is possible. So if one were to set A as standing for the premises and B for the conclusion, it would follow not only that, when a necessary thing is the case, B is also necessarily the case, but also that when a possible thing is the case, B is possible. Now that this has been shown, it is clear that if a false but not impossible thing is assumed, then what results because of that assumption will likewise be false and not impossible. For example, if the assumption is false but not impossible, and B is the case whenever A is the case, then B too will be false but not impossible. For since it has been shown that if B is the case whenever A is the case, then B will also be possible whenever A is possible, and A is assumed to be possible, B too will be possible; for if it were impossible, the same thing would be at once possible and impossible. Now that these points have been settled, let A hold of every B, and let B be possible for every C. Then A must be possible for every C. For suppose it is not possible, and let B be posited as actually holding of every C;
45| this is false, but not impossible. So if A is not possible for every C, while B holds actually of every C, then it results that A does not hold of every B; for a syllogism comes about through the third figure. But it was assumed that A holds of every B. A must therefore be possible for every C; for when a false but not impossible thing is assumed, what results is impossible. We must take 'holding of every term' without defining it by reference to time — as 'now' or 'at this time' — but without qualification; for it is through premises of this sort that we construct our syllogisms, since if the premise is taken with reference to 'now' there will be no syllogism. For nothing, perhaps, prevents 'man' from holding at some time of everything that is moving,
46| if, say, nothing else were moving; and 'moving' is possible for every horse; but 'man' is possible for no horse. Again, let the first term be 'animal,' the middle 'moving,' and the last 'man.' The premises, then, will hold in the same way, but the conclusion is necessary, not possible; for man is of necessity an animal. It is clear, then, that the universal premise must be taken without qualification, and not by defining it with reference to time. Again, let A-B be a universal negative premise, and let A be taken as holding of no B, while B is possible for every C. Given these, A must be possible for no C. For suppose it is not possible, and let B be posited as actually holding of C, as before. Then A must hold of some B; for a syllogism comes about through the third figure; but this is impossible. So A would be possible for no C; for when a false thing is assumed, what results is impossible. This syllogism, then, is not of the possible in the defined sense, but of what holds of no term of necessity (for this is the contradictory of the hypothesis that was made; for it was assumed that A holds of some C of necessity, and the syllogism through the impossible proves the opposite assertion).
47| Further, it is also clear from the terms that the conclusion will not be possible. Let A be 'raven,' B 'thinking,' and C 'man.' A holds of no B; for nothing that thinks is a raven. And B is possible for every C; for thinking is possible for every man. But A holds of necessity of no C; the conclusion, then, is not possible. But neither is it always necessary. Let A be 'moving,' B 'knowledge,' and C 'man.' A will hold of no B, B is possible for every C, and the conclusion will not be necessary; for it is not necessary that no man moves, though it is not necessary that some man moves either. It is clear, then, that the conclusion is of the kind 'holds of no term of necessity.' The terms, however, must be chosen better. If the negative premise is posited with reference to the minor extreme, signifying possibility, then from the premises themselves as taken
48| there will be no syllogism, but if the premise concerning possibility is converted, there will be one, just as in the earlier cases. For let A hold of every B, and let B be possible for no C. With the terms standing thus, nothing will be necessary; but if B-C is converted and B is taken as possible for every C, a syllogism results, just as before; for the terms stand in a like position. And in the same way, when both intervals are negative — if A holds of no B, and B is possible for no C — from the premises themselves as taken nothing necessary results at all, but if the premise concerning possibility is converted, there will be a syllogism. For let A be taken as holding of no B, and let B be possible for no C. Through these, then, nothing is necessary; but if B is taken as possible for every C — which is also true — and the A-B premise stands as before, again the same syllogism will result. But if it is posited that B does not hold of every C, and that it is not possible for it not to hold, there will be no syllogism at all, whether the A-B premise is negative or affirmative.
49| Common terms: for necessary holding, 'white—animal—snow'; for not being possible, 'white—animal—pitch.' It is clear, then, that when the terms are universal, and one of the premises is taken as actual and the other as of possibility, then whenever the premise concerning the minor extreme is taken as possible, a syllogism always results — sometimes directly from the premises as taken, sometimes only when the premise is converted. When each of these occurs, and for what reason, we have stated. If one of the intervals is taken as universal and the other as particular: when the premise concerning the minor extreme is posited as universal and possible — whether negative or affirmative — and the particular one as affirmative and actual, there will be a perfect syllogism, just as when the terms are universal. The proof is the same as before. But when the premise concerning the major extreme is universal, actual and not of possibility, and the other is particular and of possibility, whether both are posited as negative or as affirmative, or
50| one negative and the other affirmative, in every case there will be an imperfect syllogism — except that some will be proved through the impossible, and others also through the conversion of the possibility-premise, just as in the earlier cases. There will be a syllogism through conversion whenever the universal premise, posited with reference to the major extreme, signifies actual holding, and the particular premise, being negative, is taken as concerning possibility — for instance, if A holds, or does not hold, of every B, and it is possible for B not to hold of some C; for when B-C is converted with respect to possibility, a syllogism results. But when the particular premise is taken as signifying actual not-holding, there will be no syllogism. Terms for holding: 'white—animal—snow'; for not holding: 'white—animal—pitch'; for the proof must be taken through the indefinite premise. But if the universal premise is posited with reference to the minor extreme, and the particular one with reference to the major — whether negative or affirmative, and whether either one is of possibility or actual — there will be no syllogism at all. Nor, when both premises are posited as particular or indefinite — whether taken as concerning possibility, or as actual, or with these interchanged — will there be a syllogism in this case either. The proof is the same as in the earlier cases. Common terms: for necessary holding, 'animal—white—man'; for not being possible, 'animal—white—cloak.' It is clear, then, that when the premise concerning the major extreme is posited as universal, a syllogism always results, but when it is the premise concerning the minor extreme, none ever results in any case.
51| When one of the premises signifies belonging by necessity and the other signifies possibility, the syllogism will hold in the same way as when the terms are related in the same manner, and it will be perfect when the necessary premise is placed at the minor extreme. The conclusion, if the terms are affirmative, will be of possibility and not of belonging, whether they are taken universally or not universally. But if one is affirmative and the other negative, then whenever the affirmative is the necessary one, the conclusion will be of possibility and not of not-belonging; but whenever the negative one is necessary, it will be both of the possibility of not belonging and of not belonging
52| outright, whether the terms are taken universally or not universally. And possibility in the conclusion must be taken in the same way as in the earlier cases. But there will be no syllogism concluding to not-belonging-by-necessity; for 'not belonging by necessity' — that is, not necessarily belonging — is one thing, and necessarily not belonging is another. That the conclusion does not come out necessary when the terms are affirmative is clear. For let A belong to all B by necessity, and let it be possible for B to belong to all C. Then there will be an imperfect syllogism that A may possibly belong to all C. That it is imperfect is clear from the proof, for it will be shown in the same way as in the earlier cases. Again, let it be possible for A to belong to all B, and let B belong to all C by necessity. Then there will be a syllogism that A may possibly belong to all C, but not that it belongs — and it will be perfect, not imperfect, for it is completed straightaway through the original premises. If the premises are not of the same quality, let the negative be the necessary one first, and let it be possible for A to belong to no B, and let it be possible for B to belong to all C.
53| Then A must belong to no C. For suppose it belongs either to all or to some C; but it was assumed that A is possible for no B. Since, then, the negative converts, B too is possible for no A; but A was supposed to belong to C either wholly or partly, so that B could possibly belong to no C, or not to all of it; but it was assumed from the start that B is possible for all C. It is clear too that a syllogism concluding to the possibility of not belonging comes about as well, if indeed one concluding to not belonging does. Again, let the affirmative premise be the necessary one, and let it be possible for A to belong to no B, and let B belong to all C by necessity. Then the syllogism will be perfect, but not concluding to not belonging — rather to the possibility of not belonging; for the premise taken from the major extreme was taken in that way, and it is not possible to lead the argument to the impossible. For if A were supposed to belong to some C, while it is also assumed that A is possible for
54| no B, nothing impossible results from these. But if the negative is placed at the minor extreme, then when it signifies possibility, there will be a syllogism by conversion, just as in the previous cases; but when it signifies non-possibility, there will not be. Nor when both premises are negative and the one at the minor is not one of possibility. The terms are the same: for belonging, white–animal–snow; for not belonging, white–animal–pitch. It will hold the same way for the particular syllogisms too. For whenever the negative premise is the necessary one, the conclusion too will be of not belonging. For example, if it is possible for A to belong to no B, and possible for B to belong to some C, then A must not belong to some C. For if A belongs to all C, while A is possible for no B, then B too is possible for no A; so that if A belongs to all C, B is possible for no C; but it was assumed that B is possible for some C. But whenever the particular affirmative is the necessary premise — the one in the negative syllogism, such as BC — or the universal one in the affirmative syllogism, such as AB, there will be no syllogism concluding to belonging.
55| The proof is the same as in the earlier cases. But if the universal premise, whether affirmative or negative, is placed at the minor extreme as one of possibility, and the particular is necessary [at the minor extreme], there will be no syllogism (the terms for necessary belonging are animal–white–man, and for impossibility of belonging, animal–white–garment). But when the universal is the necessary premise and the particular is one of possibility: if the universal is negative, the terms for belonging are animal–white–raven, and for not belonging, animal–white–pitch; if it is affirmative, the terms for belonging are animal–white–swan, and for impossibility, animal–white–snow. Nor again, when the premises are taken indefinite, or both particular, will there be a syllogism in this way either. The common terms are: for belonging, animal–white–man; for not belonging, animal–white–inanimate. For animal belongs to some white thing, and white to some inanimate thing, both necessarily and — in another case — impossibly; and likewise for possibility, so that these terms are useful for every case. It is clear, then, from what has been said, that with the terms related in the same way, a syllogism does or does not come about alike in the case of belonging and in the case of necessity — except that when the negative premise is taken as one of belonging, the syllogism was of possibility, whereas when it is taken as one of necessity, the syllogism was both of possibility and of not belonging.
56| In the second figure, when both premises are taken as premises of possibility, there will be no syllogism at all, whether they are taken affirmative or negative, universal or particular. But when one premise signifies belonging and the other possibility, then, if the affirmative signifies belonging, there will never be a syllogism, but if the universal negative signifies belonging, there always will be. It holds the same way when one of the premises is taken as necessary and the other as possible. And in these cases too the possibility in the conclusions must be understood as in the previous cases. First, then, it must be shown that the negative premise of possibility does not convert — for instance, if A is possible for no B, it is not necessary that B too be possible for no A. For suppose it does, and let B be possible for no A. Now since, in the case of possibility, affirmations convert with negations — both the contrary ones and the opposite ones — and B is possible for no A, it is clear that B would also be possible for all A. But this is false; for it does not follow that, because this belongs possibly to all of that, this belongs to that necessarily. So the negative does not convert. Further, nothing prevents A from being possible for no B, while B necessarily does not belong to some A — for instance, it is possible for white to belong to no man (since it is also possible for it to belong), but it is not true to say that man is possible for no white thing; for to many white things man necessarily does not belong, and the necessary
57| was not the same as the possible. But neither will it be shown to convert by way of the impossible — suppose someone were to claim: since it is false that B is possible for no A, it is true that it is not possible for none (for the two are affirmation and negation of each other), and if this is true, it is true that B necessarily belongs to some A; so A too would belong to some B; but this is impossible. For it does not follow that, if it is not possible for B to belong to no A, B necessarily belongs to some A. For 'it is not possible to belong to none' is said in two ways: one, if it necessarily belongs to some; the other, if it necessarily does not belong to some. For of what necessarily does not belong to some A, it is not true to say that it is possible for it not to belong to all, just as, of what necessarily belongs to some, it is not true to say that it is possible for it to belong to all. If, then, someone were to claim that, since it is not possible for C to belong to all D, C necessarily does not belong to some D, he would be assuming something false; for it does belong to all D, but because it belongs to some of them by necessity, we say for this reason that it is not possible for it to belong to all. So both 'necessarily belonging to some' and 'necessarily not belonging to some' are opposed to 'possibly belonging to all.'
58| The same holds for the possible-of-belonging-to-none premise as well. It is clear, then, that with respect to the possible and the not-possible as we distinguished at the start, what we must take is not that something necessarily belongs to some subject, but that something necessarily does not belong to some subject. When this is taken, nothing impossible results, so no syllogism is produced. It is evident, then, from what has been said, that the privative premise does not convert. Now that this has been shown, and as possibly belonging to all C. Then no syllogism will result through conversion, since it has been stated that a premise of this kind does not convert. Nor will one result through the impossible: for if we posit that B is ⟨not⟩ possible ⟨not⟩ to belong to all C, nothing false results, since it is possible for the same thing to belong both to all C and to none of it. And in general, if there is a syllogism, it is clear that it would concern the possible, since neither premise has been taken as an assertion of belonging,
59| and such a conclusion would be either affirmative or privative; but neither is possible. For if the affirmative is posited, it will be shown by means of terms that belonging is not possible; and if the privative, that the conclusion is not possible but necessary. Let A be white, B man, and C horse. Then A, white, can belong to all of one and to none of the other. But B cannot possibly either belong or not belong to C. That it cannot belong is clear, since no horse is a man. But neither is it possible for it not to belong: for it is necessary that no horse be a man, and the necessary was not the same as the possible. No syllogism results, then. The same will be shown if the privative premise is posited the other way round, and if both premises are taken as affirmative or both as privative — for the demonstration will proceed through the same terms — and likewise when one premise is universal and the other particular, or both particular, or indefinite, or however else the premises may be varied: the demonstration will always proceed through the same terms. It is evident, then, that when both premises are posited as possible, no syllogism results at all.
60| If one premise signifies belonging and the other possibility, then when the affirmative is posited as one of belonging and the privative as one of possibility, no syllogism will ever result, whether the terms are taken universally or in part (the demonstration is the same and proceeds through the same terms). But when the affirmative is one of possibility and the privative one of belonging, there will be a syllogism. For let A be taken as belonging to no B, and as possibly belonging to all C. Then, the privative premise being converted, B will belong to no A; and A was possible for all C; so a syllogism results, through the first figure, that B is possible for no C. The same holds if the privative is posited with respect to C instead. But if both premises are privative, one signifying not-belonging and the other possibility, nothing necessary results from the premises as taken; but when the premise concerning possibility is converted, a syllogism results that B is possible for no C, just as in the cases before —
61| for again it will be the first figure. But if both premises are posited as affirmative, no syllogism results. The terms for belonging are health—animal—man, and for not-belonging, health—horse—man. The same will hold for the particular syllogisms as well. For when the affirmative is one of belonging, whether taken universally or in part, no syllogism results (this too is shown in the same way and through the same terms as before); but when it is the privative that is one of belonging, there will be a syllogism through conversion, just as before. Again, if both intervals are taken as privative, with the not-belonging one universal, nothing necessary results from the premises themselves; but when the possibility-premise is converted, a syllogism results, just as before. But if the privative is one of belonging and is taken in part, no syllogism results, whether the other premise is affirmative or privative. Nor does one result when both premises are taken indefinite — whether affirmative or negative — or particular. The demonstration is the same and proceeds through the same terms.
62| If one of the premises signifies necessity and the other possibility, then when the privative is the necessary one, there will be a syllogism, concluding not only that the term is possible not to belong but that it does not belong; but when the affirmative is the necessary one, there will be no syllogism. For let it be posited that A necessarily belongs to no B, and possibly belongs to all C. Then, the privative premise being converted, B will belong to no A; and A was possible for all C; so again, through the first figure, a syllogism results that B is possible for no C. And at the same time it is clear that B will also belong to no C. For suppose it does belong: then, if A is possible for no B, and B belongs to some C, A is not possible for some C; but it was assumed possible for all C. The same will be shown if the privative is posited with respect to C instead. Again, let the affirmative premise be the necessary one and the other possible, and let A be possible
63| for no B, and let it belong to all C of necessity. With the terms so arranged, no syllogism results at all. For it would follow that B necessarily does not belong to C. Let A be white, B man, and C swan. White necessarily belongs to swan, and possibly belongs to no man, and man necessarily belongs to no swan. That there is no syllogism concluding possibility is clear, since the necessary was not the same as the possible. But neither is there one concluding necessity, since the necessary conclusion resulted either from both premises being necessary or from the privative one being necessary. Moreover, with these terms posited it is also possible for B to belong to C: nothing prevents C from falling under B, while A is possible for all B and necessarily belongs to C — for instance, if C were the waking, B animal, and A, the term posited, motion. For motion necessarily belongs to the waking, and is possible for every animal; and everything waking is an animal. It is clear, then, that neither is there a syllogism concluding not-belonging, given that, with the terms so arranged, belonging is necessary.
64| Nor, then, is there one concluding the opposite affirmations, so that no syllogism results at all. The same will be shown if the affirmative is posited the other way round. But if the premises are alike in form, then when both are privative, a syllogism always results, by converting the premise concerning possibility, just as before. For let A be taken as necessarily not belonging to B, and as possibly not belonging to C. Then, the premises being converted, B belongs to no A, and A is possible for all C; so the first figure results. And likewise if the privative is posited with respect to C instead. But if both premises are posited as affirmative, no syllogism results. That there is none concluding not-belonging or necessarily-not-belonging is clear, since no privative premise has been taken, either as one of belonging or of necessary belonging. But neither is there one concluding possible not-belonging: for with the terms so arranged, B will necessarily not belong to C.
65| Nor is there a syllogism concluding the opposite affirmatives either, since it has been shown that B does not belong to C of necessity. So no syllogism results at all. The same will hold for the particular syllogisms too: for when the privative premise is universal and necessary, there will always be a syllogism both of possibility and of not belonging (the demonstration is by conversion), but when the affirmative premise is universal and necessary, never — for it will be shown in the same way as with the universal syllogisms, and through the same terms. Nor when both premises are taken as affirmative: for the demonstration of this case is the same as before. But when both are privative, and the one signifying not belonging is universal and necessary, the necessary conclusion will not follow from the premises as taken, but when the premise concerning possibility is converted there will be a syllogism, just as in the previous cases. But if both are taken as indefinite or particular, there will be no syllogism. The demonstration is the same, and through the same terms. It is clear, then, from what has been said, that when the universal privative premise is posited as necessary, a syllogism always results — not only concluding possible not-belonging but also actual not-belonging — but when the affirmative premise is necessary, never. And that a syllogism does or does not result in the same way whether the premises are of necessity or of belonging. And it is clear too that all these syllogisms are imperfect, and that they are completed by means of the figures already discussed.
66| In the last figure, a syllogism will result both when both premises signify possibility and when only one does. Now when the premises signify possibility, the conclusion too will be possible; and likewise when one signifies possibility and the other belonging. But when the other is posited as necessary: if it is affirmative, the conclusion will be neither necessary nor actual; but if it is privative, there will be a syllogism concluding not-belonging, just as in the previous cases — and here too the possible in the conclusions must be understood in the same way.
67| Let the premises, then, first be possible, and let both A and B be possible of belonging to every C. Since, then, the particular affirmative converts, and B is possible of every C, C will also be possible of some B. So if A is possible of every C, and C is possible of some B, then A must also be possible of some B — for the first figure results. And if A is possible of belonging to no C, while B is possible of every C, then A must be possible of not belonging to some B — for again the first figure results, by conversion. But if both premises are posited as privative, no necessity follows from the premises as taken, but when the premises are converted a syllogism will result, just as in the previous cases. For if A and B are possible of not belonging to C, then, when 'possible of not belonging' is exchanged for 'possible of belonging,' the first figure will again result, by conversion. But if one of the terms is universal and the other particular, then, the terms standing in the same relation as in the case of belonging, there will be a syllogism, and there will not be one.
68| For let A be possible of belonging to every C, and B possible of belonging to some C. Here too the first figure will result once the particular premise is converted: for if A belongs to every C possibly, and C is possible of some B, A will be possible of some B. And likewise if the universal premise is posited with B-C. Similarly too if the A-C premise is privative and the B-C premise affirmative — for again the first figure will result, by conversion. But if both are posited as privative, one universal and the other particular, no syllogism will result from the premises as taken, but there will be one once they are converted, just as in the previous cases. But when both are taken as indefinite or particular, there will be no syllogism — for it is necessary that the same thing belong to every B and to none. Terms for belonging: animal — man — white; for not belonging: horse — man — white, with white as the middle term. If one of the premises signifies belonging and the other signifies possibility, the conclusion will be that something is possible,
69| and not that it belongs, and there will be a syllogism when the terms stand in the same relation as before. For let them first be affirmative, and let A belong to every C, and let B be possible of belonging to every C. Then, once B-C is converted, the first figure will result, and the conclusion will be that A is possible of belonging to some B — for whenever, in the first figure, one of the premises signified possibility in this way, the conclusion too was possible. Similarly too if C belongs and A-C signifies possibility; and if A is privative and B-C affirmative — whichever one belongs — in both cases the conclusion will be possible: for again the first figure results, and it has been shown that when one of its premises signifies possibility, the conclusion too will be possible. But if the privative premise is posited with the minor term, or if both are taken as privative, no syllogism will result from the premises as they stand, but there will be one once they are converted, just as in the previous cases. And if one of the premises is universal and the other particular — both being affirmative, or the universal one privative and the particular one affirmative — the manner of the syllogisms will be the same,
70| for they are all completed through the first figure. So it is clear that the syllogism will conclude possibility and not belonging. But if the affirmative premise is universal and the privative one particular, the demonstration will be by way of the impossible. For let B belong to every C, and let A be possible of not belonging to some C; then A must be possible of not belonging to some B. For if A belongs to every B of necessity, and B is posited as belonging to every C, then A will belong to every C of necessity — for this has been shown before. But it was assumed that A is possible of not belonging to some C. When both premises are taken as indefinite or particular, there will be no syllogism. The demonstration is the same as before, and through the same terms.
71| If one of the premises is necessary and the other possible, then, when the terms are affirmative, there will always be a syllogism concluding possibility; but when one is affirmative and the other privative, if the affirmative one is necessary, the conclusion will be that something is possible not to belong, while if the privative one is necessary, the conclusion will be both that something is possible not to belong and that it does not belong. But there will be no syllogism concluding necessary not-belonging, just as in the other figures. Let the terms, then, first be affirmative, and let A belong to every C of necessity, and let B be possible of belonging to every C. Since, then, A belongs to every C of necessity, and C is possible of some B, A too will be possible, and not actual, of belonging to some B — for that is how it turned out in the first figure. Likewise it will be shown too if B-C is posited as necessary and A-C as possible. Again, let one be affirmative and the other privative, the affirmative one being necessary: let A be possible of belonging to no C, and let B belong to every C of necessity. Then again the first figure results —
72| For the negative premise too signifies contingency; so it is clear that the conclusion will be contingent. For whenever the premises stood this way in the first figure, the conclusion was also contingent. But if the negative premise is necessary, the conclusion will be both that it is contingent for something not to belong, and that it does not belong. For let A be posited as not belonging to C of necessity, and B as belonging to every C contingently. Then when the affirmative premise BC is converted, it will be the first figure, and the negative premise will be necessary. And when the premises stood this way, it resulted that A both is contingently not belonging to some C and does not belong to it, so that A must also not belong to some B of necessity. And when the negative is posited with the minor extreme, if it is contingent, there will be a syllogism once the premise is converted, just as in the earlier cases; but if it is necessary, there will not be one — for it is possible for it to belong to all, and also possible for it to belong to none. Terms: for belonging to all — sleep, sleeping horse, man; for belonging to none — sleep, waking horse, man.
73| The situation will be similar too if one of the terms is universal and the other particular in relation to the middle. For if both are affirmative, there will be a syllogism of contingency and not of belonging; and likewise when one is taken as negative and the other as affirmative, with the affirmative necessary. But when the negative is necessary, the conclusion too will be one of not belonging — for the manner of proof will be the same whether the terms are universal or not universal. For the syllogisms must be completed through the first figure, so that, just as in those cases, the same result must follow in these as well. And when the negative, taken as universal, is posited with the minor extreme, if it is contingent there will be a syllogism by conversion, but if it is necessary there will not be. This will be shown in the same way as in the universal cases, and through the same terms. It is clear, then, in this figure too, when and how there will be a syllogism, and when it will be one of contingency and when one of belonging. And it is clear also that all these are incomplete, and that they are completed through the first figure.
74| That the syllogisms in these figures are completed by means of the universal syllogisms in the first figure, and are reduced to them, is clear from what has been said. But that every syllogism whatsoever stands this way will now become clear, once it is shown that every syllogism comes about through one of these figures. Every demonstration and every syllogism must show either that something belongs or that it does not belong, and this either universally or in part, and further either ostensively or from a hypothesis. And the argument through the impossible is a part of that from a hypothesis. Let us then speak first about the ostensive syllogisms, for once these have been shown, it will be clear also for those leading to the impossible and, in general, for those from a hypothesis. If, then, one needed to conclude by syllogism that A belongs to B, or
75| does not belong to it, one must take something of something. Now if A is taken directly of B, what was to be proved from the start will have been taken as a premise. But if A is taken of C, and C of nothing, and nothing else of C, and C of nothing else, there will be no syllogism — for from taking one thing of one thing nothing follows of necessity. So a further premise must also be assumed. If, then, something else is taken of C, or something else is taken of A, or something else of C, nothing prevents there being a syllogism, but it will not concern B through the premises taken. Nor, when C belongs to something else, and that to something else again, and this to yet another, if the chain does not connect to B — not even then will there be a syllogism concerning B. For we said in general that there will never be a syllogism of one thing about another unless some middle term is taken which stands in some predicative relation to each of the two. For a syllogism without qualification is made out of premises; a syllogism concerning this thing is made out of premises concerning this thing; and a syllogism of this thing in relation to that thing is made through premises of this thing in relation to that thing. But it is impossible to take a premise concerning B while neither predicating nor denying anything of it, or again, in relation to A and B, to take nothing common to both but predicate or deny of each certain things peculiar to it alone.
76| So one must take some middle term common to both, which will connect the predications, if indeed there is to be a syllogism of this thing in relation to that thing. If, then, it is necessary to take something common to both, and this can happen in three ways — either by predicating A of C and C of B, or C of both, or both of C — and these are the figures already described, it is clear that every syllogism must come about through one of these figures. The same account holds even if the connection to B is made through more terms, for the figure will be the same even in the case of several. That the ostensive syllogisms are concluded through the figures already described is clear; and that those leading to the impossible are as well will become clear from the following. For all who conclude through the impossible infer the falsehood by syllogism, and prove the original point from a hypothesis, whenever something impossible results once the contradictory has been posited — for example that the diagonal is incommensurable, because it follows that
77| the odd numbers become equal to the even, once it is posited as commensurable. Now it is concluded by syllogism that the odd numbers become equal to the even, but that the diagonal is incommensurable is proved from the hypothesis, since a falsehood results because of the contradictory. For this is what it was to reason through the impossible: to show something impossible by means of the original hypothesis. So then, since in arguments led to the impossible there comes about an ostensive syllogism of the falsehood, while the original point is proved from a hypothesis, and we said earlier that the ostensive syllogisms are concluded through these figures, it is clear that the syllogisms through the impossible will also be through these figures. And likewise all the other syllogisms from a hypothesis — for in all of them the syllogism comes about with respect to the point substituted for it, while the original point is concluded through an agreement or some other hypothesis. And if this is true, then every demonstration and every syllogism must come about through the three figures already described. And once this has been shown, it is clear that every syllogism is completed through the first figure and is reduced to the universal syllogisms within it.
78| Further, in every syllogism some of the terms must be affirmative, and the universal must be present. For without the universal there will either be no syllogism, or it will not bear on the point at issue, or it will beg the original question. For let it be posited that musical pleasure is excellent. Now if one should claim that pleasure is excellent without adding 'every,' there will be no syllogism; and if one claims that some pleasure is excellent, then if it is a different pleasure, it has nothing to do with the point at issue, and if it is this very one, it takes as a premise the very thing to be proved from the start. This becomes clearer in geometrical diagrams — for example, the proof that in an isosceles triangle the angles at the base are equal. Let lines AB be drawn to the center. If, then, one takes angle AC as equal to angle BD without claiming outright that the angles of the semicircles are equal, and again takes C equal to D without adding the whole angle of the segment, and further claims that, since the whole angles are equal and equal amounts have been subtracted from them, the remaining angles E and F are equal, one will be begging the original question,
79| unless one takes it as agreed that if equals are subtracted from equals, equals remain. It is clear, then, that the universal premise must hold in every case, and that a universal conclusion is proved from terms that are all universal, while a particular conclusion is proved either way — so that if the conclusion is universal, the terms must of necessity be universal, but if the terms are universal, it is possible for the conclusion not to be universal. It is clear too that in every syllogism either both premises or one of them must become similar to the conclusion. I mean not only in being affirmative or negative, but also in being necessary, assertoric, or possible. And one must examine the other categories as well. It is also clear, in general, when there will be a syllogism and when there will not, and when it is possible and when it is complete, and that if there is a syllogism, its terms must stand in one of the ways stated.
80| It is clear too that every demonstration will proceed through three terms and no more, unless the same conclusion comes about through different terms in addition — for instance one conclusion reached both through B and through C, D, or through A, B and through A, C, D; for nothing prevents there being several middle terms for the same terms. But if this is so, the syllogisms are not one but several. Or again, when each of A, B is itself taken through a syllogism (for instance A through D, E, and again B through H), or one by induction and the other by syllogism. But even so the syllogisms are several; for there are several conclusions, namely A and B and C. If, then, there is not several but one, in this way it is possible for the same conclusion to come about through more terms, but not in the way that it comes about through A, B — that is impossible. For let E have been concluded from A, B, C, D. Then necessarily some one of them has been taken in relation to another, one as whole, the other as part; for this has been shown earlier, that if there is a syllogism, some of the terms must be related in this way. Let it, then, be related in this way to B. There is, then, some conclusion from them. This conclusion is either E, or one of C, D, or something else besides these. And if it is E, the syllogism would be from A, B alone. But as for C, D, if they stand in such a way that
81| one is as whole and the other as part, there will be some conclusion from them too, and it will be either E, or one of A, B, or something else besides these. And if it is E or one of A, B, then either there will be more syllogisms, or it turns out — as was possible — that the same thing is concluded through more terms; but if it is something else besides these, there will be more syllogisms, and unconnected with one another. But if C does not stand to D in such a way as to produce a syllogism, they will have been taken in vain, unless for the sake of induction or concealment or some other such purpose. But if from A, B there comes about, not E, but some other conclusion, and from C, D either one of these or something else besides these, then the syllogisms become more numerous, and are not of the thing proposed; for it was proposed that the syllogism be of E. And if no conclusion at all comes about from C, D, then it turns out both that they have been taken in vain and that the syllogism is not of the original point. So it is clear that every demonstration and every syllogism will proceed through three terms only.
82| This being clear, it is evident too that it proceeds from two premises and no more (for three terms make two premises), unless something further is taken in addition, as was said at the outset, for the completion of the syllogisms. It is clear, then, that in whatever argument the premises through which the governing conclusion comes about are not even in number (for some of the conclusions higher up must of necessity be premises), that argument either has not been syllogized, or has asked more questions than were necessary for its thesis. Now if syllogisms are taken with respect to their governing premises, every syllogism will consist of an even number of premises and an odd number of terms — for the terms exceed the premises by one; and the conclusions will be half the premises. But when the conclusion is reached through prosyllogisms, or through several continuous middle terms — as when B is concluded through C, D — the number of terms will likewise exceed the premises by one (for the interpolated term is placed either outside or in the middle; and either way it turns out that the intervals between terms are one fewer), while the premises are equal to the intervals; not, however,
83| will it always be that the premises are even and the terms odd, but the two alternate — when the premises are even, the terms are odd, and when the terms are even, the premises are odd; for along with a term one premise is added, whichever end the term is added at, so that since one set was even and the other odd, the two must necessarily alternate as the same addition keeps being made. But the conclusions will no longer keep the same ratio either to the terms or to the premises; for when one term is added, conclusions will be added one fewer than the terms already present — for it produces no conclusion with the last term only, but does with all the others; for instance, if D is added to B, C, two conclusions are immediately added along with it, one in relation to A and one in relation to B. Similarly with the rest. And the same holds if the term is interpolated into the middle; for it will fail to produce a syllogism with only one term. So the conclusions will be far more numerous than both the terms and the premises.
84| Since we have in hand what the syllogisms are concerned with, and how, in each figure, and in how many ways, a conclusion is shown, it is clear to us also which problem is hard and which is easy to attempt; for what is concluded in more figures and through more moods is easier, while what is concluded in fewer figures and through fewer moods is harder to attempt. Now the universal affirmative is shown through the first figure only, and through this in only one way; the negative is shown through both the first and the middle figure, through the first in only one way, and through the middle in two ways; the particular affirmative is shown through the first figure and through the last, in one way through the first, and in three ways through the last. The particular negative is shown in all the figures, but in the first in only one way, while in the middle and the last it is shown in two ways and in three ways respectively. It is clear, then, that the universal affirmative is the hardest to establish but the easiest to refute. And in general, for one refuting, universals are easier than particulars; for whether it fails to hold of any or fails to hold of some, the thesis is refuted; and of these, that it fails to hold of some is shown in all the figures, while that it holds of none is shown in two.
85| And the same holds for the negatives; for whether the thing holds of all or holds of some, the original thesis is refuted; and this was shown in two figures. But among the particular propositions, refutation is possible in only one way, by showing that the thing holds of all, or of none. For one establishing, the particulars are easier; for they are shown in more figures and through more ways. And in general one must not fail to notice that it is possible to refute the one kind through the other — universals through particulars and these through universals — but it is not possible to establish universals through particulars, though it is possible to establish particulars through universals. At the same time it is clear also that refuting is easier than establishing. How, then, every syllogism comes about, and through how many terms and premises, and how these stand in relation to one another, and further which problem is shown in each figure, and which in more figures and which in fewer, is clear from what has been said.
86| We must now say how we ourselves will always be well supplied with syllogisms for whatever is proposed, and by what route we will grasp the principles concerning each subject. For presumably it is not enough to study merely how syllogisms come to be — one must also have the ability to produce them. Of all things that are, some are of such a kind that they are never truly predicated universally of anything else (for instance Cleon and Callias, and whatever is a particular and perceptible thing), while other things are predicated of these (for each of these is both a man and an animal); other things are themselves predicated of others, but nothing prior is predicated of them; and other things both are predicated of others and have others predicated of them, for instance man is predicated of Callias, and animal of man. That some things are naturally said of nothing else is clear: nearly every perceptible thing is such that it is predicated of nothing, except accidentally — for we sometimes say that white thing is Socrates, or that the one approaching is Callias. That the ascent also comes to a stop at some point, going upward, we will discuss again; for now let this be taken as established. Of these lowest things, then, it is not possible to demonstrate some other term predicated of them, except by opinion, but they are predicated of other things; nor are particulars predicated of other things, but other things are predicated of them. The intermediate things, clearly, admit of both — for they too will be said of
87| others, and others will be said of them — and it is chiefly about these that arguments and inquiries are concerned. One must grasp the premises concerning each subject in this way: first positing the subject itself, along with its definitions and whatever is peculiar to the thing, then after that whatever follows the thing, and again whatever the thing follows, and whatever cannot belong to it. Those things which cannot possibly belong to it need not be taken separately, because the privative converts. And among the things that follow, one must distinguish those predicated in the what-it-is, those predicated as peculiar attributes, and those predicated as accidents, and among these, which hold by opinion and which in truth; for the more of these one has ready to hand, the sooner one will arrive at a conclusion, and the more true ones one has, the more one will demonstrate. One should select not what follows some particular case but what follows the thing as a whole — not, say, what follows some particular man, but what follows every man; for the syllogism proceeds through universal premises. When the premise is indefinite, it is unclear whether it is universal, but when it is determinate, this is evident. Likewise one must select, among the things the subject follows, those it follows as wholes, for the reason already stated. But what follows must not be taken to follow as a whole — I mean, for instance, that every animal follows man, or that every science follows music — but only that it follows without qualification, in the way we in fact propose it,
88| for the other way is both useless and impossible — for instance, that every man is every animal, or that justice is every good thing. Rather, 'to every' is said of that to which the thing follows. Whenever the subject for which one must take the consequents is contained under something more universal, one should not select, in its case, what follows or does not follow the universal (for that has already been taken in the case of the universal — whatever follows animal also follows man, and likewise for what does not belong to it); rather, one should take what is peculiar to each subject in particular. For there are certain things peculiar to a species beyond its genus, since the several species must have certain peculiar attributes of their own. Nor, again, should one select for the universal the things which the contained species follows — for instance, for animal, the things man follows; for if animal follows man, it must follow all those things too, but these belong more properly to the selection concerning man. One must also take what follows for the most part, and what it follows for the most part; for the syllogism concerning problems that hold for the most part is likewise drawn from premises that hold for the most part, either all of them or some — since the conclusion of any syllogism resembles its principles. Further, one should not select what follows everything, since no syllogism will come from such premises; the reason for this will become clear in what follows.
89| Those who wish to establish something of a whole subject must look, in the case of what is to be established, to the subjects of which it happens to be said, and, in the case of what it must be predicated of, to what follows that subject; for if any of these coincide, the one term must belong to the other. But if one wants to show not that it belongs to every case but to some, one must look to what each of the terms follows; for if any of these coincide, it must belong to some. When it must belong to none, then for the subject to which it must not belong, one must look to what follows it, and for the term that must not belong, to what cannot be present in it; or conversely, for the subject to which it must not belong, to what cannot be present in it, and for the term that must not belong, to what follows it. For if any of these coincide, whichever way, it cannot belong at all, the one to the other; for sometimes the resulting syllogism is in the first figure, sometimes in the middle figure. But if it must not belong to some, then for the subject to which it must not belong, one must look to what it follows, and for the term that must not belong, to what cannot belong to it; for if any of these coincide, it must fail to belong to some. Perhaps each of these points will be clearer put this way. Let the consequents of A be represented by B, the things A follows by C, and the things that cannot belong to A by D. Again, let the things belonging to E be represented by F, the things E follows by G, and the things that cannot belong to E by H. If, then, something among the C's is the same as something among the F's, A must belong to every E; for F belongs to every E, and A belongs to every C, so A belongs to every E. But if C and G are the same, A must belong to some E; for
90| A belongs to C, and E follows G in every case. But if F and D are the same, A will belong to no E, by a prosyllogism; for since the privative converts, and F is the same as D, A will belong to no F, and F belongs to every E. Again, if B and H are the same, A will belong to no E; for B belongs to every A, but will belong to none of E — since it was the same as H, and H belonged to none of the E's. But if D and G are the same, A will not belong to some E; for A will not belong to G, since it does not belong to D either, and G falls under E, so A will not belong to some of the E's. But if B is the same as G, the syllogism will be converted: E will belong to every A — for B belongs to A, and E belongs to B, since it was the same as G — but A need not belong to every E, only to some, because the universal predication converts to the particular.
91| It is clear, then, that for each problem one must look to the aforementioned classes belonging to each term; for it is through these that all the syllogisms are produced. And among the consequents, and among the things each term follows, one must look especially to the first and most universal ones — for instance, for E, to KF rather than to F alone, and for A, to KC rather than to C alone. For if A belongs to F, it belongs to both F and E; but if it does not follow this, it may still follow F. Likewise one must examine the things it follows: if it follows the first and most universal terms, it also follows the things under them; but if it does not follow these, it may still follow the things under them. It is also clear that the inquiry proceeds through three terms and two premises, and that all the syllogisms come about through the figures already discussed. For it is shown that A belongs to every E when something among the C's and F's is taken as the same; this will be the middle term, and A and E the extremes, so the first figure results. And it is shown to belong to some E when C and G are taken as the same.
92| This is the last figure; for a middle term is what produces the result. The conclusion holds of none, when Δ and Ζ are the same term. And the same is true of the first figure and the middle figure as well: of the first, because A belongs to none of Ζ (if the privative premise converts), and Ζ belongs to all of Ε; of the middle, because Δ belongs to no A and to all Ε.
93| The conclusion holds of some but not of all, when Δ and Η are the same. This too is the last figure: for Δ will belong to none of Η, and Ε will belong to all of Η. It is clear, then, that all syllogisms come about through the figures already discussed, and that we should not select everything that follows universally, since no syllogism results from such things. For it was never possible to establish a conclusion outright from things that follow a term, and it is not possible to disprove anything by means of what follows both terms universally either; for the middle term must belong to the one and not belong to the other. It is also clear that the other lines of inquiry based on such selections are useless for producing a syllogism — for instance, whether the things that follow each of the two terms are the same, or whether the things A follows, and the things that cannot belong to Ε, are the same, or again whatever cannot belong to either — for no syllogism comes about through any of these. For if the things that follow are the same, say Β and Ζ, the result is the middle figure, with both premises affirmative; but if the things A follows, and the things that cannot belong to Ε, are the same — say Γ and Θ — the result is the first figure, with a negative premise attached to the minor term.
94| But if the things that cannot belong to either term are the same — say Δ and Θ — both premises are negative, whether in the first figure or in the middle figure, and in that case there is never a syllogism at all. It is also plain that in this kind of inquiry we must take terms that are the same, not terms that are different or contrary, first because the whole point of the inspection is to find the middle term, and the middle term must be taken as the same, not as different. Further, in all the cases where a syllogism does happen to result from taking contraries, or things that cannot belong to the same thing, it will reduce to the ways already stated — for instance, if Β and Ζ are contraries, or cannot belong to the same thing. Once these are taken, there will indeed be a syllogism that A belongs to none of the term in question, but not from these premises themselves — rather through the method already described; for Β will belong to all of A and to none of Ε, so that Β must be the same as some Θ. It is clear, then, that no syllogism comes about from these inspections by themselves, but it is necessary — if Β and Ζ are contraries — that Β be the same as some of the Θs, and that the syllogism come about through that. So it turns out that those who inquire in this way end up looking, in addition, for another route to the necessary conclusion, simply because the identity of Β and the Θs escapes their notice.
95| Syllogisms that lead to the impossible stand in the same relation to demonstrative syllogisms as these others do; for they too come about through the things that follow a term and the things a term follows. And the inspection is the same in both cases: whatever is proved demonstratively can also be proved through the impossible, using the same terms, and whatever is proved through the impossible can also be proved demonstratively — for example, that A belongs to none of Ε. Suppose it is laid down that A belongs to some of Ε; then, since Β belongs to all A, and A belongs to some Ε, Β will belong to some of Ε; but it was assumed to belong to none. Again, take the case that A belongs to some Ε: if A belonged to none of Ε, and Ε belonged to all Η, then A would belong to none of Η; but it belonged to all of it. The same holds in the other problems as well; for the proof through the impossible will always and in every case proceed from the things that follow a term and the things each term follows. And for each problem the inquiry is the same whether one wants to draw the syllogism demonstratively or to lead it to the impossible; for both demonstrations proceed from the same terms — for example, if it has been shown that A belongs to none of Ε by the fact that it follows that Β also belongs to some Ε, which is impossible; if it is taken
96| that Β belongs to none of Ε but to all of the other term, it is clear that A will belong to none of Ε. Again, if it has been proved demonstratively that A belongs to none of Ε, then on the supposition that it belongs to some, it will be shown through the impossible that it belongs to none. Likewise in the other cases too: in every one of them it is necessary to take some term in common, other than the ones laid down, in relation to which the syllogism of the falsehood will be constructed, so that once this premise is converted, and the other premise kept the same, the syllogism becomes demonstrative and proceeds through the same terms. For the demonstrative syllogism differs from the one leading to the impossible in that in the demonstrative both premises are laid down as true, while in the one leading to the impossible one of them is laid down as false. These points will become clearer through what follows, when we discuss the impossible; for now let this much be plain to us — that one must look to the same things whether one wants to reason demonstratively or to lead the argument to the impossible. As for the other syllogisms from a hypothesis — those, for instance, that proceed by substitution or by quality — the inquiry will concern the terms laid down, not the ones from which we started but the ones substituted for them, though the manner of inspection is the same.
97| We must also examine and distinguish how many kinds of syllogism from a hypothesis there are. Each of the problems, then, is proved in this way; but some of them can also be syllogized in another way — for instance, universal problems by means of a particular inspection carried out from a hypothesis. For if Γ and Δ were the same, and it were assumed that Ε belongs only to the Ηs, then Α would belong to all of Ε; and again, if Δ and Η were the same, and Α were predicated only of the Ηs, it would follow that A belongs to none of Ε. It is clear, then, that this too is a way one must inspect. The same method holds for necessary and possible premises as well; for the inquiry is the same, and the syllogism will proceed through the same terms whether it concerns the possible or the actual, in corresponding order. In the case of the possible, one must also take the things that do not actually belong but are capable of belonging; for it has been shown that the syllogism of possibility comes about through these as well. The same holds likewise for the other categories. It is clear, then, from what has been said, not only that it is possible for all syllogisms to come about by this route, but also that it is impossible for them to come about by any other. For every syllogism has been shown to come about through one of the figures already discussed, and these cannot be constructed by any means other than the things that follow a term and the things each term follows; for it is from these that the premises and the choice of the middle term come, so that a syllogism cannot come about by any other means either.
98| The method, then, is the same in every case — in philosophy, and in any craft or branch of learning whatever. One must survey the things that belong to each of the two terms and the things each belongs to, be well supplied with as many of these as possible, and examine them by means of the three terms: refuting in one way, establishing in another — establishing what actually belongs, when truth is at stake, from what has been set out according to truth, but for dialectical syllogisms from premises based on reputable opinion. The starting points of syllogisms have been stated in general terms: how they stand, and how one must go hunting for them, so that we do not look to everything that is said, and do not, when establishing and refuting, look to the same things, nor establish something of all or of some while refuting it of all or of some in the same breath, but instead narrow the search to fewer, definite things, and select, for each subject among the things that are, its own — for instance, concerning the good, or concerning knowledge. Most of the starting points, however, are peculiar to each subject. This is why it falls to experience to hand over the starting points that concern each subject — I mean, for example, that astronomical experience hands over the starting points of astronomical science (for once the observed phenomena had been adequately grasped, the astronomical demonstrations were discovered in that way), and the same holds for any other craft or science whatever. So that if the things that belong to each subject have been grasped, it is then our task to bring the demonstrations readily to light. For if nothing that truly belongs to the facts has been left out of the survey, we shall be able,
99| Concerning everything, then: where there is a demonstration, one must find it and demonstrate it; where demonstration is not natural to the thing, one must make this evident. In general, then, the way in which one must select premises has pretty much been stated; we have gone through it precisely in the treatise on dialectic. That division by genera is a small part of the method we have described is easy to see. For division is, as it were, a weak syllogism: what it needs to prove, it begs, and it always draws its conclusion from something further up. This very point had escaped the notice of everyone who used the method, and they tried to persuade people that it was possible to get a demonstration of substance and of what a thing is. So they understood neither what conclusion it is possible to reach by dividing, nor that it was possible in the way we have stated. Now in demonstrations, whenever something must be concluded to belong, the middle term, through which the syllogism comes about, must always be lesser than, and not universal in relation to, the first of the extremes; but division wants the opposite, for it takes the universal as its middle term. Let animal stand for A, mortal for B, and immortal for C, and let man, whose account we must grasp, stand for D. Now the divider takes every animal to be either mortal or immortal; and this means: whatever is A is entirely either B or C. Again, in dividing, he always posits man to be an animal, so that he takes A to belong to D.
100| The syllogism, then, is that D will be entirely either B or C, so that it is necessary that man be either mortal or immortal; but that he is a mortal animal is not necessary — it is simply assumed; and this was exactly what needed to be proved by syllogism. And again, positing A as mortal animal, B as footed, and C as footless, and D as man, he takes, in the same way, A to be either in B or in C (for every mortal animal is either footed or footless), and A to belong to D (for he has taken man to be a mortal animal); so that it is necessary that man be a footed or footless animal, but that he is footed is not necessary — it is merely taken; and this again was what needed to be shown.
101| And in this way, for those who always proceed by division, it turns out that they take the universal as their middle term, while what had to be demonstrated, together with the differentiae, they take as the extreme. But in the end, that this is man, or whatever it is that is being sought, they state nothing clear enough to make it necessary; for they carry out the whole rest of the route without even supposing that the available resources exist. It is clear that by this method one cannot refute anything, nor draw a conclusion about an accident or a property, nor about a genus, nor in cases where it is unknown whether something is thus or so — for instance, whether the diagonal is incommensurable or commensurable. For if one takes that every length is either commensurable or incommensurable, and the diagonal is a length, it has been concluded by syllogism that the diagonal is either incommensurable or commensurable. But if he is going to take it as incommensurable, he will be taking exactly what needed to be proved by syllogism. So it is not possible to demonstrate it this way: this is the route, but it cannot be done by way of it. Let incommensurable-or-commensurable stand for A, length for B, diagonal for C. It is clear, then, that this method of inquiry is not suited to every investigation, and that even in the cases where it seems most fitting, it is not useful there either. From what materials demonstrations come to be, and how, and what one must look to in the case of each problem, is clear
102| from what has been said. How we shall reduce syllogisms to the figures described earlier must be discussed next, for this is still left over from our inquiry. For if we were to study the generation of syllogisms, and had the capacity to discover them, and moreover could analyze those already produced into the figures described earlier, our original purpose would be complete. At the same time it will also happen that what was said earlier is confirmed and made clearer as being so, through what will now be said; for everything true must be in every way in agreement with itself. First, then, one must try to pick out the two premises of the syllogism (for it is easier to divide into larger parts than into smaller ones, and the composite parts are fewer than the elements they are made of),
103| then examine which one is universal and which is particular, and, if both have not been stated, supply the missing one oneself. For sometimes people propose the universal premise but do not state the one contained within it, whether writing or asking questions; or they propose these premises but leave out the ones through which these are brought to a conclusion, and ask other, pointless questions instead. One must therefore examine whether something superfluous has been taken and whether something necessary has been left out, and add the one and remove the other, until one arrives at the two premises; for without these it is not possible to reduce arguments that have been questioned out in this way. In some cases it is easy to see what is missing, but in others it escapes notice, and people seem to reach a conclusion by syllogism because something necessary follows from what has been laid down — for instance, if it should be assumed that when a non-substance is destroyed a substance is not destroyed, but that when the things a thing is composed of are destroyed, the thing composed of them is destroyed too. For once these are laid down, it is necessary that a part of a substance be a substance; yet this has not been proved by syllogism through what has been assumed — rather, premises are missing. Again, if, when man exists, it is necessary that animal exists, and when animal exists, that substance exists, then when man exists it is necessary that substance exists; but this has not yet been proved by syllogism, for the premises are not arranged as we have said. We are deceived in such cases because something necessary follows from what is laid down, and a syllogism too is something necessary. But the necessary extends more widely than the syllogism: every syllogism is something necessary, but not everything necessary is a syllogism. So it is not the case that, whenever something follows once certain things have been laid down, one should try to reduce it straightaway; rather, one must first grasp the two premises, then divide them in this way into their terms, and set down as the middle term the one that is stated in both premises — for the middle term must occur in both premises, in every figure. If, then, the middle term both predicates and is predicated of something, or itself predicates while something else is denied of it, this will be the first figure;
104| but if it both predicates and is denied of something, the middle term will belong to the second figure; and if other things are predicated of it, or one thing is denied of it and another predicated, this will be the last figure. For this is how the middle term stood in each figure. And likewise even if the premises are not universal, for the determination of the middle term is the same. It is clear, then, that in an argument in which the same term is not stated more than once, no syllogism results, for no middle term has been taken. Since we have determined which kind of problem is concluded in each figure, and in which figure the universal conclusion falls and in which the particular, it is clear that one must not look to every figure, but to the one proper to each problem. As for those problems that are concluded in more than one figure, we shall recognize the figure by the position of the middle term.
105| So it often happens that we are deceived about syllogisms because of the necessary, as has been said before, but sometimes because of a similarity in how the terms are set out; and this must not escape our notice. For example, if A is said of B and B is said of C: for it would seem, the terms standing this way, that there is a syllogism, but neither anything necessary nor a syllogism results. Let A stand for always existing, B for "conceivable Aristomenes," and C for Aristomenes. Now it is true that A holds of B — for conceivable Aristomenes always exists. But also B holds of C — for Aristomenes is conceivable Aristomenes. But A does not hold of C — for Aristomenes is perishable. For no syllogism resulted with the terms standing this way; rather the premise A-B had to be taken universally. But this is false — to claim that every conceivable Aristomenes always exists, when Aristomenes is perishable. Again, let C stand for Miccalus, B for "musical Miccalus," and A for "perishing tomorrow." Now it is true to predicate B of C — for Miccalus is musical Miccalus. But also A holds of B — for musical Miccalus would perish tomorrow. But A of C is false. And this is the same case as before; for it is not universally true that musical Miccalus perishes tomorrow. And unless this is taken, there is no syllogism.
106| So this deception arises over a small point: we concede as though it made no difference to say that this holds of that, or that
107| this holds of every that — this is what we grant. But often falsehood will result from not setting out the terms of the premise correctly — for example, if A were health, B disease, and C man. For it is true to say that A may possibly belong to no B (for health holds of no disease), and again that B holds of every C (for every man is receptive of disease). It would then seem to follow that health may possibly belong to no man. The cause of this is that the terms are not correctly set out in their wording, since if the terms naming the states are substituted, there will be no syllogism — for example, if in place of "health" we put "being healthy," and in place of "disease" "being diseased." For it is not true to say that being healthy cannot hold of a person who is diseased. And unless this is taken, there is no syllogism except one about possibility; and this is not impossible — for it is possible for health to hold of no man. Again, in the middle figure the falsehood will arise in the same way: for it is possible for health to hold of no disease and of every man, so that it is possible for disease to hold of no man. And in the third figure the falsehood arises with regard to possibility, for it is possible for health and disease, knowledge and ignorance, and in general contraries, to hold of the same thing, though it is impossible for them to hold of one another. And this conflicts with what was said before; for when more than one thing could hold of the same subject, they could also hold of one another. It is clear, then, that in all these cases the deception arises from how the terms are set out; for when the terms derived from the states — 'being healthy', 'being diseased' — are substituted, no falsehood results. It is plain, then, that in premises of this kind, the term naming the state must always be substituted for the state and set down as the term.
108| We must not always insist on setting out the terms by a single word; for often there will be expressions for which no name is laid down, and this is why it is difficult to reduce syllogisms of this sort to the figures. And sometimes deception will also arise from this very search — for example, the claim that there is a syllogism of things without a middle. Let A be "two right angles," B "triangle," and C "isosceles." Now A holds of C because of B, but it no longer holds of B because of anything else — for the triangle has two right angles in its own right — so that there will be no middle term for B, though it is demonstrable. For it is clear that the middle must not always be taken to be a "this," some single term, but sometimes an expression — which is exactly what happens in the case just mentioned.
109| "The first holds of the middle" and "the middle holds of the extreme" must not be taken to mean that they will always be predicated of each other, or that the first is related to the middle in the same way as the middle is to the last term. And the same holds for "does not hold." Rather, in as many ways as "being" is said, and it is true to say this very thing, in that many ways we must think "holding" too is meant. For example, take the claim that there is a single knowledge of contraries. Let A be "there is a single knowledge," and let B be "contrary to one another." Now A holds of B, not in the sense that the contraries are a single knowledge, but in the sense that it is true to say of them that there is a single knowledge of them. Now it happens sometimes that the first is said of the middle, but the middle is not said of the third — for example, if wisdom is knowledge, and wisdom is of the good, the conclusion is that there is knowledge of the good; the good, then, is not knowledge, but wisdom is knowledge. And sometimes the middle is said of the third, but the first is not said of the middle — for example, if there is knowledge of everything that is qualified or is a contrary, and the good is both a contrary and something qualified, the conclusion is that there is knowledge of the good, but the good is not knowledge, nor is it "qualified," nor "contrary" — rather, the good is these things. And sometimes neither is the first said of the middle nor the middle of the third, while the first is sometimes said of the third and sometimes not. For example, if wherever there is knowledge there is a genus of that thing, and there is knowledge of the good, the conclusion is that there is a genus of the good; but here nothing is predicated of anything. But if wherever there is knowledge, that thing is a genus, and there is knowledge of the good, the conclusion
110| is that the good is a genus; here the first is predicated of the extreme, but the terms are not said of one another. The same manner of understanding must be applied to "not holding." For "this does not hold of that" does not always signify "this is not that"; sometimes it signifies "this is not of that" or "this is not to that." For example, that there is no motion of motion nor coming-to-be of coming-to-be, but there is of pleasure — therefore pleasure is not a coming-to-be. Or again, that there is a sign of laughter, but there is no sign of a sign, so that laughter is not a sign. And likewise in the other cases where the problem is rejected because the genus itself is spoken of in some particular way in relation to it. Again, that the right moment is not a needful time: for God has a right moment, but there is no needful time for God, since nothing is beneficial to God. For the terms to be set down must be "right moment," "needful time," and "God," while the premise must be taken according to the grammatical case of the name. For, put simply, we say this about all cases: the terms must always be set down according to the nominative forms of the names — for example, "man" or "good" or "contraries," not "of man" or "of good" or "of contraries" — but the premises must be taken according to the case appropriate to each: either "to this," as with "the equal"; or "of this," as with "the double"; or "this," as with "the one striking" or "the one seeing"; or "this one," as in "man is an animal" — or however else the name happens to fall in the premise.
111| Belonging to a given thing, and being truly said of a given thing, must be understood in as many ways as the categories have been divided, and these either in some respect or without qualification, and further either simple or combined; and likewise for not belonging. These points must be examined and distinguished more thoroughly. What is reduplicated in the premises must be placed at the first extreme term, not at the middle term. I mean, for example, if a syllogism should arise that there is knowledge of justice as being good, then 'as being good,' or 'good,' must be placed at the first term. For let A be knowledge as being good, B be good, and C be justice. It is true, then, to predicate A of B: for there is knowledge of the good, as being good. But B also holds of C: for justice is precisely something good. This, then, is how the
112| analysis comes out. But if 'as being good' were placed at B, it would not work: for A would be true of B, but B would not be true of C — for to predicate 'good, as being good' of justice is false and unintelligible. The same holds if it were shown that the healthy is knowable as being good, or that a goat-stag is, as being not-existent, or that man is perishable as being perceptible: in every case where something extra is predicated, the reduplication must be placed at the extreme term. The setting of the terms is not the same when something is proved without qualification and when it is proved as being a this, or in some respect, or in some way — I mean, for example, when it is shown that the good is knowable, as against when it is shown that it is knowable as being good. If it has been shown to be knowable without qualification, being must be set as the middle term; but if it has been shown as being good, then a certain being must be set as the middle term. For let A be knowledge as being a certain being, B be a certain being, and C be the good. It is true, then, to predicate A of B: for there was knowledge of the certain being, as being a certain being. But B also holds of C: for what C stands for is a certain being. So A will hold of C as well: there will therefore be knowledge of the good as being good; for 'a certain being' was a sign of its own proper substance. But if being had been set as the middle term, and at the extreme term being had been stated without qualification and not as a certain being, there would not be a syllogism that there is knowledge of the good as being good, but only that it is, as being — for example, with A as knowledge as being, B as being, and C as the good. It is clear, then, that in syllogisms bearing on some particular respect the terms must be taken in this way.
113| One must also substitute terms that mean the same thing — names for names, phrases for phrases, and a name for a phrase — and always take the name in place of the phrase wherever one can, since the setting-out of the terms is easier that way. For example, if it makes no difference to say that the object of supposition is not a genus of the object of opinion, or to say that the object of opinion is not precisely a kind of object of supposition (since what is signified is the same), then in place of the phrase given, 'object of supposition' and 'object of opinion' should be set down as the terms. Since it is not the same thing for pleasure to be good and for pleasure to be the good, the terms must not be set down in the same way: if the syllogism concludes that pleasure is the good, then 'the good' must be used as term; but if it concludes that pleasure is good, then 'good' must be used. And so likewise in the other cases.
114| It is not the same thing, either in fact or in what is said, to state that A belongs to everything to which B belongs, and to state that A belongs to everything of which B is truly said to hold of all; for nothing prevents B from belonging to C without belonging to all of it. For example, let B be beautiful and C be white. If, then, beautiful belongs to some white thing, it is true to say that beautiful belongs to the white — but perhaps not to all of it. Now if A belongs to B, but not to everything of which B is truly said, then, whether B belongs to all of C or only belongs to it at all, it need not follow that A belongs — not merely that it fails to belong to all of C, but that it need not belong to it at all. But if A belongs to everything of which B is truly said, it will follow that A is said of everything of which B is said of all. If, however, A is said only of that of which B is said of all, nothing prevents B from belonging to C while A does not belong to all of it, or does not belong to it at all. With three terms, then, it is clear that for A to be said of everything of which B is said, means this: of everything of which B is said, A too is said of all of it.
115| And if B is said of everything, A too holds in this way; but if B is not said of everything, A need not be said of everything either. One should not think that anything absurd results from setting out a particular case; for we make no use of its being some particular this. It is like the geometer who says that this line is a foot long and straight and without breadth, when it is not — but he does not use it in his reasoning as though he were drawing his conclusion from those features. For, in general, whenever there is nothing standing to another as whole to part, and nothing further standing to it as part to whole, the one giving the proof proves nothing from premises of that kind, so that no syllogism results. We use setting-out the way we use perception, addressing ourselves to the learner; it is not that demonstration is impossible without these, in the way it is impossible without the premises from which the syllogism is drawn. Let it not escape us that within one and the same syllogism not all the conclusions come through a single figure, but one through this figure and another through a different one. It is clear, then, that the analyses too must be carried out accordingly. And since not every problem is proved in every figure, but each kind is assigned to a particular one, it is clear from the conclusion in which figure one must look for it.
116| As for arguments directed against a definition, whenever they happen to be arguing against just one of the elements contained in the definition, that element being argued against should be set down as the term, and not the whole formula; for then one will be less likely to be thrown into confusion by its length. For example, if someone showed that water is a drinkable liquid, then 'drinkable' and 'water' should be set down as the terms.
117| Further, one should not try to reduce arguments from a hypothesis; for it is not possible to reduce them from the premises as laid down. For they have not been proved by means of a syllogism, but are all agreed to by convention. For example, suppose someone lays down the hypothesis that, if there is not a single capacity for contraries, there is not a single knowledge of them either, and then argues that not every capacity is a capacity for contraries — for instance, the capacity for the healthy and for the diseased, since then the same thing would be at once healthy and diseased. That there is not a single capacity for all contraries has, then, been shown; but that there is not a single knowledge of them has not been shown. Yet one is compelled to grant it — but not on the basis of a syllogism, only on the basis of the hypothesis. This conclusion, then, cannot be reduced; but that there is not a single capacity can be — for this, presumably, was an actual syllogism, while the other was a hypothesis. The same holds too for arguments concluded through the impossible: these cannot be analyzed as a whole either, but the reduction to the impossible can be analyzed, since that part is shown by a syllogism, while the other part cannot, since it is concluded from a hypothesis. They differ from the cases mentioned before in that, in those cases, the other party must have agreed in advance if he is going to accept the conclusion — for instance, that if a single capacity for contraries were shown, the knowledge of them would also be the same. But here people concede the point even without having agreed to it beforehand, because the falsehood is evident — for example, when the diagonal is assumed to be commensurable, it follows that odd numbers turn out equal to even ones. There are also many other arguments concluded from a hypothesis, which need to be examined and clearly marked out. What, then, are the
118| The differences among these, and the number of ways something can come about from a hypothesis, we will discuss later; for now let this much be clear to us, that such syllogisms cannot be resolved into the figures. And we have stated the reason why. As for the problems that are proved in more than one figure, if one has been syllogized in one of them, it is possible to reduce the syllogism to the other — for instance, the negative syllogism in the first figure to the second, and the one in the middle figure to the first — though not all of them, only some. This will become clear in what follows. For if A belongs to no B, and B belongs to every C, then A belongs to no C. This, then, is the first figure; but if the negative premise is converted, it will be the second figure: for B belongs to no A, and to every C. Similarly too if the syllogism is not universal but particular, for instance if A belongs to no B and B belongs to some C: when the negative premise is converted, it will be the middle figure. Of the syllogisms in the second figure, the universal ones will be reduced to the first, but of the particular ones only one will be. For let A belong to no B, and to every C. When the negative premise is converted, then, it will be the first figure: for B belongs to no A, and A will belong to every C.
119| But if the affirmative premise is with B, and the negative is with the first term, then C must be posited as the first term: for this belongs to no A, and A belongs to every B, so that C belongs to no B. Nor, then, does B belong to no C: for the negative premise converts. But if the syllogism is particular, then when the negative premise is with the major extreme, it will be reduced to the first figure — for instance if A belongs to no B, and to some C: when the negative premise is converted, it will be the first figure, for B will belong to no A, and A to some C. But when the affirmative premise is the one that is with the major extreme, it will not be resolved — for instance if A belongs to every B, but not to every C: for B does not admit of conversion, and even if it did, there would be no syllogism from it. Again, the syllogisms in the third figure will not all be resolved into the first, but those in the first are all resolved into the third. For let A belong to every B, and B to some C. Since, then, the particular affirmative converts,
120| C will belong to some B; and A belonged to every B, so that the third figure comes about. And if the syllogism is negative, likewise: for the particular affirmative converts, so that A will belong to no B, and C will belong to some B. Of the syllogisms in the last figure, only one does not resolve into the first — when the negative premise is not posited as universal — but all the others do resolve. For let A and B both be predicated of every C. Then C will convert with each of them in the particular: it belongs, then, to some B. So the first figure will result, if A belongs to every C and C to some B. And if A belongs to every C and B to some C, the argument is the same, for C converts with B. But if B belongs to every C and A to some C, then B must be posited as the first term: for B belongs to every C, and C to some A, so that B belongs to some A. And since the particular converts, A too will belong to some B.
121| And if the syllogism is negative, with the terms universal, it must be taken in the same way. For let B belong to every C, and A to none. Then C will belong to some B, and A to no C, so that C will be the middle term. Likewise too if the negative is universal and the affirmative particular: for A belongs to no C, and C will belong to some B. But if the negative premise is taken as particular, there will be no resolution — for instance if B belongs to every C, but does not belong to some C: for when B C is converted, both premises will be particular. It is clear also that, for resolving the figures into one another, it is the premise with the minor extreme that must be converted in both figures: for it is by changing this premise that the transition came about. Of the syllogisms in the middle figure, one is resolved into the third and the other is not. For when the universal premise is negative, it is resolved. For if A belongs to no B, and to some C, both premises convert alike with respect to A, so that B belongs to no A, and C to some A;
122| A, then, is the middle term. But when A belongs to every B, and does not belong to some C, there will be no resolution: for neither of the premises is universal as a result of conversion. And the syllogisms from the third figure will also be resolved into the middle figure when the negative premise is universal — for instance if A belongs to no C, and B to some or to every C. For C will belong to no A, and to some B. But if the negative premise is particular, there will be no resolution: for the particular negative does not admit of conversion. It is clear, then, that the same syllogisms do not resolve into these figures that also did not resolve into the first, and that when the syllogisms are led back into the first figure, these alone are completed through the impossible. How, then, one must reduce syllogisms, and that the figures resolve into one another, is clear from what has been said.
123| It makes some difference, in establishing or refuting a claim, whether one supposes that not being this and being not-this signify the same thing or something different — for instance, not being white as against being not-white. For they do not signify the same thing, nor is being not-white the negation of being white, but rather not being white is. The account of this is as follows. It stands the same way with can walk in relation to can not-walk as with is white in relation to is not-white, and knows the good in relation to knows the not-good. For knows the good and is one who knows the good differ in no way, nor does can walk differ from is one who is able to walk; so the same holds for their opposites — cannot walk and is not one who is able to walk. If, then, is not one who is able to walk signifies the same as is able to not-walk or is able not to walk, then these will belong to the same subject at the same time (for the same person is able both to walk and not to walk, and is knowledgeable both of the good and of the not-good) — but an affirmation and its opposite negation do not belong to the same subject at the same time. Just as, then, not knowing the good and knowing the not-good are not the same, so too being not-good and not being good are not the same. For when one pair of proportional terms differs, so does the other pair. Nor are being unequal and not being equal the same: for the one has something underlying it, namely the thing that is unequal, and
124| this is the unequal, while to another neither belongs. That is why not everything is either equal or unequal, but everything is either equal or not-equal. Further, "it is a not-white piece of wood" and "it is not a white piece of wood" do not hold together. For if it is a not-white piece of wood, it will be wood; but what is not a white piece of wood need not be wood at all. So it is clear that "it is not-good" is not the negation of "it is good." If, then, of any one thing either the affirmation or the negation is true, then, if this is not the negation, clearly it would be some kind of affirmation. But every affirmation has a negation; so this one too has one, and that is "it is not not-good." These stand in the following order relative to one another. Let A be "being good," B "not being good," C "being not-good" (under B), and D "not being not-good" (under A). Then of everything either A or B will hold, and never both of the same thing; and either C or D, and never both of the same thing. And whatever has C must have B in every case (for if it is true to say that something is not-white, it is also true that it is not white
125| — for it is impossible to be white and to be not-white at the same time, or to be a not-white piece of wood and to be a white piece of wood, so that if the affirmation does not hold, the negation will); but C does not always follow B (for what is not wood at all will not be a not-white piece of wood either). Conversely, then, whatever has A has D in every case (for it has either C or D; and since it is not possible to be not-white and white at the same time, D will hold — for of what is white it is true to say that it is not not-white); but A does not hold of everything that has D (for of what is not wood at all it is not true to say A, namely that it is a white piece of wood, so that D is true but A is not true, namely that it is a white piece of wood). And it is clear that A and C never hold of the same thing, while B and D can hold of the same thing. Privations stand to their predicates in the same way, on this same scheme. Let "equal" be A, "not-equal" be B, "unequal" be C, "not-unequal" be D.
126| And in the case of many things too, of which the same thing holds of some but not of others, the negation would likewise be true — that not all are white, or that each is not white; but that each is not-white, or that all are not-white, is false. Likewise the negation of "every animal is white" is not "every animal is not-white" (for both are false), but "not every animal is white." Since it is clear that "it is not-white" and "it is not white" signify different things, and the one is an affirmation, the other a negation, it is evident that the way of demonstrating each is not the same — for instance, that whatever is an animal is not white, or may not be white, is one thing, and that it is true to say of it "not-white" is another; for this is what it is to be not-white. But that it is true to say "it is white" or "it is not-white" is shown in the same way; for both are demonstrated constructively through the first figure. For "true" is ranked in the same way as "is." For the negation of "it is true to say white" is not "it is true to say not-white," but "it is not true to say white." So if it will be true to say that whatever is a man is either musical or not-musical, then of whatever is an animal one must take it as being either musical or being not-musical, and this has been demonstrated. But that whatever is a man is not musical is shown destructively, by the three ways already stated.
127| In general, whenever A and B are so related that they cannot belong to the same thing at once, but of necessity one or the other belongs to everything, and again C and D likewise, and A follows C without converting with it, then D will follow B as well, and will not convert with it either; and A and D can belong to the same thing, but B and C cannot. First, then, that D follows B is clear from this: since one or the other of C and D necessarily belongs to everything, and whatever has B cannot have C, because C brings A along with it, and A and B cannot belong to the same thing, it is clear that D will follow. Again, since C does not convert with A, and either C or D belongs to everything, it is possible for A and D to belong to the same thing. But B and C cannot, because A follows along with C; for something impossible would result. It is clear, then, that B does not convert with D either, since D and A can belong to the same thing at once. But it sometimes happens, even with terms arranged in this way,
128| that one is deceived through not taking correctly the opposites of which one or the other must belong to everything; for instance, if A and B cannot belong to the same thing at once, but of necessity whatever does not have the one has the other, and again C and D likewise, and A follows everything that has C, it will result that whatever has D necessarily has B, which is false. For let the negation of A and B be taken as Z, and again of C and D as Θ. Then of necessity everything has either A or Z; for it has either the affirmation or the negation. And again either C or Θ; for these are the affirmation and the negation. And whatever has C has A lying under it in every case. So whatever has Z has Θ in every case. Again, since of Z and B one or the other belongs to everything, and likewise of Θ and D, and Θ follows Z, then B will follow D as well; for this we know, from what was shown. If, then, A follows C, then B follows D too. But this is false; for in cases so arranged the relation of following was the reverse. For presumably it is not necessary that everything have either A or Z, nor either Z or B. For Z is not the negation of A. For the negation of "good" is "not-good"; but "not-good" is not the same as "neither good nor not-good." And likewise with C and D; for the two negations taken are different.
1| Book 2. In how many figures, then, and through what kind and number of premises, and when and how a syllogism comes about, and further what one must look to in refuting and in establishing a point, and how one must inquire concerning the matter proposed by any method whatever, and further by what route we shall grasp the principles proper to each subject — we have already gone through. Since some syllogisms are universal and others particular, all the universal ones always establish more than one conclusion, while among the particular ones the affirmative ones establish more, but the negative ones only the conclusion itself. For the other premises convert, but the privative one does not convert. And the conclusion is something predicated of something, so that the other syllogisms establish more,
2| For example, if A has been proved to belong to all B or to some B, then B must belong necessarily to some A; and if A belongs to no B, then B belongs to no A either — this is a different case from the one before. But if A does not belong to some B, it is not necessary that B does not belong to some A; for it is possible for B to belong to all A. This, then, is a cause common to all cases, both universal and particular; but about the universal cases one can speak in another way as well. For whatever falls under the middle term or under the conclusion, the same syllogism will apply to all of them, if some are put in place of the middle term and others in place of the conclusion. For example, if AB is the conclusion reached through C, then A must be predicated of everything that falls under B or under C. For if D is wholly contained in B, and B is contained in A, then D too will be contained in A; again, if E is wholly contained in C, and C is contained in A, then E too will be contained in A. And likewise if the syllogism is negative.
3| In the second figure, it will be possible to draw a syllogism only about what falls under the conclusion. For example, if A belongs to no B but to all C, the conclusion is that B belongs to no C. If, then, D falls under C, it is clear that B does not belong to it; but for the things that fall under A, that B does not belong to them is not made clear through this syllogism. Yet B does not in fact belong to E, if E falls under A — but this, that B belongs to no C, has been proved through the syllogism, whereas that it does not belong to what falls under A is taken without proof, so that B's not belonging to E does not result from the syllogism. In the case of particular premises, for the things that fall under the conclusion there will be no necessity (for no syllogism results when this premise is taken as particular), but for all the things that fall under the middle term there will be necessity, though not because of the syllogism. For example, if A belongs to all B, and B belongs to some C: if something is placed under C there will be no syllogism, but if it is placed under B there will be — only not because of the syllogism already produced. And the same holds in the other figures.
4| For with respect to what falls under the conclusion there will be no necessity, but with respect to the other term there will be, only not because of the syllogism — just as, in the universal cases too, what falls under the middle term was shown from a premise that was itself undemonstrated. So either there will be no necessity there either, or there will be also in these cases. It is possible, then, for things to be such that the premises through which the syllogism proceeds are true,
5| and possible for them to be such that they are false, and possible for one to be true and the other false. But the conclusion is necessarily either true or false. Now from true premises it is not possible to deduce something false, but from false premises it is possible to deduce something true — except not the reason why, but only that it is so; for there is no demonstration of the reason why from false premises. The cause of this will be stated in what follows. First, then, that it is not possible to deduce something false from true premises is clear from this. If, when A is, B must be, then, when B is not, A must not be. If, then, A is true, B must be true, or else the same thing will both be and not be at the same time — and that is impossible. And one should not suppose, just because a single term A is posited, that something can result of necessity from a single thing's being the case — for that is not possible; what results of necessity is the conclusion, and the fewest terms through which this comes about are three, with two intervals, that is, two premises. If, then, it is true that A belongs to everything that B belongs to, and that B belongs to everything that C belongs to, then A must belong to whatever C belongs to, and it is not possible for this to be false;
6| for otherwise the same thing will at once belong and not belong. A, then, is posited as if it were one thing, though it is really two premises taken together. And the same holds for negative syllogisms too — for it is not possible to prove something false from true premises. But from false premises it is possible to deduce something true, both when both premises are false and when only one is — and if only one, not whichever one happens to be false, but the second, provided it is taken as wholly false; if it is not taken as wholly false, either one will do. For let A belong to all of C, and to no B, and let B belong to no C either. This is possible — for example, animal belongs to no stone, and stone belongs to no man. If, then, it is assumed that A belongs to all B and B belongs to all C, A will belong to all C, so that the conclusion is true though drawn from two false premises; for every man is an animal. The negative case works the same way. For it is possible for neither A nor B to belong to any C, while A belongs to all B — for example, if, with the same terms taken, man is put as the middle term; for animal belongs to no stone, and neither does man, while animal belongs to every man. So that if
7| whatever A actually belongs to is taken as something it belongs to none of, and whatever it does not belong to is taken as something it belongs to all of, the conclusion will be true even though drawn from two false premises. And the same will be shown to hold if each premise is taken as false only in part. But if only one premise is posited as false: if it is the first that is taken as wholly false — say AB — the conclusion will not be true, but if it is BC that is wholly false, it will be. By 'wholly false' I mean the contrary of the truth — for instance, if what belongs to none is taken as belonging to all, or what belongs to all as belonging to none. For let A belong to no B, and let B belong to all C. If, then, I take the premise BC as true, but the premise AB as wholly false — that is, take A as belonging to all B — it is impossible for the conclusion to be true; for A belonged to none of the C's, since if A belongs to none of what B belongs to, and B belongs to all C, then A belongs to no C. Likewise it is not true either if A belongs to all B and B belongs to all C, and the premise BC is taken as true while AB is taken as wholly false — that is, A belonging to none of what B belongs to — the conclusion will be false;
8| for A will in fact belong to all C, since A belongs to all of what B belongs to, and B belongs to all C. It is clear, then, that when the first premise is taken as wholly false, whether affirmative or negative, and the other premise is true, the conclusion does not come out true. But if the first premise is not taken as wholly false, it will. For if A belongs to all C and to some B, and B belongs to all C — for example, animal belongs to all swan and to some white thing, and white belongs to all swan — then if it is assumed that A belongs to all B and B belongs to all C, A will belong to all C truly; for every swan is an animal. Likewise if AB is negative; for it is possible for A to belong to some B and to no C, while B belongs to all C — for example, animal belongs to some white thing but to no snow, while white belongs to all snow. If, then, it is assumed that A belongs to no B, and B belongs to all C, A will belong to no C. And if the premise AB is taken as wholly true, but BC as wholly false, the syllogism will be true;
9| For nothing prevents a term from belonging to all of B and all of C, while B belongs to none of C — for instance, species of the same genus that are not subordinate to one another: animal belongs to both horse and man, but horse belongs to no man. If then A is assumed to belong to all B, and B to all C, the conclusion will be true, though the premise BC is wholly false. Similarly too when the premise AB is privative. For it is possible for A to belong neither to B nor to C, and yet for B to belong to no C — for instance, a genus in relation to species from another genus: animal belongs neither to music nor to medicine, nor does music belong to medicine. If then it is assumed that A belongs to no B, and that B belongs to all C, the conclusion will be true. And even if C is not wholly false but only false in part, the conclusion will likewise be true. For nothing prevents A from belonging to the whole of both B and C, while B belongs only to some C — for instance, a genus in relation to a species and a differentia: animal belongs to every man and to every footed thing, but man belongs to some footed thing, not to all.
10| If then A is assumed to belong to all B, and B to all C, A will belong to all C — which was true. Similarly too when the premise B is privative. For it is possible for A to belong neither to B nor to C, while B belongs to some C — for instance, a genus in relation to a species and differentia from another genus: animal belongs to no practical wisdom and to no theoretical science, but practical wisdom belongs to some theoretical science. If then it is assumed that A belongs to no B, and B to all C, A will belong to no C — which was true. In the case of particular syllogisms, it is possible for the conclusion to be true even when the first premise is wholly false and the other true, and when the first is false in part and the other true, and when the one is true and the other false in part, and when both are false. For nothing prevents A from belonging to no B but to some C, and B from belonging to some C — for instance, animal belongs to no snow but to some white thing, and snow belongs to some white thing.
11| If then snow is posited as the middle term, and animal as the first, and it is assumed that A belongs to the whole of B, and B to some C, the premise AB will be wholly false, but BC true, and the conclusion true. Similarly too when the premise AB is privative. For it is possible for A to belong to the whole of B, yet not belong to some C, while B belongs to some C — for instance, animal belongs to every man, but does not follow upon everything white, while man belongs to some white thing; so that if man is posited as middle term and it is assumed that A belongs to no B, and B to some C, the conclusion will be true, though the premise AB is wholly false. And if the premise B is false in part, the conclusion will likewise be true. For nothing prevents A from belonging to some of both B and C, and B from belonging to some C — for instance, animal belongs to something fine and to something large, and the fine belongs to something large. If then it is assumed that A belongs to all B and B to some C, the premise AB will be false in part, but BC true, and the conclusion true. Similarly too when the premise B is privative —
12| for the same terms will serve, posited in the same way, for the demonstration. Again, if AB is true and BC is false, the conclusion will be true. For nothing prevents A from belonging to the whole of B but to some C, while B belongs to none of C — for instance, animal belongs to every swan but to some black thing, while swan belongs to no black thing. So that if it is assumed that A belongs to all B, and B to some C, the conclusion will be true, though BC is false. Similarly too when the premise B is taken as privative. For it is possible for A to belong to no B and not to belong to some C, while B belongs to no C — for instance, a genus in relation to a species from another genus and to an accident of its own species: animal belongs to no number, but to some white thing, and number belongs to no white thing. If then number is posited as middle term, and it is assumed that A belongs to no B, and B to some C, A will not belong to some C — which was true; and the premise AB is true, but BC is false.
13| And if AB is false in part, and BC is also false, the conclusion will be true. For nothing prevents A from belonging to some of B and to some of C, each of them,
14| while B belongs to no C — for instance, if B is contrary to C, and both are accidents of the same genus: animal belongs to something white and to something black, but white belongs to no black thing. If then it is assumed that A belongs to all B, and B to some C, the conclusion will be true. And similarly when the premise B is taken as privative; for the same terms, posited in the same way, will serve for the demonstration. And even when both premises are false, the conclusion will be true. For it is possible for A to belong to no B but to some C, while B belongs to no C — for instance, a genus in relation to a species from another genus and to an accident of its own species: animal belongs to no number, but to some white thing, and number belongs to no white thing. If then it is assumed that A belongs to all B and B to some C, the conclusion is true, but both premises are false. Similarly too when the premise B is privative. For nothing prevents A from belonging to the whole of B, but not belonging to some C, while B belongs to none of C — for instance, animal belongs to every swan, but does not belong to some black thing, while swan belongs to no black thing. So that if it is assumed that A belongs to no B, and B to some C, A will not belong to some C. The conclusion, then, is true, but the premises are false.
15| In the middle figure it is in every way possible to reach a true conclusion through falsehoods — both when both premises are taken as wholly false, and when each is false in part, and when one is true and the other false, whichever of the two is posited as false, and both in universal and in particular syllogisms. For if A belongs to no B but to all C — for instance, animal belongs to no stone but to every horse — then if the premises are posited in the contrary way, and it is assumed that A belongs to all B and to no C, the conclusion will be true from premises that are both wholly false. Similarly too if A belongs to all B and to no C: for the syllogism will be the same. Again, if one premise is wholly false and the other
16| ...wholly true. For nothing prevents A from belonging to both B and to all of C, while B belongs to none of C — as, for instance, a genus in relation to species that do not fall under one another. For animal belongs to every horse and to every man, and no man is a horse. If, then, it is assumed that A belongs to all of the one and to none of the other, one premise will be wholly false and the other wholly true, and the conclusion will be true whichever term the privative is set against. And likewise if one premise is false in part while the other is wholly true. For it is possible for A to belong to some B and to all of C, while B belongs to none of C — as, for instance, animal belongs to some white thing and to every raven, and white belongs to no raven. If, then, it is assumed that A belongs to none of B and to the whole of C, the premise AB is false in part, while the premise AC is wholly true, and the conclusion is true. And it is the same when the privative is transposed, for the demonstration proceeds through the same terms. And likewise if the affirmative premise is false in part while the privative is wholly true.
17| For nothing prevents A from belonging to some B and from not belonging to all of C, while B belongs to none of C — as, for instance, animal belongs to some white thing but to no pitch, and white belongs to no pitch. So if it is assumed that A belongs to all of B and to none of C, the premise AB is false in part, while the premise AC is wholly true, and the conclusion is true. And if both premises are false in part, the conclusion will still be true. For it is possible for A to belong to some B and to some C, while B belongs to none of C — as, for instance, animal belongs to some white thing and to some black thing, and white belongs to no black thing. If, then, it is assumed that A belongs to all of B and to none of C, both premises are false in part, but the conclusion is true. And likewise when the privative is transposed, through the same terms. This is clear also in the case of particular syllogisms. For nothing prevents A from belonging to all of B and to some C, while B does not belong to some C — as, for instance, animal belongs to every man and to some white thing, but man will not belong to some white thing.
18| If, then, it is assumed that A belongs to none of B and to some C, the universal premise is wholly false, the particular one true, and the conclusion true. And likewise when the premise BC is taken as affirmative. For it is possible for A to belong to none of B and not to belong to some C, while B does not belong to some C — as, for instance, animal belongs to no inanimate thing, but to some white thing, and the inanimate will not belong to some white thing. If, then, it is assumed that A belongs to all of B and does not belong to some C, the premise AB, the universal one, is wholly false, while AC is true, and the conclusion is true. And likewise when the universal is taken as true and the particular as false. For nothing prevents A from following neither B nor C at all, while B does not belong to some C — as, for instance, animal follows no number and no inanimate thing, and number does not follow some inanimate thing. If, then, it is assumed that A belongs to none of B and to some C, the conclusion will be true, and so will the universal premise, while the particular one is false. And likewise when the universal is taken as affirmative. For it is possible for A to belong to both the whole of B and the whole of C, while B does not follow some C — as, for instance, a genus in relation to a species and a differentia. For animal follows every man and the whole of the footed, but man does not follow every footed thing.
19| So if it is assumed that A belongs to the whole of B but does not belong to some C, the universal premise is true, the particular one false, and the conclusion true. It is also clear that the conclusion will be true from two false premises, if indeed it is possible for A to belong to the whole of both B and C, while B does not follow some C. For when A is assumed to belong to none of B and to some C, both premises are false, but the conclusion is true. And likewise when the universal premise is affirmative and the particular one privative. For it is possible for A to follow none of B and all of C, while B does not belong to some C — as, for instance, animal follows no knowledge but every man, and knowledge does not belong to every man. If, then, it is assumed that A belongs to the whole of B but does not follow some C, the premises are false, but the conclusion is true. In the last figure too there will be truth through falsehoods — both when both premises are wholly false, and when each is false in part, and when one is wholly true and the other false,
20| and when one is false in part and the other wholly true, and the reverse, and however many other ways it is possible for the premises to be varied. For nothing prevents neither A nor B from belonging to any C, while A nonetheless belongs to some B — as, for instance, neither man nor footed follows any inanimate thing, yet man belongs to some footed thing. If, then, it is assumed that A and B both belong to all of C, both premises are wholly false, but the conclusion is true. And likewise when one premise is privative and the other affirmative. For it is possible for B to belong to none of C while A belongs to all of C, and for A not to belong to some B — as, for instance, black belongs to no swan, but animal belongs to every swan, and animal does not belong to every black thing. So if it is assumed that B belongs to all of C and A to none, A will not belong to some B; and the conclusion is true, but the premises are false. And if each premise is false in part, the conclusion will still be true. For nothing prevents both A and B from belonging to some C, and A from belonging to some
21| B, as, for instance, both white and fine belong to some animal, and white belongs to some fine thing. If, then, it is assumed that A and B both belong to all of C, the premises are false in part, but the conclusion is true. And likewise when C is taken as privative. For nothing prevents A from not belonging to some C, while B belongs to some C, and A from not belonging to all of B — as, for instance, white does not belong to some animal, but fine belongs to some animal, and white does not belong to every fine thing. So if it is assumed that A belongs to none of C and B to all of C, both premises are false in part, but the conclusion is true. And likewise when one premise is taken as wholly false and the other as wholly true. For it is possible for both A and B to follow all of C, while A does not belong to some B — as, for instance, both animal and white follow every swan, yet animal does not belong to every white thing. With terms of this kind set down, then, if it is assumed that B belongs to the whole of C, and A does not belong to the whole of it,
22| the whole premise B-C will be true, and the whole premise A-C will be false, and the conclusion will be true. And likewise if B-C is false and A-C is true; for the same terms serve for the demonstration. But this also holds if both premises are taken as affirmative. For nothing prevents B from following every C, while it does not belong to the whole of that thing, and belonging to some of B, as for instance animal belongs to every swan, but black belongs to no swan, while black belongs to some animal. So if it is assumed that A and B both belong to every C, the whole premise B-C will be true, while the whole premise A-C is false, and the conclusion will be true. And likewise if the premise A-C is taken as true; for the demonstration proceeds through the same terms. Again, suppose the one premise is wholly true and the other partly false. For it is possible for B to belong to every C but A only to some C, and A to some B, as for instance two-footed belongs to every man, but fine does not belong to every man, while fine belongs to some two-footed thing. So if it is assumed that both A and B belong to the whole of C, the premise B-C will be wholly true, while A-C is partly false, but the conclusion will be true. And likewise if A-C is taken as true and B-C as partly false;
23| for by transposing the same terms the demonstration will work. And likewise when one premise is privative and the other affirmative. For since it is possible for B to belong to the whole of C but to only some of it in another respect, and when things stand thus, A does not belong to every B, then if it is assumed that B belongs to the whole of C, but to none of it, the privative premise will be partly false, while the other is wholly true, and so will the conclusion. Again, since it has been shown that when A belongs to no C, and B belongs to some C, it is possible for A not to belong to some B, it is clear that even when the premise A-C is wholly true and B-C is partly false, it is possible for the conclusion to be true. For if it is assumed that A belongs to no C, and B to every C, the premise A-C will be wholly true and B-C partly false. It is also clear in the case of particular syllogisms that in every way a true conclusion can come through false premises. For the same terms must be taken, both when the premises are universal — affirmative terms in the affirmative syllogisms, and privative terms in the privative ones.
24| For it makes no difference, with respect to the setting-out of the terms, whether one takes what belongs to none as belonging to every,
25| or takes what belongs to some as belonging universally; and likewise with the privative syllogisms. It is clear, then, that if the conclusion is false, the things from which the argument proceeds must be false, either all or some of them; but when the conclusion is true, it is not necessary that anything be true, either some part or the whole — rather it is possible, with nothing in the syllogism being true, for the conclusion nonetheless to be true, though not of necessity. The reason is that when two things stand to one another such that if one exists the other exists of necessity, then if the second does not exist, neither will the first, but if the second does exist, the first need not exist; but it is impossible for the same thing to be and not be of necessity because of the same thing. I mean, for example, that if A being white entails of necessity that B is large, and A not being white entails of necessity that C is not white — for when this, A, is white, that, B, must be large, and if B is large, C is not white, then it is necessary, if A is white, that C is not white. And when, of two things, if one exists the other must exist, then if the second does not exist, the first must not exist. So if B is not large, A cannot be white. But if it is necessary that, when this is not white, B is large, it follows of necessity that when B is not large, B itself is large — which is impossible. For if B is not large, that (namely A being white) will not be true of necessity. So if, when this is not white, B is going to be large, it follows that if B is not large, B is large — as through three terms.
26| Demonstrating in a circle and from one another means demonstrating the remaining premise — the one assumed in the other syllogism — by taking, through the conclusion and the converse of the predication, the other premise. For instance, if it were necessary to show that A belongs to every C, and this was shown through B, then if one should again show that A belongs to B, by assuming that A belongs to C and that C belongs to B — but earlier B was assumed, conversely, to belong to C. Or if it is necessary to show that B belongs to C, if one should assume that A holds of C, which was the conclusion,
27| and that B holds of A — whereas earlier A was assumed, conversely, to hold of B. In no other way is it possible to demonstrate from one another. For if a different middle term is taken, it is not circular, since none of the same terms is used; and if one of these same terms is taken, only one of the two can be so used — for if both were used, the conclusion would be the same, whereas it must be different. Now in cases where the terms do not convert, the syllogism comes from one premise that is undemonstrated; for it is not possible to demonstrate, through these terms, that the third belongs to the middle, or the middle to the first. But in cases where the terms do convert, it is possible to demonstrate everything through one another, as for instance if A, B, and C all convert with one another. Let A-C have been shown through the middle term B; and again let A-B be shown both through the conclusion and through the premise B-C converted, and likewise let B-C be shown both through the conclusion and through the premise A-B converted. But it is necessary to demonstrate both the premise C-B and the premise B-A; for these are the only ones we have used undemonstrated. So if it is assumed that B belongs to every C and C belongs to every A, there will be a syllogism of B in relation to A.
28| Again, if it is assumed that C belongs to every A, and A to every B, C must belong to every B. In both these syllogisms, then, the premise C-A has been taken undemonstrated; for the others had been demonstrated. So if we demonstrate this one too, all will have been demonstrated through one another. So if it is assumed that C belongs to every B, and B to every A, both premises are taken as demonstrated, and C must belong to A. It is clear, then, that only among terms that convert is it possible for demonstrations to come about in a circle and through one another; in other cases it is as we said before. But it turns out that in these cases too one uses, for the demonstration, the very thing being demonstrated; for C is shown to hold of B, and B of A, by assuming that C is said of A, while C is shown to hold of A through these premises — so that we are using the conclusion for the demonstration. In the case of privative syllogisms, this is how demonstration from one another comes about. Let B belong to every C, and let A belong to none
29| ...to B; the conclusion is that A belongs to no C. If, again, one must conclude that A belongs to no B, which was assumed earlier, let A belong to no C, and C to all B; for this is how the premise is converted the other way. But if it is B belonging to C that must be concluded, A and B are no longer to be converted in the same way (for it is the same premise to say that B belongs to no A and that A belongs to no B); instead one must take: whatever A belongs to none of, B belongs to all of. Let A belong to no C — this was the conclusion; and let it be assumed that B belongs to all of whatever A belongs to none of. Then B must belong to all C. So, there being three propositions, each has become a conclusion in turn, and this is what demonstrating in a circle is: taking the conclusion together with one of the premises converted, and deducing the remaining premise. In the case of particular syllogisms, the universal premise cannot be demonstrated through the others, though the particular one can. That the universal cannot be demonstrated is clear: for the universal is shown through universals, but the conclusion is not universal, and one must show it from the conclusion together with the other premise.
30| Further, no syllogism results at all once the premise is converted, since in that case 58b both premises become particular. But the particular premise can be shown. For let A have been proved of some C through B. If then B is taken to belong to all A, and the conclusion stands, B will belong to some C — for this becomes the first figure, with A as the middle term. But if the syllogism is negative, the universal premise cannot be shown, for the reason already stated; but the particular one can, if A and B are converted in the same way as in the universal case — for example, taking that whatever A does not belong to some of, B belongs to some of; otherwise no syllogism results, because the particular premise is negative. In the second figure, the affirmative conclusion cannot be shown by this method, but the negative can. The affirmative
31| is not demonstrated, because both premises would not be affirmative — for the conclusion is negative, whereas the affirmative conclusion was shown from two affirmative premises. But the negative is shown as follows. Let A belong to all B, and to no C; the conclusion is that B belongs to no C. If then it is assumed that B belongs to all A, A must belong to no C — for this becomes the second figure, with B as middle term. But if B is taken negatively and the other premise affirmatively, it will be the first figure. For C belongs to all A, and B to no C, so that B belongs to no A; therefore A does not belong to B either. So from the conclusion and one premise alone no syllogism results, but once the other premise is added, there will be one. But if the syllogism is not universal, the premise holding of the whole is not proved, for the same reason already stated; but the particular one is proved, when the universal premise is affirmative. For let A belong to all B, and not to all C; the conclusion concerns B and C — namely, that B does not belong to some C. If then it is assumed that B belongs to all A, but not to all C, A will not belong to some C; B is the middle term. But if the universal premise is negative, the premise A-C will not be proved by converting A-B; for it turns out that either both premises, or the other one, become negative, so that there will be no syllogism. But it will be proved in the same way as in the universal cases, if it is assumed that, whatever B does not belong to some of, A belongs to some of.
32| In the third figure, when both premises are taken as universal, it is not possible to prove them through one another: for the universal is proved through universals, but the conclusion in this figure is always particular, so it is clear that it is altogether impossible to prove the universal premise through this figure. But if one premise is universal and the other particular, sometimes it will be possible, sometimes not. When both premises are taken affirmatively and the universal one is next to the minor term, it will be possible; but when it is next to the other term, it will not be possible. For let A belong to all C, and B to some C; the conclusion is
33| A-B. If then it is assumed that C belongs to all A, C has been shown to belong to some B, but B has not been shown to belong to some C. And yet it is necessary, if C belongs to some B, that B also belongs to some C. But it is not the same thing for this to belong to that as for that to belong to this; rather, one must further assume that if this belongs to some of that, the other also belongs to some of this. Once this is assumed, the syllogism no longer comes from the conclusion and the other premise alone. But if B belongs to all C, and A to some C, it will be possible to show A-C, when it is assumed that C belongs to all B and A to some B. For if C belongs to all B, and A to some B, A must belong to some C; B is the middle term. And when one premise is affirmative and the other negative, with the affirmative one universal, the other will be shown. For let B belong to all C, and A not belong to some C; the conclusion is that A does not belong to some B. If then it is further assumed that C belongs to all B, A must not belong to some C; B is the middle term. But when the negative premise becomes the universal one, the other is not shown, except as in the previous cases, if it is assumed that, whatever this does not belong to some of, the other belongs to some of — for example, if A belongs to no C, and B to some C; the conclusion is that A does not belong to some B. If then it is assumed that C belongs to some of whatever A does not belong to, C must belong to some B. In no other way is it possible, by converting the universal premise, to show the other; for in no case will there then be a syllogism.
34| To convert is to transpose the conclusion and construct the syllogism so that either the extreme term will not belong to the middle, or the middle will not belong to the last term. For once the conclusion is converted and the other premise remains as it was, the remaining premise must be destroyed; for if it held, the conclusion would also hold. But it makes a difference whether one converts the conclusion oppositely or contrarily; for the syllogism that results is not the same in each case of conversion — this will become clear from what follows. By 'opposite' I mean 'belongs to all' set against 'does not belong to all,' and 'belongs to some' against 'belongs to none'; by 'contrary' I mean 'belongs to all' against 'belongs to none,' and 'belongs to some' against 'does not belong to some.' Let A have been shown of C through the middle term B. If, then, A is assumed to belong to no C, but to all B, B will belong to no C. And if A belongs to no C, and B to all C, A will not belong to all B, but not simply to none either; for the universal was not proved through the last figure. And in general, the premise concerning the major term cannot be universally overturned by conversion —
35| For it is always destroyed through the third figure; for it is necessary to take both premises in relation to the last term. And if the syllogism is negative, the same holds. For let it have been proved, through B, that A belongs to no C. Then if it is assumed that A belongs to all C, while A belongs to no B, B will belong to no C. And if A and B both belong to all C, A will belong to some B; but it belonged to none. But if the conclusion is converted contradictorily, the resulting syllogisms will be contradictory and not universal. For one of the premises becomes particular, so that the conclusion too will be particular. For let the syllogism be affirmative, and let it be converted in this way. Then if A does not belong to all C, while A belongs to all B, B will not belong to all C; and if A does not belong to all C, while B belongs to all C, A will not belong to all B. And likewise if the syllogism is negative. For if A belongs to some C, and to no B, B will not belong to some C — not simply to none of it;
36| and if A belongs to some C, and B to all C, as was assumed at the start, A will belong to some B. In the case of particular syllogisms, when the conclusion is converted contradictorily, both premises are destroyed, but when contrarily, neither. For it no longer follows, as it did with universal syllogisms, that destruction occurs even though the conclusion falls short in the conversion — rather, there is no destruction at all. For let it have been proved that A holds of some C. Then if it is assumed that A belongs to no C, while B belongs to some C, A will not belong to some B; and if A belongs to no C, while A belongs to all B, B will belong to no C. So both are destroyed. But if it is converted contrarily, neither. For if A does not belong to some C, while A belongs to all B, B will not belong to some C, but the original premise is not yet destroyed; for it is possible for it to belong to some and not belong to some. And of the universal premise, the B premise, no syllogism results at all; for if A does not belong to some C, and B belongs to some C, neither of the premises is universal. And likewise if the syllogism is negative; for if it is assumed that A belongs to all C, both are destroyed, but if to some, neither. The proof is the same.
37| In the second figure the premise involving the major term cannot be destroyed contrarily, however the conversion is made; for the conclusion will always fall in the third figure, and there is no universal syllogism in that figure. But the other premise we shall destroy in the same manner as the conversion. By 'in the same manner' I mean: if the conversion is contrary, contrarily; if contradictory, contradictorily. For let A belong to all B, and to no C; the conclusion holds between B and C. Then if it is assumed that B belongs to all C, and A-B remains as it was, A will belong to all C; for this becomes the first figure. But if B belongs to all C, and A belongs to no C, A will not belong to all B; this is the last figure. But if B-C is converted contradictorily, the B premise will be shown in the same way, but the C premise contradictorily. For if B belongs to some C, and A to no C, A will not belong to some B. Again, if B belongs to some C, and A belongs to all
38| B, A will belong to some C, so that the resulting syllogism is contradictory. And it will be shown in the same way if the premises are reversed. But if the syllogism is particular, when the conclusion is converted contrarily neither of the premises is destroyed, just as in the first figure; but when contradictorily, both are. For let A be posited as belonging to no B, and to some C; the conclusion holds between B and C. Then if it is assumed that B belongs to some C, and the premise A-B remains, the conclusion will be that A does not belong to some C, but the original premise has not been destroyed; for it is possible for a thing to belong to some and not belong to some. Again, if B belongs to some C and A belongs to some C, there will be no syllogism; for neither of the premises taken is universal, so that the B premise is not destroyed. But if it is converted contradictorily, both are destroyed. For if B belongs to all C, and A to no B, A will belong to no C; but it belonged to some. Again, if B belongs to all C, and A to some C, A will belong to some B. And the proof is the same if the universal premise is affirmative.
39| In the third figure, when the conclusion is converted contrarily, neither of the premises is destroyed in any of the syllogisms; but when contradictorily, both are, and in all of them. For let it have been proved that A belongs to some B, with C taken as the middle term, and let the premises be universal. Then if it is assumed that A does not belong to some B, while B belongs to all C, no syllogism results connecting A and C. Nor, if A does not belong to some B, while A belongs to all C, will there be a syllogism connecting B and C. And it will be shown in the same way if the premises are not universal. For either both premises must become particular as a result of the conversion, or the universal premise must fall with the minor term; and in that arrangement there was no syllogism, either in the first figure or in the second. But if it is converted contradictorily, both premises are destroyed. For if A belongs to no B, and B belongs to all C, A will belong to no C. Again, if A belongs to no B, while A belongs to all C, B will belong to no C. And if one of the premises is not universal, likewise. For if A belongs to no B, and B
40| belongs to some C, A will not belong to some C; but if A belongs to no B, while A belongs to all C, B will belong to no C. And likewise if the syllogism is negative. For let it have been proved that A does not belong to some B, and let B-C be affirmative, and A-C negative; for it was in this way that the syllogism arose. Now when the contrary of the conclusion is assumed, there will be no syllogism. For if A belongs to some B, and B belongs to all C, there was no syllogism connecting A and C. Nor, if A belongs to some B, and to no C, was there a syllogism connecting B and C. So the premises are not destroyed. But when the contradictory is assumed, they are destroyed. For if A belongs to all B and B belongs to all C, A will belong to all C; but it belonged to none. Again, if A belongs to all B, and to no C, B will belong to no C; but it belonged to all. And it is shown in the same way if the premises are not universal. For the C premise becomes both universal and negative, while the other is particular and affirmative.
41| If then A belongs to all B, and B belongs to some C, it follows that A belongs to some C; but it was assumed to belong to none. Again, if A belongs to all B, but to none of C, then B belongs to none of C; but it was assumed to belong to some. But if A belongs to some B, and B belongs to some C, no syllogism results; nor if A belongs to some B, but to none of C, does one result either. So the premises are destroyed in the first way, but not destroyed in this way. It is clear, then, from what has been said, how, when the conclusion is converted, a syllogism comes about in each figure, and when it is contrary to the premise and when it is its opposite; and that in the first figure the syllogisms come about through the middle and the last terms, and the premise next to the minor extreme is always destroyed through the middle term, while the one next to the major is destroyed through the last term; in the second figure they come about through the first and the last terms, the premise next to the minor extreme always through the first figure, and the one next to the major through the last term; and in the third figure they come about through the first and through the middle term, and the premise next to the major always through the first, while the one next to the minor through the middle.
42| What conversion is, then, and how a syllogism comes about in each figure, and what sort it is, is clear. The syllogism through the impossible is demonstrated when the contradictory of the conclusion is posited and another premise is added, and it comes about in all the figures; for it is similar to conversion, except that it differs in this respect: conversion happens once a syllogism has come about and both premises have been taken, whereas reduction to the impossible does not depend on the opposite having been agreed to beforehand, but on its being evident that it is true. The terms are the same in both, and the assumption is the same for both. For example, if A belongs to all B, and C is the middle term, then if it is supposed that A belongs either not to all B or to none of B, while it belongs to all C — which was true — C must belong either to none of B or not to all of B. But this is impossible, so that what was supposed is false; therefore the opposite is true. Similarly too in the other figures; for whatever admits of conversion also admits of the syllogism through the impossible. Now all the other problems are demonstrated through the impossible in all the figures, but the universal affirmative is demonstrated in the middle and the third figure, but not demonstrated in the first.
43| For let it be supposed that A does not belong to all B or belongs to none, and let another premise be added either way — either that C belongs to all A, or that B belongs to all D; for in this way it would be the first figure. If then it is supposed that A does not belong to all B, no syllogism results whichever premise is taken; but if it is supposed that A belongs to none of B, then when BD is added, there will be a syllogism of a falsehood, but the thing proposed is not demonstrated. For if A belongs to none of B, and B belongs to all D, A belongs to none of D. Let this be impossible; then it is false that A belongs to none of B. But it does not follow that if belonging to none is false, belonging to all is true. And if C is added, no syllogism results, nor when it is supposed that A does not belong to all B. So it is clear that belonging to all is not demonstrated in the first figure through the impossible. But belonging to some, and belonging to none, and not belonging to all are demonstrated. For let it be supposed that A belongs to none of B, and let B be taken to belong to all or to some C.
44| It is then necessary that A belongs to none, or not to all, of C. But this is impossible — for let it be true and evident that A belongs to all of that term — so that if this is false, it is necessary that A belongs to some B. But if the other premise is taken with A, there will be no syllogism; nor when the contrary of the conclusion is supposed, for instance that it belongs to some but not to some. It is clear, then, that the opposite must be supposed. Again, let it be supposed that A belongs to some B, and let C be taken to belong to all A. Then C must belong to some B. Let this be impossible, so that what was supposed is false. If so, it is true that it belongs to none. Likewise too if CA was taken as privative. But if the premise next to B is taken, there will be no syllogism. And if the contrary is supposed, there will be a syllogism, and the impossibility, but the thing proposed is not demonstrated. For let it be supposed that A belongs to all B, and let C be taken to belong to all A. Then C must belong to all B. But this is impossible, so that it is false that A belongs to all B.
45| But it is not yet necessary, if it does not belong to all, that it belongs to none. Likewise too if the other premise were taken with B; for there will be a syllogism and the impossibility, but the supposition is not destroyed; so that the opposite must be supposed. To show that A does not belong to all B, one must suppose that it belongs to all; for if A belongs to all B, and C belongs to all A, then C belongs to all B, so that if this is impossible, what was supposed is false. Likewise too if the other premise were taken with B. And if CA was privative, the same holds; for a syllogism comes about that way too. But if the privative is next to B, nothing is demonstrated. And if it is supposed not that it belongs to all but to some, it is not demonstrated that it does not belong to all, but that it belongs to none. For if A belongs to some B, and C belongs to all A, C will belong to some B. If then this is impossible, it is false that A belongs to some B, so that it is true that it belongs to none. But if this is demonstrated, the truth is destroyed along with it; for A belonged
46| to some B, but did not belong to some. Further, nothing impossible follows from the supposition; for it would have to be false, if indeed a falsehood cannot be deduced from truths — but as it is, it is true; for A belongs to some B. So one must not suppose that it belongs to some, but that it belongs to all. Likewise too if we were showing that A does not belong to some B; for if belonging to some, not, and not belonging to all are the same, the demonstration of both is the same. It is clear, then, that in all the syllogisms one must suppose not the contrary but the opposite; for in this way both the necessity will hold and the claim will be reputable. For if of everything either the affirmation or the negation holds, then once it is shown that the negation does not hold, the affirmation must be true. Again, if one does not posit that the affirmation is true, it is reputable to claim the negation. But the contrary fits neither claim: for it is neither necessary, if belonging to none is false, that belonging to all is true; nor is it reputable, that if one is false the other is true.
47| It is clear, then, that in the first figure all the other problems are proved through the impossible, but the universal affirmative is not proved. In the middle and the last figure this too is proved. For let it be assumed that A does not belong to all B, and let it be taken that A belongs to all C. Then if A does not belong to all B, but belongs to all C, C does not belong to all B. But this is impossible; for let it be evident that C belongs to all B, so that the assumption is false. Therefore it is true that A belongs to all B. But if the contrary is assumed, there will be a syllogism and the impossible result too, but the point proposed will not be proved. For if A belongs to no B, and A belongs to all C, then C belongs to no B. But this is impossible, so that it is false that A belongs to no B. But it does not follow that, if this is false, it is true that A belongs to all B. To prove that A belongs to some B, let it be assumed that A belongs to no B, and let A belong to all C. Then C must belong to no B. So if this is impossible, A must belong to some B. But if it is assumed that A does not belong to some B, the same result will follow as in the first figure. Again, let it be assumed that A belongs to some
48| B, and let A belong to no C. Then C must not belong to some B. But C belonged to all B, so that what was assumed is false; therefore A will belong to no B. To prove that A does not belong to all B, let it be assumed that A belongs to all B, and that A belongs to no C. Then C must belong to no B. But this is impossible, so that it is true that A does not belong to all B. It is clear, then, that all these syllogisms come about through the middle figure.
49| Similarly also through the last figure. For let it be assumed that A does not belong to some B, and that C belongs to all B; then A does not belong to some C. If, then, this is impossible, it is false that A does not belong to some B, so that it is true that A belongs to all B. But if it is assumed that A belongs to no B, there will be a syllogism and the impossible result, but what was proposed will not be proved; for if the contrary is assumed, the same result will follow as in the earlier cases. Rather, this assumption must be taken to prove that A belongs to some B. For if A belongs to no B, and C belongs to some B, then A does not belong to all C. If, then, this is false, it is true that A belongs to some B. To prove that A belongs to no B, let it be assumed that A belongs to some B, and let it also be taken that C belongs to all B. Then A must belong to some C. But A belonged to no C, so that it is false that A belongs to some B. But if it is assumed that A belongs to all B, what was proposed is not proved; rather, this assumption must be taken to prove that A does not belong to all B. For if A belongs to all B, and C belongs to all B, then A belongs to some C. But this was not so; so that it is false that A belongs to all B. And if so, it is true that A does not belong to all B. But if it is assumed that A belongs to some B, the same result will follow as in the cases already stated. It is clear, then, that in all arguments through the impossible one must assume the opposite. And it is clear too that in the middle figure the affirmative is in some way proved, and in the last figure the universal.
50| Demonstration through the impossible differs from direct demonstration in that it posits what it wishes to refute, and leads it away to an agreed falsehood, whereas direct demonstration starts from agreed positions. Both, then, take two agreed premises; but the one takes the premises from which the syllogism proceeds, while the other takes one of these, and, as the other, the contradictory of the conclusion. And in the one case it is not necessary that the conclusion be known in advance, nor to assume beforehand whether it holds or not; in the other case it is necessary to assume in advance that it does not hold. It makes no difference whether the conclusion is an affirmation or a negation; the case is the same for both. Everything concluded directly can also be proved through the impossible, and everything proved through the impossible can also be proved directly, through the same terms. For whenever the syllogism comes about in the first figure, the true result will be in the middle or the last figure — the negative in the middle, the affirmative in the last. And whenever the syllogism is in the middle figure, the true result is in the first figure, for all the problems. And whenever the syllogism is in the last figure, the true result is in the first and the middle — the affirmative ones in the first, the negative ones in the middle. For let it be supposed that it has been proved, through the first figure, that A belongs to no B or not to all B.
51| Then the assumption was that A belongs to some B, and C was taken to belong to all A, but to no B; for it was in this way that the syllogism, and the impossible result, came about. But this is the middle figure, if C belongs to all A but to no B. And it is clear from this that A belongs to no B. The case is similar too if it has been proved that A does not belong to all B. For the assumption is that A belongs to all B, and C was taken to belong to all A, but not to all B. And it is the same too if the premise C-A is taken as negative; for in this way too the middle figure comes about. Again, let it have been proved that A belongs to some B. Then the assumption was that A belongs to no B, and B was taken to belong to all C, and A either to all or to some C; for it is in this way that the impossible result will come about. But this is the last figure, if A too, and B, belong to all C. And it is clear from this that A must belong to some B. The case is similar too if B or A were taken to belong to some C.
52| Again, let it have been proved, in the middle figure, that A belongs to all B. Then the assumption was that A does not belong to all B, and it was taken that A belongs to all C and C belongs to all B; for it is in this way that the impossible result will come about. But this is the first figure — A belonging to all C, and C to all B. The case is similar too if it has been proved that A belongs to some B; for the assumption was that A belongs to no B, and it was taken that A belongs to all C and C belongs to some B. But if the syllogism is negative, the assumption was that A belongs to some B, and it was taken that A belongs to no C and C belongs to all B, so that the first figure results. And if the syllogism is not universal, but it has been proved that A does not belong to some B, the case is the same. For the assumption was that A belongs to all B, and it was taken that A belongs to no C and C belongs to some B; for it is in this way that the first figure results. Again, let it have been proved, in the third figure, that A belongs to all B. Then the assumption was that A does not belong to all B, and it was taken that C belongs to all B and A belongs to all C.
53| For that is how the impossibility will result. And this is the first figure. Likewise too if the demonstration concerns a particular case: for the hypothesis is that A belongs to no B, and it has been assumed that C belongs to some B and A to all C. But if the syllogism is privative, the hypothesis is that A belongs to some B, and it has been assumed that C belongs to no A and to all B — and this is the middle figure. Likewise too if the demonstration is not universal: for the hypothesis will be that A belongs to all B, and it has been assumed that C belongs to no A and to some B — and this is the middle figure. It is clear, then, that each of the problems can be proved ostensively as well, through the same terms. Similarly, when the syllogisms are ostensive, it will be possible to reduce them to the impossible using the terms assumed, whenever the premise opposite to the conclusion is taken. For the same syllogisms result as those obtained through conversion, so that we have at once the figures through which each will come about as well. It is clear, then, that every problem can be proved in both ways,
54| both through the impossible and ostensively, and it is not possible for the one way to occur without the other. In which figure it is possible to draw a syllogism from opposite premises, and in which it is not, will be clear as follows. I call premises opposite, in respect of wording, in four ways — namely 'belongs to all' as against 'belongs to none,' 'belongs to all' as against 'does not belong to all,' 'belongs to some' as against 'belongs to none,' and 'belongs to some' as against 'does not belong to some' — but in respect of truth, in three ways; for 'belongs to some' and 'does not belong to some' are opposed only in wording. Of these, the universal ones are contraries — 'belongs to all' as against 'belongs to none,' for example 'every science is worthwhile' as against 'no science is worthwhile' — while the rest are opposites. In the first figure, then, there cannot be a syllogism from opposite premises, neither an affirmative one nor a negative one — not an affirmative one, because both premises must be affirmative, while opposite premises consist of an assertion and a denial; nor a privative one, because opposite premises affirm and deny the same thing of the same thing, whereas the middle term in the first figure is not said of both extremes in that way — rather it is denied of the one, and it is itself predicated of the other, and these are not opposed. But in the middle figure it is possible for a syllogism to come about both from opposites and from contraries.
55| For let A stand for the good, and B and C for knowledge. If, then, one has assumed that every kind of knowledge is worthwhile and also that none is, A belongs to all B and to no B, so that B belongs to no C; therefore no knowledge is knowledge. Likewise too if, having assumed that every kind of knowledge is worthwhile, one has assumed that medicine is not worthwhile: for A belongs to all B and to no C, so that some knowledge will not be knowledge. Also if A belongs to all C and to no B, and B stands for knowledge, C for medicine, and A for conception — for then, having assumed that no knowledge is a conception, one has assumed that some thing, namely medicine, is a conception. This differs from the previous case in that the terms are converted: before, the affirmative premise stood next to B, but now it stands next to C. And if one of the two premises is not universal, the result is the same; for the middle term is always
56| the term that is denied of the one extreme and affirmed of the other. So it is possible to conclude to opposites, but not always and not in every case, but only when the terms falling under the middle term are related in such a way as to be either the same or as whole to part. Otherwise it is impossible: for then the premises will in no way be either contraries or opposites. In the third figure, an affirmative syllogism will never come about from opposite premises, for the reason already stated in the case of the first figure as well, but a negative one will, whether the terms are taken universally or not universally. For let B and C stand for knowledge, and A for medicine. If, then, one assumes that all medicine is knowledge and that no medicine is knowledge, B has been assumed to belong to all A and to none, so that some knowledge will not be knowledge. Likewise too if the premise B-A is not taken universally: for if some medicine is knowledge, and again no medicine is knowledge, it results that some knowledge is not knowledge. When the terms are taken universally, the premises are contraries; but if one of the two is taken as particular, they are opposites. One must notice that it is possible to take the opposites in the way we said — that every kind of knowledge is worthwhile, and again that none is, or that some is not — a mistake that does not usually go unnoticed.
57| But it is possible to get the other premise conceded through different questions, or else to obtain it as was said one should in the Topics. And since the oppositions of affirmations are three, it turns out there are six ways of taking the opposites — either 'to all' and 'to none,' or 'to all' and 'not to all,' or 'to some' and 'to none' — and this may also be converted with respect to the terms, for example A belonging to all B and to no C, or to all C and to no B, or to all of the one and not to all of the other, and this again converted with respect to the terms. Likewise too in the third figure. So it is clear in how many ways, and in which figures, it is possible for a syllogism to come about from opposite premises. It is also clear that from false premises one can draw a true conclusion by syllogism, as was said before, but from opposite premises
58| one cannot; for the conclusion is always contrary to the fact — for example that what is good is not good, or that what is an animal is not an animal — because the syllogism proceeds from a contradiction, and the underlying terms are either the same or one is whole and the other part. It is also clear that in fallacious reasonings nothing prevents the contradiction of the hypothesis from coming about, for example that what is odd is not odd. For the syllogism from opposite premises was contrary to the fact; if, then, one takes premises of that sort, the contradiction of the hypothesis will result. One must notice, however, that it is not possible in this way to conclude contraries from a single syllogism, so that the conclusion is that the very thing which is not good is good, or something else of that sort, unless the premise is taken in that form straightaway (for example that every animal is white and not white, and that man is an animal); rather, one must either add the contradiction — for example, that every kind of knowledge is a conception, and then take that medicine is a kind of knowledge but no conception at all, the way refutations are made — or draw it from two syllogisms. For the assumptions to be contraries in point of truth, there is no other way than this, as has been said before.
59| Begging the question and assuming it consists, taken generically, in failing to demonstrate the thing proposed; and this happens in many ways — if the argument does not reason at all, and if it reasons through things less known or equally unknown, and if it demonstrates what is prior through what is posterior; for demonstration proceeds from things more credible and prior. None of these, then, is what begging the original question is. But since some things are naturally known through themselves, and others through other things — for principles are known through themselves, while what falls under the principles is known through other things — whenever someone attempts to prove what is not known through itself by means of itself, then he is begging the original question. This can be done by straightaway claiming the very thing proposed, but it is also possible, by shifting to certain other things which are naturally proved through that very thing, to demonstrate the original point through them — for example if A were to be proved through B, and B through C, and C were naturally such as to be proved
60| through A; for it turns out that those who reason in this way are proving A through A itself. This is what people do who think they are proving parallel lines parallel: they fail to notice that they are assuming things that cannot be demonstrated unless the parallels exist. So it turns out that for those who reason this way, each thing is asserted on the ground that each thing is so; and in that way everything will be known through itself, which is impossible. If, then, it is unclear whether A holds of C, and equally unclear whether it holds of B, and someone asks that A be granted to hold of B, it is not yet clear whether he is begging the point at issue, but it is clear that he is not demonstrating anything; for a premise equally unclear cannot be a starting point of demonstration. If, however, B stands to C in such a way that they are the same, or it is clear that they convert, or one belongs to the other, then he is begging the point at issue. For he could show that A holds of B through those very terms, if they converted (as it is, this is prevented not by the method but by the fact that they do not convert). But if he did make them convert, he would be doing what has been described, and converting through three terms. Likewise too if he took it that B holds of C, since it is equally unclear whether A does, this is not yet begging the original point, but it still fails to demonstrate anything.
61| But if A and B are the same, either because they convert or because A follows B, then he is begging the original point, for the same reason. For we have said what begging the original point amounts to: proving through itself what is not clear through itself. If, then, begging the point at issue is proving through itself what is not clear through itself, and this is failing to prove, occurring whenever the thing being proved and that through which it is proved are equally unclear, either because the same things hold of the same thing or because the same thing holds of the same things, then in the middle figure and the third this could happen either way, while in a categorical syllogism it can happen in the third figure and the first. When the syllogism is negative, it happens when the same things are denied of the same thing; and the two premises are not alike in this respect (and likewise in the middle figure), because in negative syllogisms the terms do not convert. Begging the point at issue occurs, in demonstrations, with respect to things that actually stand so, and in dialectical arguments, with respect to things that are so according to opinion.
62| As for the falsehood not coming about on account of this thesis — something we often say in arguments — this occurs, in the first place, in reductions to the impossible, when the conclusion is the contradictory of what was being proved by the reduction to the impossible. For someone who has not asserted the contradictory will not say 'not on account of this,' but rather that some falsehood was assumed among the earlier premises; nor will he say it in the case of a direct demonstration, since in that case he is not positing the thing that would be contradicted. Further, when something is done away with directly through B and C, one cannot say that the syllogism did not come about on account of the thesis laid down. For we say that a conclusion does not come about on account of a thesis when, that thesis being removed, the syllogism is completed nonetheless — which cannot happen in direct demonstrations, since if the position is removed, the syllogism directed against it will not exist either. It is clear, then, that 'not on account of this' is said in reductions to the impossible, and when the original hypothesis stands to the impossible conclusion in such a way that the impossibility results whether the hypothesis holds or not. The clearest way for the falsehood to be not on account of the thesis is when the syllogism from the middle terms to the impossibility is unconnected with the hypothesis, as has also been said in the topical treatises.
63| For that is exactly what it is to set down the non-cause as cause: for instance, if someone wanting to show that the diagonal is incommensurable were to try Zeno's argument that motion is impossible, and reduce that to the impossible; for the falsehood in Zeno's argument has no continuity whatsoever with the original claim. Another way is when the impossibility is continuous with the hypothesis but does not come about because of it. For this can happen whether one takes the continuity going upward or going downward: for instance, if A is posited as holding of B, B of C, and C of D, and it turns out to be false that B holds of D. For if, when A is removed, B still holds of C and C of D just the same, then the falsehood would not be on account of the original hypothesis. Or again, if one takes the continuity going upward, as when A holds of B, E holds of A, and Z holds of E,
64| and it turns out to be false that Z holds of A: for in this case too the impossibility would result no less even with the original hypothesis removed. But the impossibility must connect to the original terms; only then will it be because of the hypothesis — for instance, when the continuity is taken downward, in relation to the term that is predicated (for if it is impossible for A to hold of D, then once A is removed the falsehood will no longer exist); and when taken upward, in relation to the term of which the other is predicated (for if it is not possible for Z to hold of B, then once B is removed the impossibility will no longer exist). The same holds for syllogisms that are negative. It is clear, then, that when the impossibility does not bear on the original terms, the falsehood does not come about on account of the thesis. Or is it not even so that the falsehood will always be on account of the hypothesis? For suppose A was posited to hold not of B but of K, and K of C, and this of D; then the impossibility still stands (and likewise if the terms are taken going upward); so that, since the impossibility results whether this term exists or not, it would not be on account of the thesis. Or rather, that the falsehood comes about no less when this term does not exist must not be understood as meaning that the impossibility results when some other term is posited, but rather that, when this term is removed, the same impossibility is brought about through the remaining premises — since it is perhaps not at all strange that the same falsehood should result from several different hypotheses, as, for example, that parallel lines meet follows both from supposing that the interior angle is less than the exterior, and from supposing that a triangle has more than two right angles.
65| A false argument comes about on account of a first falsehood. For every syllogism is from two premises or from more. If, then, it is from two, one or both of these must be false; for a false syllogism could not come from true premises. But if it is from more, say C is proved through A and B, and these through D, E, Z, and H, then one of these higher premises will be false, and the argument is false on account of that; for A and B are concluded through them. So it is from those premises that the conclusion, and the falsehood, results.
66| To avoid being reasoned against, one should be on watch, when someone puts his argument without stating the conclusions, so as not to grant the same thing twice among the premises, since we know that no syllogism comes about without a middle term, and the middle term is the one stated more than once. How one must watch the middle term with respect to each conclusion is clear from knowing which term is proved in each figure; and this will not escape us, because we know how we are sustaining the argument. But what we recommend guarding against as answerers, we should ourselves try to bring about unnoticed as questioners. This will happen, first, if the conclusions are not drawn in advance, but remain unclear once the necessary premises have been secured; and further, if one asks not for the terms that are close together, but rather those that are as far as possible from being immediate. For example, suppose A must be concluded of Z, with B, C, D, E as middle terms. One should ask whether A holds of B, and then not whether B holds of C, but whether D holds of E, and then whether B holds of C, and so on with the rest. And if the syllogism comes about through a single middle term, one should begin from the middle term; for in that way the answerer would be least likely to notice.
67| Now that we have established when and how the terms must stand for a syllogism to come about, it is clear also when there will be a refutation and when there will not be. For if everything is granted, or the answers are given alternately -- one negative, one affirmative -- it is possible for a refutation to come about; for a syllogism resulted whether the terms stood this way or that, so that if the position laid down is contrary to the conclusion, a refutation must come about, since a refutation is a syllogism of a contradiction. But if nothing is granted, it is impossible for a refutation to come about; for there was no syllogism when all the terms are privative, and so no refutation either -- for if there is a refutation, a syllogism must exist, but if a syllogism exists, a refutation need not. Likewise, too, if nothing is posited as holding of the whole in the answer, since the same determination will apply to refutation as to syllogism. It sometimes happens that, just as we are deceived in the position of the terms, so too deception comes about with respect to supposition,
68| for instance, if it is possible for the same thing to hold of a plurality of primary subjects, and someone may fail to notice this and suppose that it holds of none, while at the same time knowing that it holds. Let A hold of B and of C in their own right, and let both B and C hold of every D in the same way. Now if someone supposes that A holds of every B, and this of every D, but that A holds of no C, and this of every D, he will have both knowledge and ignorance of the same thing in the same respect. Again, suppose someone were deceived about terms drawn from the same series -- for instance, if A holds of B, this of C, and C of D, but he supposes that it holds of all of the one and again of none of C; for then he will at once know and fail to suppose that it holds. Is it, then, the case that from these he claims nothing else than that what he knows he does not suppose? For he knows in a way that A holds of C through B, as the particular is known through the universal, so that what he knows in a way, he claims not to suppose at all -- which is impossible. As for the case mentioned earlier, if the middle term is not from the same series, it is not possible to suppose both premises with respect to either middle term -- for instance, that A holds of every B but of no C, while both B and C hold of every D.
69| For then it turns out that the first premise is taken as contrary, either simply or in part. For if he supposes that A holds of everything of which B holds, and knows that B holds of D, then he knows that A holds of D. 67a So that if, in turn, he supposes that A holds of nothing of which C holds, and B holds of some of that of which C holds, he does not suppose that A holds of that thing. But to suppose that A holds of everything of which B holds, and again to suppose, of something of which B holds, that A does not hold, is contrary, either simply or in part. In this way, then, it is not possible to suppose both; but with respect to each of the two middle terms taking one premise, or with respect to one of them taking both, nothing prevents it -- for instance, that A holds of every B and B of every D, and again that A holds of no C. For this sort of deception is like the way we are deceived about particular cases -- for instance, if A holds of everything of which B holds, and B holds of every C, then A will hold of every C. If, then, someone knows that A holds of everything of which B holds,
70| he also knows that it holds of every C. But nothing prevents his being ignorant that C exists -- for instance, let A be having angles equal to two right angles, B be triangle, and C be perceptible triangle. For someone might suppose that C does not exist, while knowing that every triangle has two right angles, so that he will at once know and be ignorant of the same thing. For knowing that every triangle has two right angles is not a single thing, but one sort consists in having the universal knowledge, the other in having the knowledge of the particular. In this way, then, he knows as by the universal that C has two right angles, but as by the particular he does not know it, so that he will not hold the contraries. And the argument in the Meno is similar, that learning is recollection. For it never turns out that one has prior knowledge of the particular, but rather one grasps the knowledge of particulars together with the induction, as though recognizing them. For some things we know at once -- for instance, that a figure has angles equal to two right angles, if we see that it is a triangle. And likewise in the other cases. By the universal, then, we contemplate particulars, but we do not know them by the knowledge proper to them, so that it is possible to be deceived about them too, though not contrarily, but rather to have the universal knowledge while being deceived about the particular.
71| So too, likewise, with the cases discussed before: the deception concerning the middle term is not contrary to the knowledge that comes by the syllogism, nor is the supposition made with respect to either middle term. And nothing prevents someone who knows both that A holds of the whole of B and that this in turn holds of C from supposing that A does not hold of C -- for instance, knowing that every mule is barren, and yet supposing that this particular mule, being a mule, is pregnant; for he does not know that A holds of C, since he is not contemplating both together. So it is clear that even if he knows the one but not the other, he will be deceived -- which is just the relation universal kinds of knowledge have to knowledge of particulars. For we know none of the perceptible things once they have passed outside perception, not even if we have actually perceived them, except as by the universal and by having the knowledge proper to the case, but not as by actually exercising it. For 'knowing' is said in three ways: either as by the universal, or as by the knowledge proper to the case, or as by actually exercising it, so that being deceived is said in just as many ways. So nothing prevents someone from both knowing and being deceived about the same thing, only not
72| contrarily. This is what happens too to someone who knows each of the two premises but has not previously considered them together. For in supposing that the mule is pregnant, he does not have the knowledge that consists in actually exercising it, nor again does he, through this supposition, have a deception contrary to his knowledge; for the contrary deception to the universal knowledge would be a syllogism. Now someone who supposes that what it is to be good is what it is to be bad will suppose the same thing to be both what it is to be good and what it is to be bad. For let what it is to be good be A, what it is to be bad be B, and again let what it is to be good be C. Since, then, he supposes B and C to be the same, he will suppose that C is B, and again, likewise, that B is A, so that he will also suppose that C is A. For just as, if it were true that whatever C is, B is, and whatever B is, A is, then the truth would also hold of C, so it is too in the case of supposing. And likewise in the case of being: since C and B are the same, and again B and A are the same, C was also the same as A; so that it is likewise, too, in the case of holding an opinion. Is this, then, necessary, if one grants the first point? But perhaps that is false -- that anyone should suppose what it is to be bad to be what it is to be good, except accidentally; for it is possible to suppose this in many ways. But this must be examined more closely.
73| When the extremes are convertible, the middle term must also be convertible with both. For if A holds of C through B, then, if it converts and holds -- that is, if every C, whatever A holds of, holds -- then B too will convert with A, and A will hold of every B through the middle term C; and C will convert with B through the middle term A. And it is the same in the case of not holding -- for instance, if B holds of C, but A does not hold of B, then A will not hold of C either. If, then, B converts with A, C will also convert with A. For let B not hold of A; then C will not hold of A either, for B held of every C. And if C converts with B, A too will convert with it; for of everything of which B holds, C also holds. And if C converts with A as well, B too converts. For of whatever B holds,
74| That to which A belongs, C does not belong. And only this conclusion begins from the conclusion; the others are not related in the same way, nor is it so in the case of the affirmative syllogism. Again, if A and B convert with each other, and likewise C and D, and it is necessary that either A or C belong to whatever lacks the other, then B and D will also be so related that one or the other belongs to everything. For since that to which A belongs, B belongs, and that to which C belongs, D belongs, and to everything either A or C belongs, and not both together, it is clear that either B or D belongs to everything, and not both together; for two syllogisms are combined here. Again, if to everything either A or B belongs, and either C or D, but not together, then, if A and C convert, B and D also convert. For if B does not belong to something to which D belongs, it is clear that A belongs to it. But if A belongs, so does C, since they convert; so C and D would belong together. But this is impossible. For example: if the ungenerated is imperishable and the imperishable is ungenerated, then what has come to be must be perishable, and what is perishable must have come to be.
75| When A belongs to the whole of B and of C, and is predicated of nothing else, and B also belongs to all of C, then A and B must convert. For since A is said only of B and C, and B is predicated both of itself and of C, it is clear that of everything of which A is said, B will also be said, except of A itself. Again, when A and B both belong to the whole of C, and C converts with B, then A must belong to all of B. For since A belongs to all of C, and C belongs to B because they convert, A will also belong to all of B. When, there being two things, A is more desirable than B, these being opposites, and likewise D more desirable than C, then, if A and C together are more desirable than B and D, A is more desirable than D. For A is to be pursued and B is to be avoided to the same degree, since they are opposites, and likewise C and D, for these too are opposed. If, then, A is desirable to the same degree as D, then B is also to be avoided to the same degree as C;
76| for each stands to the other in the same relation, the avoidable to the pursued. So both pairs stand toward each other in the same way. But since A and C together are more desirable, they cannot be equal to B and D; for otherwise B and D would be equal too. But if D is more desirable than A, then B is less to be avoided than C; for the lesser is opposed to the lesser. And the greater good together with the lesser evil is more desirable than the lesser good together with the greater evil; so the whole, B and D together, would then be more desirable than A and C together — but this is not the case. A, then, is more desirable than D, and C is therefore less to be avoided than B. Now if every lover, in accordance with love, would choose A — being in such a state that the beloved grants favor — over not having the beloved grant favor, which is C, and would choose the beloved's granting favor, which is D, over not being in such a state as to have favor granted, which is B, then it is clear that A, being in such a state, is more desirable than the granting of favor itself. Being loved, therefore, is more desirable than intercourse, so far as love is concerned. Love, then, is more a matter of being loved than of being together. And if it is above all concerned with this, then this is its end. Being together, therefore, either is not an end at all, or exists for the sake of being loved; for the other appetites and crafts stand in the same relation to their ends.
77| How the terms stand with respect to conversions, and with respect to being more or less desirable or to be avoided, is now clear. It should now be said that not only dialectical and demonstrative syllogisms come about through the figures already discussed, but rhetorical syllogisms too, and in general any proof whatever, by whatever method it is reached. For we come to believe everything either through syllogism or from induction. Induction, then — that is, the syllogism that proceeds from induction — is the inferring, through one extreme, that the other extreme belongs to the middle term; for example, if B is the middle term between A and C, showing through C that A belongs to B. For this is how we carry out inductions. For example, let A be long-lived, let B be that which has no gall-bladder, and let C be the particular long-lived things, such as man and
78| horse and mule. Now A belongs to the whole of C, for every C is long-lived; but B too, not having a gall-bladder, belongs to all of C. If, then, C converts with B, and the middle term does not extend beyond it, A must belong to B. For it has been shown earlier that if two things belong to the same subject, and the extreme converts with one of them, then the other of the predicated terms will also belong to the one that converts. And C must be understood as the whole made up of all the particular cases; for induction proceeds through all of them. A syllogism of this kind establishes the first and immediate premise; for where there is a middle term, the syllogism proceeds through the middle term, and where there is none, it proceeds through induction. And in a way induction is opposed to syllogism; for the one shows the extreme belonging to the third term through the middle term, while the other shows the extreme belonging to the middle term through the third term. By nature, then, the syllogism through the middle term is prior and more knowable, but to us the one through induction is more perspicuous.
79| There is argument from example when it is shown that the extreme belongs to the middle term by means of a term similar to the third. And the middle term must be known to belong to the third, and the first term must be known to belong to the similar term. For example, let A be bad, let B be to undertake war against neighbors, let C be the Athenians against the Thebans, and let D be the Thebans against the 69a Phocians. If, then, we want to show that making war on the Thebans is bad, we must assume that making war on neighbors is bad. And the proof of this comes from similar cases — for instance, that the war of the Thebans against the Phocians was bad. Since, then, war against neighbors is bad, and war against the Thebans is a case of war against neighbors, it is clear that making war on the Thebans is bad. That B belongs to both C and D is clear, for both are cases of undertaking war against neighbors, and that A belongs to D is also clear, for the war against the Phocians did not turn out well for the Thebans; but that A belongs to B will be shown through D. The same holds even if the proof of the middle term's relation to the extreme should come about through several similar cases. It is clear, then, that the example
80| is related neither as part to whole nor as whole to part, but as part to part, when both fall under the same term and one of the two is already known. And it differs from induction in that induction shows the extreme belonging to the middle term on the basis of all the individual cases, and does not connect the syllogism to the extreme, whereas the example both makes that connection and does not show it on the basis of all cases.
81| Reduction occurs when it is clear that the first term belongs to the middle term, but it is unclear whether the middle term belongs to the last term, though this is equally credible, or more credible, than the conclusion; or again, when there are few middle terms between the last term and the middle term — for in every such case the result is that we come closer to knowledge. For example: let A be teachable, let B be knowledge, and let C be justice. That knowledge is teachable is evident; but whether virtue is knowledge is unclear. If then BC is as credible as AC, or more so, this is reduction; for we are closer to knowing, since we have gained the knowledge that A belongs to B, which we did not have before. Or again, if the middle terms between B and C are few; for in this way too we are closer to knowing. For example, let D be 'being squared', E be 'rectilinear figure', and F be 'circle'; if there is only one middle term between E and F — that the circle together with lunes becomes equal to a rectilinear figure — then we would be close to knowing. But when BC is neither more credible than AC, nor are the middle terms few, I do not call this reduction. Nor when BC is immediate; for that is already knowledge.
82| An objection is a premise contrary to a premise. It differs from a premise in that an objection can be particular, while a premise either cannot be particular at all, or not in universal syllogisms. An objection is brought in two ways and 69b through two figures: in two ways, because every objection is either universal or particular; through two figures, because objections are brought as opposites to the premise, and opposite conclusions are reached only in the first and third figures. For when someone claims that something belongs to every case, we object either that it belongs to none, or that it does not belong to some; and of these, 'to none' comes from the first figure, and 'not to some' from the last figure. For example, let A be 'there is a single knowledge',
83| and let B be 'contraries'. When someone puts forward that there is a single knowledge of contraries, we object either that in general there is not a single knowledge of opposites — and contraries are opposites, so that this becomes the first figure — or that there is not a single knowledge of the knowable and the unknowable; and this is the third, for of C, the knowable and the unknowable, it is true that they are contraries, but false that there is a single knowledge of them. Again, likewise with the privative premise. For when someone claims that there is not a single knowledge of contraries, we say either that there is a single knowledge of all opposites, or that there is a single knowledge of some contraries — for example, of the healthy and the diseased. The former comes from the first figure, the latter from the third. For in general, in all cases, one who objects universally must state the contradiction in relation to the universal of what is being asserted — for example, if someone denies that there is a single knowledge of contraries, by saying that there is a single knowledge of all opposites. In this way it is necessarily the first figure; for the universal becomes the middle term in relation to the original terms. But if the objection is particular, it is directed to that of which the premise, taken universally, is said — for example, saying that there is not a single knowledge of the knowable and the unknowable; for contraries are universal in relation to these.
84| And this becomes the third figure; for what is taken as particular becomes the middle term — for example, the knowable and the unknowable. For it is from the terms out of which we can draw the opposite syllogistic conclusion that we also try to state our objections. This is why we bring objections only from these figures; for it is only in these that opposed syllogisms occur, since through the middle figure there was no affirmative conclusion. Further, an objection through the middle figure would also require a longer argument — for example, if someone should refuse to grant that A belongs to B because C does not follow it; for this becomes clear only through other premises. But an objection ought not to turn aside to other matters, but should have its other premise immediately evident. We must also examine the other kinds of objections — those from the contrary, from the similar, and from reputable opinion — and whether it is possible to take a particular objection from the first figure, or a privative one from the middle 70a figure.
85| An enthymeme is a syllogism from probabilities or signs. A probability and a sign are not the same thing: a probability is a reputable premise; for what people know happens or does not happen, or is or is not, for the most part in a certain way — that is a probability, for example, that people who envy hate, or that those who are loved feel affection in return. A sign, by contrast, is meant to be a demonstrative premise, either necessary or reputable; for that whose presence entails a thing's existing, or whose occurrence has come to be either before or after the thing, is a sign of the thing's having occurred or existing. A sign is taken in three ways, the same number of ways the middle term is taken in the figures: either as in the first, as in the middle, or as in the third. For example, showing that a woman is pregnant because she has milk is from the first figure; for 'having milk' is the middle term. Let A be 'being pregnant', B 'having milk', and C 'woman'. That the wise are good, since Pittacus is good, is proved through the last figure. Let A be 'good', B 'the wise', and C 'Pittacus'. It is true, then, to predicate both A and B of C;
86| except that people do not state the one premise, because they know it, but they do assume the other. That a woman is pregnant, because she is pale, is meant to be through the middle figure; for since paleness follows on pregnant women, and it also follows on this woman, they think it has been shown that she is pregnant. Let 'pale' be A, 'being pregnant' be B, and 'woman' be C. Now if only the one premise is stated, the result is merely a sign; but if the other is also added, it is a syllogism — for example, that Pittacus is generous, since ambitious men are generous, and Pittacus is ambitious. Or again, that the wise are good, since Pittacus is good, but he is also wise. This, then, is how syllogisms come about; except that the one through the first figure is irrefutable, if it is true (for it is universal), while the one through the last figure
87| is refutable, even if the conclusion is true, because the syllogism is not universal, nor relevant to the matter; for it is not the case that, if Pittacus is good, the others must therefore also be wise. But the one through the middle figure is always and altogether refutable; for no syllogism ever results when the terms stand this way — for it is not the case that, if a pregnant woman is pale, and this woman too is pale, this woman must be pregnant. Truth, then, may hold in all these signs, but they have the differences stated. Either, then, the sign must be divided in this way, and of these the one through the middle term must be taken as a proof (for they say that a proof is what produces knowledge, and it is above all the one through the middle term that is such) — or else the ones from the extreme terms must be called sign, and the one from the middle term must be called proof; for the one through the first figure is the most reputable and the truest. Physiognomy is possible, if one grants that body and soul change together in all affections that are natural; for perhaps someone who has learned music has changed his soul in some respect, but this affection is not one of those that belong to us by nature — rather, what I mean are such things as fits of anger and appetites, which are among the natural motions. If then this is granted, and also that there is one sign for one affection, and we are able to grasp the affection and the sign proper to each kind, we will be able to practice physiognomy.
88| For if some affection belongs peculiarly to some one indivisible genus, as courage belongs to lions, there must also be some sign of it; for it is assumed that they are affected together. And let this be having large extremities — which can also belong to other genera, not as a whole. For a sign is peculiar in this sense, that it is peculiar to the whole genus, and not peculiar to that genus alone, as we are accustomed to say. This will then hold in another genus too, and there will be a courageous man and some other courageous animal as well. Each will then have the sign; for one thing was sign of one thing. If this is so, then, we shall also be able to collect such signs in the case of those animals which have only one affection that is peculiar to them, and each has a sign, since it must have one; and so we shall be able to practice physiognomy. But if the whole genus has two peculiar attributes, as the lion is both courageous
1| and generous, how shall we know which of the signs that accompany each peculiarly is the sign of which? Perhaps if both belong to some other genus, not as a whole, but each belongs to those in which it does not hold as a whole, when one has it and the other does not: for if something is courageous but not generous, and of the two attributes it has this one, clearly this is also, in the lion's case, the sign of courage. Physiognomy works by the middle term, in the first figure, converting with the first extreme but extending beyond the third and not converting with it — for instance let A be courage, B, on which the large extremities stand, and C, lion. Then B belongs to everything C belongs to, but also to others; while A belongs to everything B belongs to, and to no more, but converts with it; otherwise one thing would not be the sign of one thing. POSTERIOR ANALYTICS, Book 1.
2| All teaching and all intellectual learning come about from already existing knowledge. This is clear if one looks at every case: for it is in this way that the mathematical sciences arise, and likewise each of the other crafts. And the same holds of arguments too, whether they proceed through syllogisms or through induction; for both produce their teaching through things already known, the one taking them as from those who understand, the other showing the universal through the particular's being evident. In the same way rhetorical arguments too produce persuasion, either through examples, which is induction, or through enthymemes, which is a syllogism. And there must be prior knowledge of two kinds: of some things one must already assume that they are, of others one must understand what the thing said is, and of others both — for instance, of the claim that everything is either truly affirmed or truly denied, one must know that it is so; of the triangle, that it signifies this; and of the unit, both — both what it signifies and that it is. For each of these is not equally clear to us. Now it is possible to come to know some things by having known them beforehand, and others by grasping the knowledge at the very same time — namely, whatever happens to fall under the universal of which one already has knowledge.
3| For that every triangle has angles equal to two right angles he knew beforehand; but that this figure in the semicircle is a triangle he came to know at the very moment he was led on by induction. (For the learning of some things occurs in this way, and the last term is not made known by way of a middle term — namely, whatever things happen already to be particulars and not said of some further subject.) And before being led on by induction, or before grasping a syllogism, one must presumably say that in one way one knows, but in another way one does not. For how could one who did not know without qualification whether the thing exists have known without qualification that it has two right angles? But clearly he knows it in this way — he knows it universally — but does not know it without qualification. Otherwise the puzzle in the Meno will result: either one will learn nothing, or only what one already knows. For one must not put it the way some people try to resolve it. Do you know that every two is even, or not? When the person says yes, they bring forward some two which he did not think was a two, and so not even. They resolve it by denying that they know that every two is even, but only what they know to be a two. Yet they know that of which they have the demonstration and that which they took as premise, and what they took was not everything they knew to be a triangle or a number, but simply of every number and triangle without qualification. For no premise is taken of the form 'of the number you know' or 'of the rectilinear figure you know,' but of every one without qualification. But nothing, I think, prevents what one is learning from being in one way known and in another way not known; for the strange thing is not that one should in some way know what one is learning, but that one should know it in this precise way — namely, in the way and the respect in which one is learning it.
4| We think we know each thing without qualification, and not in the sophistical, accidental way, when we think we know the cause through which the thing is, that it is the cause of that thing, and that it is not possible for this to be otherwise. It is clear, then, that knowing is something of this sort; for both those who do not know and those who know — the former think they themselves are in such a state, while those who know actually are in it — so that that of which there is knowledge without qualification is incapable of being otherwise. Whether there is also another way of knowing we shall say later; but we say that we also know through demonstration. By demonstration I mean a scientific syllogism; and by scientific I mean one in virtue of having which we know. If, then, knowing is what we have posited it to be, demonstrative knowledge in particular must proceed from things that are true, primary, immediate, more familiar than, prior to, and causes of the conclusion; for on these terms the starting points will also be proper to what is being proved. For there can be a syllogism even without these conditions, but there cannot be a demonstration, since it will not produce knowledge. Now they must be true, because what is not the case cannot be known — for instance, that the diagonal is commensurable. And they must proceed from things primary and indemonstrable, because otherwise one will not know them without having a demonstration of them; for to know, without qualification, those things of which there is a demonstration, is to have a demonstration of them. And they must be causes, and more familiar, and prior: causes, because we know a thing only when we know its cause; and prior, if indeed they are causes; and known beforehand not only in the sense of understanding them, but also in the sense of knowing that they are. Things are prior and more familiar in two ways;
5| for the same thing is not prior by nature and prior in relation to us, nor is the same thing more familiar and more familiar to us. By prior and more familiar in relation to us I mean what is nearer to perception, and by prior and more familiar without qualification I mean what is farther from it. The most universal things are farthest away, and particulars are nearest; and these are opposed to one another. What proceeds from things primary is what proceeds from starting points that are its own; for I use 'primary' and 'starting point' to mean the same thing. A starting point of demonstration is an immediate premise, and a premise is immediate when there is no other premise prior to it. A premise is one of the two parts of an assertion, one thing said of one thing; it is dialectical when it takes either part alike, demonstrative when it determinately takes the one, on the ground that it is true. An assertion is either part of a contradiction; a contradiction is an opposition which of itself admits nothing in between; and of a contradiction, the part that affirms something of something is an affirmation, and the part that denies something of something is a denial. By an immediate starting point of a syllogism I mean, when it cannot be proved, and when it is not necessary for one who is to learn anything to have it, a thesis; and when it is necessary for anyone who is to learn anything whatever to have it, an axiom — for there are some things of this sort, since it is especially in the case of things like these that we are accustomed to use this name. Of a thesis, the kind that takes either part of a contradiction — I mean, for instance, that something is or that it is not — is a hypothesis; the kind that does not do this is a definition.
6| For a definition is a positing — the arithmetician posits that a unit is what is indivisible in respect of quantity — but it is not a hypothesis, since what a unit is and that a unit exists are not the same thing. Since we must trust and know the matter by having the kind of syllogism we call a demonstration, and this depends on the things from which the syllogism proceeds actually being so, it is necessary not only to know the primary things beforehand — either all of them or some — but to know them better. For that through which each thing belongs always belongs to that thing more, as that through which we love something is itself more an object of love. So if we know and trust something because of the primary things, we know and trust those primary things more, since it is through them that the later things are known too. But one cannot trust, more than what he knows, things he does not happen to know at all and toward which he is no better disposed than if he did happen to know them. But this will result unless someone first knows the things through which he comes to trust by demonstration; for it is necessary to trust the principles — either all of them or some — more than the conclusion. Anyone who is to have scientific knowledge through demonstration must not only know the principles better and trust them more than what is being proved, but nothing else must be more trustworthy or better known to him than the things opposed to the principles from which a syllogism of the contrary error could be constructed — since one who has knowledge in the unqualified sense must be unshakeable in his conviction.
7| Some, then, because of the requirement that the primary things be known, think there is no scientific knowledge at all; others think there is, but hold that there is demonstration of everything. Neither of these views is true or necessary. Those who suppose there is no knowing at all hold that one must be led back to infinity, on the ground that we could not know the later things through the earlier ones if there were no first things — and in this they speak rightly, for it is impossible to traverse an infinite series. And they hold that if the regress does stop and there are principles, these are unknowable, since there is no demonstration of them, which they say is the only thing knowing is; and if the primary things cannot be known, neither can the things that come from them be known in the unqualified or proper sense, but only on the hypothesis that those primary things exist. The others agree about what knowing is — that it comes only through demonstration — but hold that nothing prevents there being demonstration of everything, since demonstration can proceed in a circle, each thing being demonstrated from the others. We, however, say that not all knowledge is demonstrative, but that knowledge of the immediate premises is without demonstration (and that this is necessary is clear: for if it is necessary to know the prior things, the things from which the demonstration proceeds, and the immediate premises are at some point reached, these must be undemonstrable). This, then, is what we say; and we hold not only that there is scientific knowledge but also that there is some principle of knowledge by which we come to know the terms. And it is clear that it is impossible to demonstrate in the unqualified sense by going in a circle,
8| if indeed a demonstration must proceed from things that are prior and better known; for it is impossible for the same things to be at once prior and posterior to the same things, except in the other sense — one thing prior relative to us, another prior in an unqualified sense — the way induction makes things known. But if this is so, then knowing in the unqualified sense would not be well defined but would be twofold; or else the second kind of demonstration is not demonstration in the unqualified sense, since it proceeds only from things better known to us. Now for those who say demonstration goes in a circle, not only does what has just been said follow, but they end up saying nothing more than that this is the case if this is the case — and in that way it is easy to prove anything. It is clear that this results when three terms are posited. For it makes no difference whether one says the circling back happens through many terms or through few, or through few or two. For whenever, if A is, B is of necessity, and if B is, C is, then if A is, C will be. If, then, when A is, B is necessarily, and when B is, A is (for this is what going in a circle means), let C be substituted for A. So to say that, when B is, A is, is to say that C is; and this in turn means that, when A is, C is.
9| But C is the same as A. So it follows that those who claim demonstration goes in a circle are saying nothing other than that, when A is, A is — and in this way it is easy to prove anything. But in fact not even this is possible, except in the case of things that follow reciprocally from one another, as properties peculiar to a subject do. Now it has been shown that when a single thing is posited, nothing else is ever necessarily so (I mean by "a single thing" that neither a single term nor a single premise has been posited); but from two premises, the first and fewest possible, it is possible, provided a syllogism can also be formed from them. If, then, A follows both B and C, and these follow each other and A, then in this way it is possible to prove all the terms assumed from one another in the first figure, as has been shown in the discussion of the syllogism; and it has also been shown that in the other figures either no syllogism results, or none concerning the terms assumed. But things that are not counter-predicated of one another cannot be proved circularly at all; so since few things in demonstrations are of this kind, it is clear that it is empty and impossible to say that demonstration proceeds from things that reciprocate with one another, and that for this reason demonstration of everything is possible.
10| Since it is impossible for that of which there is knowledge in the unqualified sense to be otherwise, what is knowable in accordance with demonstrative knowledge would have to be necessary; and demonstrative knowledge is the knowledge we have by having a demonstration. Demonstration, then, is a syllogism from necessary premises. We must therefore grasp from what things, and of what kind, demonstrations proceed. But first let us define what we mean by "of every case," by "in its own right," and by "universal." By "of every case," then, I mean whatever holds not of some instances and not of others, nor at some times and not at others — for example, if animal holds of every man, then if it is true to call this thing a man, it is also true to call it an animal, and if one of these holds now, so does the other; and likewise if point holds of every line. A sign of this: it is in just this way that we raise objections when asked whether something holds of every case — either that it does not hold in some instance, or that it does not hold at some time. "In its own right" applies to whatever belongs in the what-it-is, as line belongs to triangle and point to line (for their substance is composed of these, and these are present in the account that states what they are); and also to whatever belongs to things such that the things themselves are present in the account that makes clear what those things are — as straight and curved belong to line, and odd and even, prime and composite, equilateral and oblong belong to number.
11| For in all these cases, line or number is present in the account that states what the thing is. Similarly in other cases too, I call things of this sort "in their own right" for each subject; whatever belongs in neither of these ways is accidental — as musical or pale belongs to an animal. Again, "in its own right" applies to whatever is not said of some other underlying subject — as the walking thing, being something else, is walking, and the pale thing likewise is pale; but substance, and whatever signifies a this-something, is what it is without being something else that it merely happens to be. Things not said of an underlying subject I call "in their own right"; things said of an underlying subject I call accidents. Again, in another sense, whatever belongs to a thing because of that thing itself belongs to it in its own right, while whatever does not belong because of the thing itself is accidental — as, if it lightened while someone was walking, that is accidental, for it was not because of his walking
12| ...it lightninged; but this, we say, was coincidental. But if it holds on account of the thing itself, then it holds in its own right. For example, if something died while being slaughtered, then it also died in accordance with the slaughtering, because it died on account of being slaughtered, and it was not a coincidence that, while being slaughtered, it died. So the things said to belong in this way, in their own right, to the objects of unqualified scientific knowledge -- as either inhering in the things predicated, or having these things inhering in them -- hold both on account of the things themselves and of necessity. For it is not possible for them not to belong, either without qualification or as one of a pair of opposites -- for example, straight or curved to a line, and odd or even to a number. For the contrary is either a privation or a contradictory within the same genus -- for example, even is what-is-not-odd among numbers, insofar as this follows. So if it is necessary either to affirm or to deny, it is necessary also that what belongs in its own right should belong. Let 'holding of every case' and 'in its own right,' then, be defined in this way. By universal I mean whatever belongs to every case, and in its own right, and as itself. It is clear, then, that whatever is universal belongs of necessity to the things in question. 'In its own right' and 'as itself' are the same thing -- for example, point and straight belong to a line in its own right (for they belong to it qua line), and having angles equal to two right angles belongs to a triangle qua triangle (for a triangle in its own right is equal to two right angles).
13| A thing belongs universally when it is demonstrated of an arbitrary instance and a primary one. For example, having angles equal to two right angles is universal neither to figure (although one can prove of a figure that it has angles equal to two right angles, but not of an arbitrary figure, nor does the proof use an arbitrary figure in demonstrating it -- for a square is a figure, but it does not have angles equal to two right angles) -- nor to isosceles: the isosceles does have, as any arbitrary instance of it, angles equal to two right angles, but not as the primary case; rather, the triangle is prior. So whatever is the first thing of which, taking an arbitrary instance, having angles equal to two right angles -- or whatever other attribute -- is demonstrated, to that thing, as primary, the attribute belongs universally, and the demonstration is, in its own right, a demonstration of this as universal; of the other things it holds in a way, but not in their own right -- nor indeed is it universal of the isosceles either, but extends more widely than that. We must not fail to notice that it often happens that we go wrong, and that what is demonstrated does not in fact belong to the primary universal, in the way it seems to be demonstrated as belonging to the primary universal. We fall into this error when either there is nothing higher to take beyond the particular,
14| or there is something, but it is nameless as covering things that differ in species, or the term of which the demonstration is given happens to be a whole that is really only a part of some larger whole. For the demonstration will indeed hold of the things within that part, and will hold of every one of them, but nevertheless the demonstration will not be of this as the primary universal. By 'demonstration of this as primary, insofar as it is this,' I mean a demonstration that is of the primary universal. If, then, someone were to prove that perpendiculars do not meet, the demonstration might seem to be of this, because it holds of all perpendiculars. But it is not, since this result comes about not because they are equal in this particular way, but because they are equal in any way at all. And if there were no triangle other than the isosceles, the attribute would seem to belong to it qua isosceles. So too with the fact that proportionals alternate: it used to be demonstrated of numbers, and of lines, and of solids, and of times, each separately, just as it once was proved apart in each case, though it is possible for it to be demonstrated of all of them by a single demonstration. But because there was no single named thing for all of these -- numbers, lengths, times, solids -- and because they differ from one another in species, it was taken up separately. But now it is demonstrated universally; for it did not belong to them qua lines or qua numbers, but qua this very thing, which they suppose to belong to them universally.
15| For this reason, even if someone should prove, for each triangle taken separately -- the equilateral apart, and the scalene, and the isosceles -- by one demonstration or by different ones, that each has angles equal to two right angles, he does not yet know that the triangle has angles equal to two right angles, except in the sophistical way, nor does he know it of triangle as a whole, not even if there is no triangle besides these. For he does not know it qua triangle, nor of every triangle -- except in respect of number; in respect of species he does not know it of every triangle, even if there is none that he fails to know. When, then, does he not know it universally, and when does he know it without qualification? Clearly, he would know it universally if being a triangle and being equilateral were the same -- either for each or for all together. But if they are not the same but different, and the attribute belongs to the equilateral qua triangle, then he does not know it. Does the attribute belong qua triangle, then, or qua isosceles? And when does it belong to this as primary? And of what is the demonstration universal? Clearly, when, upon the successive removals, it still belongs to the first thing left. For example, having two right angles will belong to a bronze isosceles triangle, but it will still belong once both 'being bronze' and 'isosceles' have been removed. But not once figure or boundary have been removed -- though these are not the primary things either. Of what, then, is it primary? If, then, of triangle, then it belongs to the others in virtue of this, and the demonstration is universal of this.
16| If, then, demonstrative knowledge proceeds from necessary principles (for what one knows scientifically cannot be otherwise), and what belongs to things in their own right is necessary to them (for either the attributes belong within the what-it-is, or the things themselves belong within the what-it-is of the predicates said of them, one of a pair of opposites necessarily belonging to them), it is clear that the demonstrative syllogism would proceed from premises of some such kind. For everything belongs either in this way or accidentally, and accidental attributes are not necessary. Either this is how it must be put, or else, laying it down as a starting point that demonstration is of necessary things, and that if something has been demonstrated it cannot be otherwise -- the syllogism, then, must proceed from necessary premises. For it is possible to reason from true premises without demonstrating, but it is not possible to reason from necessary premises except by demonstrating; for this is already the mark of demonstration. A sign that demonstration proceeds from necessary premises is that we bring our objections in just this way against those who think they are demonstrating something that is not in fact necessary, whenever we suppose either that it can be otherwise altogether, or at least for the sake of argument that it can. It is clear from this, too, that those who think they are taking their starting points properly, provided the premise is reputable and true, are naive -- the sophists, for example, who suppose that knowing scientifically is simply having knowledge.
17| For what is reputable is not, for us, a starting point; rather, the starting point is what is primary in the genus about which the demonstration proceeds, and not everything true is proper to it. That the syllogism must proceed from necessary premises is clear from the following as well. For if someone who has no account of the reason why -- when a demonstration is available -- does not have scientific knowledge, and it might be that A belongs to C of necessity while B, the middle term through which it was demonstrated, does not belong of necessity, then he does not know the reason why. For the conclusion does not hold on account of the middle term in this case: the middle term admits of not being so, while the conclusion is necessary. Further, if someone does not have scientific knowledge now, while he still has the account and is himself unimpaired, the thing itself being unchanged, and he has not forgotten, then he did not have scientific knowledge before either. But the middle term could have perished, if it is not
18| necessary, so that he will have the account while both he and the thing are preserved, and yet not have scientific knowledge. So he did not have scientific knowledge before either. And if it has not perished, but admits of perishing, then what would result would be something merely possible and contingent. But it is impossible to have scientific knowledge while in such a condition. So then, when the conclusion is of necessity, nothing prevents the middle term through which it was proved from not being necessary (for it is possible to reason to a necessary conclusion even from premises that are not necessary, just as it is also possible to reason to a true conclusion from premises that are not true); but when the middle term is of necessity, the conclusion too is of necessity, just as a conclusion from true premises is always true (let A belong to B of necessity, and this belong to C; then it is necessary that A too belongs to C); but when the conclusion is not of necessity, the middle term cannot be necessary either (for let A belong to C not of necessity, but let it belong to B, and let this belong to C of necessity; then A too will belong to C of necessity -- but this was not what was supposed). Since, then, if one has demonstrative scientific knowledge, the attribute must belong of necessity, it is clear that one must also have the demonstration through a necessary middle term;
19| Or else he will know neither the reason why nor that it is necessary for that to be so, but will either think he knows without knowing — if he supposes what is not necessary to be necessary — or will not even think he knows; and this holds alike whether he knows the fact through middle terms or the reason why through terms that are immediate. Of accidents that are not in their own right — in the sense in which we defined things in their own right — there is no demonstrative knowledge. For it is not possible to derive the conclusion necessarily; for what is accidental admits of not holding, and it is this sort of thing I mean by accident. Yet one might perhaps raise the difficulty of what point there is in asking these questions about such things, if the conclusion need not be necessary; for it makes no difference if someone, having asked whatever chance premises, then simply states the conclusion. But one must ask them not on the ground that the conclusion is necessary because of what was asked, but because anyone who states those premises is bound to state the conclusion too, and to state it truly, if the premises truly hold. Since whatever holds of each genus in its own right, and in the respect in which each thing is what it is, holds of it necessarily, it is clear that scientific demonstrations concern things that hold in their own right, and proceed from things of that sort. For accidents are not necessary, so that one need not know the reason why the conclusion holds — not even if it always held, provided it does not hold in its own right, as with syllogisms drawn from signs. For what holds in its own right will not thereby be known as holding in its own right, nor will the reason why be known (and to know the reason why is to know through the cause). The middle term, therefore, must belong to the third term, and the first term to the middle, in virtue of the thing itself.
20| It is not possible, then, to prove something by crossing over from another genus — for instance, to prove a geometrical fact by arithmetic. For there are three things involved in demonstrations: one is what is being demonstrated, the conclusion (this is what belongs to some genus in its own right); another is the axioms (axioms are the things a demonstration proceeds from); and third is the underlying genus, whose attributes and whose accidents that hold in their own right the demonstration makes clear. Now the things a demonstration proceeds from may be the same across sciences; but where the genus is different, as with arithmetic and geometry, it is not possible to apply an arithmetical demonstration to attributes that hold of magnitudes, unless magnitudes are numbers — how this is possible in some cases will be said later. Arithmetical demonstration always keeps to the genus the demonstration is about, and the same holds for the others. So a demonstration, if it is to cross over, requires the genus to be the same either without qualification or in some respect. That it is impossible otherwise is clear; for the extreme terms and the middle terms must come from the same genus, since if they did not hold in their own right, they would be accidental. This is why geometry cannot prove that there is a single science of contraries, nor even that two cubes make a cube; nor can any science prove what belongs to another, except where two sciences stand to one another such that one falls under the other — as optics stands to geometry and harmonics to arithmetic. Nor again can it prove whatever holds of lines not insofar as they are lines and from their own proper principles — for instance, whether the straight line is the finest of lines, or whether it stands opposite to the circular; for this does not hold of them insofar as their own proper genus is concerned, but insofar as something common is concerned.
21| It is also clear that, if the premises from which the syllogism proceeds are universal, the conclusion of such a demonstration — of demonstration in the strict sense — must likewise be eternal. There is, then, no demonstration of perishable things, nor knowledge of them in the strict sense, but only in the way one might speak of it accidentally, since it does not hold of the thing as a whole but only at some time and in some respect. When there is such a demonstration, one of the premises must be non-universal and perishable — perishable, because the conclusion too will exist only while that premise exists; non-universal, because among the things it ranges over it will hold of some and not of others — so that one cannot draw a universal conclusion, but only that the thing holds now. The same holds of definitions too, since a definition is either a starting point of demonstration, or a demonstration differing only in arrangement, or in some way a conclusion of a demonstration. As for demonstrations and knowledge of things that happen often, such as an eclipse of the moon, it is clear that insofar as they are of that kind they always hold, but insofar as they do not always hold, they hold only in part. And as with eclipse, so likewise with the other cases.
22| Since it is clear that it is not possible to demonstrate any given thing except from the principles proper to it — assuming what is proved holds of the thing precisely as that thing — knowing it is not simply a matter of its being proved from true, undemonstrated, and immediate premises. For it is possible to prove something in that way and still not know it, as Bryson proved the squaring of the circle. For arguments of that sort prove by means of something common, which will also belong to something else — which is why such arguments fit other cases as well, ones not of the same kind. So one does not thereby know the thing itself, but only accidentally; for otherwise the demonstration would not fit another genus too. We know each thing non-accidentally when we know it in respect of that in virtue of which it holds, from the principles of that thing precisely as that thing — for instance, having angles equal to two right angles, which belongs in its own right to the thing of which it is said, known from the principles of that very thing. So that if what holds, holds of its subject in its own right, the middle term must belong to the same family. If not, then it is as with harmonics through arithmetic. Such cases are proved in a similar way, but differ: the fact belongs to one science (for the underlying genus is different), while the reason why belongs to the higher science, the one whose own attributes these are. So from this too it is clear that it is not possible to demonstrate any given thing without qualification except from the principles proper to it. But the principles of these sciences have what is common between them.
23| If this is clear, it is also clear that it is not possible to demonstrate the principles proper to each thing; for then those principles would be the principles of everything, and the knowledge of them would be authoritative over everything. For indeed, one who knows from higher causes knows more fully; for he knows from prior things, when he knows from causes that are not themselves caused. So that if he knows more, and knows most of all, that knowledge too would be knowledge in a greater and in the highest degree. But demonstration does not fit another genus, except as has been said — geometrical demonstrations applying to mechanics or optics, and arithmetical demonstrations to harmonics. It is difficult to know whether one knows or not. For it is difficult to know whether we know from the principles proper to each thing or not — and this is precisely what knowing is. We think we know when we have a syllogism from certain true and primary premises. But this is not so; the premises must also be akin to the primary things of that subject.
24| By principles in each genus I mean those things whose existence it is not possible to prove. Now what both the primary things and the things derived from them signify is taken as given; but that they exist, the principles must be assumed, while the rest must be proved. For example, what a unit is, or what the straight and the triangle are, is taken as given; but the existence of the unit and of magnitude must be assumed, while everything else must be proved. Of the things used in the demonstrative sciences, some are proper to each science and some are common — common by analogy, since each is useful only within the genus falling under that science. Proper, for example, is that a line is of such-and-such a kind, and the straight; common, for example, that if equals are taken from equals, the remainders are equal. Each of these common items is sufficient so far as it applies within the genus; for it will have the same effect even if it is not assumed to hold of all things but only of magnitudes, and for the arithmetician, of numbers. Proper, too, are the things whose existence is assumed and about which the science studies the attributes that hold of them in their own right — as arithmetic assumes units, and geometry points and lines. For these sciences assume both that these things exist and that they are of such-and-such a kind. As for the attributes that belong to these in their own right, they take as given what each one signifies — as arithmetic takes as given what odd or even or square or cube is,
25| Geometry, for its part, does not prove what the irrational is, or what it is to be bent or to incline, but only that it is, and it proves this by means of the common principles and the things already demonstrated. Astronomy proceeds in the same way. For every demonstrative science is concerned with three things: the things it posits as existing (these constitute the genus, whose per se attributes it studies), the so-called common axioms, from which as primary premises it demonstrates, and third, the attributes, of which it takes what each signifies. There is, however, nothing to stop some sciences from passing over some of these — for instance, not positing that the genus exists, if it is evident that it does (for it is not equally clear that number exists as that hot and cold exist), and not taking what the attributes signify, if that is clear — just as it does not take what 'taking equals from equals' signifies among the common principles, since that is well known. But none the less these three things exist by nature all the same: that about which the science proves, what it proves, and that from which it proves. What is not a hypothesis, nor a postulate, is that which must exist through itself and must be believed by necessity. For demonstration is not directed at the discourse outside, but at the discourse within the soul, since neither is deduction so directed.
26| For it is always possible to raise an objection against the discourse outside, but not always against the discourse within. As for the things that are demonstrable but which the person takes without demonstrating them himself, these — if he takes them as things the learner believes — he is hypothesizing, and this is not a hypothesis without qualification but only relative to that person; whereas if he takes the same thing when the learner holds no opinion on it, or even holds a contrary opinion, then he is postulating. And this is the difference between a hypothesis and a postulate: a postulate is what is contrary to the learner's opinion, or whatever someone takes and uses, though it is demonstrable, without demonstrating it. Terms, then, are not hypotheses (for nothing is said to be or not to be), but the hypotheses lie among the premises, while terms need only be understood; and this is not a hypothesis (unless someone will say that hearing too is a hypothesis), but rather it consists in whatever things, given that they exist, the conclusion comes to be. (Nor does the geometer posit anything false, as some have said, claiming that one must not make use of falsehood, and that the geometer speaks falsely when he calls a line a foot long when it is not a foot long, or straight when the line drawn is not straight. But the geometer draws no conclusion from the fact that this particular line, the one he has spoken of, is such-and-such, but rather from what is made clear through these lines.) Further, the postulate, and every hypothesis, is either as a whole or as a part, whereas terms are neither of these.
27| It is not necessary, then, that there be forms, or some one thing apart from the many, if there is to be demonstration; it is necessary, however, that it be true to assert one thing of many. For there will be no universal unless this holds; and if there is no universal, there will be no middle term, and so no demonstration either. There must, then, be some one and the same thing holding of several things, and not homonymously. No demonstration takes as a premise that it is not possible at once to affirm and deny — except when it is necessary to prove the conclusion too in this form. And it is proved by taking the first term as true of the middle, and its denial as not true. It makes no difference whether one takes the middle term as existing or not existing, and the same holds for the third term. For if it were granted that it is true to say of something that it is a man, even if it is not true that it is not a man — so long as it is only granted that man is an animal, and not an animal is false of it — then it will be true to say that Callias, even if it is not true that he is not-Callias, is nevertheless an animal, and not an animal is false of him. The reason is that the first term is said not only of the middle but also of something else, because it holds of more things; so that it makes no difference to the conclusion whether the middle term both is and is not itself.
28| The demonstration that proceeds to the impossible takes it that everything must be either affirmed or denied, and this too not always universally, but only so far as is sufficient, and it is sufficient with respect to the genus. By 'with respect to the genus' I mean the genus about which one brings one's demonstrations, as has also been said before. All the sciences share with one another through the common principles (by 'common' I mean those which they use as premises from which to demonstrate, but not those about which they demonstrate, nor those which they demonstrate), and dialectic shares them with all, and so would anyone who tried to demonstrate universally the common principles themselves — for instance, that everything must be either affirmed or denied, or that equals taken from equals leave equals, or some other such things. But dialectic does not deal with things thus determined, nor with any single genus. For otherwise it would not proceed by questioning; for one who is demonstrating cannot ask questions, because the same thing cannot be proved from opposite premises — and this has been shown in the discussion of deduction.
29| If a question suited to deduction is the same thing as a premise stating one side of a contradiction, and the premises proper to each science are those from which the deduction proper to that science is built, then there would be some scientific question — namely, one from which the deduction proper to that science arises. It is clear, then, that not every question would be a geometrical one, nor a medical one, and likewise for the others; rather, the geometrical questions are those from which something is proved about the subjects geometry deals with, or which are proved from the same principles as geometry, as with optics. And likewise for the others. And concerning these one must be prepared to give an account starting from geometrical principles and conclusions, but concerning the principles themselves the geometer, qua geometer, need not give an account; and likewise for the other sciences. So then, not every question is to be put to each man of science, nor is every question put to him to be answered concerning his subject, but only what is marked off as belonging to that science. And if someone argues with a geometer, qua geometer, along these lines, it is plain that he argues well if he proves something from these principles, but not well otherwise. And it is plain too that he does not even refute the geometer except accidentally; so that one should not carry on discussion about geometry among those ignorant of geometry, for a poor argument will pass unnoticed. The same holds for the other sciences as well. Since there are geometrical questions, are there also questions not pertaining to geometry? And for each science, what sort of questions, arising from ignorance of it, count as belonging to that science? And is the deduction that proceeds from ignorance the deduction from opposite premises, or is it rather the fallacy that, while conforming to geometry, is drawn from another craft — for instance, a musical question is a question about geometry not pertaining to geometry, while thinking that the parallels meet is in one way geometrical and in another way not pertaining to geometry? For this is twofold, like being unrhythmical: one sort fails to pertain to geometry by not having it at all,
30| the other by having it badly; and this latter ignorance, the one arising from such principles, is the contrary kind. In the mathematical sciences the fallacy does not work in the same way, because the middle term is always twofold: it is said of the whole of one thing, and this in turn is said of the whole of some further thing (whereas what is predicated is not said of the whole) — and these things can, so to speak, be seen by the intellect, though in verbal arguments they go unnoticed. Is every circle a figure? If one draws it, this is plain. But what about this: are epic verses a circle? Clearly they are not. One should not bring an objection against a premise if it is inductive. For just as there is no premise that does not hold of several things (for then it would not hold of all, and deduction proceeds from universals), so plainly there is no objection either. For premises and objections are the same thing: whatever objection one brings could become a premise, either demonstrative or dialectical. It happens that some people argue without deducing anything, because they take what follows from both terms — as, for instance, Caeneus does, arguing that fire increases in a multiplied ratio, since fire, he says, is generated quickly, and this too is that same ratio.
31| In this way there is no syllogism—unless the fastest ratio follows the manifold ratio, and the fastest ratio in locomotion belongs to fire. So sometimes it is not possible to draw a syllogism from the premises taken, and sometimes it is possible but is not seen. Now if it were impossible to prove something true from something false, resolving an argument into its premises would be easy, for the conclusion would convert of necessity. For let A be something that is—given that this is, then these things are, which I know to be, for instance B; from these, then, I shall show that that other thing is. Now the propositions in mathematics convert more readily, because they take nothing accidental (and in this too they differ from those in dialectical arguments) but only definitions. And a proof grows not through middle terms, but by taking on additional terms—A of B, this of C, this again of D, and so on to infinity; and also sideways, as when A holds both of C and of E. For example, let A stand for being a determinate quantity of number, or even an infinite one; let B stand for the odd number's being a determinate quantity; let C stand for odd number. Then A holds of C. And let D stand for the even number's being a determinate quantity, E for even number; then A holds of E.
32| Knowing the fact and knowing the reason why differ—first, within one and the same science, and here in two ways: in one way, when the syllogism is not built through immediate premises (for then the primary cause is not grasped, and knowledge of the reason why goes by way of the primary cause); in another way, when it is built through immediate premises, but not through the cause, but through whichever of a pair of convertible terms is the more familiar. For nothing prevents the non-cause from sometimes being more familiar than the cause, among terms that are predicated reciprocally of each other, so that the demonstration will proceed through this term—for instance, that the planets are near because they do not twinkle. Let C be planets, B not twinkling, A being near. It is true to say B of C, for the planets do not twinkle; but it is also true to say A of B, for what does not twinkle is near (this has been grasped by induction or by perception). It is necessary, then, that A belong to C, so that it has been demonstrated that the planets are near. This syllogism, then, is not of the reason why but of the fact; for it is not because they do not twinkle that they are near, but because they are near that they do not twinkle.
33| But it is also possible to show the one through the other, and then the demonstration will be of the reason why—for instance, let C be planets, B being near, A not twinkling; then B belongs to C and A to B, so that A also belongs to C. And this syllogism is of the reason why, since the primary cause has been grasped. Again, take the way people prove that the moon is spherical, from its phases of waxing—for if what waxes in this manner is spherical, and the moon waxes, it is clear that it is spherical: put this way, the syllogism is of the fact; but if the middle term is transposed, it is of the reason why, for it is not on account of its waxings that the moon is spherical, but because it is spherical that it undergoes such waxings. Let moon stand for C, spherical for B, waxing for A.
34| Waxing stands for A. But in cases where the middle terms do not convert, and the non-causal term is the more familiar, the fact is shown but not the reason why. Again, the same holds in cases where the middle term is placed outside the other two. For in these too the demonstration is of the fact and not of the reason why, since the cause is not stated. For instance: why does the wall not breathe? Because it is not an animal. For if this were the cause of not breathing, then being an animal would have to be the cause of breathing—just as, if the negation is the cause of something's not belonging, the affirmation is the cause of its belonging; for instance, if the imbalance of hot and cold is the cause of not being healthy, then their balance is the cause of being healthy—and likewise, if the affirmation is the cause of belonging, the negation is the cause of not belonging. But in cases set out this way, what has just been said does not hold, for not every animal breathes. The syllogism of such a cause comes about in the middle figure. For instance, let A be animal, B breathing, C wall. Then A belongs to every B (for everything that breathes is an animal), but to no C, so that B too belongs to no C: therefore the wall does not breathe.
35| Causes of this sort resemble things said by way of exaggeration—which is to say, taking the middle term at too great a remove, as in Anacharsis' remark, that among the Scythians there are no flute-girls, since there are no vines either. These, then, are the differences between the syllogism of the fact and that of the reason why within one and the same science, and by reference to the position of the middle terms. But there is another way in which the reason why differs from the fact—when each is studied through a different science. Such are the cases where two sciences stand to one another so that one is subordinate to the other—as optics to geometry, mechanics to solid geometry, harmonics to arithmetic, and the study of appearances to astronomy. Some of these sciences are practically synonymous with one another—for instance there is a mathematical astronomy and a nautical astronomy, and a mathematical harmonics
36| and one based on hearing. For here, knowing the fact belongs to those concerned with perception, knowing the reason why to the mathematicians; for the latter possess the demonstrations of the causes, and often they do not know the fact, just as those who study the universal often do not know some of the particulars, for lack of observation. These are cases in which things of a different substance make use of forms belonging to another science. For mathematics is concerned with forms: its objects are not said of any underlying subject—for even if geometrical objects are in fact said of some underlying subject, it is not qua said of a subject that geometry considers them. And as optics stands to geometry, so another science stands to optics—for instance the study of the rainbow: knowing the fact belongs to the natural scientist, knowing the reason why to the student of optics, either without qualification or as applied to that particular branch of mathematics. And many of the sciences that are not subordinate to one another stand in this same relation—for instance medicine to geometry: that circular wounds heal more slowly is for the doctor to know, but why, is for the geometer.
37| Of the figures, the first is the most scientific. For the mathematical sciences carry their demonstrations through this figure—arithmetic, geometry, and optics—and practically all the sciences that make the reason why their object of inquiry; for either altogether, or for the most part and in the majority of cases, the syllogism of the reason why proceeds through this figure. So on this ground too it would be the most scientific, since grasping the reason why is the most authoritative way of knowing. Next, it is possible to pursue knowledge of the essence through this figure alone. For in the middle figure no affirmative syllogism comes about, and knowledge of the essence is a matter of affirmation; and in the last figure an affirmative syllogism does come about, but not a universal one, whereas the essence belongs among universals—man is not in a certain respect a two-footed animal. Further, this figure has no need of the others, while they are condensed and built up through it, until they arrive at immediate premises. It is clear, then, that the first figure is the most authoritative for scientific knowledge. Just as it was possible for A to belong to B atomically, so too it is possible for it not to belong. By belonging or not belonging atomically I mean that there is no middle term between them; for in that case the belonging or not belonging will no longer be in virtue of something else. Now whenever either the
38| or B is contained wholly within some term, or both are, then it is not possible for A to fail to belong to B primitively. For let A be contained wholly in C. Then if B is not contained wholly in C (for it is possible for A to be within some whole while B is not in that same whole), there will be a syllogism that A does not belong to B: for if C belongs to all A but to no B, then A belongs to no B. Likewise too if B is contained wholly in some term, say D: for D belongs to all B, but A belongs to no D, so that A will belong to no B through a syllogism. The same method will show it too if both are contained wholly in some term. That it is possible for B not to be in the whole in which A is, or again for A not to be in that in which B is, is clear from the co-ordinate series, as many as do not overlap one another. For if none of the members of the C-D series is predicated of any of the members of the B-Z series, and A is contained wholly in Θ, which belongs to that same series, it is clear that B will not be in Θ:
39| for otherwise the series would overlap one another. And likewise too if B is contained wholly in some term. But if neither is contained wholly in anything, and A does not belong to B, then it is necessary that it not belong immediately. For if there were to be some middle term, one of the two would have to be contained wholly in some term. For the syllogism will occur either in the first figure or in the middle figure. Now if in the first, B will be contained wholly in some term (for the premise concerning this must be affirmative); but if in the middle figure, either of the two indifferently (for a syllogism comes about when the negative premise is taken with respect to either one, but if both premises are negative there will be no syllogism). It is clear, then, that it is possible for one thing to fail to belong to another immediately, and we have stated when this is possible and how. Ignorance that is spoken of not as a negation but as a positive state is the deception that comes about through a syllogism. This occurs, in the case of things that belong or do not belong primitively, in two ways: either when one simply supposes that something belongs or does not belong, or when one arrives at the supposition through a syllogism. Now for the simple supposition the deception is simple, but for that
40| which comes through a syllogism, there are several kinds. For let A belong to no B immediately. Then if one draws the syllogistic conclusion that A belongs to B, taking C as middle term, one will be deceived through the syllogism. Now it is possible for both premises to be false, and it is also possible for only one of them to be. For if it is neither true that A belongs to no C nor that C belongs to no B, but each has been taken the other way round, both will be false. But it is possible for C to stand in relation to A and B in such a way that it is neither subordinate to A nor universal to B. For it is impossible for B to be contained wholly in anything (since A was said to belong to it not at all, and primitively), while A need not be universal to everything there is, so that both premises are false. But it is also possible to take one of the two as true — not, however, whichever one happens, but the A-C premise. For the C-B premise will always be false, because B is contained in nothing, while the A-C premise admits of being true — for instance if A belongs immediately to both C and B (for when the same thing is predicated primitively of several things, neither of those things will be in the other). And it makes no difference either if it does not belong immediately.
41| The deception concerning belonging, then, comes about only through these premises and in this way (for there was no syllogism concerning belonging in another figure), while that concerning not-belonging occurs both in the first figure and in the middle figure. Let us first say in how many ways it occurs in the first figure, and how the premises then stand. It is possible, then, when both premises are false — for instance if A belongs immediately to both C and B: for if it is taken that A belongs to no C, but C to all B, the premises are false. It is also possible when only one is false, and this whichever one happens. For it is possible for the A-C premise to be true and the C-B false — the A-C true because A does not belong to everything there is, the C-B false because it is impossible for C to belong to B, to which A belongs not at all: for then the C-B premise would no longer be true; and at the same time, if both premises were true, the conclusion too would be true. But it is also possible for the C-B premise to be true while the other is
42| false — for instance if B is contained both in C and in A: for one of the two must be subordinate to the other, so that if one takes A to belong to no C, that premise will be false. It is clear, then, that whether only one premise is false or both are, the syllogism will be deceptive in the case of immediate terms. In the middle figure it is not possible for both premises to be wholly false: for whenever A belongs to all B, there will be nothing one can take that belongs to all of the one and to none of the other; but the premises must be taken in such a way that the middle belongs to the one and not to the other, if there is to be a syllogism at all. If, then, taken in this way they are false, it is clear that they must actually stand contrariwise, the other way round; but this is impossible. Nothing, however, prevents each from being false in part — for instance if C belongs to some of both A and B: for if it is taken to belong to all A but to no B, both premises are false, yet not wholly, only in part. And likewise too if the negative is placed the other way round. It is also possible for only one of the two to be false, whichever one. For what belongs to all A also belongs to some B:
43| so if it is taken that C belongs to all A, but to no B at all, the C-A premise will be true, but the C-B false. Again, what belongs to no B will not belong to all A either: for if it belonged to A, it would belong to B too; but it did not belong to B. So if C is taken to belong to all A, but to no B, the C-B premise is true, the other false. And likewise too if the negative is transposed. For what belongs to no A will belong to no B either: so if C is taken to belong to no A at all, but to all B, the C-A premise will be true, the other false. And again, to take what belongs to all B as belonging to no A is false: for necessarily, if it belongs to all B, it also belongs to some A. So if C is taken to belong to all B, but to no A, the C-B premise will be true, the C-A false. It is clear, then, that both when both premises are false and when only one is, there will be a deceptive syllogism in the case of immediate terms.
44| In things that do not belong immediately, whenever the syllogism that produces the falsehood comes about through the proper middle term, it is not possible for both premises to be false, but only the one next to the major extreme. (By "proper middle term" I mean the one through which the syllogism of the contradiction comes about.) For let A belong to B through the middle term C. Since, then, when a syllogism comes about, CB must be taken as affirmative, it is clear that this premise will always be true; for it does not convert. But AC is false; for when this one is converted, the syllogism becomes the contrary one. Similarly too if the middle term were taken from another co-ordinate series — for instance D, if D both falls within the whole and is predicated of all B — for the premise DB must remain, while the other premise converts, so that one is always true and the other always false. And this kind of deception is roughly the same as that through the proper middle term. But if the syllogism does not come about through the proper middle term — when the middle term falls under A but belongs to none of B — both premises must be false.
45| For they must be taken contrary to how they actually stand, if there is to be a syllogism; and when they are taken this way, both come out false. For instance, if it belongs to the whole of D, but D belongs to none of B; for when these are converted there will be a syllogism, and both premises will be false. But when the middle term, say D, does not fall under A, AD will be true, but DB will be false. For AD is true because D was not within A, while DB is false because, if it were true, the conclusion too would have been true — but it was false. But when the deception comes about through the middle figure, it is not possible for both premises to be wholly false (for when B falls under A, nothing can belong to the one wholly and to the other not at all, as was said before too), but it is possible for one of them to be false, whichever it happens to be. For if
46| C belongs both to A and to B, and it is taken that it belongs to A but does not belong to B, then CA will be true, but the other premise false. Again, if it is taken to belong to B, but to none of A, then CB will be true, but the other false. Now if the syllogism of the deception is privative, it has been stated when and through what it will occur. But if it is affirmative: when it comes about through the proper middle term, it is impossible for both premises to be false; for CB must remain, if there is to be a syllogism at all, as was said before too. So AC will always be false; for this is the one that converts. Similarly too if the middle term is taken from another co-ordinate series, as was said also in the case of the privative deception; for DB must remain, while AD converts, and the deception is the same as before. But when it does not come about through the proper middle term: if D falls under A, this premise will be true, but the other false; for it is possible for A to belong to several things that are not subordinate to one another. But if D does not fall under A, this premise will clearly always be false (since it is taken as affirmative), while DB may be either true or false; for nothing prevents A from belonging to none of D while D belongs to all of B — for instance, animal to knowledge, and knowledge to music. Nor again is there anything to prevent A from belonging to none of D and D belonging to none of B.
47| It is clear, then, in how many ways and through what causes deceptions in syllogism can arise, both among immediate things and among things reached through demonstration. It is also clear that if any perception is lacking, some knowledge must be lacking too — knowledge which it is impossible to acquire, if indeed we learn either by induction or by demonstration. Demonstration proceeds from universals, induction from particulars; but it is impossible to study universals except through induction (since even the things spoken of by abstraction can be made known through induction, because certain things belong to each genus, even if they are not separable, insofar as each is such-and-such) — and it is impossible to be led on by induction without having perception. For perception is of particulars; it is not possible to acquire knowledge of them in any other way — not from universals without induction, nor through induction without perception.
48| Every syllogism proceeds through three terms, and one kind of syllogism is able to show that something belongs to C because it belongs to B and this to C, while the other, the privative kind, has one premise stating that one thing belongs to another and the other premise stating that it does not belong. It is clear, then, that these are the starting-points and so-called hypotheses; for taking these, one must show, in this way, for instance, that something belongs to it through B, and again that it belongs to B through another middle term, and likewise that B belongs to C. Now for those reasoning in accordance with opinion, and merely dialectically, it is clear that this alone must be examined: whether the syllogism comes from the most reputable premises available, so that even if there is in truth no middle term for B, but it seems there is one, whoever reasons through it has reasoned dialectically; but with a view to truth one must examine from what actually holds. And the position is this: since there is something that is itself predicated of another thing, not accidentally — by "accidentally" I mean the sort of case where we say that thing, the white thing, is a man, not speaking in the same way as when we say the man is white; for the man, without being anything else, is white, whereas the white thing is called man because it is accidental to the man to be white — there are, then, some things of such a kind as to be predicated in their own right. Let C, then, be of such a kind that it itself no longer belongs to anything else, but B belongs to it as a first thing, with nothing else between. And again let E likewise belong to F, and this to B. Must this, then, necessarily come to a stop, or is it possible to go on to infinity? And again, but A belongs to Θ as a first thing, with nothing prior between, and Θ belongs to H, with nothing prior between, and Θ belongs to
49| H, and this to B, must this too necessarily come to a stop, or is it possible for this too to go on to infinity? This differs from the former question to this extent: the one asks whether, starting from something that belongs to nothing else, but something else belongs to it, it is possible to go upward to infinity; the other, starting from something that is itself said of something else, while nothing is predicated of it, asks whether it is possible to go downward to infinity. Further, can the middle terms be infinite while the extremes are fixed? I mean, for instance, if A belongs to C, and B is the middle term between them, and there are others between B and A, and yet others between these, can these too go on to infinity, or is that impossible? This is the same thing to examine as whether demonstrations go on to infinity, and whether there is demonstration of everything, or whether they are bounded reciprocally by one another. I say the same about privative syllogisms and premises too — for instance, if A belongs to no B, either this holds of it first, or there will be some middle term prior to which it does not belong (for instance, if it does not belong to H, which belongs to all B), and again still another term prior to this, for instance if it does not belong to Θ, which belongs to all H. For in these cases too, either the prior terms to which it belongs are infinite in number, or the series comes to a stop. But with convertible terms the matter does not stand the same way; for among things reciprocally predicated there is no first or last term of which something is predicated, since all stand alike with respect to all in this way, whether the things predicated of it are infinite, or both of the difficulties raised are infinite — except that it is not possible for them to convert in the same way, but the one as accident, the other as predicate.
50| That the intermediates cannot be infinite, if the predications come to a stop going downward and upward, is clear. By "upward" I mean the direction toward the more universal, and by "downward" the direction toward the particular. For if, when A is predicated of Z, the intermediates are infinite (call them the B's), it is clear that it would then be possible, going downward from A, for one term to be predicated of another without limit (for before reaching Z the intermediates are infinite), and also, going upward from Z, for the intermediates to be infinite before reaching A. So if these things are impossible, it is also impossible for the intermediates between A and Z to be infinite. Nor does it make any difference if someone should say that some of the A's, B's, and Z's are contiguous with one another, so that there is no intermediate between them, while others cannot be so taken — it makes no difference at all. For whichever of the B's I take, it will stand to A or to Z either with infinite intermediates between them or not; and it makes no difference from which point the intermediates first become infinite, whether immediately or not immediately, since the terms after that point are infinite in either case.
51| It is evident also in the case of privative demonstration that the series will come to a stop, if indeed it comes to a stop in both directions in the case of affirmative demonstration. Let it be supposed that it is not possible to proceed to infinity either upward from the last term (by "last" I mean a term that does not itself belong to anything else, though something else belongs to it, for instance Z) or from the first term to the last (by "first" I mean a term that is itself said of something else, while nothing else is said of it). If this is so, then the series will also come to a stop in the case of negation. For non-belonging is shown in three ways: either B belongs to everything C belongs to, and A belongs to nothing that B belongs to; or, for the interval B-C — and always for the other interval — one must proceed to immediate premises, since this interval is affirmative. As for the other interval, it is clear that if A does not belong to some prior term, say D, then B will have to belong to all of D. And again, if A does not belong to some term prior to D, that term will have to belong to all of D. So, since the upward path comes to a stop, the path toward A will also come to a stop, and there will be some first term to which A does not belong. Again, if B belongs to all of A, and to none of C, then A belongs to none of C. Again, if this must be shown, clearly it will be shown either by the method described above, or by this one, or by the third. The first has been discussed; the second will now be shown. It would be shown in this way: D belongs to all of B and to none of C, if something must belong to B. And again, if this does not belong to C, something else belongs to D that does not belong to C.
52| That belongs to D but not to C. Since, then, belonging always comes to a stop as we go upward, non-belonging will also come to a stop. The third method was this: if a certain term belongs to all of B, but does not belong to C, then that term does not belong to all of what A belongs to. Again, this in turn will be shown either through the methods stated above or in the same way. In the former case it comes to a stop; if in the latter way, then again B will be taken as belonging to some E, to which C does not belong wholly. And this again in the same way. But since it is assumed that the series comes to a stop going downward as well, it is clear that the non-belonging of C will also come to a stop. And it is clear that even if the demonstration proceeds not by one method alone but by all of them — sometimes from the first figure, sometimes from the second or third — it will still come to a stop this way too; for the methods are finite in number, and a finite number of finite things taken a finite number of times must all together be finite. That the series comes to a stop in the case of privation, given that it does in the case of belonging, is clear. That it comes to a stop in those latter cases is evident, when one looks at it dialectically, in this way.
53| In the case of terms predicated in the what-it-is, this is clear: for if it is possible to define, or if the essence is knowable, and infinite things cannot be traversed, then the terms predicated in the what-it-is must be finite. We put the general point this way. One can truly say "the white thing walks" and "that large thing is wood," and again "the wood is large" and "the man walks." But saying it the one way is different from saying it the other way. For when I say that the white thing is wood, I mean that what happens to be white is wood, not that white is the underlying subject for the wood; for the thing did not become wood by being white or by being a certain white thing — so it is wood only accidentally. But when I say that the wood is white, I do not mean that something else is white and that it happens to be wood — as when I say that the musical thing is white (for then I mean that the man, who happens to be musical, is white) — rather, the wood is the underlying subject, the very thing that came to be, and it is not something other than what is properly wood, or a kind of wood. If, then, we are to lay down a rule, let this
54| way of speaking be called predicating, and the other way either not predicating at all, or predicating not in an unqualified sense but predicating accidentally. And the white is the thing predicated, as it were, and the wood is that of which it is predicated. Let it be laid down, then, that the predicate is always predicated of the subject in an unqualified sense, not accidentally; for it is in this way that demonstrations demonstrate. So that, whenever one thing is predicated of one thing, it is predicated either in the what-it-is, or as a quality, quantity, relation, doing, being-affected, place, or time. Further, terms signifying substance signify, of that of which they are predicated, exactly that thing or a kind of that thing; but whatever does not signify substance, but is said of another underlying subject which it is not — either exactly that thing or a kind of that thing — is an accident, as white is said of man. For man is neither exactly white nor a kind of white, but rather, presumably, an animal — for man is exactly an animal. Whatever does not signify substance must be predicated of some underlying subject, and there cannot be something white that is not something else which is white. As for the Forms, let them go their way — they are mere twitterings, and even if they exist, they are irrelevant to our argument,
55| since demonstrations are concerned with things of the sort just described. Further, if this is not a quality of that, and that a quality of this, nor a quality of a quality, then it is impossible for such terms to be counter-predicated of one another — that is, it is possible to say something true, but not possible to counter-predicate truly. For either it will be predicated as substance, that is, as being the genus or the differentia of the thing predicated. But it has been shown that these cannot be infinite, either going downward or going upward (for instance: man, biped; this, animal; this, something else; nor is animal predicated of man, and this of Callias, and this of something else again, within the what-it-is) — for it is possible to define any such substance in its entirety, whereas infinite things cannot be gone through in thought. So there are no infinite series either upward or downward: for it is not possible to define that of which infinite things are predicated.
56| So genera will not be predicated reciprocally of one another; for then each would be exactly what the other is. Nor again will quality, or any of the other categories, be predicated of a substance, unless as an accident; for all these are accidents, and are predicated of substances. But further, there will not be an infinite regress upward either. For of each thing there is predicated whatever signifies either a quality or a quantity or something of that sort, or the elements within its substance; and these are limited in number, and the genera of the categories are limited — for a thing is either a quality, a quantity, a relative, active, passive, a where, or a when. It is assumed, then, that one thing is predicated of one thing, and that things which are not answers to "what is it" are not predicated of themselves as such; for all such things are accidents, some in their own right, others in a different way. All of these, we say, are predicated of some underlying subject, while an accident is not itself an underlying subject; for we posit none of such things as being something that is not, in being said, said to be something else, but rather each of them is said of something else, and that in turn of something else again. So it will not be said that one thing is predicated of one thing without limit, either upward or downward. For the things of which accidents are predicated, namely whatever falls within the substance of each thing, are not infinite;
57| and upward too, both these and the accidents together are not infinite. There must, then, be something of which something is predicated first, and something else of that, and this series must come to a stop, and there must be something which is no longer predicated of anything else prior, nor is anything else prior predicated of it. This, then, is one way in which the proof is stated; and there is a further one besides: if there is demonstration of the things of which certain prior things are predicated, while of the things of which there is demonstration it is not possible either to be in a better position than knowing them, or to know them without demonstration; and if this thing is known through those, while we do not know those and are not in a better position with respect to them than knowing, then we will not have scientific knowledge of what is known through them either. If, then, it is possible to know something through demonstration without qualification, and not from certain things nor from a hypothesis, the intermediate predications must come to a stop. For if they do not stop, but there is always something above what has been taken, there will be demonstration of everything; so that if
58| it is not possible to traverse an infinite series, then the things of which there is demonstration we will not know through demonstration. If, then, we are not in a better position with respect to them than knowing, there will be no scientific knowledge of anything through demonstration without qualification, but only from a hypothesis. This, then, is how one might be persuaded of what has been said by dialectical argument; but analytically it becomes clear more concisely through the following, that it is not possible for the things predicated to be infinite either upward or downward in the demonstrative sciences with which our inquiry is concerned. For demonstration concerns whatever belongs to things in their own right. And "in its own right" is said in two ways: both what belongs to those things within their essence, and those things within whose essence the things themselves belong — for instance, oddness belongs to number, and belongs to it in its own right, while number itself belongs within the definition of oddness; and again, plurality, or the divisible, belongs within the definition of number. Neither of these can be infinite: not oddness in relation to number in the way described (for then oddness would again have something else within which it was present as belonging; but if this is so, number will be present first among the things belonging to it; so if it is not possible for infinitely many such things to belong within the one, there will not be an infinite regress upward either;
59| but rather it is necessary that all these belong to the first thing, number for instance, and that number belong to them, so that they will convert with one another, and not extend beyond); nor again can the things that belong within the essence be infinite, for then definition would not be possible either. So if all the things predicated in their own right are counted as such, and these are not infinite, the series will come to a stop going upward, and so also going downward. And if this is so, the terms lying between two limiting terms are always finite. And if this is so, it is already clear as regards demonstrations too that there must be principles, and that there cannot be demonstration of everything — which is exactly what we said some people claim at the outset. For if there are principles, not everything is demonstrable, nor is it possible to proceed to infinity; for the being of either of these amounts to nothing other than there being no immediate and indivisible interval, but all intervals being divisible. For what is demonstrated is demonstrated by a term being inserted within the interval, not by one being added on outside it; so that if this could proceed to infinity, it would be possible for infinitely many middle terms to fall between two limiting terms. But this is impossible, if the predications come to a stop both upward and downward. And that they do come to a stop has been shown by dialectical argument earlier, and now analytically.
60| Now that these points have been shown, it is clear that if the same thing belongs to two things — say A belongs to both C and D — and neither of these is predicated of the other, either not at all or not of every case, then it will not always belong to them in virtue of something common. For instance, having angles equal to two right angles belongs to the isosceles and the scalene triangle in virtue of something common (it belongs to them insofar as they are a certain figure, and not insofar as they differ from each other); but this is not always the case. For let B be that in virtue of which A belongs to C and D. Then it is clear that B too belongs to C and D in virtue of some other common thing, and that in turn in virtue of yet another, so that infinitely many terms would fall between two limiting terms. But this is impossible. It is not necessary, then, that the same thing always belong to several things in virtue of something common, at least if there are to be immediate intervals. Yet the terms must belong to the same genus and be drawn from the same indivisibles, if the common element is to belong to the things that belong in their own right; for it was not possible for what is proved to cross over from one genus to another. It is also clear that when A belongs to B: if there is some middle term, it is possible to show that it belongs to B, and the elements of this proof are the same in number as the middle terms; for the immediate premises are elements, either all of them or the universal ones. But if there is no middle term, there is no longer demonstration, but this is the road that leads to the principles. Likewise too if A does not belong to B: if there is either a middle term or something prior to which it does not belong, there is demonstration; but if not, there is none, but a principle, and there are as many elements as there are terms; for the premises of these terms are the principles of the demonstration
61| . And just as some principles are undemonstrated to the effect that this is this and this belongs to this, so too there are principles to the effect that this is not this, nor does this belong to this, so that some principles will assert that something is, and others that something is not. When one must prove something, one must take what is predicated first of B. Let this be C, and similarly of C let it be D. And proceeding always in this way, no premise wider than A is ever taken in the course of the proof, nor is anything wider taken as belonging; rather the middle term is always packed more densely, until the terms become indivisible and one. And a term is one when it becomes immediate, and the immediate premise alone is, without qualification, one premise. And just as in other domains the starting principle is something simple, though this is not the same thing everywhere — in weight it is the mina, in melody the quarter-tone, and something different in each different case — so in a syllogism the unit is the immediate premise, while in demonstration and scientific knowledge it is the intellect. In ostensive syllogisms, then, nothing that belongs falls outside the terms reached; but in privative syllogisms, where something must be shown to belong, nothing falls outside this term either — for instance, if A does not belong to B through C (for if C belongs to all B, and A belongs to no C); and again, if it is necessary to show that A belongs to no C, a middle term between A and C must be taken, and the process will always proceed in this way. But if it is necessary to show that D does not belong to E, because C belongs to all D and to no E, the process will never fall outside E; for this is the term to which it must belong. And in the third figure, the process will never go outside either the term from which the denial must proceed or the term that must be denied.
62| Since demonstration is either universal or particular, and either affirmative or privative, it is disputed which kind is better; and likewise concerning the demonstration said to prove directly and the demonstration that leads to the impossible. Let us first consider the universal and the particular; and having made this clear, let us then speak of the demonstration said to prove directly and the one that leads to the impossible. Now to some, looking at it in the following way, it might seem that the particular
63| is better. For if that demonstration is better by which we know more, and this is better by that which we know each thing when we know it in its own right rather than when we know it in virtue of something else (for instance, we know musical Coriscus better when we know that Coriscus is musical than when we know that a man is musical, and likewise in the other cases), and the universal demonstration proves that something else belongs, not that the thing itself happens to belong (for instance, that the isosceles triangle has its angles equal to two right angles not because it is isosceles but because it is a triangle), while the particular demonstration proves that the thing itself has this — if, then, the demonstration that proceeds in virtue of the thing itself is better, and the particular is more of this sort than the universal, the particular demonstration would be the better. Further, if the universal is not something over and above the particulars, while demonstration produces the opinion that there is some such thing in virtue of which it demonstrates, and that some such nature belongs among the things that are — for instance, some nature of triangle over and above the particular triangles, and of figure over and above the particular figures, and of number over and above the particular numbers — while a demonstration about what is is better than one about what is not, and better is that demonstration by which one will not be deceived than one by which one will — and the universal demonstration is of this latter sort (for in proceeding they demonstrate as they do about the proportional, namely that whatever is such-and-such will be proportional, though it is neither line nor number nor solid nor plane, but something over and above these) — if, then, this demonstration is more universal but concerns what is less, and produces a false opinion, the universal demonstration would be worse than the particular.
64| Or is it rather that, first, neither the one account nor the other applies any more to the universal than to the particular? For if having angles equal to two right angles belongs not insofar as it is isosceles but insofar as it is a triangle, then one who knows that it is isosceles knows the fact less well, in respect of why it belongs, than one who knows that it is a triangle. And in general, if a thing is demonstrated of something not insofar as it is a triangle, that would not be a demonstration; but if it is demonstrated insofar as it is, then one who knows each thing insofar as each thing belongs knows it better. If, then, triangle extends more widely, and the account is the same, and triangle is not spoken of by mere homonymy, and having two right angles belongs to every triangle, then it is not the triangle that has the property insofar as it is isosceles, but the isosceles that has it insofar as it is a triangle, that it has its angles thus. So that one who knows universally knows that it belongs better than one who knows the particular. The universal demonstration is therefore better
65| than the particular. Further, if there is some single account and the universal is not spoken of by homonymy, it would exist no less than some of the particulars, but even more so, inasmuch as the imperishable things are found among the universals, while the particulars are more perishable. Further, there is no necessity at all to suppose that this universal is something over and above the particulars, on the ground that it signifies a single thing, any more than in the case of the other things that do not signify a this-something but rather a quality or a relation or a doing. And if it is supposed to be something over and above them, the fault lies not with the demonstration but with the hearer. Further, if demonstration is a deductive syllogism proving the cause and the reason why, and the universal is more of a cause (for that to which something belongs in its own right is itself the cause of itself, and the universal is primary; therefore the universal is the cause) — so that the demonstration is also better, since it more concerns the cause and the reason why. Further, we seek the reason why up to the point at which we think we know, namely when it is no longer the case that this is something else either coming to be or being; for the end and the limit is now the extreme point in this way. For instance, for what purpose did he come? In order to get the money; and this, in order to pay back what he owed; and this, in order not to act unjustly;
66| and going on in this way, when it is no longer for the sake of something else nor for the sake of another thing, we say it is for this as an end that he came and that it is and that it comes to be, and then we know best why he came. If, then, it holds similarly for all causes and reasons why, and among those causes that are of this kind — that is, as that for the sake of which — we know best in this way, then in the other cases too we know best when this no longer belongs because of something else. So when we know that the external angles are equal to four right angles because the figure is isosceles, it still remains to ask why the isosceles has this — because it is a triangle; and this again, because it is a rectilinear figure. And if this is no longer so because of something else, then we know best. And it is then also universal; the universal demonstration is therefore better. Further, the more a demonstration is particular, the more it falls into infinities, while the universal tends toward the simple and the limited. And insofar as things are infinite they are not knowable, but insofar as they are limited they are knowable. So insofar as things are universal they are more knowable than insofar as they are particular. Therefore the universal things are more
67| demonstrable; and of demonstrable things, the more demonstrable ones admit demonstration more, for correlative things increase together. The universal demonstration is therefore better, since it is more truly a demonstration. Further, that demonstration is more choiceworthy by which one knows this thing and also something else, than one by which one knows only this thing; and one who has the universal demonstration knows the particular as well, but one who has the particular does not know the universal; so that on this ground too the universal would be more choiceworthy. Further, consider it this way: to demonstrate more universally is to demonstrate through a middle term that is nearer to the starting point. And nearest of all is the immediate premise; and this is a starting point. If, then, the demonstration from a starting point is more exact than the one not from a starting point, then the demonstration more from a starting point is more exact than the one less so. And the universal demonstration is more of this sort; the universal demonstration would therefore be superior. For instance, if one had to demonstrate A of D: the middle terms are B and C; B is higher up, so that the demonstration through it is more universal. But some of the things said belong to logic; and it is most clearly evident that the universal is the more authoritative demonstration on this ground: that among premises, when we have the prior one we in a way also know the posterior and have it potentially — for instance, if someone knows that every triangle has two right angles, he in a way also knows, potentially, that the isosceles has two right angles, even if he does not know that the isosceles is a triangle; but one who has this latter premise does not know the universal at all, neither potentially nor in actuality. And the universal is an object of intellect, while the particular terminates in perception.
68| Let this much be said to show that the universal demonstration is better than the particular. That the demonstration proving directly is better than the privative one is clear from the following. Let this demonstration be better than another, other things being equal, which proceeds from fewer postulates or hypotheses or premises. For if they are equally well known, knowing more quickly through these will result, and this is more choiceworthy. The account of the premise, that the demonstration from fewer is better, is this, stated universally: if it were equally the case that the middle terms are known, but the prior ones are better known, let the demonstration through middle terms be that of the
69| ...through B, C, D that A belongs to E, and the other through F that A belongs to E. Now it stands the same way with the claim that A belongs to D and that A belongs to E: the claim that A belongs to D is prior and more knowable than the claim about E, since the latter is demonstrated through the former, and what a thing is proved through is more credible than what is proved. So a demonstration through fewer terms is better than the others, other things being equal. Now both kinds are proved through three terms and two premises, but the one takes as a premise only that something is, while the other takes both that something is and that something is not; so it proceeds through more, and is therefore worse. Again, since it has been shown that it is impossible for a syllogism to come about when both premises are negative, but one premise must be of that kind and the other must be affirmative, we must grasp this point as well, in addition. For as a demonstration is extended, the affirmative premises must become more numerous, but the negative premises cannot be more than one in any syllogism whatever. For let A belong to none of the things B belongs to, and let B belong to all of C. If, then, it should be necessary again to extend both premises, a middle term must be inserted.
70| Let D be a middle for B, and E a middle for B. Now E is clearly affirmative, while D is affirmative with respect to B but is set up in relation to the negative conclusion: for D belongs to all of B, but A must belong to none of D. So there comes to be one negative premise, the one about A and D. The same manner holds in the other syllogisms too. For the middle term, when both extreme terms are affirmative, is affirmative in both directions; but where one extreme is negative, the middle must be negative in that one direction, so that this becomes the one premise of that kind, and the others are affirmative. If, then, that through which something is proved is more knowable and more credible, and the negative conclusion is proved through the affirmative, while the affirmative is not proved through the negative, the affirmative — being prior, more knowable, and more credible — would be better. Again, if the principle of a syllogism is the universal immediate premise, and in the ostensive syllogism this universal premise is affirmative while in the negative syllogism it is negative, and the affirmative is prior to and more knowable than the negative (for the negation is known through the affirmation, and the affirmation is prior, just as being is prior to not-being), then the principle of the ostensive syllogism is better than that of the negative one; and the syllogism that uses better principles is better. Further, the ostensive syllogism is more like a principle, since the negative syllogism cannot exist without the one that proves something positively.
71| Since the affirmative syllogism is better than the negative, it is clear that it is also better than the one that leads to the impossible. But we must know what the difference between these two is. Let A belong to none of B, and let B belong to all of C: then A must of necessity belong to none of C. Now when the terms are taken this way, the negative demonstration that A does not belong to C is ostensive. But the reduction to the impossible works like this: if one had to prove that A does not belong to B, one must assume that it does belong, and that B belongs to C, so that it results that A belongs to C. Let this be known and agreed to be impossible. Then it is not possible for A to belong to B. So if it is agreed that B belongs to C, it is impossible for A to belong to B. The terms, then, are arranged in the same way in both cases, but it makes a difference which of the two negative premises is more knowable — whether that A does not belong to B, or that A does not belong to C. So whenever the conclusion — that something is not the case — is more knowable, the demonstration becomes one leading to the impossible; but whenever the premise within the syllogism is more knowable, it is the demonstrative one.
72| But by nature, the claim that A does not belong to B is prior to the claim that A does not belong to C. For the things from which the conclusion comes are prior to the conclusion; and A's not belonging to C is the conclusion, while A's not belonging to B is that from which the conclusion comes. For it is not the case that, whenever something happens to be done away with, this is the conclusion and those other things are what it comes from; rather, that from which a syllogism comes is whatever stands in such a relation that it is either whole to part or part to whole, and the premises 'A to C' and 'B to C' do not stand in this relation to each other. If, then, the demonstration from more knowable and prior things is superior, and both kinds of demonstration are credible by way of something's not being the case, but the one is from what is prior and the other from what is posterior, then the negative demonstration would be, without qualification, better than the one leading to the impossible; so that the affirmative demonstration, being better than the negative, is clearly also better than the one leading to the impossible. One science is more exact than, and prior to, another science: when it is at once a science of the fact and of the reason why, and not a science of the fact separately from one of the reason why; and when it is not a science of an underlying subject, as arithmetic is more exact than harmonics; and when it proceeds from fewer things than one that proceeds by addition, as arithmetic is more exact than geometry. By 'from addition' I mean this: a unit is a substance without position, while a point is a substance with position — the latter is arrived at by addition.
73| A science is one science when it belongs to one genus — as many things as are composed out of the primary items and are parts of these, or are attributes of these in their own right. One science is different from another when their principles come neither from the same source nor some of them from the others. A sign of this is when one arrives at the undemonstrables, for these must be in the same genus as the things demonstrated. And it is also a sign of this when the things proved by way of them are in the same genus and akin to one another. It is possible for there to be several demonstrations of the same conclusion, not only by taking, from the same co-ordinate series, a middle term that is not the immediately connecting one — as, among the terms falling under B, taking C or D or F — but also by taking a middle from a different series. For example, let A be 'change,' let D be 'being in motion,' let B be 'feeling pleasure,' and again let G be 'coming to rest.' Then it is true to predicate D of B and A of D: for what feels pleasure is in motion, and what is in motion changes. Again, it is true to predicate G of B and A of G: for everyone who feels pleasure comes to rest, and what comes to rest changes. So the syllogism proceeds through different middle terms, and not from the same co-ordinate series. This does not mean, however, that neither middle term is predicated of the other, for both must belong to one and the same thing. One should also examine, working through the other figures, in how many ways it is possible for a syllogism of the same conclusion to come about.
74| There is no scientific knowledge, by way of demonstration, of what comes about by chance. For what happens by chance is neither something that happens of necessity nor something that happens for the most part, but what comes about apart from these; and demonstration is of one or the other of these two. For every syllogism proceeds either through necessary premises or through premises that hold for the most part: and if the premises are necessary, the conclusion too is necessary, while if they hold for the most part, the conclusion is likewise of that kind. So if what happens by chance is neither for the most part nor of necessity, there can be no demonstration of it.
75| Nor can one have scientific knowledge through perception. For even if perception is of a thing of such-and-such a quality and not merely of some particular, still one necessarily perceives a this, and here, and now. But it is impossible to perceive what is universal and holds in all cases; for that is not a this nor now, since if it were it would not be universal — for we say that what is universal is what holds always and everywhere. Since, then, demonstrations are universal, and these cannot be perceived, it is clear that one cannot have scientific knowledge through perception either. Indeed it is plain that even if we could perceive that the triangle has its angles equal to two right angles, we would still be looking for a demonstration, and would not, as some say, already have known it; for perception must be of a particular, whereas scientific knowledge consists in coming to know the universal. That is why, even if we were standing on the moon and saw the earth screening off the sun, we would not know the cause of the eclipse. For we would perceive that it is eclipsing now, but not why in general — since there was no perception of the universal. Not that, from observing this happening often, we could not go on to hunt out the universal and so obtain a demonstration; for the universal becomes evident from many particular cases.
76| The universal is valuable because it makes the cause plain; so that, concerning things whose cause is other than themselves, knowledge of the universal is more valuable than the perceptions and than the direct grasping of the particular — though a different account holds for primary things. It is clear, then, that it is impossible to know any of the demonstrable things by perceiving it, unless one means by 'perceiving' having scientific knowledge through demonstration. There are, however, some problems that get traced back to a failure of perception. Some things, if we saw them, we would not go on inquiring into — not because we would know them by the seeing itself, but because from the seeing we would have the universal. For example, if we saw that the glass was perforated and the light passing through it, it would be clear also why it burns, because we see each case separately, but at the same time understand that this holds in the same way in every such case.
77| It is impossible for the same principles to hold for all syllogisms — first, on general grounds. For some syllogisms are true and some are false. For even if it is possible to reach a true conclusion from false premises, this happens only once — for instance if A holds of C truly, but the middle term B is false: for A does not hold of B, nor B of C. But if middle terms are taken for these premises, they will be false, because every conclusion from false premises is false, while true conclusions come from true premises — the false and the true being different things. Again, false conclusions do not even come from premises identical with one another: false things can be contrary to one another and even impossible to hold together at once — for instance, that justice is injustice or cowardice, that a human being is a horse or an ox, or that the equal is greater or less. From what has been laid down, the point follows in this way too: not even among true things are the principles the same for everything. For the principles of many things differ in genus, and do not fit together — for instance, units do not fit with points, since the one has no position while the other does. And it is necessary that they either fit into the middle, or above, or below, or that some fall inside the terms and some outside.
78| But not even among the common principles can there be some from which everything whatsoever will be demonstrated. By common principles I mean, for example, that of everything one may either affirm or deny it. For the genera of things that are, are different, and some common principles apply only to quantities, others only to qualities, and it is with these that demonstration proceeds through the common principles. Further, the principles are not much fewer than the conclusions; for the premises are principles, and the premises arise either by taking on an additional term or by inserting one. Further, the conclusions are unlimited, but the terms are limited. Further, some principles are necessary, others admit of being otherwise. Looking at it in this way, then, it is impossible for the same principles, being limited in number, to hold for the conclusions, which are unlimited. But if someone should mean it in some other way — that these are the principles of geometry, these of arithmetic, these of medicine — what would this claim amount to except that there are principles belonging to the sciences? But to say that they are the same principles
79| is absurd, on the ground that a thing is the same as itself; for on that basis everything would turn out to be the same. But surely it is not the case either that anything whatsoever is demonstrated from everything, which is what seeking the same principles for everything would amount to; for that is far too simple-minded a view. For this is not what happens in the manifest mathematical sciences, nor is it possible in analysis; for the immediate premises are the principles, and a different conclusion arises when a different immediate premise is added. But if someone should say that it is the primary immediate premises that are the principles, there is one such in each genus. But if it is neither the case that anything whatsoever ought to be demonstrated from all of them together, nor that the principles are so different from one another that each science has wholly different ones, what remains is to ask whether the principles of all things are akin to one another, but that these conclusions come from these principles and those conclusions from those. But it is clear that this too is not possible; for it has been shown that things differing in genus have principles differing in genus. For principles are of two kinds: those from which a demonstration proceeds, and that about which it proceeds. Now the principles from which are common, but those about which are proper to the genus — for instance, number, magnitude.
80| Scientific knowledge and its object differ from opinion and its object in that scientific knowledge is universal and proceeds through necessary things, and the necessary cannot be otherwise. But there are some things that are true and are the case, yet admit of being otherwise. It is clear, then, that scientific knowledge is not concerned with these; for then things capable of being otherwise would turn out incapable of being otherwise. Nor, again, does intellect concern them — by intellect I mean the principle of scientific knowledge — nor does undemonstrated knowledge, which is the grasping of the immediate premise. Now intellect, scientific knowledge, opinion, and what is stated through these, are true; so it remains that opinion is concerned with what is true or false, yet admits of being otherwise. This is the grasping of an immediate but non-necessary premise. And this agrees with how things appear: for opinion is unstable, and such is its nature. Besides this, no one thinks he is holding an opinion when he thinks it impossible for a thing to be otherwise — he thinks he has knowledge; but when he thinks a thing is so, yet nothing prevents its also being otherwise, then he holds an opinion, on the ground that opinion concerns things of that sort, while scientific knowledge concerns the necessary.
81| How then can the same thing be both opined and known, and why will opinion not simply be scientific knowledge, if one supposes that everything one knows admits also of being opined? For the one who knows and the one who opines will each proceed through the middle terms, until he arrives at the immediates, so that if the former has knowledge, the one who opines has knowledge as well. For just as it is possible to opine the fact, so it is possible to opine the reason why — and this is the middle term. Or is it rather this: if one grasps things that do not admit of being otherwise in the way one grasps the definitions through which demonstrations proceed, one will not be opining but will have knowledge; but if one holds that they are true, yet not that these belong to the things in virtue of their substance and form, one will be opining and will not truly have knowledge — both the fact and the reason why, if one opines through the immediates; but if not through the immediates, one will opine the fact alone. Scientific knowledge and opinion of the same thing are not possible together in every case; rather, just as false and true belief can in a sense be of the same thing, so too scientific knowledge and opinion can be of the same thing. For when some say that true and false opinion are of the same thing, absurd consequences follow, among others that one would not be opining what one opines falsely —
82| Since the same thing is spoken of in several ways, there is a sense in which it is possible, and a sense in which it is not. For to have a true opinion that the diagonal is commensurable would be absurd; but because the diagonal, which the opinions are about, is the same, in that way they are opinions of the same thing, though what it is to be each of them, by definition, is not the same. Similarly too, knowledge and opinion are of the same thing. For knowledge is of the animal in such a way that it is not possible for it not to be an animal, while opinion is of it in such a way that it is possible for it not to be — for instance, if one grasps the one as precisely what man is, and the other as man, but not as precisely what man is. For it is the same thing because both grasp man, but the manner is not the same. It is clear from this that it is not possible to have opinion and knowledge of the same thing at the same time. For then one would at the same time hold the supposition that the same thing could be otherwise and could not be otherwise, which is not possible. For each of the two can belong to a different subject of the same thing, as has been said, but in the same subject not even in this way is it possible; for one would hold the supposition at the same time — for instance, that man is precisely animal (for this was what it is for it not to be possible not to be an animal) and also not precisely animal; for let this be what 'possible' means. As for how the remaining notions should be distributed among thought, intellect, knowledge, craft, practical wisdom, and wisdom, some belong more to the study of nature, others more to the study of ethics.
1| Sagacity is a kind of good aim at the middle term, in a time too short for reflection — for example, if someone, seeing that the moon always has its bright side turned toward the sun, quickly grasped why this is so, namely because it shines by light from the sun; or, seeing someone conversing with a rich man, recognized why he was borrowing money; or grasped that two people were friends because they were enemies of the same man. For by seeing all the middle terms, which are the causes, he recognized the extremes. Let 'having its bright side toward the sun' be A, 'shining by light from the sun' be B, and 'moon' be C. Then B, shining by light from the sun, belongs to C, the moon; and A, having its bright side toward that from which it shines, belongs to B; so that A too belongs to C, through B. B.
2| The things we seek are equal in number to the things we know. We seek four things: the fact, the reason why, whether a thing is, and what a thing is. For when we seek whether this or that is the case, casting it as a choice between alternatives — for instance, whether the sun is eclipsed or not — we are seeking the fact. Here is a sign of this: once we have found that it is eclipsed, we stop; and if from the start we know that it is eclipsed, we do not go on to ask whether it is. But when we know the fact, we seek the reason why — for instance, knowing that it is eclipsed and that the earth moves, we seek the reason it is eclipsed, or the reason the earth moves. These, then, we seek in this way; but some things we seek in another way, for instance whether or not a centaur or a god exists. And by 'whether it is or not' I mean without qualification, not whether it is white or not. But once we have learned that it is, we seek what it is — for instance, what then is a god, or what is a man. The things we seek, then, and the things we know once we have found them, are these, and this many. We seek: when we seek the fact, or whether a thing is without qualification, whether there is a middle term for it or not; and when, having come to know
3| either the fact or whether it is — whether in a particular case or without qualification — we seek again the reason why, or what the thing is, then we are seeking what the middle term is. By 'that it is,' taken in a particular case and without qualification, I mean this: in a particular case, is the moon eclipsed, or is it waxing? For where something is or is not the case of a thing, it is in cases like these that we seek it; without qualification, whether or not the moon exists, or night exists. It follows, then, that in every inquiry we seek either whether there is a middle term, or what the middle term is. For the cause is the middle term, and in every case it is this that is sought. Is it eclipsed? Is there some cause or not? After this, having learned that there is some cause, we then seek what this is. For the cause of a thing's being — not being this or that, but being a substance without qualification — or of its having some attribute not without qualification, but one belonging to it in its own right or accidentally, is the middle term. By 'without qualification' I mean the subject, for instance moon or earth or sun or triangle; by 'some attribute' I mean eclipse, equality, inequality, whether it stands in the middle or not. For in all these cases it is plain that what a thing is and why it is are the same thing.
4| What is an eclipse? A privation of light from the moon, caused by the earth's blocking it. Why is there an eclipse — or why is the moon eclipsed? Because the light fails as the earth blocks it. What is a concord? A ratio of numbers between the high note and the low. Why does the high note concord with the low? Because the high and the low stand in a ratio of numbers. Can the high and the low concord at all? Is their ratio expressible in numbers? Once we have grasped that it is, we then ask what the ratio is. That the inquiry is always for the middle term is shown by all the cases in which the middle term is perceptible. For when we have not perceived it, we seek whether the eclipse, say, is occurring or not. But if we were on the moon, we would not seek either whether it happens or why, but it would be plain at once. For from perceiving it, knowledge of the universal would also have come to be for us. For perception would tell us that the earth is now blocking the light (since it would then be plain that an eclipse is now occurring); and from this the universal would have come to be. So, as we say, to know what a thing is is the same as to know why it is — and this either without qualification, and not with respect to some attribute, or with respect to one of its attributes, as that it has two right angles, or that it is greater or less.
5| That all the things sought, then, are a seeking for a middle term, is clear. But how what a thing is is exhibited, and what the manner of the reduction to it is, and what a definition is and of what things there is one, let us now state, having first worked through the puzzles about them. Let the starting point of what follows be the one most proper to the argument now before us. For one might raise the puzzle whether it is possible to know the same thing, in the same respect, both by definition and by demonstration, or whether this is impossible. For a definition seems to be of what a thing is, and what a thing is is in every case universal and affirmative; but of syllogisms some are negative and some are not universal — for instance, all those in the second figure are negative, and those in the third figure are not universal. Further, not even of all the affirmative conclusions in the first figure is there a definition — for instance, that every triangle has angles equal to two right angles. The reason for this is that to know a demonstrable thing is to have its demonstration; so that, since there is a demonstration of such things, it is clear that there could not also be a definition of them; for then one would know the thing by the definition too, without having the demonstration — for nothing prevents one's not having both at once.
6| A sufficient proof of this comes also from induction: we have never come to know anything by defining it, neither among the things that belong to a thing in its own right nor among its accidents. Further, if a definition is a way of coming to know some substance, then it is clear that things of this sort, at least, are not substances. That there is not a definition of everything of which there is also a demonstration, then, is clear. But what of the converse: is there a demonstration of everything of which there is a definition, or not? Here too there is one and the same account. For of one thing, qua one, there is one science. So that, if to know a demonstrable thing is to have its demonstration, something impossible will follow: for someone who has the definition will have knowledge without having the demonstration. Further, the principles of demonstrations are definitions, and it has been shown earlier that there cannot be demonstrations of these — or else the principles will be demonstrable
7| and principles of principles, and this will go on to infinity, or else the first things will be undemonstrated definitions. But is it perhaps the case that, if not of every same thing, still of some one and the same thing there is both a definition and a demonstration? Or is this impossible? For there is no demonstration of that of which there is a definition. For definition is of the what-it-is and of substance; but all demonstrations evidently posit and assume the what-it-is, as the mathematical ones assume what a unit is and what the odd is, and the others likewise. Further, every demonstration shows something of something, namely that it is or that it is not; but in a definition nothing is predicated of anything else — for instance, animal is not predicated of two-footed, nor this of animal, nor indeed is figure predicated of plane, since the plane is not a figure, nor the figure a plane. Further, to show what a thing is and to show that it is are different things. So the definition makes clear what a thing is, while the demonstration shows that this holds of that, or does not hold. And of one thing there is one demonstration and of another a different one, unless one stands to the other as part to whole. By this I mean, for example, that it has been shown of the isosceles that it has angles equal to two right angles, if this has been shown of every triangle; for the isosceles is a part, the triangle the whole. But the fact that a thing is and what it is do not stand to each other in this way, for neither is a part of the other. It is clear, then, that of everything of which there is a definition there is not also a demonstration, nor of everything of which there is a demonstration is there also a definition, nor in general can the same thing have both. So it is plain that definition and demonstration could be neither the same thing nor one contained in the other; for otherwise their subjects too would stand in the same relation.
8| Let these difficulties be raised up to this point. But as to whether there is a syllogism and a demonstration of the what-it-is or not, as our argument has just now assumed — a syllogism shows something of something through a middle term; but the what-it-is is both proper to the thing and is predicated within the category of what-it-is, and these must convert with one another. For if A is proper to C, clearly it is proper to B too, and B to C, so that all convert with one another. Moreover, if A belongs to every B within the category of what-it-is, and B is said universally of every C within the category of what-it-is, then A too must be said of C within the category of what-it-is. But if one does not take it doubled in this way, it will not be necessary for A to be predicated of C within the category of what-it-is, even if A belongs to B within the category of what-it-is, unless B is so predicated of everything it holds of.
9| But the what-it-is will have both these features; so B too will be the what-it-is with respect to C. If, then, both the what-it-is and the essence hold, the essence will already belong to the middle term. And in general, if it is possible to show what man is, let C be man, and let B be the what-it-is, whether animal biped or something else. If, then, there is to be a syllogism, B must be predicated of every C; but this will require another middle term, so that this too will turn out to be what man is. So it assumes what it needs to show; for B too will be what man is. One must examine this in the case of the two premises, and among the first and immediate ones, since that is where what is being said becomes most evident. Now those who show what soul is, or what man is, or anything else that is, by means of conversion, are begging the original question — as, for example, if someone should claim that soul is that which is the cause of its own life, and that this is a number moving itself; for it is necessary to have already assumed that soul is precisely a number moving itself, treating this as being the very same thing as soul.
10| For it is not the case that, if A follows on B and B on C, A will therefore be the essence of C; it will only be true to say it of C. Nor is it the essence even if A is a 'just what' something and is predicated of every B. For being an animal is predicated of being a man (since it is true that everything a man's being is, an animal's being is too, just as every man is an animal), but not in such a way that the two are one and the same. If, then, one does not take it in this stronger sense, one will not have proved by syllogism that A is the essence and substance of C; and if one does take it in this sense, one will already have assumed in advance what the essence of C is. So nothing has been demonstrated; the very thing at issue has been assumed from the start. But neither, again, does the method proceeding through divisions amount to a syllogism, as has been said in the analysis concerning the figures. For nowhere does it become necessary that, these things being so, that thing should be so; rather it is as with one who argues by induction — he does not demonstrate either. For the conclusion should not be a matter of being asked, nor should it depend on the answerer's granting it, but
11| it must be necessary given that those other things are so, even if the one answering will not say so. Is man an animal or something inanimate? Then one takes 'animal' — but nothing has thereby been proved by syllogism. Again: every animal is either land-dwelling or water-dwelling; one takes 'land-dwelling.' And that man's whole being is 'land-dwelling animal' does not follow necessarily from what has been said; this too is simply assumed besides. And it makes no difference whether one proceeds this way over many steps or few, for it is the same thing. (So the procedure turns out to be without syllogism even for those who apply it to matters that could in fact be proved by syllogism.) For what is to prevent all of this being true of man, and yet not making clear the what-it-is or the essence? Further, what is to prevent something being added, or something taken away, or some part of the substance being passed over? Now these difficulties are indeed left unaddressed by such reasoners, but it is possible to resolve them by taking everything within the category of what-it-is, proceeding through the division in due order, positing the first term, and leaving nothing out. And this is possible, if everything falls within the division and nothing is missing; for by then the term reached must already be indivisible. But all the same it is not a syllogism; rather, if it accomplishes anything, it produces knowledge in a different way. And there is nothing strange in this, since presumably one who argues by induction does not demonstrate either, but nonetheless makes something clear. But one who states a definition arrived at by division is not thereby stating a syllogism. For just as, in conclusions given without the middle terms, if someone says that, these things being so, this must be so, one may still ask why, so it is also with definitions reached by division. What is man? A mortal animal, footed, two-footed, wingless. Why, at each addition? For he will answer, and will show by the division, as he supposes, that everything is either mortal or immortal. But an account of this whole kind is not a definition at all; so that even if it were in fact being demonstrated by the division, the definition would still not turn out to be a syllogism.
12| But is it perhaps possible after all to demonstrate the what-it-is according to substance, though only from a hypothesis — taking the essence to be that which is proper among the things within the category of what-it-is, taking these alone to belong within the category of what-it-is, and taking the whole of them together to be proper to the thing? For this is what it is for that thing to be what it is. Or has one, once again, simply assumed the essence in this too? For it is necessary to show it through the middle term.
13| Further, just as in a syllogism it is not assumed what "having reasoned syllogistically" is (for the premise from which the syllogism proceeds is always the whole or a part), so too the essence need not be present within the syllogism, but should stand apart from what is laid down; and to someone who disputes whether a conclusion has been reached or not, one should answer, "yes, for this was the syllogism"; and to someone who says the essence has not been established by syllogism, one should say, "yes it has, for this was laid down by us as the essence." So it is necessary that a syllogism, or a proof of the essence, be established of something even without the "what." And even if one demonstrates from a hypothesis — for instance: if being bad is being divisible, and being the contrary of something is being the contrary of the contrary, for all things that have some contrary; and the good is the contrary of the bad, and the indivisible is the contrary of the divisible; then it follows that being good is being indivisible — even here, in demonstrating, one takes the essence as an assumption; but one assumes it in order to demonstrate the essence of something else. Still, that is a different thing — granted; for in demonstrations too one shows that this holds of that, not that they are the same thing, nor things of which there is the same account, and it converts. But against both — against the one who demonstrates by division and against the one who reasons in this way — the same difficulty arises: why will man be a footed, two-footed animal, rather than an animal and footed and two-footed? For from what is assumed there is no necessity at all that the predicate become one thing, any more than that the same man be both musical and literate.
14| How, then, will the one who defines something show its substance, or what it is? He will not make it clear, as one demonstrating from agreed premises, that given those things something else must necessarily be so — for that is demonstration. Nor will he do it as one who reaches a conclusion by induction, through the particulars being clear, on the ground that everything is thus because nothing is otherwise; for that does not show what a thing is, but that it is or is not. What other way, then, remains? For surely he will not show it by perception, or by pointing a finger.
15| Again, how will he show what a thing is? For anyone who knows what man is, or anything else whatever, must also know that it is — for no one knows what a non-being is, but only what an account or a name signifies; when I say "goat-stag," I can know what the word signifies, but it is impossible to know what a goat-stag is. But then, if he is to show both what a thing is and that it is, how will he show this by the same account? For a definition makes clear one thing, and so does a demonstration; but what man is, and that man exists, are different. Further, we say it is necessary for everything that is to be shown by demonstration, unless it is a substance. But being is not a substance for anything, since being is not a genus. So there will have to be a demonstration that a thing is — which is in fact what the sciences do now. What "triangle" signifies, the geometer assumes; that it exists, he demonstrates. What, then, will the one defining show, other than what a triangle is? So someone who knows by a definition what a thing is will not know whether it exists. But that is impossible. And it is also clear, from the ways definitions are currently framed, that those who define do not show that the thing exists.
16| For even if there is something equal derived from the midpoint, still, why does the thing defined exist? And why is this a circle? One might just as well say it is made of orichalc. Definitions neither make clear that the thing spoken of is possible, nor that it is the very thing of which they claim to be definitions; it is always possible to ask "why." If, then, the one who defines shows either what a thing is or what the name signifies, and if it is in no way what the thing is, the definition would be an account signifying the same as a name. But that is absurd. For in the first place, there would then be definitions even of non-substances and of things that do not exist — since it is possible to signify even things that do not exist. Further, every account would then be a definition; for it would be possible to attach a name to any account whatever, so that we would all be conversing in definitions, and even the Iliad would be a definition. Again, no demonstration could ever demonstrate that this name signifies this thing; so definitions do not make that clear either. From these considerations, then, it appears that a definition and a syllogism are not the same thing, nor is a syllogism of the same thing as a definition; and further, that a definition neither demonstrates anything nor shows anything, and that what a thing is cannot be known either by definition or by demonstration.
17| We must consider again what in this is said rightly and what not rightly, and what a definition is, and whether there is in some way a demonstration and a definition of what a thing is, or none at all. Since, as we said, knowing what a thing is and knowing the cause of its existing are the same thing (the reason being that there is some cause, and this is either the same as the thing or different from it, and if different, either demonstrable or non-demonstrable) — if, then, it is different and admits of demonstration, the cause must be a middle term and must be shown in the first figure, since what is shown is universal and affirmative. One way, then, would be the one just examined: showing what a thing is through something else; for of essences the middle term must be an essence, and of proper attributes, a proper attribute. So it will show one of the two essences belonging to the same thing, but not the other. Now it has already been said that this way could not be a demonstration; but it is a dialectical syllogism of what a thing is. Let us state the way in which it is possible, speaking again from the beginning. Just as we seek the reason why when we already have the fact — and sometimes both become clear at once, though the reason why can never be known before the fact — so it is clear that likewise the essence cannot be known apart from the fact that the thing exists;
18| for it is impossible to know what a thing is while not knowing whether it exists. Now we grasp that a thing exists sometimes only accidentally, and sometimes by grasping something of the thing itself — for instance, of thunder, that it is a certain noise in the clouds; of eclipse, that it is a certain deprivation of light; of man, that he is a certain animal; of soul, that it is something that moves itself. Now in all cases where we know that a thing exists only accidentally, we are necessarily in no position at all with respect to what it is — for we do not even really know that it exists; and to seek what a thing is without grasping that it exists is to seek nothing at all. But where we grasp something of the thing, it is easier. So, as we stand with respect to whether it exists, so we stand with respect to what it is. Of the cases, then, where we grasp something of what a thing is, let the first be
19| as follows. Let eclipse be A, moon be C, and screening by the earth be B. Now to ask whether the moon is eclipsed or not is to ask whether B exists or not. And this is no different from asking whether there is an account of it; and if there is, we say that the eclipse exists too. Or again, of a pair of contradictories, to ask which one the account belongs to — whether to having two right angles or to not having them. When we find the answer, we know the fact and the reason why at the same time, if it is through immediate terms; if not, we know the fact, but not the reason why. Let moon be C, eclipse be A, and being unable, at full moon, to cast a shadow when nothing perceptible stands between us and it, be B. If, then, B — being unable to cast a shadow when nothing is between us — belongs to C, and A — having been eclipsed — belongs to B, it is clear that the moon is eclipsed, but not yet why; and we know that an eclipse exists, but not what it is. And once it is clear that A belongs to C, to ask why it belongs is to ask what B is — whether it is screening, or a turning of the moon, or an extinguishing.
20| This is the account of the other extreme term — in this case, of A. For an eclipse is a blocking of light by the earth. What is thunder? An extinguishing of fire in a cloud. Why does it thunder? Because the fire is extinguished in the cloud. Let cloud be C, thunder A, extinguishing of fire B. Then B belongs to C, the cloud (for the fire is extinguished in it), and A, noise, belongs to this; and B is indeed the account of the first extreme term. And if again there is some other middle term for this, it will come from the remaining accounts. How, then, the what-it-is is grasped and becomes known has been stated: so that there is no syllogism of the what-it-is, nor demonstration of it, yet it is made evident through syllogism and through demonstration. So that the what-it-is cannot be known without demonstration where there is some other cause of it, nor is there demonstration of it itself — as we also said in stating the difficulties. Now of some things there is some other cause, and of others there is not. So it is clear that, among the things that are a what-it-is, some are immediate and principles, which one must posit both as being and as being what they are, or else make evident in some other way
21| (which is what the arithmetician does: he posits both what the unit is, and that it is). But of those that have a middle term, and of which there is some other cause of their substance, it is possible to make this evident through demonstration, as we said, without demonstrating the what-it-is itself. Since a definition is said to be an account of the what-it-is, it is clear that one kind of definition will be an account of what a name signifies, or another, name-like account — for instance, what "triangle" signifies. Once we have this — that it is — we then look for why it is; but it is hard to grasp things in this way when we do not know that they are. The cause of this difficulty has been stated before: that we do not even know whether a thing is or not, except accidentally. (An account is one in two ways: one by conjunction, as the Iliad is one, the other by signifying one thing of one thing, not accidentally.) One kind of definition of a term, then, is the one just described; another kind of definition is an account that makes clear why a thing is. So the former signifies but does not prove, while the latter will clearly be, as it were, a demonstration of the what-it-is, differing from a demonstration in its arrangement. For it makes a difference whether one says why it thunders or what thunder is: in the one case one will say, because the fire is extinguished in the clouds; but what is thunder? A noise of fire being extinguished in the clouds. So the same account is stated in a different way — in the one way a continuous demonstration, in the other a definition.
22| (Further, a definition of thunder is: noise in the clouds; and this is the conclusion of the demonstration of the what-it-is.) The definition of immediate things is a positing of the what-it-is, undemonstrated. Definition, then, is in one sense an undemonstrated account of the what-it-is; in another, a syllogism of the what-it-is, differing from a demonstration in grammatical case; and in a third sense, the conclusion of the demonstration of the what-it-is. It is clear, then, from what has been said, both how there is demonstration of the what-it-is and how there is not, and of what things there is and of what things there is not; further, in how many ways definition is spoken of, and how it shows the what-it-is and how it does not, and of what things it holds and of what it does not; further, how it stands in relation to demonstration, and how it is and how it is not possible for the same thing to be both.
23| Since we think we have knowledge when we know the cause, and there are four causes — one, the essence; one, what things being the case make it necessary that this be; another, what first set the thing in motion; and a fourth, that for the sake of which — all of these are shown through the middle term. For that, given which something else must be, is not shown when a single premise is taken, but when two are; and this occurs when they have one middle term. So once this one thing is taken, the conclusion is necessarily so. This is clear also in the following way. Why is the angle in a semicircle right? Given what is it right? Let A be right, B half of two right angles, C the angle in a semicircle. Then the cause of the right angle belonging to C, the angle in the semicircle, is B: for this angle is equal to A, and C is equal to B, since it is half of two right angles. So, given that B is half of two right angles, it belongs to C — and this was just what it is for the angle in a semicircle to be right. And this is the same as the essence, in that this is what the account signifies. But indeed it has also been shown that the essence, that is, the middle term, is a cause.
24| Why did the Persian war come about for the Athenians? What is the cause of the Athenians being made war on? Because they invaded Sardis together with the Eretrians: for this is what first set it in motion. Let war be A, being the first to invade B, the Athenians C. Then B belongs to C: being the first to invade belongs to the Athenians. And A belongs to B: for men make war on those who first do them wrong. So A belongs to B — being made war on belongs to those who were first to begin — and this, B, belongs to the Athenians, for they were first to begin. So here too the middle term is the cause, the thing that first set the war in motion. Now of things whose cause is that for the sake of which — for instance, why does he walk about? So that he may be healthy. Why is there a house?
25| So that the furnishings may be preserved — the one is for the sake of being healthy, the other for the sake of preservation. And it makes no difference whether one asks why one must walk about after dinner, or for the sake of what one must. Let walking about after dinner be C, the food's not floating up be B, being healthy be A. Let it be posited that walking about after dinner has the effect of making the food not float up near the mouth of the stomach, and that this is healthy. For it seems that B, the not floating up of the food, belongs to C, walking about, and that A, being healthy, belongs to this. What, then, is the cause for C of A's belonging to it — the that-for-the-sake-of-which? It is B, the not floating up. And this is, as it were, an account of A: for A will be rendered in these terms. Why does B belong to C? Because this is what being in such a condition is. But one must translate the accounts into one another, and in this way each point will be more apparent. Here the comings-to-be are reversed compared to those among causes involving motion: there the middle term must come about first, but here C, the last term, comes first, and last of all the that-for-the-sake-of-which. And it is possible for the same thing to be both for the sake of something and of necessity — for instance, light through a lantern:
26| for it is also of necessity that what has smaller parts passes through the larger pores, if indeed light comes about by passing through them, and also for the sake of something, namely so that we may not stumble. Is it, then, the case that if it is possible for a thing to be, it is also possible for it to come to be — as, for instance, if it thunders because, when the fire is extinguished, it is necessary that it hiss and make noise; and also, if the Pythagoreans say so, for the sake of threatening those in Tartarus, so that they may be afraid? There are very many such cases, and especially among things constituted and composed by nature: for nature does some things for the sake of something, and others of necessity. And necessity is twofold: one kind in accordance with nature and its impulse, the other by force, contrary to impulse — as, for instance, a stone is of necessity carried both upward and downward, but not by the same necessity. But among things that come from thought, some never come about by chance — for instance a house or a statue — nor of necessity, but for the sake of something; while others also come about by luck, for instance health and safety. And it is especially in cases where a thing can turn out this way or otherwise, when the coming-to-be, not being by chance, is such that the end is good, that it comes about for the sake of something, either by nature or by craft. But nothing that comes about by luck comes about for the sake of something.
27| The same cause applies to things coming to be, things that have come to be, and things that will be, as applies to things that are (for the middle term is the cause), except that for things that are, it is a cause that is; for things coming to be, one that is coming to be; for things that have come to be, one that has come to be; and for things that will be, one that will be. For example: why has an eclipse occurred? Because the earth has come to be in the middle; it is occurring because it is occurring; it will be because it will be; and it is because it is. What is ice? Let it be taken that it is water that has solidified. Let water be C, solidified be A, and let the cause, the middle term, be B: complete failure of heat. Then B belongs to C, and to this belongs the being-solidified, which is A. Ice comes to be when B is coming to be, has come to be when B has come to be, and will be when B will be. So a cause of this sort, and that of which it is a cause, come to be together, when it comes to be, and are together, when it is; and likewise for having come to be and being about to be. But in the case of things not simultaneous, is it as we suppose, that within continuous time different things are causes of different things - one thing having come to be being the cause of this thing's coming to be, one thing about to be being the cause of that thing's being about to be, and one thing coming to be being the cause of another's coming to be, if something earlier came to be?
28| The syllogism proceeds from what came to be later (the starting-point even for these being the things that have come to be); hence it is the same with things coming to be. But it does not proceed from what is earlier - as, since this came to be, that came to be later; and likewise for what will be. For neither if the time is indefinite nor if it is determinate will it be true, from the fact that it is true to say this has come to be, to say that the later thing has come to be. For in the interval it will be false to say this, once the other has already come to be. The same account holds for what will be too: it is not the case that, since this has come to be, that will be. For the middle term must be of the same kind as its extremes - of things that have come to be, one that has come to be; of things that will be, one that will be; of things coming to be, one that is coming to be; of things that are, one that is. But between having-come-to-be and being-about-to-be there cannot be a term of the same kind.
29| Further, the intervening time can be neither indefinite nor determinate; for it will be false to make any statement within the interval. We must examine what it is that holds things together, so that after having-come-to-be, coming-to-be belongs in the facts. Or is it clear that what is coming to be is not next to what has come to be? For neither is one thing that has come to be next to another thing that has come to be; for these are limits and indivisible - just as points are not next to one another, neither are things that have come to be, for both are indivisible. Nor, for the same reason, is what is coming to be next to what has come to be; for what is coming to be is divisible, while what has come to be is indivisible. So as a line stands to a point, so does what is coming to be stand to what has come to be; for infinitely many things that have come to be are present within what is coming to be. But this must be stated more clearly in the general discussion of motion. So much, then, let this account, taken this far, say about how the middle term as cause would hold if the coming-to-be proceeds in succession. For in these cases too the middle term and the first term must be immediate. For example: A has come to be, since C has come to be (C came to be later, A earlier; C is the starting-point because it is nearer to the now, which is the starting-point of time).
30| And C has come to be, if D has come to be. So if D has come to be, A must have come to be. And the cause is this: if D has come to be, C must have come to be, and if C has come to be, A must have come to be earlier. Taking the middle term in this way, will it at some point come to rest at an immediate term, or will another always be interposed, because of infinity? For, as was said, a thing that has come to be is not next to another thing that has come to be. But nonetheless it is necessary to start from an immediate term, and from the first now. The same holds for what will be. For if it is true to say that D will be, it must be true earlier to say that A will be. And the cause of this is C; for if D will be, C will be earlier, and if C will be, A will be earlier. And likewise the division is infinite in these cases too; for things that will be are not next to one another. Here too an immediate starting-point must be taken. This is how it stands with works: if a house has come to be, stones must have been cut
31| and have come to be. Why is this? Because a foundation must have come to be, if indeed a house has come to be; and if a foundation, then stones must have come to be earlier. Again, if a house will be, likewise stones will be earlier, and this is shown through the middle term in the same way; for a foundation will be earlier. Now since we see that among things coming to be there is a kind of circular coming-to-be, this can happen, provided the middle term and the extremes follow one another; for in these cases there is conversion. It has been shown in the earlier discussions that the conclusions convert; and this is what circular means. It appears in the case of works as follows: when the earth has been wetted, vapor must come to be; when this has come to be, cloud; when this has come to be, water; and when this has come to be, the earth must have been wetted - but this was the starting-point, so it has come round in a circle; for when any one of these is present, another is present, and from that another, and from this the first. Now some things come to be universally (for they always and in every case either are so or come to be so in this way), while others do not always so come to be but for the most part - for example, not every male human grows a beard, but this happens for the most part. Of such things, the middle term too must hold for the most part. For if A is predicated universally of B, and B universally of C, then A must be predicated of C always and in every case; for this is what universal means - holding in every case and always. But it was assumed to hold for the most part; therefore the middle term too, the one for which B stands, must hold for the most part. There will, then, be immediate starting-points even among things that hold for the most part - as many as are or come to be in this way, for the most part.
32| How the what-it-is is rendered into terms, and in what way there is or is not demonstration or definition of it, has been stated earlier. Let us now say how one ought to hunt for the things predicated in the what-it-is. Among the attributes that always belong to each thing, some extend more widely, yet not outside the genus. By belonging more widely I mean whatever belongs universally to each thing, and yet also to
33| something else. For example, there is something that belongs to every triad, but also to what is not a triad - as being belongs to the triad, but also to what is not a number; while the odd belongs to every triad, and belongs more widely too (for it belongs to the pentad as well), but not outside the genus; for the pentad is a number, and nothing outside number is odd. Such attributes must be taken up to the point where just so many are taken, being first, as each belong more widely, but not all of them together belong more widely; for this combination must be the substance of the thing. For example, to every triad belong: number, the odd, being prime in both senses - both as not being measured by a number, and as not being composed of numbers. This, then, is already the triad: a number, odd, prime, and prime in this latter way. For of these, some belong to all odd numbers as well, while the last also belongs to the dyad, but all together belong to none other. Since it has been shown by us above that the things predicated in the what-it-is are universal (and universal things are necessary), and since these are what are taken as belonging to the triad - and to anything else to which they are taken in this same way, as belonging in the what-it-is - it follows that the triad would be these things of necessity.
34| That it is a substance is clear from the following. For necessarily, if this were not what it is to be a triad, this would be some genus, either named or nameless. It will then belong to more things than the triad. For let the genus be assumed to be such that, in virtue of its potentiality, it holds of more things. If then it belongs to nothing else but the atomic triads, this would be what it is to be a triad (for let this too be assumed: that the substance of each thing is the ultimate such predication that holds of the atomic individuals); so that likewise, for anything else shown in this way, what it is to be that thing will hold too. Now when one is working through some whole, one must divide the genus into the individuals that are first in form—for instance number into triad and dyad—and then try to grasp definitions of those, for instance of the straight line and the circle and the right angle; and after that, having grasped what the genus is, for instance whether it is one of the quantities or one of the qualities, study the attributes proper to it by means of the first common items.
35| For in the case of things composed out of the individuals, what follows from them will be evident from the definitions, because the definition is the starting point of everything, and the simple; and it is only to the simple things that the attributes belong in their own right, while to the others they belong on account of those. Divisions made according to the differentiae are useful for proceeding in this way; how they demonstrate has been stated earlier. They would be useful only in this way, for syllogizing what a thing is. And yet it might seem that they show nothing, but assume everything straightaway, as if one were assuming it from the start without the division. But it makes some difference which of the predicated items is predicated first and which later—for instance, to say "tame biped animal" rather than "biped tame animal." For if the whole is made of two things, and "tame animal" is some one thing, and again man, or whatever the one thing so named happens to be, is made out of this and the differentia, then in dividing one must proceed by demand accordingly. Further, it is only in this way that nothing can be left out in stating what a thing is. For when the first genus has been taken, if one then takes one of the divisions from further down, not everything will fall under it—for instance, not every animal is either whole-winged or split-winged, but every winged animal is one or the other;
36| for this is the differentia of that group. The first differentia of animal is the one into which every animal falls. And likewise for each of the others too, both the genera outside it and those under it—for instance of bird, the differentia into which every bird falls, and of fish, into which every fish falls. Proceeding in this way, then, one can know that nothing has been left out; proceeding otherwise, one is bound to leave something out, and not know it—for there is no reason why the person defining and dividing should know everything there is. And yet some say it is impossible to know the differentiae that belong to each thing without knowing each thing; and without the differentiae, they say, it is impossible to know each thing—for a thing is the same as that from which it does not differ, and other than that from which it differs. Now, in the first place, this is false: for a thing is not "other" in virtue of every differentia; many differentiae belong to things that are the same in species, but not with respect to substance nor in their own right.
37| Again, when one has grasped the opposed pair and the differentia, and that everything falls into the one or the other, and has grasped that the thing sought is in one of them, and knows this, it makes no difference whether one knows or does not know the further things of which the differentiae are also predicated. For it is clear that if one proceeds in this way and arrives at things that no longer admit of a differentia, one will have the account of the substance. And that everything falls within the division, provided the opposed terms are such that there is nothing between them, is not something one needs to postulate; for necessarily everything is in one or the other of them, if it is indeed the differentia of that genus. As for what one should aim at in constructing a definition by means of divisions, there are three things: to grasp the items predicated in what a thing is; to arrange these as to which is first and which second; and to establish that these are all of them. The first of these is possible through being able to syllogize, as with an accident, that it belongs, and to establish it by means of the genus. The proper ordering will be achieved if one grasps what is first. This will be achieved if one takes what follows on all the items while not everything follows on it; for there must be some such thing. Once this has been taken, the same method applies again to the items below: for the first of the others will be second, and third will be the first of the remaining ones;
38| for once what stands above has been removed, what remains will be first among the others. And likewise for the rest as well. That these are all of them is clear from taking the first item by division—that every animal is either this or that, and this belongs to it—and again taking the differentia of this whole, and that of the last item there is no longer a differentia, or rather that, immediately with the last differentia, the compound no longer differs in species at all. For it is clear that nothing more is added, since everything has been taken up in what the thing is, and nothing is left out; for whatever was left out would have to be either a genus or a differentia. Now the genus is the first item, together with this taken along with the differentiae; and all the differentiae are included, for there is no later one—since otherwise the last item would differ in species, but it has been stated that it does not differ. One should inquire by looking at things that are alike and undifferentiated,
39| first, what all of them have that is the same; then again in the case of others, which are in the same genus as those, but are themselves the same as one another in species, though different from the former. When it has been grasped what all of these have that is the same, and likewise for the others, one should look again at the items so grasped, to see whether they are the same, until one arrives at a single account—for this will be the definition of the thing. But if it does not converge on one thing but on two or more, it is clear that what is sought would not be some one thing, but several. For example, I mean this: if we were inquiring what greatness of soul is, we should examine some great-souled people whom we know, to see what one thing all of them have in virtue of being such. For instance, if Alcibiades was great-souled, or Achilles and Ajax, what do they all have in common? Not putting up with being insulted—for one made war, another raged, another killed himself. Again, in the case of others, Lysander say, or Socrates. If then what they have in common is being unaffected alike by good fortune and bad, I take these two traits and examine what is the same in them—both the indifference toward fortune and the refusal to endure dishonor. But if there is nothing common, there would be two species of greatness of soul.
40| Every definition is always universal; for the doctor does not prescribe what is healthy for some particular eye, but marks it off either for every eye or for a given kind. It is easier to define the particular case than the universal, which is why one should pass from particulars to universals; for equivocations too go unnoticed more in universals than in things undifferentiated from one another. And just as in demonstrations there must be a valid syllogism, so too in definitions there must be clarity. This will come about if, through what has been grasped in particular cases, one defines separately what belongs in each genus—for instance not "the similar" as a whole, but the similar in colors and in shapes, and "sharp" separately in sound—and so proceeds toward what is common, being careful not to run into an equivocation. And if one must not argue by means of metaphors, it is clear that one must not define by means of metaphors either, nor define things that are spoken of metaphorically; for otherwise one would necessarily be arguing by means of metaphors. To have the problems available, one must select the
41| ...the dissections and the divisions, and one must select in this way: positing the genus common to all the things examined — for instance, if the things examined were animals — determine what belongs to every animal; and once these are grasped, again, of what remains, determine what follows every member of the first subordinate group — for instance, if this group is bird, what follows every bird — and so on always down to the nearest group. For it is clear that we shall then be able to state the reason why the following attributes belong to the things falling under the common genus — for instance, why they belong to man or to horse. Let animal be A, let B be the attributes following every animal, and let C, D be certain animals. It is then clear why B belongs to D: because of A. And likewise for the others; and always the same account holds as we move down through the lower groups. Now, we have so far been speaking in terms of the traditionally handed-down common names, but one must not confine one's inquiry to these alone; if some other common attribute is seen to hold, one must take it up as well, and then ask to which things it attaches and what follows upon it — for instance, to the horned animals belongs having a multi-chambered stomach, and not having teeth in both jaws; and again, to which animals does having horns itself belong? For then it will be clear why the stated attribute belongs to those animals — since it belongs to them because they have horns. There is, further, another way of selecting, proceeding by analogy. For it is not possible to grasp one and the same thing to call, indifferently, the cuttlebone, the fish-spine, and the bone; yet there will be attributes following upon these too, as though there were some single nature common to them of this kind.
42| Some problems are the same because they have the same middle term — for instance, that all such cases are cases of mutual displacement. Others are the same in genus, namely those which have differences by belonging to different things, or by belonging in different ways — for instance, why there is an echo, why there is a reflected image, and why there is a rainbow; for all of these are the same problem in genus, since all are cases of reflection, but they differ in species. Others differ as problems by having their middle term fall under a further, different middle term — for instance, why does the Nile flow more heavily as the month wanes? Because the waning month is more wintry. And why is the waning month more wintry? Because the moon is failing. For these facts stand in this relation to one another.
43| Concerning the cause and that of which it is the cause, one might raise the puzzle: whenever the effect is present, is the cause also present? (Just as, if a plant sheds its leaves, or the moon is eclipsed, the cause of the eclipse or of the leaf-shedding will also be present — for instance, if the effect in question is having broad leaves, and the cause of the eclipse is the earth's being in the middle; for if the cause is not present, something else will be the cause of these effects.) And, conversely, if the cause is present, is the effect present at the same time? (For instance, if the earth is in the middle, the moon is eclipsed; or if a plant is broad-leaved, it sheds its leaves.) And if this is so, would cause and effect exist together and be demonstrated through each other? Let leaf-shedding be A, being broad-leaved be B, and vine be C. If, then, A belongs to B (for every broad-leaved plant sheds its leaves), and B belongs to C (for every vine is broad-leaved), then A belongs to C, and every vine sheds its leaves. And the cause is B, the middle term. But it is also possible to demonstrate, through leaf-shedding, that the vine is broad-leaved. Let D be broad-leaved, E be leaf-shedding, and vine be F.
44| To F, then, E belongs (for every vine sheds its leaves), and to E, D belongs (for everything that sheds its leaves is broad-leaved); therefore every vine is broad-leaved. And the cause here is leaf-shedding. But if it is not possible for two things to be causes of each other — for the cause is prior to that of which it is the cause, and the cause of the eclipse is the earth's being in the middle, whereas the earth's being in the middle is not the cause of the eclipse — then, since demonstration through the cause gives the reason why, while demonstration not through the cause gives only the fact that, in the second case one knows that the earth is in the middle, but not why. And it is evident that leaf-shedding is not the cause of the earth's being in the middle, but rather this is the cause of leaf-shedding; for in the account of eclipse, the earth's being in the middle is contained, so that it is clear that it is through this that the other is known, and not this through that. But is it possible for one thing to have several causes? Indeed it is, if the same attribute can be predicated primitively of several subjects. Let A belong primitively to B, and also, as another primitive case, to C, and let B and C belong to D and E respectively. Then A will belong to D and E. And the cause is B for D, and C for E.
45| So that when the cause is present, the effect is of necessity present; but when the effect is present, it is not necessary that every possible cause be present — some cause is present, but not every one. Or is it rather this: since the problem is always universal, the cause too is some whole, and that of which it is the cause is likewise universal? For instance, leaf-shedding is marked off as belonging to some whole kind, even if there are species of it, and is universal with respect to these — either to plants in general, or to plants of a certain kind; so that the middle term must be equal in extension both to these subjects and to that of which it is the cause, and must be convertible with it. For instance, why do trees shed their leaves? If it is because of the congealing of the sap, then, if a tree sheds its leaves, congealing must be present in it, and if congealing is present — not in just anything, but in a tree — then leaf-shedding must follow.
46| Is it possible for the same effect not to have the same cause in every instance, but a different one, or is this not possible? If the conclusion has been demonstrated in its own right, and not by way of a sign or an accident, this is not possible; for the middle term is the account of the extreme term. But if it has not been demonstrated in this way, it is possible. It is also possible to examine that of which something is the cause with respect to accident, though such connections are not thought to be genuine problems. But where the demonstration is not in its own right, the middle term will behave correspondingly: if the extreme terms are equivocal, the middle term is equivocal; if they belong as falling under one genus, the middle term will behave in the same fashion. For instance, why does proportion hold by alternation as well as by simple ratio? The cause is different in the case of lines and of numbers, and yet the same too — different insofar as the subject is a line, but the same insofar as it has an increase of a certain kind. And so it is in every such case. But of things being alike in color and alike in shape, the cause is different for the one and for the other. For 'alike' is equivocal in these cases: in the one case it means, perhaps, having proportional sides and equal angles, while in the case of colors it means that the perception of them is one, or something else of that kind. But things that are the same by analogy will also have their middle term by analogy. And the cause, that of which it is the cause, and that to which it belongs, accompany one another in the following way. Taking each singly, that of which something is the cause extends more widely than the cause itself — for instance, having exterior angles equal to four right angles extends more widely than triangle or square — but taken all together, it is equal in extension to it, since it holds of all and only the things that have exterior angles equal to four right angles. And the middle term behaves in the same way. The middle term is an account —
47| ...of the first extreme term. That is why all the sciences come about through definition. For instance, shedding of leaves goes together with the vine, and applies more widely than the vine; it goes together with the fig tree too, and again applies more widely — but it does not exceed them all — with the whole class it is coextensive. If, then, you take the first middle term, it is the account of shedding leaves. For there will first be a middle term on one side, namely that all such plants have such-and-such a feature; and then a middle term for this, namely that the sap congeals, or something else of that kind. And what is shedding of leaves? The congealing of the sap at the point where the seed is attached. In the case of figures, this is how one should set the matter out for those inquiring into the coextension of the cause and that of which it is the cause. Let A hold of all B, and let B hold of each of the Ds, but of more things besides. Then B would be universal to the Ds — for I call universal that which does not convert, but the primary universal is that of which, while no single term converts with it, all the terms together do convert with it and extend equally. So for the Ds, B is the cause of A. A must therefore extend more widely than B; otherwise, why would this be the cause of that rather than the reverse? If, then, A holds of all the things wider than the Ds, there will be some single thing, other than B, that is the cause for those. For if not, ...that A holds of everything of which E holds, but E does not hold of everything of which A holds? For why will there not be some cause why A holds of all of them, just as there was for the Ds? But will those wider things also form some single thing? This must be examined; let it be called C. It is possible, then, for there to be several causes of one and the same thing, but not for things that are the same in species — for instance, of being long-lived: in four-footed animals the cause is not having bile, in winged animals it is being dry, or something else of that kind. But if the inquirers do not arrive at once at the indivisible term, and
48| the middle term is not one but several, then the causes too are several. But which of the middle terms is the cause — the one nearer to the primary universal, or the one nearer to the particular, for the particulars? Clearly it is the one nearest to each thing that is its cause. For this is the cause of the primary universal's holding beneath it — for instance, C is the cause of B's holding of D. So for D, C is the cause of A; for C, it is B; and for B, it is B itself.
49| Concerning syllogism and demonstration, then — what each of them is and how it comes about — this is now clear, and at the same time also concerning demonstrative knowledge, since it is the same thing. But concerning the principles — how they become known, and what the knowing state of mind is — this will become clear once we have first worked through some preliminary difficulties. We have said before that it is not possible to have knowledge through demonstration without knowing the primary, immediate principles. But as for the knowledge of immediates, one might raise the difficulty whether it is the same kind of knowledge as demonstrative knowledge or not the same; and whether there is knowledge of each of the two, or knowledge of the one and some other kind of thing for the other; and whether the states are not present in us and come to be, or are present in us without our noticing. Now if we already possess them, it is absurd — for it follows that we possess pieces of knowledge more exact than demonstration without our having noticed it. But if we acquire them without having had them before, how could we come to know and learn them except from pre-existing knowledge? For that is impossible, as we said also concerning demonstration. It is clear, then, that it is not possible either to possess them, or for them to come to be in people who are ignorant and possess no state of mind at all. We must therefore possess some capacity, but not one so constituted as to outrank these principles in exactness. And this evidently belongs to all animals. For they possess an innate discriminating capacity, which is called perception. And when perception is present, in some animals a retention of what was perceived comes about, and in others it does not. Now for those in which it does not come about, there is no knowledge outside of perceiving — either at all, or with respect to the things for which it does not come about; but for those in which, once they have perceived, the perceived object still remains present in the soul, knowledge does come about. And when many such retentions come about, a further difference then arises, so that for some a rational account comes about from the persistence of such things, while for others it does not.
50| From perception, then, memory comes about, as we say; and from memory, when it occurs often of the same thing, experience — for memories that are many in number amount to a single experience. And from experience, or from the whole universal that has come to rest in the soul — the one over and above the many, whatever is one and the same in all of those particulars — comes the starting point of craft and of knowledge: of craft, if it concerns coming-to-be; of knowledge, if it concerns what is. So these states are neither present in us already determinate, nor do they come about from other states that are more knowing than they are; rather they come from perception — as in a battle, when a rout occurs, if one man makes a stand, another stands too, and then another, until it reaches the starting point. And the soul is of such a nature as to be capable of undergoing this. What was said just now, though not clearly, let us say again. When one of the undifferentiated items has made a stand, there is a first universal present in the soul — for although what one perceives is the particular, perception is of the universal, for instance of man, not of Callias the man. Again a stand is made among these, until the partless items — the universals — make their stand; for instance, such-and-such a species of animal, until one reaches animal, and so likewise for this.
51| It is clear, then, that we must come to know the primary things by induction; for this is in fact how perception instills the universal as well. Now among the states of mind by which we grasp the truth, some are always true, while others admit falsehood — for instance opinion and calculation — but knowledge and intellect are always true, and no other kind of thing is more exact than knowledge except intellect. And the principles of demonstrations are more familiar than what follows from them, while all knowledge involves an account. There could not, then, be knowledge of the principles; but since nothing can be truer than knowledge except intellect, there would be intellect of the principles — this follows both from these considerations, and from the fact that the principle of a demonstration is not itself a demonstration, so that the principle of knowledge is not itself knowledge. If, then, we possess no other kind of thing that is true besides knowledge, intellect would be the principle of knowledge. And it would be the principle of the starting point, while knowledge as a whole stands in a similar relation to its whole subject matter.
1| Topics, Book 1. The aim of this treatise is to find a method by which we will be able to reason deductively about any problem set before us on the basis of generally accepted opinions, and by which, when we ourselves are sustaining an argument, we will avoid saying anything self-contradictory. First, then, we must state what a syllogism is and what its differentiae are, so that the dialectical syllogism may be grasped, since it is this that we are seeking in the treatise before us. A syllogism, then, is an argument in which, certain things having been laid down, something other than what was laid down follows of necessity through what was laid down. It is a demonstration when the syllogism proceeds from things true and primary, or from such things as have gained the origin of the knowledge about them through things true and primary; it is a dialectical syllogism when it reasons from generally accepted opinions. Things are true and primary when they carry conviction not through other things but through themselves; for in the case of the first principles of a science one should not go on asking the reason why, but each of the principles should be convincing in its own right. Generally accepted opinions, on the other hand, are those accepted by everyone, or by the majority, or by the wise -- and among the wise, either by all of them, or by the majority, or by the most notable and reputable of them. A contentious syllogism is one that proceeds from opinions that appear to be generally accepted but are not, or one that merely appears to proceed from generally accepted opinions, or from opinions that merely appear to be generally accepted.
2| For not everything that appears to be a generally accepted opinion actually is one. None of the things called generally accepted opinions has an altogether superficial appearance, of the sort that occurs at the starting points of contentious arguments; for there the nature of the falsehood is at once evident, for the most part, even to those with only a slight power of insight. Of the two kinds of contentious syllogisms just mentioned, let the first be called a syllogism as well; let the other be called a contentious syllogism, but not a syllogism, since it appears to reason but does not actually reason. Further, besides all the syllogisms mentioned, there are the false reasonings that arise from premises proper to particular sciences, as happens in the case of geometry and its kindred sciences. This kind of reasoning seems to differ from the syllogisms mentioned; for the one who draws a false figure reasons neither from things true and primary nor from generally accepted opinions. For he does not fall under the definition: he takes neither what everyone thinks, nor what the majority think, nor what the wise think -- and among the wise, neither what all, nor what the majority, nor what the most reputable of them think -- but constructs his syllogism from premises that are proper to the science in question but are not true. For he produces his false reasoning either by describing semicircles not as they should be described, or by drawing certain lines not as they would be drawn.
3| Let the kinds of syllogisms just described, then, stand as an outline account of them. To speak generally about all of these and those still to be discussed, let it be settled to this extent: that we do not propose to give a precise account of any of them, but wish only to go through them in outline, considering it wholly sufficient for the method before us to be able to recognize each of them in some way. Following on from what has been said, it would be appropriate to state for how many purposes, and which, this study is useful. It is useful for three: for mental training, for encounters with others, and for the philosophical sciences. That it is useful for training is obvious from the facts themselves; for once we possess a method we will be more easily able to argue about whatever is proposed. It is useful for encounters with people because, having enumerated the opinions held by the majority, we will deal with them not on the basis of other people's convictions but on the basis of their own beliefs, shifting whatever they seem to us to be saying incorrectly. It is useful for the philosophical sciences because, being able to work through the difficulties on both sides of a question, we will more easily discern in each case what is true and what is false. Further, it is useful with regard to the primary things among the principles proper to each science. For it is impossible to say anything about these on the basis of the principles proper to the particular science under discussion, since the principles are what is primary in relation to everything else, and it is necessary to work through them by means of the generally accepted opinions about each. This task is peculiar, or most especially proper, to dialectic; for being an art of examination, it holds a path toward the principles of all methods of inquiry.
4| We will possess the method completely when we are in the same position as we are with regard to rhetoric and medicine and abilities of that kind. This means producing, out of what is available, what we have chosen to produce. For neither will the skilled speaker persuade by every possible means, nor will the skilled physician heal by every possible means; but if he leaves out none of the available means, we will say that he possesses the science adequately.
5| First, then, we must consider from what elements the method proceeds. If we could grasp for how many purposes, and of what sorts, and from what materials arguments are constructed, and how we are to become well supplied with these, we would have an adequate grasp of the task before us. Now the things from which arguments proceed and the things about which syllogisms are concerned are equal in number and the same. For arguments arise out of premises, while the things syllogisms are about are problems. Every premise and every problem indicates either a genus, a property, or an accident -- for the differentia, being generic in character, should be classed together with the genus. But since a property may in one case signify the essence and in another case not, let property be divided into both of the parts just mentioned, and let the part that signifies the essence be called a definition, while the remainder be called, following the common usage established for it, a property. It is clear, then, from what has been said, that on the present division everything reduces to four things in all: property, definition, genus, or accident. Let no one suppose we are saying that each of these, taken by itself, is a premise or a problem; rather, it is from these that both problems and premises arise. A problem and a premise differ in their manner of expression. For when it is put this way -- 'Is 'a terrestrial two-footed animal' the definition of man?' or 'Is animal the genus of man?' -- it becomes a premise. But when it is put as 'Whether a footed, two-footed animal is or is not the definition of man' or 'whether animal is its genus,' it becomes a problem. And likewise with the others. So it is reasonable that problems and premises are equal in number; for from every premise you will produce a problem by changing its manner of expression.
6| We must now say what a definition is, what a property is, what a genus is, and what an accident is. A definition is an account that signifies the essence. It is rendered either as an account in place of a name, or as an account in place of another account -- for it is also possible to define some of the things signified by an account. Those who render their account by means of a mere name in any way whatsoever clearly do not render the definition of the thing, since every definition is some kind of account. Still, something of this sort should also be classed as definitional -- for instance, that the fine is the fitting. Likewise too the question whether perception and knowledge are the same or different; for concerning definitions as well, most of the discussion turns on whether they are the same or different. Let us, speaking generally, call definitional everything that falls under the same method as definitions. That everything just mentioned is of this kind is clear from the examples themselves. For if we are able to argue that two things are the same or that they are different, we will in the same way be well equipped to attack definitions as well; for by showing that a thing is not the same as something else, we will have demolished the definition. However, the converse of what has just been said does not hold: showing that two things are the same is not sufficient to establish a definition. But to demolish one, it is sufficient to show that they are not the same.
7| A property is something that does not show the essence, but belongs only to the thing and is counterpredicated of it — for example, it is a property of man to be capable of grammar; for if something is a man, it is capable of grammar, and if it is capable of grammar, it is a man. For no one calls a property something that can belong to something else as well, such as sleeping in the case of man, nor even something that happens at some particular time to belong to it alone. But if any such thing is called a property, it will not be called a property without qualification, but a property at some time or in relation to something: being on the right is at some time a property, while being two-footed happens to be called a property in relation to something, for example of man in relation to horse and dog. And it is clear that nothing that can belong to something else is counterpredicated of it; for it is not necessary, if something is sleeping, that it be a man. A genus is what is predicated in the category of what a thing is of several things that differ in species. Let those things be said to be predicated in the category of what a thing is which it is fitting to give in answer to the question what the thing before us is — just as, in the case of man, it is fitting, if asked what the thing before us is, to say that it is an animal. It also belongs to the genus to determine whether one thing is in the same genus as another or in a different one.
8| For this question, too, falls under the same method as the genus; for by arguing that animal is the genus of man, and likewise of ox, we shall have argued that they are in the same genus. And if we show that the one is a genus of something and the other is not, we shall have argued that they are not in the same genus. An accident is what is none of these — neither definition, nor property, nor genus — but belongs to the thing, and is such that it can belong to any one and the same thing or not belong to it; for example, sitting can belong to some one and the same thing, or not belong to it. Likewise also white: for nothing prevents the same thing from being white at one time and not white at another. Of the two definitions of accident the second is better; for the first, if one is to understand it, requires one already to know beforehand what definition and genus and property are, whereas the second is self-sufficient for recognizing what is meant, in its own right. Let there also be added to accident the comparisons made between things with one another, said in whatever way from accident — for example, whether the fine or the advantageous is more choiceworthy, and whether the life according to virtue or the life according to enjoyment is more pleasant, and anything else that happens to be said in a similar way to these;
9| for in all such cases the inquiry is about which of the two the predicate belongs to more. It is clear from this that nothing prevents an accident from becoming at some time and in relation to something a property — for example, sitting, though it is an accident, will be a property when someone alone is sitting, but when he is not the only one sitting, it is a property in relation to those who are not sitting. So that nothing prevents an accident from becoming a property both in relation to something and at some time; but it will not be a property without qualification. We should not fail to notice that the points made regarding property and genus and accident will fit for being said with regard to definitions as well. For by showing that what is given does not belong only to the thing under the definition, as was also the case with property, or that what is rendered in the definition is not a genus, or that something of what is stated in the account does not belong, which could also be said with regard to accident, we shall have demolished the definition; so that, on the account given earlier, all the things enumerated would in a way be relevant to definitions. But this is not a reason to look for one single universal method applying to all cases; for it is neither easy to find such a thing, nor, even if it were found, would it be at all clear or serviceable for the inquiry before us. Once a method proper to each of the distinguished genera has been given, the way through the subject before us would be easier, proceeding from what is proper to each. So that in outline, as has been said before, one must divide the subject, and then, of the remainder, attach to each what most belongs to it, calling these points ones bearing on definition and ones bearing on genus. And in fact what has been said has for the most part already been attached to each.
10| First of all, one must determine in how many ways the same is spoken of. The same would seem, taken in outline, to be divided into three. For we are accustomed to call things the same in number, or in species, or in genus: the same in number, those of which there are several names but the thing is one, for example cloak and mantle; the same in species, things which, though several, are undifferentiated in respect of species, as man is the same as man and horse as horse; for such things are said to be the same in species, as many as fall under the same species. Likewise also things are the same in genus, as many as fall under the same genus, for example horse and man. But the water from the same spring, said to be the same, would seem to have a certain difference beyond the ways mentioned; nevertheless, let even such a case be classed together with the things called the same under one species, whatever the manner of speaking. For all such things seem to be akin and similar to one another. For all water is said to be the same as all water in species, because of having a certain similarity, and the water from the same spring differs from other water in no other way than in having a more intense similarity; hence we do not separate it from the things called the same under one species, however that is meant. But it is the one that is the same in number that seems, by the most general agreement, to be what everyone means by the same.
11| This too is customarily rendered in several ways: most properly and primarily, when the same is rendered by a name or a definition, as cloak is the same as mantle, and footed biped animal is the same as man; secondly, when it is rendered by the property, as capable of knowledge is the same as man, and what by nature moves upward is the same as fire; and thirdly, when it is rendered from the accident, as the one sitting, or the musical one, is the same as Socrates. For all these mean to signify the one that is numerically one. That what has just been said is true, one could best learn from cases where people change the designations. For often, when giving orders to call by name one of those sitting, we change the designation, when it happens that the person to whom we are giving the order does not understand, thinking he will understand better from the accident, and we bid him call to us the one sitting, or the one conversing — clearly supposing that we signify the same thing both by the name and by the accident.
12| The same, then, as has been said, is to be divided in three ways. That arguments proceed out of, and through, and in relation to the things spoken of before, one assurance is that from induction; for if one were to examine each of the premises and problems, it would appear to have arisen either from the definition, or from the property, or from the genus, or from the accident. Another assurance is that through syllogism. For it is necessary that everything predicated of something either be counterpredicated of the thing or not. And if it is counterpredicated, it would be either a definition or a property: for if it signifies the essence, it is a definition, and if it does not signify it, it is a property; for this was what a property was — what is counterpredicated but does not signify the essence. But if it is not counterpredicated of the thing, it either is or is not among the things stated in the definition of the subject. And if it is among the things stated in the definition, it would be a genus or a differentia, since the definition is made up of genus and differentiae; but if it is not among the things stated in the definition, it is clear that it would be an accident; for the accident was said to be what is neither definition nor genus nor property, but belongs to the thing.
13| After this we must mark off the kinds of predication in which the four things we mentioned are found. These are ten in number: what a thing is, quantity, quality, relation, place, time, position, having, doing, being affected. For the accident, the genus, the property, and the definition will always fall under one of these kinds of predication; for all the premises formed through these signify either what a thing is, or a quality, or a quantity, or one of the other kinds of predication. It is clear from the examples themselves that the person signifying what a thing is sometimes signifies substance, sometimes a quality, and sometimes one of the other predications. For when a man is set before us and someone says that what is set before us is a man, or an animal, he states what it is and signifies substance; but when a white color is set before us and he says that what is set before us is white, or a color, he states what it is and signifies a quality. Likewise if a magnitude of a cubit is set before us and he says that what is set before us is a magnitude of a cubit, he will state what it is and signify a quantity. It is the same in the other cases too; for each of these, whether it is said of itself or its genus is said of it, signifies what it is. But when it is said of something else, it does not signify what it is, but a quantity, or a quality, or one of the other predications. So these are the things about which and out of which our arguments are made, and this is how many they are; but how we are to grasp them, and by what means we shall become resourceful in them, must be stated next.
14| First, then, let it be marked off what a dialectical premise is, and what a dialectical problem is. For we must not take every premise, nor every problem, as dialectical; for no one in his senses would put forward as a premise what no one holds, nor would he propose as a problem what is evident to all or to most people; for the latter admit no difficulty, and the former no one would maintain. A dialectical premise is a question that is reputable, held either by all, or by most, or by the wise -- and among these, either by all, or by most, or by the most notable of them -- and is not paradoxical; for one would accept what seems true to the wise, provided it is not contrary to the opinions of the many. Dialectical premises also include things resembling reputable opinions, and the contraries of opinions that seem to be reputable, when they are put forward in contradictory form, and all opinions that accord with established arts. For if it is reputable that the knowledge of contraries is the same, it would appear reputable also that the perception of contraries is the same; and if grammar is one in number, flute-playing too is one, and flute-playing one; but if there are several grammars, then several flute-playing arts too; for all these seem to be alike and akin. Likewise the contraries of reputable opinions, put forward in contradictory form, will appear reputable too;
15| for if it is reputable that we ought to treat our friends well, it is also reputable that we ought not to treat them badly. Now to say that we ought to treat our friends badly is the contrary, while to say that we ought not to treat them badly is the contradictory negation. Likewise, if we ought to treat our friends well, we ought not to treat our enemies well. This too is the contradictory of the contrary; for the contrary is that we ought to treat our enemies well. And so on in the other cases. Also, by way of comparison, the contrary about the contrary will appear reputable, for instance, if we ought to treat our friends well, we also ought to treat our enemies badly. It might also appear that treating friends well is the contrary of treating enemies badly; but whether this is really so or not will be discussed among the remarks made about contraries. It is clear too that all the opinions that accord with the arts are dialectical premises; for one would accept the views of those who have studied these matters -- for instance, about matters of medicine, as the doctor holds them, and about matters of geometry, as the geometer holds them; and likewise in the other cases.
16| A dialectical problem is a subject of inquiry that bears either on choice and avoidance, or on truth and knowledge, either in itself or as contributing to some other such subject, about which people hold no opinion either way, or the many hold an opinion contrary to that of the wise, or the wise contrary to that of the many, or each group is divided within itself. For some problems it is useful to know for the sake of choosing or avoiding something, for instance whether pleasure is to be chosen or not, while others are useful only for the sake of knowing, for instance whether the universe is eternal or not; and others are, in themselves, of no use for either of these purposes, but contribute toward some problem of this kind; for there is much that we do not wish to know for its own sake, but for the sake of other things, so that through it we may come to know something else. There are also problems about which there are opposed arguments on both sides, raising a difficulty as to which way the matter really stands, because there are persuasive arguments on both sides; and problems concerning great matters for which we have no argument, because we think it hard to give the reason, for instance whether the universe is eternal or not; for such things too someone might inquire into. The problems, then, and the premises have been marked off as has been said;
17| a thesis is a paradoxical supposition held by some notable person in philosophy, for instance that contradiction is impossible, as Antisthenes said, or that all things are in motion, according to Heraclitus, or that being is one, as Melissus says; for to concern oneself with the view of some chance person who declares opinions contrary to the received ones would be foolish. Or a thesis may be about matters concerning which we have an argument contrary to the received opinions, for instance the sophists' claim that not everything that is has either come to be or is eternal; for a man who is musical is literate without either having come to be so or being so eternally. For this, even if someone does not accept it, would seem to be so because there is an argument for it. A thesis, then, is also a problem, but not every problem is a thesis, since some problems are of the kind about which we hold no opinion either way. That a thesis is also a problem is clear; for from what has been said, it is necessary either that the many dispute with the wise about the thesis, or that either group disputes within itself, since a thesis is a paradoxical supposition. Nearly all dialectical problems are now called theses. Let it make no difference whatever it is called; for it was not for the sake of coining names that we made this division, but so that it should not escape us what differences there in fact are among them.
18| We ought not to examine every problem or every thesis, but only one that someone might be puzzled about who stands in need of argument, and not of punishment or of the senses; for those who are puzzled whether one ought to honor the gods and love one's parents or not stand in need of punishment, while those puzzled whether snow is white or not stand in need of perception. Nor should we examine matters where the demonstration lies too close at hand, nor those where it lies too far off; for the former admit of no difficulty, while the latter involve more difficulty than belongs to mere exercise. Now that these points have been marked off, we must distinguish how many kinds of dialectical arguments there are. One kind is induction, the other syllogism. What a syllogism is has been stated before; induction is the progress from particulars to universals, for instance, if the pilot who has knowledge is the best pilot, and likewise the charioteer, then in general the person who has knowledge is the best in his own field. Induction is more persuasive and clearer and more familiar according to perception, and shared by the many, while syllogism is more compelling and more effective against argumentative opponents.
19| The classes with which arguments are concerned, and from which they are drawn, have been marked off as before described. As for the tools by which we shall be well supplied with syllogisms and inductions, there are four: first, to get hold of premises; second, to be able to distinguish the number of ways in which each thing is said; third, to find the differentiae; fourth, the study of what is similar. And in a way the last three of these are premises too, for it is possible to make a premise out of each of them, for instance, that the fine or the pleasant or the advantageous is choiceworthy, and that perception differs from knowledge in that it is possible to recover the one once it is lost while it is not possible with the other, and that the healthy stands to health as the fit for good condition stands to good condition. And the first sort of premise proceeds from what is said in many ways, the second from the differentiae, the third from things that are similar.
20| Premises are to be selected in as many ways as have been marked off concerning the premise: either by taking in hand the opinions held by everyone, or by most people, or by the wise—and among these either all of them, or most, or the most reputable—or the opinions contrary to those that appear to hold, and all the opinions that belong to the various crafts. And one must also propound the premises contrary to the reputable opinions that appear to hold, taken by way of contradiction, as was said before. It is also useful, in selecting them, to construct premises not only out of those that are actually reputable but also out of those similar to these, for instance, that of contraries the perception is the same (for so too is the knowledge), and that we see by receiving something in, not by sending something out—for it is the same way with the other senses too, since we hear by receiving something in, not by sending something out, and we taste likewise, and similarly with the rest. Further, whatever appears so in all cases or in most, this must be taken as a starting point and an accepted position; for those who do not see the exception in some particular case posit it as holding without qualification. One should also select premises from written discourses, and construct outlines concerning each genus separately, setting them down apart—for instance concerning the good, or concerning animal, and concerning the good as a whole, beginning from what it is.
21| One should also note down the opinions held by individual thinkers, for instance that Empedocles said the elements of bodies are four; for one might posit as a premise something said by some reputable person. And to give a rough outline, the parts of premises and problems are three: some premises are ethical, some are natural, some are logical. Ethical premises, then, are of this kind: whether one ought to obey one's parents or the laws, if they conflict; logical premises are of this kind: whether the knowledge of contraries is the same or not; natural premises are of this kind: whether the universe is eternal or not. And the problems are similar. As for what each of the aforementioned kinds is, it is not easy to render this in a definition; one must try to recognize each of them through the familiarity gained by induction, examining them in light of the examples given above. Now for philosophy one must deal with these matters with a view to truth, but dialectically with a view to reputable opinion. One should take all the premises in as universal a form as possible, and turn the one into many, for instance that the knowledge of opposites is the same, then that this holds of contraries, and that it holds of relatives. And in the same way these in turn must be divided, for as long as division is possible, for instance into the good and the bad, and the white and the black, and the cold and the hot.
22| And similarly with the rest. Concerning the premise, then, what has been said is sufficient. As for the question of the number of ways a thing is said, one must deal not only with the things said in a different way but must also try to render the accounts of them, for instance not merely that the good is said in one way of justice and courage, and in another way of what is fit for good condition and healthy, but also that some of these are so called because they are themselves things of a certain quality, while others are so called because they are productive of something and not because they are themselves things of a certain quality. And likewise with the rest. Whether a thing is said in many ways or in one way alone in respect of form must be studied by the following means. First, one should look at the contrary and see whether it is said in many ways, whether it differs in form or in name. For some things are different straightaway even in name, for instance the contrary to the sharp is, in the case of sound, the flat, but in the case of a solid mass, the blunt. It is clear, then, that the contrary to the sharp is said in many ways. And if this is so, so is the sharp; for in respect of each of those the contrary will be different. For the same thing will not be sharp as contrary to both the blunt and the flat, but the sharp is contrary to each of them separately. Again, contrary to the flat, in the case of sound, is the sharp, but in the case of a solid mass, the light; so that the flat too is said in many ways, since its contrary is.
23| Similarly too, contrary to the fine, in the case of an animal, is the ugly, but in the case of a house, the shoddy, so that the fine is said in many ways, applied to different things by mere similarity of name. In some cases the names do not differ at all, but the difference in form is at once apparent in the things themselves, for instance in the case of white and black. For a sound is called white and black, and so is a color, likewise. In name, then, there is no difference at all, but the difference in form is at once apparent in the things themselves; for a color is not called white in the same way as a sound is. This is clear too through perception: for of things that are the same in form the perception is the same, but the white as applied to sound and to color we do not judge by the same perception, but the one by sight, the other by hearing. Similarly too the sharp and the blunt as applied to flavors and to solid masses—but the one by touch, the other by taste. For these too do not differ in name, either in themselves or in their contraries; for blunt is the contrary to each of them as well. Further, if to one thing there is something contrary but to another, absolutely nothing—for instance, to the pleasure that comes from drinking, the pain that comes from thirst is contrary, but to the pleasure that comes from contemplating that the diagonal is incommensurable with the side, nothing is contrary—then pleasure is said in more than one way.
24| And to loving in the sense of an affection of the mind, hating is contrary, but to loving in the sense of bodily activity, nothing is contrary; it is clear, then, that loving is used homonymously. Further, in the case of intermediates: if to some things there is an intermediate but to others none, or if there is one to both but not the same one—for instance between white and black, in the case of colors, gray is the intermediate, but in the case of sound, none, or if there is one after all, it is the muffled, as some say a muffled sound is the intermediate—then white is used homonymously, and likewise black. Further, if for some things the intermediates are several, but for others only one, as in the case of white and black; for among colors the intermediates are many, but for sound the muffled is the one intermediate. Again, one should look, in the case of what is opposed by contradiction, whether it is said in more than one way. For if this is said in more than one way, then what is opposed to it will also be said to be spoken of in more than one way, for instance not to see is said in more than one way, in one sense not having sight, in another not exercising sight. And if this is said in more than one way, it is necessary that to see too be said in more than one way; for to each sense of not seeing something will be opposed, for instance to not having sight, having it, and to not exercising sight, exercising it.
25| Again, one should look at things spoken of in terms of privation and possession: for if one of the pair is said in several ways, so is the other. For example, if being perceptive is said in several ways, both of the soul and of the body, then being unperceptive too will be said in several ways, both of the soul and of the body. And that the terms now mentioned are opposed as privation and possession is clear, since animals naturally have each kind of perception both in respect of the soul and in respect of the body. Again, one should look at the inflected forms. For if 'justly' is said in several ways, then 'just' too will be said in several ways; for corresponding to each sense of 'justly' there is a sense of 'just' — for example, if 'justly' means both judging according to one's own opinion and judging as one ought, then 'just' will be said in the same two ways. Likewise too, if 'healthy' is said in several ways, then 'healthily' too will be said in several ways — for example, if one thing is called healthy because it produces health, another because it preserves it, another because it indicates it, then 'healthily' too will be said in the sense of producing, or preserving, or indicating. And similarly in other cases: whenever the thing itself is said in several ways, the inflected form derived from it will also be said in several ways, and if the inflected form is said in several ways, so is the thing itself.
26| One should also examine the genera that fall under the categories signified by the name, to see whether they are the same in every case. For if they are not the same, then clearly the term used is homonymous. For example, 'good' in the case of food is what produces pleasure, in the case of medicine what produces health, but in the case of the soul it is being of a certain quality, such as temperate or courageous or just; and likewise in the case of a human being. In some cases it signifies a time, as in 'the good' meaning what is timely; for what is timely is called good. And often it signifies a quantity, as in the case of the moderate; for the moderate too is called good. So 'good' is homonymous. Likewise 'white' signifies, in the case of a body, a color, but in the case of a sound, what is pleasant to hear. Similarly too with 'sharp': for it is not said in the same way in every case; a sound is called sharp when it is fast, as the musical theorists who work by numbers say, an angle is called sharp when it is less than a right angle, and a knife is called sharp when it has an acute-angled edge.
27| One should also examine the genera falling under the same name, to see whether they are different and not subordinate to one another — for example, 'donkey' means both the animal and the implement. Their account corresponding to the name is different: in one case it will be spoken of as a certain kind of animal, in the other as a certain kind of implement. But if the genera are subordinate to one another, it is not necessary that the accounts be different. For example, both animal and bird are genera of the crow. So when we say the crow is a bird, we are also saying that it is a certain kind of animal, so that both genera are predicated of it. Likewise, when we call the crow a winged, two-footed animal, we are saying that it is a bird; and so in this way too both genera, and their account, are predicated of the crow. But in the case of genera that are not subordinate to one another this does not happen: for we do not, when we say 'implement,' also say 'animal,' nor, when we say 'animal,' say 'implement.' One should look not only at whether the genera of the term in question are different and not subordinate to one another, but also at the case of its contrary; for if the contrary is said in several ways, clearly so is the term proposed. It is also useful to look to the definition that results when the terms are combined, for example of a white body and a white sound —
28| for once the special feature is stripped away, the same account ought to remain. This does not happen in the case of homonyms, as in the examples just given. For in one case it will be 'a body having such-and-such a color,' in the other 'a sound pleasant to hear'; so once 'body' and 'sound' are stripped away, what remains is not the same in each case. Yet it ought to be, if 'white' as said of each were used in one and the same sense. Often, too, the homonymy escapes notice even within the accounts themselves; hence one should examine the accounts as well. For example, if someone says that what indicates and produces health is what stands in due proportion to health, one should not let the matter drop but should examine what he means by 'in due proportion' in each case — whether in the one case it means being such as to produce health, in the other being such as to indicate what sort of state one is in. Again, one should look to see whether the things are not comparable in terms of more or in terms of alikeness — for example, a white sound and a white cloak, or a sharp flavor and a sharp sound; for these are not called white or sharp alike, nor is one more so than the other. So 'white' and 'sharp' are homonymous. For everything spoken of in one and the same sense is comparable: it will be said either alike, or one more than the other.
29| Since things belonging to different genera not subordinate to one another also have differentiae different in kind — for example, animal and knowledge, since these have different differentiae — one should examine whether the things falling under the same name are differentiae of genera that are different and not subordinate to one another. For example, sharpness of sound and sharpness of a solid angle: a sound differs from a sound by being sharp, and likewise a solid angle differs from a solid angle by being sharp. So 'sharp' is homonymous; for they are differentiae of genera that are different and not subordinate to one another. Again, one should ask whether, among the things falling under the same name, the differentiae are themselves different — for example, color as found in bodies and color as found in complexions. For color in bodies is what distinguishes and gathers the sight, whereas in the case of complexions the differentiae are not the same. So 'color' is homonymous; for of the same things there are the same differentiae. Again, since form is never a differentia of anything, one should examine, among things falling under the same name, whether one is a form and the other a differentia — for example, 'white,' which as applied to a body is a form of color, but as applied to a sound is a differentia; for a sound differs from a sound by being white.
30| Concerning the ways in which a thing is said in several senses, then, one should investigate by these and similar means. As for differences, one should study them within the genera themselves, in relation to one another — for example, how justice differs from courage, and practical wisdom from temperance (for all these belong to the same genus) — and also as between one thing and another drawn from different genera that are not too widely separated, for example how perception differs from knowledge; for in the case of things widely separated the differences are entirely obvious. Likeness should be examined both among things in different genera, on the pattern 'as one thing stands to another, so a different thing stands to a different other' — for example, as knowledge stands to the object of knowledge, so perception stands to the object of perception — and on the pattern 'as one thing is in some other thing, so a different thing is in a different other,' for example as sight is in the eye, so intellect is in the soul, and as calm is in the sea, so stillness is in the air. One ought to train oneself chiefly on things that are widely separated; for we shall then more easily be able to discern the likenesses among the remaining, closer cases. One should also examine things belonging to the same genus, to see whether something the same belongs to all of them — for example, to a human being, a horse, and a dog; for insofar as something the same belongs to them, to that extent they are alike.
31| It is useful to have examined in how many ways a thing is said, both for the sake of clarity (for one will better know what one is positing once it has been made plain in how many ways it is said) and so that our deductions may bear on the matter itself and not on the mere name. For as long as it is unclear in how many ways a thing is said, it is possible that the answerer and the questioner are not directing their thought to the same thing; whereas once it has been made plain in how many ways it is said, and to which of them the answerer is directing his position, the questioner would look ridiculous if he did not frame his argument with reference to that. It is useful too both for not being misled by a fallacy and for producing one. For knowing in how many ways a thing is said, we shall not be misled, but shall recognize it if the questioner is not directing his argument at the same sense; and we ourselves, when questioning, shall be able to produce a fallacy, if the answerer happens not to know in how many ways the thing is said. This is not possible in every case, but only when, among the several senses, some are true and some false. This procedure, however, does not belong properly to dialectic; hence dialecticians should be thoroughly wary of it — of arguing merely about the name — unless one is otherwise altogether unable to argue about the subject proposed. Finding the differences is useful both for deductions about sameness and difference, and for recognizing what each thing is.
32| It is clear, then, that this is useful for arguments about sameness and difference: for once we have found any difference at all between the things proposed, we will have shown that they are not the same. It is also useful for coming to know what a thing is, because we are accustomed to mark off the account proper to each thing's substance by means of the differentiae proper to it. The study of likeness is useful for inductive arguments, for arguments from a hypothesis, and for the rendering of definitions. For inductive arguments, because it is by induction from particulars in the case of similar things that we claim to induce the universal; for it is not easy to induct without knowing the similar cases. For arguments from a hypothesis, because it is a reputable view that as it holds in one of a set of similar cases, so it holds in the rest. So, whichever of the similar cases we are well supplied with arguments about, we will get prior agreement that as it holds in these, so it holds in the matter proposed; and having shown that, we will have shown the matter proposed as well, on the basis of the hypothesis, for by hypothesizing that as it holds in these cases, so it holds in the matter proposed, we have made our demonstration. For the rendering of definitions, because if we are able to see what is the same in each case, we will not be at a loss as to what genus we ought to place the matter proposed in when defining it,
1| for of the things predicated in common, the genus would be the one most predicated in the 'what it is.' Likewise, the study of likeness is also useful for definitions in the case of things far apart, for example, that calm is the same thing in the sea as stillness is in the air (for each is a kind of rest), and that a point is in a line what a unit is in a number, for each is a starting point. So by rendering the common item as the genus in all such cases, we will seem to be defining not inappropriately. And indeed those who give definitions generally tend to render them this way: they say that the unit is the starting point of number, and the point the starting point of a line. It is clear, then, that they are placing both under their common genus. These, then, are the instruments through which the syllogisms are constructed; and the following are the topics for which what has been said is useful. B.
2| Of problems, some are universal and some are particular. Universal, for instance, that every pleasure is good, and that no pleasure is good; particular, for instance, that some pleasure is good, and that some pleasure is not good. Common to both kinds of problems are the universal constructive and destructive arguments: for by showing that something holds of every case, we will also have shown that it holds of some case; and likewise, if we show that it holds of no case, we will also have shown that it does not hold of every case. We must speak first, then, about the universal destructive arguments, both because such arguments are common to universal and particular problems, and because those who argue tend more to put forward theses about whether something holds or not, and it is destroying such theses that dialecticians engage in. Now the most difficult thing is to convert the name proper to an accident, for holding 'in a certain respect' and not universally is possible only in the case of accidents. For from a definition, a property, or a genus, conversion is necessary: for example, if it holds of some animal to be footed and two-footed, then converting, it will be true to say that it is a footed two-footed animal. Likewise also from the genus:
3| for if it holds of something to be an animal, it is an animal. The same holds also for a property: for if it holds of something to be receptive of grammar, it will be receptive of grammar. For none of these admits of holding, or not holding, in a certain respect, but only of holding, or not holding, without qualification. But in the case of accidents, nothing prevents something from holding in a certain respect, for example whiteness or justice, so that it is not enough to show that whiteness or justice holds, in order to show that a thing is white or just; for it is open to dispute whether it is white or just in a certain respect only. So conversion is not necessary in the case of accidents. We must also distinguish the errors that occur in problems, that they are of two kinds: either by stating something false, or by transgressing the established usage of language. For both those who state falsehoods, saying that what does not hold of something holds of it, err; and also those who address things by names not their own, for example calling the plane tree a man, transgress the established naming.
4| One topic, then, is to look and see whether one has rendered as an accident what in fact holds in some other way. This error occurs most of all with regard to genera, for example if someone were to say that it is an accident of white that it is a color: for it is not an accident of white that it is a color, but color is its genus. Now it is possible for the one who states this to make the distinction in terms of the naming itself, for example that it is an accident of justice to be a virtue; but often even without such a distinction it is evident that he has rendered the genus as an accident, for example if someone should say that whiteness is colored, or that walking is being moved. For predication from any genus is never applied to the species paronymously, but all genera are predicated of their species synonymously; for the species admit both the name and the account of their genera. So the one who called white 'colored' has rendered it neither as a genus, since he has spoken paronymously, nor as a property, nor as a definition; for a definition and a property belong to nothing else, whereas many other things besides white are colored, for example wood, stone, man, horse. It is clear, then, that he is rendering it as an accident. Another topic is to look and see whether it has been said to hold of all things, or of none.
5| One must examine by species and not among an unlimited number of cases; for the inquiry proceeds more methodically and among fewer instances. One must examine and begin from the first cases, then proceed in order down to the indivisible ones, for example, if someone said that the same knowledge is of opposites, one should examine whether the same knowledge is of relatives, of contraries, of terms spoken of by privation and possession, and of terms spoken by way of contradiction; and if it is not yet clear from these, one must again divide these further down to the indivisible cases, for example whether the same knowledge is of the just and the unjust, or of the double and the half, or of blindness and sight, or of being and not being. For if it is shown in some one case that the knowledge is not the same, we will have destroyed the problem; and likewise if it holds of none. This topic converts for both destroying and constructing: for if the division, when carried out, appears to hold in all cases, or in many, one may claim the right to lay it down as universal too, or else to bring an objection as to some case where it does not so hold; for if one does neither of these, one will appear absurd in not laying it down. Another topic is to construct accounts of the accident and of that to which it belongs, either of both, in respect of each, or of one of the two, and then to examine whether something not true has been assumed as true in the accounts.
6| For example, if the question is whether it is possible to wrong a god, what is 'to wrong'? For if it is to harm someone willingly, it is clear that a god cannot be wronged, for it is not possible for a god to be harmed. And if the excellent man is envious, what is the envious man, and what is envy? For if envy is pain at the apparent good fortune of some person of decent character, it is clear that the excellent man is not envious; for he would then be base. And if the indignant man is envious, what is each of the two? For in this way it will become evident whether what has been said is true or false, for example, if the envious man is one who feels pain at the good fortune of good people, while the indignant man is one who feels pain at the good fortune of bad people, it is clear that the indignant man would not be envious. One should also take, in place of the names used in the accounts, further accounts, and not give up until one arrives at something familiar; for often, even when the whole account has been rendered, what is being sought is not yet clear, but once some account has been given in place of one of the names within the account, it becomes evident. Further, one should turn the problem into a premise for oneself and raise an objection to it; for the objection will serve as an argument against the thesis. This topic is nearly the same as looking to see whether it has been said to hold of all cases, or of none;
7| It differs in the manner. Further, one must distinguish which things ought to be called what the many call them and which not. For this is useful both for establishing and for demolishing — namely, that things should be addressed by their names as the many do, but which of the things are of such-and-such a character or not, one should no longer defer to the many about that. For instance, one should say that the healthy is what produces health, as the many say; but whether the thing proposed does produce health or not, that is no longer to be judged as the many judge it but as the doctor does.
8| Further, if a term is said in several ways, and it has been laid down that it either applies or does not apply, one must show one or the other of the several senses meant, if it is not possible to show both. One should use this where the multiple senses go unnoticed; for if it is noticed that the term is said in several ways, the opponent will object that what he himself was in difficulty about has not been discussed, but rather the other sense. This topic is convertible for both establishing and demolishing. For if we wish to establish, we shall show that one of the senses applies, if we cannot show both apply; and if we wish to demolish, we shall show that one of the senses does not apply, if we cannot show both fail to apply. Except that in demolishing there is no need to argue from an agreed concession, whether it has been said to apply to everything or to nothing; for if we show that it does not apply to some one thing, we shall have destroyed the claim that it applies to everything, and likewise if we show it applies to some one thing, we shall destroy the claim that it applies to nothing. But in establishing, one must first get it agreed that if it applies to any one thing whatever it applies to everything, provided the proposition is plausible. For it is not enough, to show that it applies to everything, to argue the case for one instance — for example that the soul of a human being is immortal, therefore every soul is immortal — but rather one must first get it agreed that if any soul whatever is immortal, every soul is immortal. And this should not always be done, but only when we are not well supplied with a single account common to all cases, as the geometer can say that the triangle has its angles equal to two right angles.
9| But if it is not unnoticed that a term is said in several ways, one should divide it into as many senses as it is said in, and both demolish and establish accordingly. For instance, if the obligatory is either the advantageous or the fine, one should try to establish or demolish both with respect to the thing proposed — namely that it is both fine and advantageous, or that it is neither fine nor advantageous. But if it is not possible to do both, one should show one of the two, indicating explicitly that it holds in one sense but not the other. The same account applies even if there are more senses into which the term divides. Again, take cases where a term is said in several ways not by homonymy but in some other manner — for instance, one knowledge is knowledge of several things either as of an end and of what conduces to the end (as medicine is knowledge of producing health and of prescribing a regimen), or as of both ends alike (as the same knowledge is said to be of contraries, since neither one is any more an end than the other), or as of what holds in its own right and of what holds accidentally (as it holds of the triangle in its own right that it has its angles equal to two right angles, but accidentally of the equilateral triangle — for it is because it is accidental to the equilateral triangle to be a triangle that we recognize it has its angles equal to two right angles). If, then, it is in no way possible for the same knowledge to be of several things, clearly it is not possible at all; or if it is possible in some way, clearly it is possible.
10| One should divide a term into as many senses as is useful. For instance, if we wish to establish, we should bring forward such senses as are possible for the thing, and divide it into only those senses that are useful for establishing; but if we wish to demolish, only those senses that are not possible, leaving the rest aside. And one should do this also in cases where it goes unnoticed in how many senses a term is used. And one must establish that this belongs to that, or does not, by the same topics — for instance, that this knowledge is of that thing either as an end, or as among the things conducing to the end, or as an accidental object; or again, that it is of it in none of the ways mentioned. The same account applies also concerning desire, and whatever else is said of several things. For desire is of this thing either as an end, for example of health, or as among the things conducing to the end, for example of being given medicine, or as an accidental object — just as with wine, the lover of sweet things desires it not because it is wine but because it is sweet. For in its own right he desires the sweet, but the wine accidentally; for if the wine is dry he no longer desires it. So he desires it accidentally. This topic is useful in dealing with relatives; for practically all such cases are cases of relatives.
11| Further, there is the substitution of a more familiar name — for instance, in place of 'exact' in an opinion, 'clear,' and in place of 'meddlesomeness,' 'a liking for activity.' For when what has been said becomes more familiar, the thesis is easier to attack. This topic too is common to both purposes, both establishing and demolishing. To show that contrary attributes belong to the same thing, one should look at the genus — for instance, if we wish to show that there is correctness and error concerning perception, and that perceiving is a kind of judging, and judging can be done correctly or incorrectly, then there would be correctness and error concerning perception as well. Here, then, the demonstration proceeds from the genus to the species, since judging is the genus of perceiving — for one who perceives judges in some way. Again, one can argue from the species to the genus; for whatever belongs to the species belongs also to the genus — for instance, if there is knowledge that is base and knowledge that is excellent, then there is also a state that is base and a state that is excellent, since a state is the genus of knowledge. Now the former topic is false for the purpose of establishing, but the latter is true. For it is not necessary that whatever belongs to the genus belongs also to the species — an animal is winged or four-footed, but a human being is neither.
12| But whatever belongs to the species necessarily belongs also to the genus; for if a human being is excellent, then an animal is also excellent. For the purpose of demolishing, the former topic is true and the latter is false; for whatever does not belong to the genus does not belong to the species either, but whatever does not belong to the species is not necessarily absent from the genus. And since it is necessary that, of those things of which the genus is predicated, some one of the species is also predicated, and whatever has the genus, or is named paronymously from the genus, must also have some one of the species or be named paronymously from some one of the species — for instance, if knowledge is predicated of something, then grammar or music or some other one of the branches of knowledge will be predicated of it, and if something has knowledge, or is named paronymously from knowledge, it will have grammar or music or some other branch of knowledge, or be named paronymously from one of them, for instance 'grammatical' or 'musical.' If, then, something is proposed as said in some way from the genus — for instance that the soul moves — one should examine whether it is possible for the soul to move according to some one of the species of motion, for instance to grow, or to perish, or to come to be, or whatever other species motion has.
13| For if it is according to none of them, clearly it does not move. This topic is common to both purposes, both demolishing and establishing; for if it moves according to some one of the species, clearly it moves, and if it moves according to none of the species, clearly it does not move. If one is not well supplied with an argument bearing on the thesis, one should examine the definitions, or the true or accepted facts, of the matter proposed, and not from one alone but from several. For it will be easier to attack once things have been defined; for the attack goes more easily against definitions. And one should examine, concerning the matter proposed, given what its existence follows, or what necessarily follows if the matter proposed exists — for one wishing to establish, on what the matter proposed will follow from being the case (for if that is shown to hold, the matter proposed will also have been shown); for one wishing to demolish, what follows if the matter proposed holds — for if we show that what follows from the matter proposed does not hold, we shall have destroyed the matter proposed. Further, one should keep an eye on the factor of time, to see whether it is anywhere out of tune — for instance, if someone asserted that what is nourished necessarily grows; for animals are always being nourished, but they do not always grow. Likewise too if someone asserted that knowing is remembering —
14| for the one belongs to past time, while the other belongs also to the present and the future. For we are said to know present and future things, for instance that there will be an eclipse, but it is not possible to remember anything except what is past.
15| Further, there is the sophistical method: leading the argument into a position for which we will have a good supply of arguments available. This will sometimes be necessary, sometimes only apparently necessary, and sometimes neither apparent nor necessary. It is necessary when, once the answerer has denied one of the points useful for the thesis, one directs the arguments to this point, and this happens to be the kind of thing for which arguments are readily available. Similarly too when, having produced an induction toward some point through what has been laid down, one tries to demolish it; for once this is demolished, the point originally proposed is demolished along with it. It is apparently necessary when it appears useful and proper to the thesis, but is not really the point toward which the arguments are directed—whether because the one sustaining the argument has denied it, or because an induction carrying general acceptance is produced through the thesis toward it, and one tries to demolish that. The remaining case is when the point toward which the arguments are directed is neither necessary nor apparently so, but the answerer happens to be refuted in some other, incidental way. One should be wary of the last of the methods mentioned; it seems to be wholly detached from and foreign to dialectic. That is why the answerer, too, should not be difficult, but should grant what is not useful to the thesis, noting whatever he grants that he does not actually accept. For questioners generally find themselves more at a loss when all such points are granted them, if they still fail to bring the argument to a conclusion. Further, anyone who has said anything at all has in a sense said many things, since a number of consequences necessarily follow from each thing; for example, one who has said that something is a man has also said that it is an animal, that it is ensouled, that it is two-footed, and that it is receptive of intellect and knowledge, so that if any one of the consequences is demolished, the original point is demolished along with it. One must also be wary of taking on the more difficult exchange; for sometimes it is easier to demolish the consequence, sometimes the original point itself.
16| For things such that necessarily only one of a pair belongs—for example, to a man either disease or health—if we are well supplied with arguments for one of the two, that it belongs or does not belong, we shall also be well supplied for the remaining one. For this converts to cover both: if we show that one of the two belongs, we shall thereby have shown that the remaining one does not belong; and if we show that it does not belong, we shall thereby have shown that the remaining one does belong. It is clear, then, that the commonplace is useful for both. Further, there is the method of taking the word over into the argument by transferring it, taking it in whatever sense best suits one's purpose rather than as the word is actually used—for example, taking "good-souled" not as meaning "courageous," as it is now used, but as meaning one who has his soul in a good state, just as "of good hope" means one who hopes for good things. Similarly too "happy," as meaning one whose guardian spirit is good, just as Xenocrates says that the happy man is the one who has a good soul; for this, he says, is each person's guardian spirit. Now since, of things, some are of necessity, some hold for the most part, and some are however it may chance, if what holds of necessity is set down as holding for the most part, or what holds for the most part as holding of necessity—either the thing itself or its opposite to what holds for the most part—this always gives an opening for an argument.
17| For if what holds of necessity is set down as holding for the most part, it is clear that he is saying it does not belong to every case, though it does belong to every case, so that he has erred; and likewise if he has said that what holds for the most part holds of necessity—for then he is saying it belongs to every case, when it does not belong to every case. Similarly too if he has said that the opposite of what holds for the most part holds of necessity; for the opposite of what holds for the most part is always said to hold in fewer cases—for example, if for the most part men are bad, then good men are fewer—so that he has erred even more if he has said that good men exist of necessity. Likewise too if he has said that what is however it may chance holds of necessity or for the most part; for what is however it may chance holds neither of necessity nor for the most part. And it is possible, even if he has not distinguished whether he has said it holds for the most part or of necessity, but the fact of the matter is that it holds for the most part, to argue against him as though he had said it holds of necessity—for example, if he said, without qualification, that men chosen by lot are bad, to argue against him as though he had said this of necessity. Further, one should also look for cases where he has set something down as accidental to itself under the guise of being something different, merely because it has a different name—just as Prodicus divided pleasures into joy, delight, and good cheer.
18| for all these are names for the same thing, pleasure. So if someone says that rejoicing is accidental to feeling cheerful, he would in effect be saying that the thing is accidental to itself. Since opposites are combined with one another in six ways, and combined in four of these they produce a contrariety, one must take up the opposites in whichever way is useful, both for demolishing and for establishing a position. That they are combined in six ways is clear: either each of the two opposites will be combined with each of the other two—and this in two ways, for example, doing well by one's friends and doing badly by one's enemies, or conversely doing badly by one's friends and doing well by one's enemies. Or both may be combined with respect to the same one thing—and this too in two ways, for example, doing well by one's friends and doing badly by one's friends, or doing well by one's enemies and doing badly by one's enemies. Or the same one thing may be combined with both, and this too in two ways, for example, doing well by one's friends and doing well by one's enemies, or doing badly by one's friends and doing badly by one's enemies. Now the first two combinations mentioned do not produce a contrariety; for doing well by one's friends is not the opposite of doing badly by one's enemies—both are choiceworthy and belong to the same character. Nor is doing badly by one's friends the opposite of doing well by one's enemies; for these too are both to be avoided and belong to the same character. And it does not seem that one thing to be avoided is the opposite of another thing to be avoided, unless one is spoken of as an excess and the other as a deficiency;
19| for excess seems to be among the things to be avoided, and likewise deficiency. But all the remaining four combinations produce a contrariety. For doing well by one's friends is the opposite of doing badly by one's friends; it proceeds from an opposite character, and one is choiceworthy while the other is to be avoided. The same holds for the others as well; for in each pairing one member is choiceworthy and the other to be avoided, and one belongs to a decent character and the other to a base one. It is clear from what has been said, then, that more than one opposite happens to belong to the same thing. For to doing well by one's friends both doing well by one's enemies and doing badly by one's friends are opposite. Likewise, if one examines each of the other cases in the same way, two opposites will turn out to belong to it. One should therefore take whichever of the opposites is useful for the thesis. Further, if there is something opposite to the accidental attribute, one should examine whether it belongs to the very thing to which the accidental attribute has been said to belong; for if this belongs, that other thing could not belong—since it is impossible for opposites to belong to the same thing at the same time. Or one should examine whether something of the following sort has been said of some subject, such that, given its existence, the opposites necessarily belong to it. For example, if someone said that the forms exist in us;
20| it will follow that they are both in motion and at rest, and further that they are both perceptible and intelligible. For the forms are held to be at rest and intelligible by those who posit that forms exist, but if they exist in us it is impossible for them to be unmoved; for when we are in motion, everything in us must necessarily move along with us. And it is clear that they would also be perceptible, if indeed they exist in us; for it is through the perception involved in sight that we come to know the shape present in each thing. Again, if an accidental attribute has been posited that has some opposite, one should examine whether the subject is also receptive of the opposite, which is what the accidental attribute is receptive of; for the same thing is receptive of opposites. For example, if someone said that hatred follows upon anger, hatred would then be in the spirited part; for that is where anger is. One should therefore examine whether its opposite, friendship, is also in the spirited part; for if it is not, but friendship is rather in the appetitive part, then hatred would not follow upon anger. Similarly too if someone said that the appetitive part is ignorant. For it would then also have to be receptive of knowledge, if indeed it is receptive of ignorance; but this does not seem to be so—that the appetitive part is receptive of knowledge. In demolishing a position, then, one should make use of this as described; but in establishing one, the commonplace is not useful for showing that the accidental attribute belongs, though it is useful for showing that it may possibly belong.
21| For if we show that the subject is not receptive of the contrary, we will have shown that the accident neither belongs nor can possibly belong; but if we show that the contrary belongs, or that the subject is receptive of the contrary, we will not yet have shown that the accident belongs, but only that it can possibly belong — that much alone will have been shown. Since oppositions are of four kinds, one should look, in the case of contradictories, at the consequence taken in reverse, both for demolishing and for establishing, and take it by induction — for instance, if man is an animal, what is not an animal is not a man. And likewise in other cases too. For here the consequence runs in reverse: animal follows on man, but not-animal does not follow on not-man; rather, in reverse, not-man follows on not-animal. In every such case, then, this is the principle to claim: for instance, if the fine is pleasant, then what is not pleasant is not fine; and if this is not so, neither is that. Likewise too, if what is not pleasant is not fine, then the fine is pleasant. It is clear, then, that the consequence based on contradiction converts both ways, running in reverse. In the case of contraries, one should look at whether the contrary follows on the contrary, either in the same direction or in reverse, both for demolishing and for establishing; and such things too should be taken by induction, so far as it is useful. In some cases the consequence runs in the same direction, as with courage and cowardice: excellence follows on the one, badness on the other, and what is choiceworthy follows on the one, what is to be avoided on the other.
22| So the consequence of these too runs in the same direction, since what is choiceworthy is contrary to what is to be avoided. And likewise in other cases. But in other cases the consequence runs in reverse — for instance, health follows on good condition, but disease does not follow on bad condition; rather, bad condition follows on disease. It is clear, then, that in these cases the consequence runs in reverse. It is rare, though, for the reverse to hold among contraries; in most cases the consequence runs in the same direction. If, then, the contrary does not follow on the contrary either in the same direction or in reverse, it is clear that in the cases under discussion too the one does not follow on the other. But if it does hold among the contraries, then in the cases under discussion too the one must necessarily follow on the other. One should examine states and privations in the same way as contraries, except that with privations the reverse case does not occur — the consequence must always run in the same direction, as sight follows on perception and blindness on lack of perception. For perception is opposed to lack of perception as state to privation: the one is a state of them, the other a privation. And one should treat relatives in the same way as states and privations, for in their case too the consequence runs in the same direction.
23| For instance, if the triple is a multiple, the third part is a fraction of many; for the triple is said in relation to the third part, and the multiple in relation to the fraction. Again, if knowledge is a supposition, the knowable is a supposable; and if sight is a perception, the visible is a perceptible. Objection: the consequence need not hold among relatives, as has been said — for the perceptible is knowable, yet perception is not knowledge. This objection, however, does not seem to be true; for many say that there is no knowledge of perceptibles. Further, what has been said is no less useful for the opposite case — for instance, that the perceptible is not knowable, since perception is not knowledge either.
24| Again, one should look at cognate words and inflections, both for demolishing and for establishing. Cognates are things of this kind: just acts and the just man are cognate with justice, and brave acts and the brave man with courage. Likewise, things productive or preservative of something are cognate with that of which they are productive or preservative — for instance, healthy things with health, and things productive of good condition with good condition. And the same holds in other cases too. Such, then, are what are usually called cognates; inflections are things like 'justly,' 'bravely,' 'healthily,' and whatever is said in that way. Words formed by inflection are also thought to be cognate — for instance, 'justly' is cognate with justice, 'bravely' with courage. All the words belonging to the same cognate group are called cognates — for instance, justice, just man, just act, justly. It is clear, then, that once any one whatever of the members of the same cognate group has been shown to be good or praiseworthy, all the rest will have been shown too — for instance, if justice is among the praiseworthy things, then the just man, the just act, and the justly done act are also among the praiseworthy things. And 'justly' will be said to stand to 'praiseworthily' by the same inflection as 'praiseworthily' stands to 'praiseworthy,' just as 'justly' stands to justice.
25| One should look not only at the term itself as stated, but also at the contrary in relation to the contrary — for instance, that the good is not necessarily pleasant, since the bad is not necessarily painful either; or, if the latter holds, so does the former. And if justice is knowledge, injustice is ignorance; and if to act justly is to act with knowledge and with experience, to act unjustly is to act in ignorance and without experience. But if these latter do not hold, neither do the former — as in the case just mentioned, for acting unjustly would seem more likely to occur with experience than without it. This topic has already been stated among the consequences of contraries; for we are now claiming nothing other than that the contrary follows on the contrary. Further, one should look at comings-to-be and destructions, and at things productive and destructive, both for demolishing and for establishing. For things whose comings-to-be are goods are themselves goods, and if they themselves are goods, so are their comings-to-be; and if the comings-to-be are of bad things, the things themselves are among the bad. With destructions it is the reverse: if the destructions are of good things, the things themselves are among the bad; if the destructions are of bad things, the things themselves are among the good. The same account holds for things productive and destructive: things whose productive causes are good are themselves among the good, and things whose destructive causes are good are themselves among the bad.
26| Again, one should look at similar cases, to see whether they hold similarly — for instance, if one branch of knowledge covers several things, so does one opinion; and if having sight is seeing, having hearing is hearing. And likewise in other cases too, both among things that are so and things that are thought to be so. This topic is useful both ways: if the matter stands thus for one of a set of similar cases, it does so for the other similar cases too; but if it does not hold for one, it does not hold for the others either. One should also look at whether it holds similarly for the one case and for the many, since in some places they diverge. For instance, if knowing is thinking, then knowing many things is thinking many things. But this is not true: for it is possible to know many things, but not to think many things at once. If, then, this does not hold, neither does the single-case claim that knowing is thinking. Further, one should argue from the more and the less. There are four topics of the more and the less: one is whether the more follows on the more — for instance, if pleasure is a good, then more pleasure is a greater good, and if doing wrong is bad, doing more wrong is worse. This topic, then, is useful for both purposes —
27| For if the increase of the accident follows the increase of the subject, as has been said, clearly it is an accident; but if it does not follow, it is not an accident. This must be grasped by induction. Another topic: when one thing is said of two things, if it does not belong to the thing to which it is more likely to belong, neither does it belong to the thing to which it is less likely; and if it belongs to the thing to which it is less likely to belong, it also belongs to the thing to which it is more likely. Again, when two things are said of one thing, if the one that seems more likely to belong does not belong, neither does the one that seems less likely; or if the one that seems less likely to belong does belong, so does the one that seems more likely. Further, when two things are said of two things, if the one that seems more likely to belong to the one does not belong, neither does the remaining one belong to the remaining one; or if the one that seems less likely to belong to the one does belong, the remaining one also belongs to the remaining one. Further, arguments can be made in three ways from belonging, or seeming to belong, equally — just as was said about the 'more', in the three topics stated above. For whether one thing belongs, or seems to belong, equally to two things — if it does not belong to the one, neither does it belong to the other, and if it belongs to the one, it also belongs to the remaining one; or whether two things belong equally to the same thing — if the one does not belong, neither does the remaining one, and if the one does, so does the remaining one.
28| In the same way also if two things belong equally to two things: for if the one does not belong to the one, neither does the remaining one belong to the remaining one, and if the one does belong to the one, the remaining one also belongs to the remaining one. From the 'more' and the 'less' and the 'equally', then, it is possible to argue in this many ways; further, from addition. If one thing added to another makes it good or white, when it was not white or good before, the thing added will be white or good, of just the sort it makes the whole. Further, if something added to what already belongs makes it more of the sort it already was, that thing too will be of that sort. The same holds in other cases too. But this topic is not useful in all cases, only in those where the excess of the 'more' happens to occur. This topic does not convert for demolishing an argument. For if what is added does not make the whole good, it is not yet clear that it itself is not good; for the good, when added to bad, does not necessarily make the whole good, nor does white added to black make the whole white. Again, if something is said to be more and less, it also belongs without qualification; for what is not good or white will not be said to be more or less good or white either; for the bad is not said to be more or less good than anything, but rather more or less bad. Nor does this topic convert for demolishing an argument either; for many things not said to admit of 'more' still belong without qualification —
29| for man is not said to admit of more and less, but he is not, on that account, not a man. The same way must be examined also in the case of 'in a certain respect', 'at some time', and 'somewhere'; for if a thing is possible in a certain respect, it is also possible without qualification. Likewise for 'at some time' or 'somewhere' too; for what is impossible without qualification is not possible either in a certain respect, or somewhere, or at some time. An objection: some people are excellent in a certain respect by nature — for instance liberal or temperate by disposition — but they are not excellent by nature without qualification; for no one is practically wise by nature. Likewise too, it is possible at some time for something perishable not to perish, but it is not possible without qualification for it not to perish. In the same way, too, it is advantageous somewhere to follow such a regimen — for instance, in unhealthy regions — but it is not advantageous without qualification. Further, it is possible somewhere for only one to exist, but it is not possible without qualification for only one to exist. In the same way too, it is fine somewhere to sacrifice one's father — for instance among the Triballians — but it is not fine without qualification. Or rather, this does not signify 'somewhere' but 'to certain people'; for it makes no difference where they are — it will be fine for them everywhere, being Triballians. Again, it is advantageous at some time to take medicine — for instance, when one is ill — but not without qualification.
1| Or rather this does not signify 'at some time' either, but 'to one who is disposed in a certain way'; for it makes no difference at what time, provided only that he is so disposed. What holds 'without qualification' is what you will say is fine, or the opposite, with nothing added. For instance, you will not say that sacrificing one's father is fine, but that it is fine for certain people; it is not, then, fine without qualification. But you will say that honoring the gods is fine without adding anything; for it is fine without qualification. So whatever, with nothing added, seems to be fine or shameful or anything else of that sort, will be said to hold without qualification. Book Three.
2| Which of two or more things is more choiceworthy or better must be examined on the basis of the following. First let it be determined that we are conducting this inquiry not concerning things far apart and having a great difference from one another (for no one is at a loss whether happiness or wealth is more choiceworthy), but concerning things close together, and about which we are in dispute as to which one we ought rather to side with, because we see no superiority of the one over the other. Clearly, then, in such cases, once a superiority, whether of one point or more, has been shown, the mind will agree that this is the more choiceworthy one, whichever of the two happens to be superior. First, then, what lasts longer or is more secure is more choiceworthy than what is less so. And also whatever the practically wise man, or the good man, would choose rather, or correct law, or those excellent people who make their choices in each matter insofar as they are such, or those with knowledge in each kind, or whatever most or all choose — for instance in medicine or in carpentry, what most or all doctors choose — or in general whatever most, or all, or all things choose, as with the good; for all things desire the good. What is going to be said must be directed to whatever purpose it may be useful for.
3| Without qualification, what accords with the better knowledge is better and more choiceworthy, but for a particular person, what accords with his own proper knowledge. Next, what is precisely a this-something is more choiceworthy than what is not in the genus — for instance, justice than the just; for the one is in the genus of the good, the other is not, and the one is precisely good, the other is not; for nothing is said to be precisely what its genus is, if it does not happen to be in that genus — for instance, the white man is not precisely color. The same holds in other cases too. And what is choiceworthy in its own right is more choiceworthy than what is choiceworthy because of something else — for instance, being healthy than exercising; for the one is choiceworthy in its own right, the other because of something else. And what holds in its own right is more choiceworthy than what holds accidentally — for instance, one's friends being just than one's enemies being so. For the one is choiceworthy in its own right, the other accidentally; for we choose that our enemies be just accidentally, so that they may do us no harm. This is the same as the previous point, but differs in manner; for we choose that our friends be just in its own right, even if nothing is going to come of it for us, even if they are among the Indians —
4| whereas we choose that our enemies be just because of something else, so that they do us no harm. And what is a cause of good in its own right is more choiceworthy than what is a cause accidentally, as virtue is more choiceworthy than luck; for the one is a cause of goods in its own right, the other accidentally, and likewise for anything else of that sort. The same holds too on the side of the opposite: what is a cause of evil in its own right is more to be avoided than what is a cause accidentally — for instance, vice and luck; for the one is bad in its own right, whereas luck is bad accidentally. And what is good without qualification is more choiceworthy than what is good for someone — for instance, being made healthy than being cut surgically; for the one is good without qualification, the other is good for someone, namely for the one who needs surgery. And what is natural is more choiceworthy than what is not natural — for instance, justice than the just; for the one is natural, the other acquired. And what belongs to the better and more honorable thing is more choiceworthy — for instance, what belongs to a god rather than to a man, and to the soul rather than to the body. And what is peculiar to the better thing is better than what is peculiar to the worse — for instance, what belongs to god rather than what belongs to man; for with respect to what is common to both, they do not differ from one another at all, but in their peculiar features the one exceeds the other. And what resides in better, prior, or more honorable things is better — for instance, health is better than strength and beauty.
5| For health is found in the moist and the dry and the hot and the cold, or, put simply, in the primary elements that make up the animal, while other things are found among the later products - for instance, strength is in the sinews and bones, while beauty of the limbs seems to be a kind of proportion. And the end is more choiceworthy than the things directed toward the end, and of two things directed toward an end, the one nearer the end is more choiceworthy. And in general, what bears on the end of life is more choiceworthy than what bears on something else - for instance, what tends toward happiness rather than what tends toward practical wisdom. And the possible is more choiceworthy than the impossible. Again, of two productive things, the one whose end is better is more choiceworthy. And between a productive thing and an end, judge by proportion: whenever the end exceeds the other end by more than that end exceeds its own proper productive cause, then the thing productive of the first end is better than the second end. For instance, if happiness exceeds health by more than health exceeds the healthy regimen, then what is productive of happiness is better than health. For by as much as happiness exceeds health, by that much what is productive of happiness exceeds the healthy regimen. But health exceeded the healthy regimen by less, so what is productive of happiness exceeds the healthy regimen by more than health exceeds the healthy regimen. It is clear, then, that what is productive of happiness is more choiceworthy than health -
6| for it exceeds the same thing by more. Again, what is fine in its own right is also more honorable and more praiseworthy - for instance, friendship is more so than wealth, and justice than strength. For some things belong among the honored and praised in their own right, while others do not belong there in their own right but on account of something else; for no one honors wealth for its own sake but for the sake of something else, whereas friendship is honored in its own right, even if nothing else is going to come to us from it.
7| Again, whenever two things are extremely similar to each other and we cannot see any superiority of the one over the other, we should look to what accompanies them; for whatever a greater good follows is the more choiceworthy. And if the things that follow are bad, then whichever is followed by the lesser bad is the more choiceworthy. For since both are choiceworthy, nothing prevents some difficulty from being attached to them as well. The inquiry into 'what follows' is twofold, for something can follow either earlier or later - for instance, for the person learning, not knowing follows earlier and knowing follows later. And as a rule what follows later is better. So one should take whichever of the two consequences is useful. Again, more goods are better than fewer, either simply, or when the other goods are present in the first set - that is, the fewer goods are present among the more. An objection arises where one thing exists for the sake of another; for in that case the two together are no more choiceworthy than the one alone - for instance, being healed and health are no more choiceworthy than health alone, since we choose being healed for the sake of health. And nothing prevents things that are not good from being more choiceworthy than goods - for instance, happiness and something else that is not good may be more choiceworthy than justice and courage. And the same things are more choiceworthy with pleasure than without pleasure.
8| And the same things are more choiceworthy without pain than with pain. And each thing is more choiceworthy in the occasion when it has greater power, as, for instance, freedom from pain is more choiceworthy in old age than in youth, since it has greater power in old age. On the same principle, practical wisdom too is more choiceworthy in old age; for no one chooses the young as leaders, on the ground that they are not to be reckoned as possessing practical wisdom. But courage is the reverse; for the activity in accordance with courage is more necessary in youth. Likewise too with temperance; for the young are more troubled than the old by their appetites. And whatever is more useful at every occasion, or at most occasions, is more choiceworthy - for instance, justice and temperance are more choiceworthy than courage, since the former are always useful while the latter is useful only sometimes. And whatever is such that, when everyone possesses it, we have no need of the other, or such that, when we have it, we need the remaining thing in addition, judge as with justice and courage: for if everyone were just, courage would be of no use, whereas if everyone were courageous, justice would still be useful. Again, judge from the destructions and losses and comings-to-be and acquisitions, and from the contraries; for the things whose destructions are more to be avoided are themselves more choiceworthy. Likewise too with the losses and the contraries -
9| for the thing whose loss, or whose contrary, is more to be avoided, is itself more choiceworthy. But with comings-to-be and acquisitions it is the reverse; for the things whose acquisitions and comings-to-be are more choiceworthy are themselves also more choiceworthy. Another commonplace: what is nearer to the good is better and more choiceworthy. And so is what is more similar to the good - for instance, for instance, justice is more similar to the good than a just man is. And And what is more similar to something better than itself, just as some say Ajax is better than Odysseus because he is more similar to Achilles. An objection to this is that it is not true; for nothing prevents Ajax from being more similar to Achilles in some respect other than that in which Achilles is best, while the other man, though good, is not similar in that respect. One should also consider whether the resemblance holds in the more ridiculous respect, as the ape resembles the human being while the horse does not; for the ape is not thereby finer, though it is more similar to the human being. Again, in the case of two things, if the one is more similar to the better and the other more similar to the worse, then the one more similar to the better would be better. But this too admits of an objection; for nothing prevents the one from being only slightly similar to the better while the other is very similar to the worse - for instance, if Ajax is only slightly similar to Achilles while Odysseus is very similar to Nestor.
10| And if the one that is similar to the better resembles it in its worse aspects, while the one that is similar to the worse resembles it in its better aspects, judge as with the horse and the donkey, and the ape and the human being. Another commonplace: what is more conspicuous is more choiceworthy than what is less so, and so is what is harder to attain; for we are more pleased to have what is not easy to obtain. And what is more distinctive is more choiceworthy than what is more common. And what has less in common with what is bad; for what no difficulty attends is more choiceworthy than what some difficulty attends. Again, if this is simply better than that, then the best thing in this class is better than the best thing in the other class - for instance, if a human being is better than a horse, then the best human being is better than the best horse. And if the best of one class is better than the best of another, then that class is simply better than the other - for instance, if the best human being is better than the best horse, then a human being is simply better than a horse. Again, things our friends can share in are more choiceworthy than things they cannot. And whatever we would rather do for a friend than for a chance acquaintance is more choiceworthy - for instance, acting justly and doing good rather than merely seeming to; for we want to do good to our friends rather than merely seem to, whereas with chance acquaintances it is the reverse. And things that come from surplus are better than the necessities, and sometimes more choiceworthy too -
11| for living well is better than merely living, and living well comes from surplus, while mere living is a necessity. But sometimes the better things are not also the more choiceworthy; for it does not follow that if something is better it is also necessarily more choiceworthy - at any rate, philosophizing is better than money-making, but it is not more choiceworthy for someone who lacks the necessities. A thing comes from surplus whenever, once the necessities are provided, one further procures some of the fine things in addition. Roughly speaking, perhaps, the necessary is the more choiceworthy, while what comes from surplus is the better. And what cannot be procured from another is more choiceworthy than what can also be procured from another - as is the case with justice compared to courage. And if this is choiceworthy without that, but that is not choiceworthy without this - for instance, power without practical wisdom is not choiceworthy, but practical wisdom without power is choiceworthy. And of two things, if we deny having the one so that the remaining one may seem to belong to us, then the one we want to seem to have is more choiceworthy - for instance, we deny being industrious so that we may seem to be naturally gifted. Again, that whose absence people are less inclined to be blamed for resenting is more choiceworthy. And that whose absence, if a person does not resent it, is more to be blamed, is more choiceworthy.
12| Again, among things falling under the same form, that which has its proper virtue is more choiceworthy than that which lacks it; and if both have it, the one that has it more. Again, if the one, whenever present, makes its subject good, but the other does not, the one that does so is more choiceworthy, just as what makes something hot is hotter than what does not. And if both make their subject good, the one that does so more is more choiceworthy; or if the better and more authoritative thing produces the good, as when the one affects the soul and the other the body. Again, argue from the cases, the uses, the actions, and the works, and conversely from these to the qualities themselves, since they follow one another: for instance, if acting justly is more choiceworthy than acting bravely, then justice is more choiceworthy than bravery; and if justice is more choiceworthy than bravery, then acting justly is more choiceworthy than acting bravely. The same holds in the other cases. Again, if of some one and the same thing one part is a greater good and another a lesser, the greater is more choiceworthy. Or if one of two things is the greater good relative to a greater thing. But also, if there are two things more choiceworthy than some third thing, the one that is more choiceworthy than the other is more choiceworthy than that less choiceworthy one. Again, that whose excess is more choiceworthy than the excess of something else is itself more choiceworthy than that other thing, for example friendship compared to money;
13| for the excess of friendship is more choiceworthy than the excess of money. And that of which one would rather be the cause to oneself than of the other is more choiceworthy, as friends are more choiceworthy than money. Again, argue from addition: if adding something to the same thing makes the whole more choiceworthy. But one must be careful in proposing cases where the common element cooperates, or is otherwise useful, with the one of the two things added but not with the other, as with a saw and a sickle together with carpentry: the saw is more choiceworthy when paired with carpentry, but not more choiceworthy without qualification. Again, if adding something to a lesser thing makes the whole greater. Similarly also from subtraction: for that thing is the greater, whose subtraction from the same whole leaves a smaller remainder, when the removal in question makes the remainder smaller. And if the one thing is choiceworthy in its own right and the other only for the sake of reputation, as health is more choiceworthy than beauty. The mark of what is choiceworthy for reputation is that one would not care to have it if no one else knew of it. And if the one thing is choiceworthy both in its own right and for reputation, but the other only for one of these, the former is more choiceworthy. And whichever of the two is more honored in its own right is also better and more choiceworthy. A thing would be more honored in its own right if we choose it for its own sake even when nothing else is going to result from it.
14| Again, one should distinguish in how many ways a thing is called choiceworthy, and for the sake of what, for instance the advantageous, the fine, or the pleasant: for what is useful for all purposes, or for more purposes, would be more choiceworthy than what is not useful in the same way. And when the same properties belong to both things, one must examine which one has them more, whether it is more pleasant, or finer, or more advantageous. Again, what is choiceworthy for the sake of a better thing is more choiceworthy, as what is done for the sake of virtue rather than for the sake of pleasure. The same holds for things to be avoided: what is more of an obstacle to choiceworthy things is more to be avoided, as disease is more to be avoided than ugliness, since disease is more of a hindrance both to pleasure and to being a serious person. Again, argue by showing in the same way that the thing proposed is both to be avoided and choiceworthy: for a thing that one would equally choose and avoid is less choiceworthy than something that is choiceworthy only. The comparisons of things with one another, then, are to be made in the manner stated. The same commonplaces are useful also for showing that anything whatever is choiceworthy or to be avoided; one need only remove the reference to comparison with something else. For if what is more honored is more choiceworthy, then what is honored is also choiceworthy; and if what is more useful is more choiceworthy, then what is useful is also choiceworthy. The same holds in the other cases that admit this kind of comparison. For in some cases we say straightaway, on the basis of comparing one thing with another, that each is choiceworthy, or that the one is, as when we say that the one is good by nature and the other not by nature; for what is good by nature is evidently choiceworthy.
15| One should take the commonplaces concerning the more and the greater in the most general form possible, for taken in this way they will be useful for more purposes. It is possible to make some of the ones already stated more general by slightly altering the wording, for instance: what is such by nature is more such than what is not such by nature. And if the one thing, when present or when possessed, produces a certain effect and the other does not, then whatever at some time produces it is more such than what does not. And if both produce it, the one that produces it more is more such. Again, if of some one and the same thing one part is more such and another less; and if the one is more such than something that is such, while the other is such compared to something that is not such, clearly the first is more such. Again, argue from addition: if, added to the same thing, it makes the whole more such, or if, added to something less such, it makes the whole more such. Similarly also from subtraction: for that thing whose removal leaves the remainder less such is itself more such. And things less mixed with their contraries are more such, for instance the whiter thing is the one less mixed with black. Again, apart from what has been said before, whatever admits more fully the proper account of the thing in question, for instance, if the account of white is a color that separates the sight, then the thing that is more a color separating the sight is whiter.
16| If the problem is proposed in a particular rather than a universal form, then first of all all the universal commonplaces stated above for establishing or demolishing are useful. For in refuting or establishing something universally we also show it of the particular case: for if it belongs to all, it also belongs to some, and if it belongs to none, it does not belong to some either. But the most opportune and common of the commonplaces are those from opposites, from coordinate terms, and from cases: for it is equally plausible to claim, if every pleasure is good, that every pain is bad, as to claim, if some pleasure is good, that some pain is bad. Again, if some perception is not a capacity, then some lack of perception is not an incapacity. And if something apprehensible is knowable, then some apprehension is knowledge. Again, if something unjust is good, then something just is bad; and if something done justly is bad, then something done unjustly is good. And if something pleasant is to be avoided, some pleasure is to be avoided. In the same way, too, if something pleasant is beneficial, some pleasure is beneficial. And likewise with things that destroy, and with comings-to-be and destructions. For if something that destroys pleasure or knowledge, being itself something, is good, then some pleasure or some knowledge would be among the bad things.
17| Similarly too, if some destruction of knowledge is among the good things, or its coming-to-be among the bad things, then some knowledge will be among the bad things, for instance, if forgetting the shameful things one has done is among the good things, or remembering them is among the bad things, then knowing the shameful things one has done would be among the bad things. The same holds in the other cases too, for the plausibility works the same way in all of them. Again, argue from the more, the less, and the equally. For if something from another genus is more such, and none of that genus is such, then the thing in question would not be such either, for instance, if some knowledge is more a good than pleasure is, and no knowledge is good, then no pleasure would be good either. And from the equally and from the less in the same way: for one will be able both to demolish and to establish, except that from the equally one can do both, while from the less one can only establish, not demolish. For if some capacity is equally a good as knowledge is, and some capacity is good, then some knowledge is also good. But if no capacity is good, neither is any knowledge. And if some capacity is less of a good than knowledge is, and some capacity is good, then some knowledge is too. But if no capacity is good, it does not follow of necessity that no knowledge is good either.
18| It is clear, then, that establishing a point is possible only from the lesser degree. But it is possible to demolish a point not only from a different genus but also from the same one, by taking what is most such-and-such, for example, if it is laid down that some kind of knowledge is good, and it is shown that practical wisdom is not good, then no other kind will be good either, since not even the one that seems most so is. Again, from a hypothesis: claiming similarly that if it holds of one, it holds of all, or fails to hold of all, for example, if the human soul is immortal, so are the others, and if this one is not, neither are the others. Now if it is laid down that the attribute holds of some subject, we must show that it does not hold of some subject; for by the hypothesis it will follow that it holds of none. But if it is laid down that the attribute does not hold of some subject, we must show that it holds of some subject; for in this way too it will follow that it holds of all. It is clear that one who lays down the hypothesis makes the problem, though stated as particular, into a universal one; for he demands that the person who agrees to the particular case agree to the universal, since, if it holds of one, you demand that it hold of all alike. When the problem is indefinite, then, it is possible to demolish it in only one way, for example if someone said that pleasure is good, or not good, and defined nothing further. For if he said that some pleasure is good, we must show universally that no pleasure is good, if the thesis in question is to be refuted.
19| Likewise, if he said that some pleasure is not good, we must show universally that every pleasure is good; there is no other way to refute it. For if we show that there is some pleasure that is not good, or that is good, the thesis in question is not yet refuted. It is clear, then, that demolishing is possible in only one way, but establishing in two ways; for whether we show universally that every pleasure is good, or that some pleasure is good, the thesis in question will have been shown. Likewise, if we need to argue that some pleasure is not good, if we show either that no pleasure is good or that some pleasure is not good, we will have argued the point in both ways, both universally and in a particular case, that some pleasure is not good. But when the position is definite, there will be two ways of demolishing it, for example if it were laid down that being good holds of some pleasure but not of another; for whether it is shown that every pleasure is good or that none is, the thesis in question will have been demolished. But if he laid down that only one pleasure is good, there are three ways of demolishing it; for by showing that every pleasure is good, or that none is, or that more than one is, we will have demolished the thesis in question. When the position is defined still more fully, for example that practical wisdom alone among the virtues is knowledge, there are four ways of demolishing it:
1| for once it is shown that every virtue is knowledge, or that none is, or that some other virtue is too, for example justice, or that practical wisdom itself is not knowledge, the thesis in question will have been demolished. It is also useful to look at particular cases, those in which something is said to hold or not to hold, just as with universal problems. Further, one must look among the genera, dividing according to species down to the individuals, as has been said before; for whether the attribute appears to hold of all or of none, after bringing forward many instances one may demand that the opponent agree to the universal, or bring an objection stating in what case it is not so. Further, in cases where the accidental attribute can be marked off either by species or by number, one should examine whether none of these apply, for example that time does not move and is not motion, by counting up how many species of motion there are; for if none of these belongs to time, it is clear that it does not move and is not motion. Likewise also that the soul is not a number, by dividing that every number is either odd or even; for if the soul is neither odd nor even, it is clear that it is not a number. This, then, is how one must proceed against the accidental attribute, by means of such arguments.
2| Book 4. After this we must examine the topics relating to genus and property. These are the elements of the topics relating to definitions; but the debaters who practice dialectic rarely conduct inquiries about these very things. If, then, a genus is laid down for one of the things that are, first one must look among all the things akin to what has been stated, to see whether it fails to be predicated of any of them, just as with the accidental attribute, for example, if the good is laid down as the genus of pleasure, whether some pleasure is not good; for if this is so, it is clear that the good is not the genus of pleasure, since a genus is predicated of everything that falls under the same species. Next, whether it is predicated not in the what-it-is but as an accident, as white is predicated of snow, or that which is moved by itself of soul. For snow is not precisely white, and so white is not the genus of snow, nor is soul precisely that-which-is-moved; rather, being moved is an accident of it, just as it is often an accident of an animal to walk and to be walking. Further, that-which-is-moved seems to signify not what a thing is, but rather that it does or undergoes something. Likewise also white; for it does not signify what snow is, but rather indicates some quality of it. So neither of these is predicated in the what-it-is.
3| One should look especially at the definition of an accident, to see whether it fits the genus stated, as with the examples just given. For it is possible for a thing both to move itself and not to, and likewise both to be white and not to be. So neither of these is a genus but an accident, since we said an accident is what can hold of a thing and also not hold of it. Further, whether the genus and the species are not in the same division, but the one is a substance and the other a quality, or the one is a relative and the other a quality, for example snow and swan are substances, while white is not a substance but a quality, so that white is not the genus of snow nor of swan. Again, knowledge is among relatives, while good and fine are qualities, so that good or fine is not the genus of knowledge; for the genera of relatives must themselves also be relatives, as in the case of the double; for the manifold too, being the genus of the double, is itself also among relatives. To put it generally, the genus must fall under the same division as the species; for if the species is a substance, so must the genus be, and if the species is a quality, so too the genus must be a quality, for example if white is a quality, so is color.
4| Likewise also with the other cases. Again, whether it is necessary or possible that the genus, of the thing placed within it, should partake of the genus. The definition of partaking is admitting the account of the thing partaken of. It is clear, then, that species partake of genera, but genera do not partake of species; for the species admits the account of the genus, but the genus does not admit the account of the species. One should examine, then, whether the assigned genus partakes, or can partake, of the species, for example if someone assigned some genus of being or of the one; for it will follow that the genus partakes of the species, since being and the one are predicated of all the things that are, and so is their account. Further, whether the assigned species is truly predicated of something of which the genus is not, for example if being or the knowable were laid down as the genus of the opinable. For the opinable will be predicated of what is not; for many things that are not are objects of opinion. But that being or the knowable is not predicated of what is not is clear. So being is not the genus of the opinable, nor is the knowable; for of whatever the species is predicated, the genus must also be predicated.
5| Again, see whether the thing placed in the genus can share in none of the species; for it is impossible for something to share in the genus while sharing in none of the species, unless it is itself one of the species arising from the first division — for these share in the genus alone. If, then, motion is posited as the genus of pleasure, we must examine whether pleasure is neither locomotion nor alteration nor any of the other kinds of motion that have been set out; for clearly, if it shares in none of the species, it plainly does not share in the genus either, since whatever shares in the genus must also share in some one of the species. So pleasure would not be a species of motion, nor would it be one of the individuals [nor] falling under the species of motion — for individuals too share in both the genus and the species, just as a particular man shares in both man and animal.
6| Again, see whether what has been placed in the genus is said more widely than the genus, as the opinable is said more widely than being; for both being and not-being are opinable, so that the opinable could not be a species of being — for the genus is always said more widely than the species. Again, see whether the species and the genus are said of equal extension, as would happen if, among things that follow everything, one were posited as the species and the other as the genus, for example being and the one; for being and the one belong to everything, so neither is a genus of the other, since they are said of equal extension. The same holds if the primary and the starting point were posited as reciprocal to each other; for the starting point is primary and the primary is a starting point, so that either the two terms named are the same, or neither is a genus of the other. A general rule for all such cases is this: the genus must be said more widely than the species and the differentia, for the differentia too is said more narrowly than the genus. One should also see, for any of the things that are undifferentiated in species, whether the stated genus fails to belong to it, or would seem not to — when constructing an argument, whether it does belong to one of them. For the genus is the same for all things undifferentiated in species. If, then, it is shown for one, it is clear it holds for all; and if it fails for one, it is clear it fails for none — as when someone, positing indivisible lines, says their genus is the indivisible. For the stated genus does not belong to lines that admit of division, and these are undifferentiated in species from the others; for all straight lines are undifferentiated from one another in species.
7| One should also examine whether there is some other genus of the given species that neither includes the assigned genus nor falls under it — for example, if someone posited knowledge as the genus of justice. For virtue too is a genus, and neither of the two genera includes the other, so knowledge could not be the genus of justice; for it seems that, whenever one species falls under two genera, the one genus is included by the other. But this raises a difficulty in some cases. For some think that practical wisdom is both a virtue and a knowledge, and that neither genus is included by the other — though not everyone concedes that practical wisdom is a knowledge. Still, even if one were to grant that this claim is true, it would seem necessary that genera of the same thing should fall under one another or under the same thing, as indeed happens with virtue and knowledge; for both fall under the same genus, since each of them is a state and a disposition. One must therefore examine whether neither of these applies to the assigned genus. For if the genera neither fall under one another nor both fall under the same thing, the assigned genus could not be correct.
8| One must also examine the genus of the assigned genus, and so on always with the genus above it, to see whether all such genera are predicated of the species, and whether they are predicated in the what-it-is; for all the higher genera must be predicated of the species in the what-it-is. If, then, there is any discord at some point, clearly the assigned term is not a genus. Again, see whether the genus shares in the species — either the genus itself or one of the genera above it; for nothing lower shares in what is above it. In demolishing an argument, then, one must proceed as has been said; in constructing one, if it is agreed that the stated genus belongs to the species, but it is disputed whether it belongs as a genus, it is enough to show that one of the higher genera is predicated of the species in the what-it-is. For when one thing is predicated in the what-it-is, all the things both above and below it, if they are predicated of the species at all, will be predicated in the what-it-is; so the assigned genus too will be predicated in the what-it-is. That when one thing is predicated in the what-it-is, all the rest, if predicated at all, will be predicated in the what-it-is, must be grasped by induction. But if it is disputed simply whether the assigned genus belongs at all, it is not enough to show that one of the higher genera is predicated of the species in the what-it-is.
9| For example, if someone assigned locomotion as the genus of walking, it is not enough to show that walking is a motion in order to show that it is a locomotion, since there are other motions as well; rather one must further show that walking shares in none of the species under the same division except locomotion. For whatever shares in the genus must also share in some one of the species arising from the first division. If, then, walking shares neither in growth nor in diminution nor in the other motions, clearly it would share in locomotion, so that locomotion would be the genus of walking. Again, in cases where the species posited as a genus is itself predicated, see whether the assigned genus too is predicated in the what-it-is of the very things of which the species is predicated, and likewise whether all the genera above the genus are as well. For if there is discord anywhere, clearly the assigned term is not a genus; for if it were the genus, then it and everything above it would be predicated in the what-it-is of just those things of which the species too is predicated in the what-it-is. In demolishing an argument, then, it is useful if the genus is not predicated in the what-it-is of the things of which the species is predicated;
10| in constructing one, it is useful if it is so predicated. For it will follow that the genus and the species are predicated of the same thing in the what-it-is, so that the same thing falls under two genera. The genera must therefore fall under one another. If, then, it is shown that the genus we wish to construct does not fall under the species, clearly the species would fall under it, so that it will have been shown that this is the genus. One should also examine the definitions of the genera, to see whether they fit both the assigned species and the things that share in the species. For the definitions of the genera must be predicated of the species and of the things that share in the species; if, then, there is discord anywhere, clearly the assigned term is not a genus. Again, see whether he has assigned the differentia as the genus — for example, if he made the immortal the genus of god. For the immortal is a differentia of animal, since of animals some are mortal and some immortal. It is clear, then, that he has erred; for a differentia is never the genus of anything. That this is true is clear: for no differentia signifies a what-it-is, but rather a certain quality, as do the terms footed and two-footed. And likewise if he placed the differentia in the position of the genus, as the odd, which is precisely a number.
11| For "odd" is a differentia of number, not a species. Nor does the differentia seem to participate in the genus; for everything that participates in the genus is either a species or an individual, but the differentia is neither a species nor an individual. It is clear, then, that the differentia does not participate in the genus, so that "odd" would not be a species either, but a differentia, since it does not participate in the genus. Again, check if he has placed the genus into the species — for instance, contact as being cohesion, or mixture as being blending, or as Plato defines locomotion as motion in respect of place. For it is not necessary that contact be cohesion; rather, the reverse, that cohesion be contact — for not everything that touches is held together, but what is held together touches. Similarly in the remaining cases too; for not every mixture is a blending (for the mixture of dry things is not a blending), nor is every change in place locomotion — for walking does not seem to be locomotion; for "locomotion" is used, roughly speaking, of things that change place involuntarily, as happens with inanimate things. And it is clear that in the definitions given, the species is being said more widely than the genus, when the reverse ought to happen.
12| Again, check if he has placed the differentia into the species, for instance, "immortal" as being god. For it will follow that the species is said either equally widely or more widely than the genus; for the differentia is always said either equally widely or more widely than the species. Again, check if he has placed the genus into the differentia, for instance, color as being what discriminates, or number as being odd. And check if he has stated the genus as a differentia; for it is possible for someone to put forward even such a position as this, for instance, mixture as the differentia of blending, or change of place as the differentia of locomotion. All such cases should be examined by the same means; for the topics overlap — for the genus must be said more widely than the differentia, and must not participate in the differentia. But if it is rendered in this way, neither of the things mentioned can hold; for it will be said of less, and the genus will participate in the differentia. Again, if none of the differentiae of the genus is predicated of the species that has been rendered, neither will the genus be predicated, as for instance neither "odd" nor "even" is predicated of soul, so that "number" is not predicated of it either. Again, check if the species is prior in nature and its removal removes the genus along with it; for the contrary seems to hold. Again, if it is possible for the stated genus or the differentia to be absent from the thing, as for instance for soul to lack being in motion, or for opinion to lack being true or false, neither of the things mentioned would be a genus nor a differentia of it;
13| for the genus and the differentia seem to accompany the thing as long as the species exists. One should also examine whether what is placed in the genus participates in something contrary to the genus, or whether it is possible for it to participate in it; for the same thing will then participate in contraries at once, since the genus never leaves it, while it also participates, or can participate, in the contrary of the genus. Again, check if the species shares in something that cannot possibly belong at all to the things falling under the genus. For instance, if soul shares in life, but no number can possibly live, then soul would not be a species of number. One should also examine whether the species is used homonymously with the genus, employing the elements stated for detecting homonymy; for genus and species must be used synonymously. And since every genus has several species, one should examine whether it is not possible for there to be another species of the stated genus; for if there is not, it is clear that what has been stated would not be a genus at all. One should also examine whether he has rendered as the genus something said metaphorically, for instance temperance as harmony; for every genus is predicated of its species in the strict sense, but "harmony" is predicated of temperance not in the strict sense but metaphorically — for all harmony is in sounds. Again, if there is something contrary to the species, one should examine it. And the examination proceeds in several ways: first, whether the contrary too is in the same genus, when there is nothing contrary to the genus;
14| for the contraries must be in the same genus, if there is nothing contrary to the genus. But if there is something contrary to the genus, one should examine whether the contrary of the species is in the contrary genus; for it is necessary for the contrary to be in the contrary, if there is indeed something contrary to the genus. Each of these points is clear by induction. Again, check whether the thing contrary to the species is in no genus at all, but is itself a genus, for instance the good; for if this is not in a genus, neither will its contrary be in a genus, but will itself be a genus, as happens with the good and the bad — for neither of these is in a genus, but each of them is itself a genus. Again, check whether, if both the genus and the species are contrary to something, there is an intermediate for the one but not for the other. For if there is an intermediate for the genera, there is one for the species too, and if for the species, then for the genera too, as in the case of virtue and vice, and justice and injustice; for there is an intermediate for each of these pairs. An objection to this is that there is no intermediate between health and disease, though there is between bad and good. Or check whether, though there is something between both pairs, both for the species and for the genera, it is not in the same way, but for the one it is by negation, for the other as an underlying subject.
15| For it is the accepted view that it should be the same for both, as in the case of virtue and vice, justice and injustice; for in both cases the intermediates are by negation. Again, when there is nothing contrary to the genus, one should examine not only whether the contrary is in the same genus, but also the intermediate; for whatever genus contains the extremes contains the intermediates too, as in the case of white and black; for color is the genus both of these and of all the intermediate colors. An objection is that deficiency and excess are in the same genus (for both are in the bad), but the moderate amount, though intermediate between them, is not in the bad but in the good. One should also examine whether the genus is contrary to something while the species is contrary to nothing. For if the genus is contrary to something, the species is too, as virtue is contrary to vice and justice to injustice. Examining likewise in other cases too, this would seem to be evident. An objection arises in the case of health and disease; for, taken generally, all health is contrary to disease, but a particular disease, being a species of disease, is contrary to nothing, for instance fever, ophthalmia, and each of the others.
16| In destructive argument, then, one must examine in this many ways; for if what has been stated does not hold, it is clear that what was rendered is not the genus. In constructive argument, in three ways: first, whether the thing contrary to the species is in the stated genus, when there is nothing contrary to the genus; for if the contrary is in this genus, it is clear that the thing under discussion is too. Again, check whether the intermediate is in the stated genus; for whatever genus contains the intermediate contains the extremes too. Again, if there is something contrary to the genus, examine whether the contrary of the species is also in the contrary genus; for if it is, it is clear that the thing under discussion is in the genus under discussion. Again, in the case of the grammatical inflections and the co-ordinate terms, check whether they follow correspondingly, both in destructive and in constructive argument. For a predicate belongs, or fails to belong, to one and to all together, as for instance if justice is a kind of knowledge, then also "justly" is "knowledgeably," and the just person is knowledgeable; but if any of these does not hold, then none of the rest holds either.
17| Again, consider things that stand in a similar relation to one another—for instance, the pleasant stands to pleasure as the beneficial stands to the good, since each is productive of the other. If, then, pleasure is exactly the good, the pleasant too will be exactly the beneficial; for clearly it would be productive of a good, since pleasure is a good. And likewise in cases of coming-to-be and destruction: e.g. if building is being active, then having built is having been active; and if learning is being reminded, then having learned is having been reminded; and if being dissolved is being destroyed, then having been dissolved is having been destroyed, and dissolution is a kind of destruction. And likewise too with things productive of coming-to-be and of destruction, and with capacities and their exercises; and in general, whatever the similarity, one must examine it both in demolishing and in establishing, just as we said in the case of coming-to-be and destruction. For if what is destructive is dissolutive, then to be destroyed is to be dissolved; and if what is generative is productive, then to come to be is to be made, and coming-to-be is a kind of making. Likewise with capacities and their exercises: if a capacity is a disposition, then to be capable is to be disposed; and if the exercise of something is an actuality, then to exercise it is to be active, and to have exercised it is to have been active. If the opposite in species is a privation, there are two ways to demolish the proposed genus: first, if the opposite is not in the genus assigned—
18| for either the privation is, without qualification, in no genus at all the same as it, or it is not in the lowest genus—e.g. if sight is in perception as its lowest genus, blindness will not be a perception. Second, if the privation is opposed both in genus and in species, but the opposite is not in the opposite genus, then neither would the thing assigned be in the genus assigned. In demolishing, then, one must proceed as has been said; in establishing, only in one way: for if the opposite is in the opposite, the thing proposed would also be in the genus proposed—e.g. if blindness is a kind of non-perception, sight is a kind of perception.
19| Again, one must examine the negations taken in reverse, as was said in the case of the accident—e.g. if the pleasant is exactly the good, then what is not good is not pleasant. For if this were not so, there would be something not good that is pleasant. But that is impossible, if the good is the genus of the pleasant; for nothing can be pleasant of which the genus is not predicated, among things whose genus is predicated neither of them nor of any of their species. And in establishing one must examine it the same way: if what is not good is not pleasant, then the pleasant is good, so that the good is the genus of the pleasant. And if the species is a relative, one must see whether the genus too is a relative; for if the species is among the relatives, so is the genus—as with the double and the multiple, each of which is a relative. But if the genus is a relative, it is not necessary that the species be one too; for knowledge is a relative, but grammar is not. Or perhaps even the earlier statement would not seem true: for virtue is exactly the fine and exactly the good, and virtue is a relative, while the good and the fine are not relatives but qualities.
20| Again, one must see whether the species is not said in relation to the same thing both in its own right and according to the genus—e.g. if the double is said to be double of the half, then the multiple too must be said to be multiple of the half; if not, the multiple would not be the genus of the double. Further, one must see whether it is not said in relation to the same thing both according to the genus and according to all the genera above that genus. For if the double is a multiple of the half, then what exceeds will also be said of the half, and in general it will be said in relation to the half according to all the higher genera. An objection: it is not necessary that a thing be said in relation to the same thing both in its own right and according to its genus; for knowledge is said in relation to the knowable, but state and disposition are said not in relation to the knowable but in relation to the soul. Again, one must see whether the genus and the species are said alike with respect to their cases—whether both take 'to something' or 'of something,' or however many other ways there are. For as the species is said, so should the genus be said, as with the double and the genera above it: both the double and the multiple are said 'of something.' Likewise with knowledge: it too, and its genera—disposition and state—are said 'of something.' An objection: that in some cases it is not so—
21| for the different and the contrary are said 'of something,' while the other, being the genus of these, is said not 'to something' but 'of something,' since it is called other than something. Again, one must see whether relatives said alike with respect to their cases fail to convert alike, as with the double and the multiple. For each of these is itself said 'of something,' and is said the same way when converted, since the half too and the fractional part are said 'of something.' Likewise with knowledge and supposition: these too are said 'of something,' and convert alike, since the knowable and the supposable are each said 'to something.' If, then, in some cases they do not convert alike, it is clear that the one is not the genus of the other. Again, one must see whether the species and the genus are not said in relation to equal numbers of things; for each is thought to be said in a similar and equal number of ways, as with gift and giving. For a gift is said to be of something or to someone, and giving too is of something and to someone; and giving is the genus of gift, since a gift is a giving that is not given back. But in some cases it does not turn out that they are said in relation to equal numbers: for the double is double of something, while what exceeds, and the greater, are of something and to something—
22| for everything that exceeds, and the greater, exceeds something and exceeds it by some amount. So the terms mentioned are not the genus of the double, since it is not said in relation to equal numbers of things as the double is in species. Or else it is not universally true that the species and the genus must be said in relation to equal numbers of things. One must also see whether the opposite of the term is the genus of the opposite of the species—e.g. whether the multiple is the genus of the double, and the fractional part of the half; for the opposite ought to be the genus of the opposite. If, then, someone were to posit that knowledge is exactly perception, the knowable too would have to be exactly the perceptible. But this is not so, for not everything knowable is perceptible, since some intelligible things too are knowable. So the perceptible is not the genus of the knowable; and if this is not so, then neither is perception the genus of knowledge. Now, of the things called relatives, some are necessarily in, or concerned with, the very things in relation to which they happen to be spoken of—e.g. disposition and state and due proportion, for these cannot possibly belong in anything else; the things mentioned are in those very things in relation to which they are spoken of. Others need not be in the things in relation to which they happen to be spoken of, though they may be—e.g. if the soul is knowable—
23| for nothing prevents the soul from having knowledge of itself, though this is not necessary, since this same knowledge can also be in something else. Others simply cannot be in the things in relation to which they happen to be spoken of at all—e.g. the contrary cannot be in the contrary, nor knowledge in the knowable, unless the knowable happens to be soul or man. One must therefore examine whether someone has placed a thing of this non-corresponding sort into such a genus—e.g. if someone said that memory is a persistence of knowledge. For every persistence is in, and concerned with, the thing that persists, so that the persistence of knowledge too would be in the knowledge. Memory, then, would be in knowledge, since it is a persistence of knowledge; but this is not possible, for all memory is in the soul. The topic just mentioned is also common to the topic of accident; for it makes no difference whether one calls persistence the genus of memory or says that this belongs to memory as an accident, since if memory is in any way a persistence of knowledge, the same argument will fit the case.
24| Again, see whether he has put the state under the activity, or the activity under the state — for example, calling perception 'motion through the body': for perception is a state, while motion is an activity. Likewise, see whether he called memory 'a retentive state of a supposition': for no memory is a state, but rather an activity. Those also go wrong who place a state under the capacity that follows on it — for example, calling gentleness 'mastery over anger,' and courage and justice 'mastery over fears and gains.' For the man called courageous or gentle is the one unaffected by these things, while the man called 'in control' is one who is affected but not led by it. Perhaps, then, a capacity of this sort does follow on each — such that, if he were affected, he would not be led but would master it; but this is not what it is to be courageous or gentle, but rather to be wholly unaffected by such things at all. Sometimes, too, people set down as the genus whatever happens to accompany the thing in some way — for example, distress as the genus of anger, and supposition as the genus of conviction. For both of the things mentioned do in some way accompany the species assigned to them, but neither of them is their genus. For the angry man feels distress, the distress arising in him first; for it is not anger that is the cause of the distress, but distress that is the cause of anger, so that anger simply is not distress.
25| On the same grounds, conviction is not supposition either: for it is possible to hold the same supposition without believing it. But that would not be possible, if conviction were a species of supposition: for the same thing cannot remain the same once it has changed entirely out of its species, just as the same animal cannot be a human being at one time and not at another. And if someone says that whoever holds a supposition is necessarily also convinced, then supposition and conviction will be said to hold of exactly the same things, so that not even on this view could it be a genus: for a genus must be predicated more widely. See also whether both are naturally found in the same thing: for wherever the species is, the genus is there too — for example, wherever white is, color is there too, and wherever grammar is, knowledge is there too. If, then, someone calls shame a species of fear, or anger a species of distress, it will not turn out that the species and the genus belong to the same thing. For shame is in the rational part, while fear is in the spirited part; and distress is in the appetitive part (since pleasure too is in this part), while anger is in the spirited part. So the genera assigned are not genera at all, since they do not naturally occur in the same part as their supposed species.
26| Likewise, if friendship is in the appetitive part, it could not be a kind of wish: for all wish is in the rational part. This commonplace is useful for accidents too: for an accident is in the same thing as that to which it belongs, so that if it does not appear to be in the same thing, clearly it is not an accident of it. Again, see whether the species partakes of the stated genus only in some respect: for a genus is not thought to be partaken of only in some respect — a human being is not an animal only in some respect, nor is grammar knowledge only in some respect. And likewise in other cases. So examine whether in some instances the genus is partaken of only in some respect — for example, if 'animal' is said to be exactly what is perceptible or visible. For an animal is perceptible or visible only in some respect: it is perceptible and visible in respect of its body, but not in respect of its soul; so 'visible' and 'perceptible' could not be the genus of 'animal.' Sometimes people also fail to notice that they are putting the whole under the part — for example, defining animal as an ensouled body. But a part is in no way predicated of the whole, so body could not be the genus of animal, since it is a part of it.
27| See also whether he has put something blameworthy or to be avoided under a capacity or 'the capable' — for example, defining the sophist, or the slanderer, or the thief as one capable of taking what belongs to others, or capable of slandering, or of sophistry. For none of the men named is called such simply by being capable of doing these things: even god and the good man are capable of doing base things, yet they are not that sort of person; for all base people are so called in virtue of their choice. Further, every capacity is among the things worth having: for even the capacities for base things are worth having, which is why we say god and the good man have them too — since they are capable of doing base things. So capacity could not be the genus of anything blameworthy. Otherwise, it will follow that something blameworthy is worth having: for there will be some capacity that is blameworthy.
28| And see whether he has put something valued or worth having in its own right under a capacity, or 'the capable,' or 'the productive.' For every capacity, and everything capable or productive, is worth having for the sake of something else. Or whether he has put something that falls under two genera, or more, into only one of them. For some things cannot be put into a single genus — for example, the cheat and the slanderer. For neither the man who chooses to do it but is unable, nor the man who is able but does not choose to, is a slanderer or a cheat, but only the man who has both. So he must not be put into one genus, but into both of the ones mentioned. Further, sometimes people assign, in reverse, the genus as differentia and the differentia as genus — for example, defining astonishment as 'an excess of wonder' and conviction as 'an intensity of supposition.' But neither 'excess' nor 'intensity' is a genus — it is a differentia: for astonishment seems to be wonder that is excessive, and conviction seems to be supposition that is intense, so that wonder and supposition are the genus, while excess and intensity are the differentia. Further, if anyone assigns excess and intensity as the genus, inanimate things will be convinced and will be astonished.
29| For the intensity of a thing, and its excess, belong to that very thing of which they are the intensity and the excess. If, then, astonishment is an excess of wonder, astonishment will belong to wonder, so that wonder will be astonished. Likewise conviction will belong to supposition, if it is an intensity of supposition, so that supposition will be convinced. Further, it will follow for anyone who assigns things in this way that he calls intensity intense and excess excessive. For conviction is intense; if, then, conviction is an intensity, then intensity would be intense. Likewise, astonishment is excessive; if, then, astonishment is an excess, excess would be excessive. But neither of these is thought to be so, just as knowledge is not something known, nor is motion something moved. Sometimes people also go wrong by putting the affection under the genus of the thing affected — for example, all who say that immortality is 'life everlasting.' For immortality seems to be some affection or attribute of life. That what is being said is true would become clear if one granted that someone becomes immortal from being mortal: no one will say he takes on a different life, but rather that some attribute or affection comes to this very life he has. So life is not the genus of immortality. Again, see whether they say that the thing of which something is an affection is the genus of that affection — for example, defining wind as 'moving air.'
30| For wind is rather a motion of air: for the same air remains, whether it is moving or at rest. So wind is not air at all: for there would be wind even when the air was not moving, if the very air that was wind remains the same. And likewise in other such cases. But even if in this case one must grant that wind is air in motion, still this sort of account must not be accepted for all cases in which the genus does not hold true, but only for those in which the genus assigned is truly predicated. For in some cases it does not seem to hold true — for example, in the case of mud and snow. For they say snow is 'water frozen solid,' and mud is 'earth mixed with liquid'; but snow is not water, nor is mud earth, so neither of the things assigned could be the genus: for the genus must always hold true of the species. Likewise, wine is not 'water gone rotten,' as Empedocles says, 'water rotted in wood': for wine simply is not water.
31| Again, see whether the thing assigned is in general the genus of nothing at all; for clearly then it is not the genus of the thing in question either. Examine this from the fact that the things sharing in the assigned genus do not differ in species — for instance, white things: these do not differ from one another in species. But every genus has species that differ from one another, so that white would not be the genus of anything. Again, see whether he has stated as genus or as differentia something that follows everything. For there are several things that follow everything — for instance, being and unity are among the things that follow everything. If, then, he assigned being as the genus, clearly it would be the genus of everything, since it is predicated of them all; for a genus is predicated of nothing except its species. So unity too would then be a species of being. It follows, then, that of everything of which the genus is predicated the species is also predicated — since being and unity are predicated of absolutely everything — though the species ought to be predicated of fewer things than the genus. But if he stated as differentia something that follows everything, clearly the differentia will be said to hold of an equal or a greater number of things than the genus. For if the genus too is among the things that follow everything, it will hold of an equal number; but if the genus does not follow everything, the differentia would be said to hold of more things than it.
32| Again, see whether the assigned genus is said to be present in the species as in a subject, the way white is present in snow; for then clearly it would not be a genus, since a genus is said of the species as of a subject, not in it. Also examine whether the genus is not synonymous with the species; for a genus is predicated synonymously of all its species. Again, see when, there being a contrary both in species and in genus, he places the better of the two contraries under the worse genus; for it will follow that the remaining one is in the remaining one, since contraries fall under contrary genera, so that the better will be in the worse and the worse in the better — but the genus of the better is held to be itself better. Also see whether, though the same species stands alike in relation to both, he assigned it to the worse and not the better genus — for instance, calling soul motion, or a thing moved. For the same capacity seems alike to produce rest and to produce motion, so that if rest is the better, the genus ought to have been placed there. Again, argue from the more and the less: when refuting, see whether the genus admits of the more while the species admits it neither itself nor in what is said in accordance with it.
33| For instance, if virtue admits of the more, so do justice and the just man; for one man is called more just than another. If, then, the assigned genus admits of the more, but the species admits it neither itself nor in what is said according to it, the thing assigned would not be a genus. Again, see whether what is thought to be more so, or equally so, is not a genus — clearly then neither is the thing assigned. This topic is most useful for cases where several things appear to be predicated of the species in the 'what it is' and it has not been settled, nor can we say which of them is the genus — for instance, both pain and the supposition of being slighted seem to be predicated of anger in the 'what it is'; for the angry man both feels pain and supposes he is being slighted. The same examination applies also when comparing the species to something else: for if what seems to hold more, or equally, is not in the assigned genus, clearly the assigned species would not be in that genus either. In refuting, then, one should use the topic as has been said; but in establishing, if both the assigned genus and the species admit of the more, the topic is not useful;
34| for nothing prevents both admitting of the more and yet neither being the genus of the other. For both the fine and the white admit of the more, and neither is the genus of the other. But the comparison of genera and of species with one another is useful — for instance, if this and that are genera to the same degree, then if one is a genus, so is the other. Likewise too if one is less a genus and the other more — for instance, if capacity is more a genus of self-control than virtue is, and virtue is a genus, then so is capacity. The same things will fit to be said about the species too. For if this and that are alike species of the thing proposed, then if one is a species, so is the remaining one; and if the one thought to be less a species is a species, so is the one thought more so. Again, for establishing, one should examine whether, of the things of which the genus was assigned, it is predicated in the 'what it is,' there being not one assigned species but several and different ones; for then clearly it will be a genus. But if the assigned thing is one species, examine whether the genus is also predicated in the 'what it is' of other species; for then again it will turn out to be predicated of several different things. Since some think that the differentia too is predicated of species in the 'what it is,' one must separate the genus from the differentia by using the elements stated: first, that the genus is said of more things than the differentia; and next, that in giving the account of the 'what it is' the genus is a better fit to state than the differentia;
35| for the man who says 'animal' shows better what a human being is than the man who says 'footed.' And note that the differentia always signifies a quality of the genus, while the genus does not signify a quality of the differentia; for the man who says 'footed' states a certain quality of animal, while the man who says 'animal' does not state what quality 'footed' has. The differentia, then, is to be separated from the genus in this way. Since it seems that the musical, insofar as it is musical, is a kind of knowledge, and music is a kind of knowledge, and since, if the walking thing is moved by its walking, walking would be a kind of motion — in whatever genus you wish to establish something, examine it in the way stated: for instance, whether knowledge is a kind of conviction, by examining whether the man who knows, insofar as he knows, is convinced; for then clearly knowledge would be a kind of conviction. The same manner applies in the other such cases too. Again, since what always accompanies something without converting is hard to separate from being a genus — when this follows that in every case, but that does not follow this in every case, as calm follows windlessness, and the divisible follows number, but not conversely (for not everything divisible is a number, nor is rest calm) — one should oneself use what always follows as if it were a genus, when the other term does not convert; but when someone else proposes it, one should not concede it in every case.
1| An objection to this is that what-is-not follows everything that is coming to be (for what is coming to be does not yet exist) and does not convert (for not everything that is not comes to be); yet what-is-not is not a genus of what is coming to be, for there are simply no species of what-is-not. Concerning genus, then, one must proceed as has been said. E.
2| Whether the thing stated is a property or not must be examined by the following means. A property is assigned either in its own right and always, or in relation to something else and at some time — in its own right, for instance, the property of man that he is by nature a tame animal; in relation to something else, for instance the property of soul relative to body, that the one is commanding and the other subservient; always, for instance the property of god that he is an immortal animal; and at some time, for instance the property of some particular man that he is walking in the gymnasium. When a property is assigned in relation to something else, there are either two problems or four. For if one affirms it of the one and denies this same thing of the other, only two problems arise — for instance, the property of man relative to horse, that he is two-footed. For one could argue both that man is not two-footed, and that the horse is two-footed; in either case one would be attacking the property. But if one affirms of each what belongs to the other and denies of each what does not, there will be four problems — for instance, the property of man relative to horse, that the one is two-footed and the other four-footed. For one can argue both that man is not two-footed and that he is by nature four-footed, and one can argue both that the horse is two-footed and that it is not four-footed.
3| In whatever way, then, it is shown, the proposition at issue is demolished. A property in its own right is one that is assigned in relation to everything and marks a thing off from everything else, as with man, being a mortal animal receptive of knowledge. A property relative to something else is one that marks a thing off not from everything but from something determinate, as with virtue relative to knowledge, in that the one naturally comes to be present in several parts of the soul, while the other comes to be present only in the reasoning part and in things that have a reasoning part. An always-property is one that holds true at every time and is never absent, as with the animal's being composed of soul and body. A sometimes-property is one that holds true at a certain time and does not necessarily always attend the thing, as with a particular man's walking about in the marketplace. Now to render a property relative to something else is to state a differentia, either in all cases and always, or for the most part and in most cases. In all cases and always, for example, is man's property relative to horse, that he is two-footed; for man is always and in every case two-footed, while no horse is ever two-footed at all. For the most part and in most cases, on the other hand, is the property of the reasoning part relative to the appetitive and spirited parts, namely that the one gives orders and the other is subject to them;
4| for the reasoning part does not always give orders, but is sometimes itself given orders, nor is the appetitive and spirited part always given orders, but sometimes itself gives orders, whenever the man's soul is in a bad condition. Of properties, those most suited to argument are the ones in their own right, the always-properties, and the ones relative to something else. For a property relative to something else yields more problems, as we said before as well; for the problems that necessarily arise are either two or four, so there come to be more arguments bearing on them. As for the property in its own right and the always-property, one can attack them in a number of ways, or examine them over a number of times: the property in its own right in a number of ways, since the property must belong to the thing in relation to each of the things there are, so that if it is not marked off from absolutely everything, the property will not have been well assigned. The always-property must be examined over a number of times; for if it does not hold now, or did not hold before, or will not hold later, it will not be a property. As for the sometimes-property, we consider it in no other respect than with reference to the time now in question; so there are not many arguments bearing on it. A problem suited to argument is one on which arguments could arise that are both numerous and good.
5| The property relative to something else, then, once stated, must be examined by means of the commonplaces concerning accident, to see whether it belongs to the one thing but not to the other; but the always-properties and the properties in their own right must be studied by means of the following.
6| First, whether the property has been assigned well or not well. One respect in which it is not well or is well assigned is this: whether the property is stated by means of things better known or not by means of things better known — refuting it if not by means of things better known, establishing it if by means of things better known. Of not being by means of things better known, one case is when the property assigned is altogether less knowable than the thing whose property it is stated to be; for then the property will not have been well laid down. For we render a property for the sake of knowledge; it must therefore be assigned by means of things better known, since only so will it be possible to grasp it adequately. For instance, since the one who said that fire's property is being most similar to soul has used soul, which is less known than fire, in the description (for we know better what fire is than what soul is), the property of fire, being most similar to soul, would not be well laid down. The other case is when this thing is not better known as belonging to that thing. For it is not enough that the term be better known than the thing in question; it must also be better known as belonging to that thing. For one who does not know whether it belongs to this thing will not know either whether it belongs to this thing alone, so that whichever of these is the case, the property becomes unclear. For instance, since the one who said fire's property is being that in which soul first naturally exists has used, as belonging to fire, something less known — namely whether soul exists in this and whether it exists in it first — the property of fire, being that in which soul first naturally exists, would not be well laid down.
7| To establish it, on the other hand, one should see whether the property is stated by means of things better known, and whether it is better known in both these respects. For then the property will have been well laid down in this respect; for among the commonplaces that establish that a thing is well stated, some will show this only in this one respect, others will show without qualification that it is well stated. For instance, since the one who said that the property of animal is having perception has assigned the property by means of things better known, and better known in both respects, the property of animal, having perception, would in this respect have been well assigned. Next, in refuting, see whether any of the names used in the assigned property is said in more than one way, or whether the whole expression signifies more than one thing; for then the property will not have been well laid down. For instance, since perceiving signifies more than one thing — one, having perception, the other, using perception — the property of animal, being naturally disposed to perceive, would not have been well laid down. The reason one must not use either a name said in more than one way or an expression signifying the property in more than one way is that what is said in more than one way makes the statement unclear, since the one who is going to attack it is at a loss as to which of the several things said is meant; for a property is assigned for the sake of learning. Moreover, in addition to this, a refutation necessarily arises against those who assign a property in this way, whenever someone constructs the syllogism on the sense in which the word is said in more than one way, taking the discordant one.
8| To establish it, see whether neither any of the names nor the whole expression signifies more than one thing; for then the property will have been well laid down in this respect. For instance, since neither body nor most easily moved toward the upper region nor the whole composed of these signifies several things, the property of fire, a body most easily moved toward the upper region, would in this respect have been well laid down. Next, in refuting, see whether the thing whose property is assigned is itself said in more than one way, and it has not been determined of which of these the property is being set down; for then the property will not have been well assigned. The reasons for this are not unclear from what has been said before; for the same consequences necessarily follow. For instance, since knowing this signifies many things — knowing it as having knowledge of it, using knowledge of it, having knowledge belonging to it, using knowledge belonging to it — the property assigned for knowing this would not have been well assigned, since it has not been determined of which of these the property is being set down. To establish it, see whether the thing whose property is set down is not said in more than one way but is one and simple; for then the property will have been well laid down in this respect.
9| For instance, since man is said in one sense, the property set down for man, a tame animal by nature, would have been well laid down in this respect. Next, in refuting, see whether the same thing has been said more than once in the property. For people often do this without noticing, in properties just as in definitions. When the property is affected in this way it will not have been well laid down; for being said more than once confuses the hearer, so that the statement necessarily becomes unclear, and besides this such people are thought to be babbling. Saying the same thing more than once happens in two ways: in one way, when one names the same thing more than once, as if someone should assign the property of fire, body, as the finest of bodies (for here he has said body more than once); in the second way, when one substitutes expressions for names, as if someone should assign the property of earth as substance that by nature travels most toward the lower region among bodies, and then substitute for bodies the expression substances of such-and-such a kind; for body and substance of such-and-such a kind are one and the same thing. This person will have said substance more than once, so that neither of these properties would be well laid down. To establish it, see whether he uses no name more than once; for then the property will have been well assigned in this respect. For instance, since the one who said that man's property is an animal receptive of knowledge has not used the same name more than once, the property of man would in this respect have been well assigned.
10| Next, for refuting: see whether he has assigned, as part of the property, a term of such a kind that it belongs to everything. For a term that does not separate the subject from other things will be useless, and what is stated as part of a property must separate, just as the elements in definitions must; so the property will not be well stated. For example: since the one who defined the property of knowledge as "an assumption unshaken by argument, being one" has used, in the property, the term "one," which belongs to everything, the property of knowledge would not be well stated. For establishing: see whether he has used nothing common, but rather something that separates the subject from other things; for the property will be well stated on this score. For example: since the one who said the property of an animal is "to have a soul" has used nothing common, the property of an animal, "to have a soul," would be well stated on this score. Next, for refuting: see whether he assigns several properties for the same thing without specifying that he is positing several; for the property will not be well stated. For just as in definitions nothing further must be added beyond the account that makes clear the substance, so too in properties nothing further must be added beyond the account that constitutes the stated property; for such an addition becomes useless.
11| For example: since the one who said the property of fire is a body "most fine and most light" has given several properties (for each is truly said of fire alone), the property of fire, "a body most fine and most light," would not be well stated. For establishing: see whether he has assigned not several properties of the same thing but one; for the property will be well stated on this score. For example: since the one who said the property of the liquid is a body "brought into every shape" has given one property and not several, the property of the liquid would be well stated on this score. Next, for refuting: see whether he has made additional use of the very thing whose property he is assigning, or of something belonging to it; for the property will not be well stated. For a property is assigned for the sake of learning something; now the thing itself is just as unknown as itself, and anything belonging to it is posterior to it — so it is not more knowable. Hence nothing further comes to be learned through such things. For example: since the one who said the property of an animal is "the substance of which man is a species" has made additional use of something belonging to it, the property would not be well stated. For establishing: see whether he has used neither the thing itself nor anything belonging to it; for the property will be well stated on this score. For example: since the one who posited the property of an animal as "that which is composed of soul and body" has made additional use of neither the thing itself nor anything belonging to it, the property of an animal would be well assigned on this score.
12| One must examine the remaining cases in the same way — those that do or do not make a thing more knowable. For refuting: see whether he has made additional use of something opposite, or altogether simultaneous in nature with the subject, or posterior to it; for the property will not be well stated. For the opposite is simultaneous in nature, and what is simultaneous in nature, and likewise what is posterior, does not make a thing more knowable. For example: since the one who said the property of the good is "that which is most opposed to the bad" has made additional use of the opposite of the good, the property of the good would not be well assigned. For establishing: see whether he has made additional use of nothing — neither of an opposite, nor of anything altogether simultaneous in nature, nor of anything posterior; for the property will be well assigned on this score. For example: since the one who posited the property of knowledge as "the most trustworthy assumption" has made additional use of nothing opposite, nor simultaneous in nature, nor posterior, the property of knowledge would be well stated on this score. Next, for refuting: see whether he has assigned as a property something that does not always accompany the subject, but something that happens only at times, as if it were a property; for the property will not have been well stated. For it is neither the case that, wherever we grasp the thing as present, the name is thereby necessarily truly said of it, nor that, wherever it is grasped as not present, the name will thereby necessarily not be said of it.
13| Moreover, beyond this, not even when he has assigned the property will it be clear whether it belongs, if indeed it is of the kind liable to be absent; so the property will not be clear. For example: since the one who posited "to be at rest at some times and to move" as the property of an animal has given a property of the kind that does not hold as a property at every time, the property would not be well stated. For establishing: see whether he has assigned as property what of necessity always holds; for the property will be well stated on this score. For example: since the one who posited the property of virtue as "that which makes its possessor good" has assigned as property what always accompanies, the property of virtue would be well assigned on this score. Next, for refuting: see whether, in assigning a property that holds only now, he has failed to specify that he is assigning a now-property; for the property will not be well stated. First, because everything that departs from customary usage needs a specification; and it is customary for everyone, as a rule, to assign as property what always accompanies. Second, because one who has not specified leaves it unclear whether he meant to posit a now-property; so no pretext should be granted against censure. For example: since the one who posited "sitting with someone" as the property of a particular man is positing a now-property, he would not have assigned the property well, if he spoke without making the specification.
14| For establishing: see whether, in assigning a now-property, he specified — positing that he is assigning a now-property; for the property will be well stated on this score. For example: since the one who said the property of a particular man is "walking now" made this specification when he posited it, the property would be well stated. Next, for refuting: see whether he has assigned a property that is plainly not present otherwise than by perception; for the property will not be well stated. For everything perceptible, once it falls outside perception, becomes unclear; it is not evident whether it still belongs, since it is known only by perception. And this will hold true in the case of things that do not of necessity always accompany the subject. For example: since the one who posited the property of the sun as "the brightest star moving above the earth" has used, in the property, "moving above the earth," which is known by perception, the property of the sun would not be well assigned; for it will be unclear, when the sun sets, whether it is moving above the earth, because our perception fails us at that time. For establishing: see whether he has assigned a property that either is not plain by perception, or, being perceptible, is plainly present of necessity —
15| for the property will be well stated on this score. For example: since the one who posited the property of a surface as "that which is first colored" has made additional use of something perceptible, being colored, but of a kind that is plainly always present, the property of a surface would be well assigned on this score. Next, for refuting: see whether he has given the definition as though it were the property; for the property will not be well stated — for a property need not make clear the essence. For example: since the one who said the property of man is "a footed, two-footed animal," which signifies the essence, has given this as the property of man, the property of man would not be well assigned. For establishing: see whether he has given the property as something reciprocally predicated, without making clear the essence; for the property will be well assigned on this score. For example: since the one who posited the property of man as "an animal tame by nature" has given the property as reciprocally predicated, without making clear the essence, the property of man would be well assigned on this score. Next, for refuting: see whether the one who assigned the property has not assigned it with reference to what the thing is. For in properties, just as in definitions, the genus must first be assigned, and only then must the remaining elements be attached, and the subject separated from other things.
16| So a property not stated in this way would not be well assigned. For example: since the one who said the property of an animal is "to have a soul" did not posit it with reference to what an animal is, the property of an animal would not be well stated. For establishing: see whether someone, having posited the genus with reference to what the thing is whose property he assigns, then attaches the remaining elements; for the property will be well assigned on this score. For example: since the one who posited the property of man as "an animal receptive of knowledge" assigned the property after positing the genus with reference to what man is, the property of man would be well stated on this score.
17| Whether, then, a property has been rendered well or not well must be examined by means of what follows. But whether what has been stated is a property at all, or not a property, must be considered from the following. For the topics used by those who simply establish that the property is well assigned will be the same as those used by people who establish that it is a property at all; they will accordingly be discussed among those. First, then, in demolishing, one should look to each thing of which the property has been assigned, [for example] whether it belongs to none of them, or whether it is not true in this respect, or whether it is not a property of each of them in respect of that in respect of which the property has been assigned; for what has been posited to be a property will not be a property. For example, since it is not true of the geometer that he cannot be deceived by argument (for the geometer is deceived whenever a diagram is falsely drawn), 'not being deceived by argument' would not be a property of the knower. In establishing, one should look whether it is true of everything and is true in this respect too; for what has been posited to be a property will be a property. For example, since 'animal receptive of knowledge' is true of every human, and true of him qua human, 'animal receptive of knowledge' would be a property of human. This topic, for the demolisher, is: whether the formula is not true of that of which the name is true, and whether the name is not true of that of which the formula is true;
18| for the establisher: whether wherever the name holds the formula is also predicated, and wherever the formula holds the name too is predicated. Next, for the demolisher: whether the formula is not said of that of which the name is said, and whether the name is not said of that of which the formula is said; for what has been posited to be a property will not be a property. For example, since 'animal partaking of knowledge' is true of god, but 'human' is not predicated of god, 'animal partaking of knowledge' would not be a property of human. For the establisher: whether wherever the formula holds the name too is predicated, and wherever the name holds the formula too is predicated; for what has been posited as not being a property will in fact be a property. For example, since wherever 'having a soul' holds, 'animal' is true, and wherever 'animal' holds, 'having a soul' is true, 'having a soul' would be a property of animal. Next, for the demolisher: whether he has assigned the subject as a property of what is said to be present in the subject; for what has been posited will not be a property. For example, since the one who assigns 'fire' as a property of 'the body of finest particles' has assigned the subject as a property of what is predicated of it, 'fire' would not be a property of the body of finest particles. And the reason the subject will not be a property of what is present in the subject is that the same thing would be a property of several things differing in species.
19| For several things differing in species belong to the same thing, each said to hold of it alone, and the subject would be a property of all of them, if a property is posited in this way. For the establisher: whether he has assigned what is present in the subject as a property of the subject. For what has been posited as not being a property will be a property, provided it is predicated only of the things of which the property has been stated. For example, since the one who said that the property of earth is 'the body heaviest in species' has assigned, as the property, what belongs to the subject and is said only of that thing, and it is predicated the way a property is predicated, the property of earth would be correctly posited. Next, for the demolisher: whether he has assigned the property in respect of participation; for what has been posited will not be a property. For what belongs by participation contributes to the essence; and a thing of that kind would be some differentia said of some one species. For example, since the one who said that 'footed biped' is a property of human has assigned the property in respect of participation, 'footed biped' would not be a property of human. For the establisher: whether he has assigned the property not in respect of participation, and not signifying the essence, while the thing is counter-predicated; for what has been posited as not being a property will be a property.
20| For example, since the one who posited 'naturally capable of perceiving' as a property of animal has assigned the property neither in respect of participation nor as signifying the essence, while the thing is counter-predicated, 'naturally capable of perceiving' would be a property of animal. Next, for the demolisher: whether the property cannot belong at the same time as that of which the name holds, but only later or earlier; for what has been posited will not be a property, either never or not always. For example, since it is possible for 'walking through the marketplace' to belong to someone either earlier or later than 'human' does, 'walking through the marketplace' would not be a property of human, either never or not always. For the establisher: whether it necessarily always belongs at the same time, being neither a definition nor a differentia; for what has been posited as not being a property will be a property. For example, since 'animal receptive of knowledge' necessarily always belongs at the same time as 'human,' being neither a differentia nor a definition, 'animal receptive of knowledge' would be a property of human. Next, for the demolisher: whether the same thing is not a property of things that are the same, qua being the same; for what has been posited will not be a property. For example, since 'appearing good to some people' is not a property of the pursuable, 'appearing good to some people' would not be a property of the choiceworthy either;
21| for the pursuable and the choiceworthy are the same. For the establisher: whether the same thing is a property of the same thing, qua being the same; for what has been posited as not being a property will be a property. For example, since 'having a soul in three parts' is said to be a property of human, qua being human, it would also be a property of mortal, qua being mortal: having a soul in three parts. This topic is also useful in the case of the accident; for the same things, qua being the same, must have the same things belong to them, or not belong.
22| Next, for the demolisher: whether the property is not always the same in species for things that are the same in species; for then what has been posited will not be a property of what has been stated either. For example, since human and horse are the same in species, but 'standing by itself' is not always a property of horse, 'moving by itself' would not be a property of human either; for 'moving by itself' and 'standing by itself' are the same in species, in that each belongs to them, as animals, by accident. For the establisher: whether the property is always the same for things that are the same in species; for what has been posited as not being a property will be a property. For example, since 'being a footed biped' is a property of human, 'being a winged biped' would also be a property of bird; for each of these pairs is the same in species, in that the one pair are species falling under the same genus, being under animal, while the other pair are differentiae of a genus, of animal. But this topic is false whenever one of the two things mentioned belongs to only one species, while the other belongs to many, as with 'footed quadruped.' And since 'the same' and 'the different' are said in many ways, it is hard work, for someone taking the terms sophistically, to assign the property of one thing, and one thing only.
23| For what belongs to something to which something is accidental will also belong to the accident when it is taken together with that to which it is accidental -- for example, what belongs to human will also belong to white human, if the human is white, and what belongs to white human will also belong to human. One could discredit many properties by treating the subject as one thing in its own right and another thing together with the accident -- for example, saying that being human is one thing and being white human another, and further treating the state as different from what is said in respect of the state. For what belongs to the state will also belong to what is said in respect of the state, and what belongs to what is said in respect of the state will also belong to the state. For example, since the knower is said to be disposed in accordance with knowledge, 'cannot be talked out of it by argument' would not be a property of knowledge; for the knower too will be unable to be talked out of it by argument. For the establisher, one must say that that to which something is accidental, and the accident taken together with that to which it is accidental, are not simply different; rather, it is called different because being is different for them -- for being human, for the human, is not the same as being white human, for the white human.
24| Further, one must look beyond mere grammatical cases, pointing out that it will not be the knower that is "the thing not to be moved by argument," but the one not to be moved by argument, nor will knowledge be "the thing not to be moved by argument," but the knowledge that is not moved by argument; for against a person who objects on every point, one must take a stand on every point.
25| Next, in demolishing, see whether the person, wishing to render what belongs by nature, has stated it in his wording in such a way that it signifies what always belongs; for what is laid down as a property would then appear to shift. For instance, since the one who says that having two feet is a property of man wishes to render what belongs by nature, but his wording signifies what always belongs, having two feet would not be a property of man; for not every man has two feet. In establishing, see whether the person wishes to render what belongs by nature as a property, and his wording signifies it in that way; for then it will not shift with respect to this property. For instance, since the one who renders "animal receptive of knowledge" as a property of man both wishes and, in his wording, signifies what belongs by nature as a property, it would not shift on this point, so that "animal receptive of knowledge" is a property of man. Further, for all things that are said to belong to something derivatively, through something else being primary, or as belonging to the primary thing itself, it is a task to render the property of such things; for if you render the property of the thing that has it derivatively, it will also be true of the primary thing, while if you posit it of the primary thing, it will also be predicated of the thing that has it derivatively. For instance, if someone renders "being colored" as a property of a surface, "being colored" will also be true of a body, while if of a body, it will also be predicated of a surface.
26| So that it will not be the case that the name is true of exactly what the account is true of. And it happens, in the case of some properties, that a mistake commonly arises from not distinguishing how, and of what things, one posits the property. For everyone attempts to render the property either as what belongs by nature, as "two-footed" belongs to man, or as what merely belongs, as "having four fingers" belongs to some particular man, or as belonging in respect of form, as "finest-particled" belongs to fire, or as belonging without qualification, as "living" belongs to animal, or as belonging derivatively, as "being prudent" belongs to soul, or as belonging to the primary subject, as "being prudent" belongs to the rational part, or as belonging by virtue of having something, as "not to be moved by argument" belongs to the knower (for he will be not moved by argument in no other way than by having something), or by virtue of being had, as "not to be moved by argument" belongs to knowledge, or by virtue of being participated in, as "perceiving" belongs to animal (for something else, too, perceives, for instance man, but it is by participating in this that it perceives), or by virtue of participating, as "living" belongs to some particular animal. Now if one does not add "by nature," one goes wrong, because it is possible for what belongs by nature not to belong to that to which it belongs by nature, as "having two feet" may fail to belong to man. And if one does not specify that one is rendering what merely belongs, one goes wrong because that thing will not always be such as it now happens to belong, as with a man's having four fingers.
27| And if one does not make clear that one is positing it as belonging to the primary subject or as belonging derivatively, then it will not be the case that the name is true of exactly what the account is true of, as with "being colored," whether rendered as a property of a surface or of a body. And if one has not stated beforehand whether he has rendered the property by virtue of having or by virtue of being had, it will fail to be a property; for it will belong—if he renders the property by virtue of being had—to the thing that has it, and if by virtue of having, to the thing that is had, as when "not to be moved by argument" is posited as a property of knowledge or of the knower. And if one has not signified in addition whether by virtue of participating or by virtue of being participated in, the property will belong to certain other things as well; for if one renders it by virtue of being participated in, it will belong to the things that participate, while if by virtue of participating, to the things participated in, as if one should posit "living" as a property of some particular animal or of animal. And if one has not distinguished belonging in respect of form, the property will belong to only one of the things falling under that of which the property is posited; for what belongs in the superlative degree belongs to only one thing, as "lightest" belongs to fire. But sometimes, even in adding "in respect of form," one has gone wrong. For there will need to be one form among the things spoken of, whenever "in respect of form" is added; but this does not hold in some cases, as it does not hold for fire.
28| For there is not one form of fire; for coal, flame, and light differ in form from one another, each of them being fire. And for this reason, whenever "in respect of form" is added, the thing spoken of need not be a single form, because the stated property will belong to some of them more, to others less, as with "finest-particled" in the case of fire; for light is finer-particled than coal and flame. But this ought not to happen, when the name is not also predicated more truly of that of which the account is more truly said; but if it is not so, then it will not hold that of what the account is more truly said, the name too is more truly said. Further, besides this, it will follow that the property is the same both of the thing without qualification and of the thing that most fully is what it is without qualification, as holds for "finest-particled" in the case of fire; for this same thing will also be the property of light, since light is finest-particled. So then, when someone else renders the property in this way, one must attack it, but one must not allow this objection against oneself, but rather, in positing the property straightaway, one must specify in what manner one posits it. Next, in demolishing, see whether one has posited a thing as a property of itself; for the being laid down as a property will not itself be a property.
29| For every thing signifies its own being to itself, and what signifies the being is not a property but a definition. For instance, since the one who says that "the fitting" is a property of "the fine" has rendered a thing as a property of itself (for "the fine" and "the fitting" are the same), "the fitting" would not be a property of "the fine." In establishing, see whether he has posited, not a thing as a property of itself, but something that is counter-predicated of it; for then the being laid down will be a property, even though not being a property in the strict sense. For instance, since the one who posited "ensouled substance" as a property of animal has not rendered a thing as a property of itself, but has rendered something counter-predicated of it, "ensouled substance" would be a property of animal. Next, in the case of things with like parts, one must examine, in demolishing, whether the property of the whole fails to be true of the part, or whether the property of the part is not said of the whole taken together; for then the thing laid down as a property will not be a property. And this does happen in some cases; for one might render a property in the case of things with like parts sometimes by looking to the whole taken together, sometimes by fixing his attention on what is said of the part—and neither will have been rendered correctly. For instance, in the case of the whole taken together: since the one who says that "having for the most part salt water" is a property of the sea has posited the property of a thing with like parts, but has rendered something that is not true of the part (for a particular sea is not "having for the most part salt water"), "having for the most part salt water" would not be a property of the sea.
30| In the case of the part, for instance: since the one who posited "breathable" as a property of air has stated the property of a thing with like parts, but has rendered something that is true of some particular air, while not being said of the whole taken together (for the whole is not breathable), "breathable" would not be a property of air. In establishing, see whether it is true of each of the things with like parts and is also a property of them taken as a whole; for then the thing laid down will be a property, even though not a property in the strict sense. For instance, since it is true of all earth that it is carried downward by nature, and this is also a property of some particular earth in respect of the earth, "being carried downward by nature" would be a property of earth.
31| Next, one must investigate on the basis of opposites — first, on the basis of contraries: to demolish, ask whether the contrary of a thing is not a property of its contrary; for then the contrary will not be a property of the contrary either. For example, since injustice is contrary to justice, and the worst is contrary to the best, and the best is not a property of justice, the worst would not be a property of injustice. To establish, ask whether the contrary of a thing is a property of its contrary; for then the contrary will indeed be a property of the contrary. For example, since bad is contrary to good, and to-be-avoided is contrary to to-be-chosen, and to-be-chosen is a property of the good, to-be-avoided would be a property of the bad. Second, on the basis of relatives: to demolish, ask whether the relative correlate of a thing is not a property of the relative correlate of its correlate; for then the relative correlate will not be a property of the relative correlate either. For example, since double is said in relation to half, and exceeding in relation to exceeded, and exceeding is not a property of double, exceeded would not be a property of half. To establish, ask whether the relative correlate of a thing is a property of the relative correlate of its correlate; for then the relative correlate will indeed be a property of the relative correlate.
32| For example, since double is said in relation to half, and two in relation to one, and it is a property of double to be as two to one, it would be a property of half to be as one to two. Third, to demolish, ask whether what is said in accordance with a state is not a property of the state; for then what is said in accordance with a privation will not be a property of the privation either. And if what is said in accordance with a privation is not a property of the privation, then what is said in accordance with a state will not be a property of the state either. For example, since it is not said that lacking perception is a property of deafness, then having perception would not be a property of hearing either. To establish, ask whether what is said in accordance with a state is a property of the state; for then what is said in accordance with a privation will indeed be a property of the privation. And if what is said in accordance with a privation is a property of the privation, then what is said in accordance with a state will also be a property of the state. For example, since it is a property of sight to see, insofar as we have sight, it would be a property of blindness not to see, insofar as we do not have sight though naturally fitted to have it. Next, from affirmations and negations, first from the predicates themselves.
33| This topic is useful only for demolishing. For example: if the affirmation, or what is said in accordance with the affirmation, is a property of a thing, then its negation, or what is said in accordance with the negation, will not be a property of it. And if the negation, or what is said in accordance with the negation, is a property of the thing, then the affirmation, or what is said in accordance with the affirmation, will not be a property of it — for example, since being ensouled is a property of animal, not-being-ensouled would not be a property of animal. Second, from the things predicated or not predicated, and from the things of which they are predicated or not predicated: to demolish, ask whether the affirmation is not a property of the affirmation; for then the negation will not be a property of the negation either. And if the negation is not a property of the negation, then the affirmation will not be a property of the affirmation either. For example, since animal is not a property of man, not-animal would not be a property of not-man either. And if not-animal appears not to be a property of not-man, then animal will not be a property of man either. To establish, ask whether the affirmation is a property of the affirmation;
34| for then the negation will indeed be a property of the negation. And if the negation is a property of the negation, then the affirmation will also be a property of the affirmation. For example, since not-living is a property of not-animal, living would be a property of animal; and if living appears to be a property of animal, then not-living will appear to be a property of not-animal as well. Third, from the underlying subjects themselves: to demolish, ask whether the attribute given as a property of the affirmation is a property of it; for then the same attribute will not also be a property of the negation. And if the attribute given is a property of the negation, it will not be a property of the affirmation. For example, since being ensouled is a property of animal, being ensouled would not be a property of not-animal. To establish, ask whether the attribute given is not a property of the affirmation — for then it would be a property of the negation. But this topic is false; for an affirmation is not a property of a negation, nor a negation of an affirmation. For an affirmation does not belong to a negation at all, while a negation does belong to an affirmation, but not as a property. Next, from things divided off against one another: to demolish, ask whether none of the things divided off against one another is a property of any of the remaining things divided off against it;
35| for then the thing proposed will not be a property of that of which it is claimed to be a property either. For example, since sensible animal is not a property of any of the other mortal animals, intelligible animal would not be a property of god. To establish, ask whether any one of the remaining things divided off against one another is a property of each of these things divided off; for then the remaining thing will also be a property of that of which it was claimed not to be a property. For example, since it is a property of practical wisdom to be by its nature a virtue of the rational part, and each of the other virtues being taken in the same way, it would be a property of temperance to be by its nature a virtue of the appetitive part.
36| Next, from inflected forms: to demolish, ask whether the inflected form is not a property of the inflected form; for then the inflected form will not be a property of the inflected form either. For example, since finely is not a property of justly, fine would not be a property of just. To establish, ask whether the inflected form is a property of the inflected form; for then the inflected form will indeed be a property of the inflected form. For example, since it is a property of man to be a footed biped, it would be a property of "to man" to be spoken of as "to a footed biped." One must examine this not only in the term itself as stated according to its inflections, but also in the opposites, just as was said in the earlier topics too: to demolish, ask whether the inflected form of the opposite is not a property of the inflected form of the opposite; for then the inflected form of the opposite will not be a property of the inflected form of the opposite either. For example, since well is not a property of justly, badly would not be a property of unjustly. To establish, ask whether the inflected form of the opposite is a property of the inflected form of the opposite; for then the inflected form of the opposite will indeed be a property of the inflected form of the opposite. For example, since the best is a property of the good, the worst would be a property of the bad.
37| Next, from things similarly related: to demolish, ask whether what is similarly related is not a property of what is similarly related; for then what is similarly related will not be a property of what is similarly related either. For example, since the builder is related to making a house in the same way as the doctor is related to making health, and making health is not a property of the doctor, making a house would not be a property of the builder. To establish, ask whether what is similarly related is a property of what is similarly related; for then what is similarly related will indeed be a property of what is similarly related. For example, since the doctor is related to being productive of health in the same way as the trainer is related to being productive of good condition, and it is a property of the trainer to be productive of good condition, it would be a property of the doctor to be productive of health. Next, from things related in the same way: to demolish, ask whether what is related in the same way is not a property of what is related in the same way; for then what is related in the same way will not be a property of what is related in the same way either. And if what is related in the same way is a property of what is related in the same way, then it will not be a property of that of which it is claimed to be a property. For example, since practical wisdom is related in the same way to the fine and the shameful, by being knowledge of each of them, and it is not a property of practical wisdom to be knowledge of the fine, it would not be a property of practical wisdom to be knowledge of the shameful.
38| If it is a property of practical wisdom to be the knowledge of the fine, then being the knowledge of the shameful would not also be a property of it; for it is impossible for the same thing to be the property of several things. This commonplace is of no use for establishing a property, since it compares one thing that is the same to several things. Next, for demolishing: see whether what is said in terms of being is not a property of what is said in terms of being; for then neither will what is said in terms of perishing be a property of what is said in terms of perishing, nor will what is said in terms of coming-to-be be a property of what is said in terms of coming-to-be. For instance, since being an animal is not a property of man, neither would becoming an animal be a property of a man's coming to be, nor would perishing as an animal be a property of a man's perishing. The same procedure must be taken as well from coming-to-be to being and perishing, and from perishing to being and to coming-to-be, just as has now been stated from being to coming-to-be and perishing. For establishing: see whether what is assigned in terms of being is a property of what is arranged in terms of being; for then what is said in terms of coming-to-be will also be a property of what is said in terms of coming-to-be, and what is rendered in terms of perishing will be a property of what is said in terms of perishing.
39| For instance, since being mortal is a property of man, becoming mortal would also be a property of a man's coming-to-be, and perishing as mortal a property of a man's perishing. The same procedure must be taken as well from coming-to-be and perishing to being and to what follows from them, just as has been stated also for demolishing. Next, one must look to the form of what is laid down. For demolishing: see whether it does not belong to the form, or whether it does not belong in the respect in which the subject to which the property was assigned is so called; for then what is laid down will not be a property. For instance, since resting does not belong to man-in-himself insofar as he is man but insofar as he is a form, resting would not be a property of man. For establishing: see whether it belongs to the form, and belongs in the respect in which it is said, of the very thing of which it is laid down, not to be a property; for then what is laid down as not being a property will turn out to be a property. For instance, since being composed of soul and body belongs to animal-in-itself, and belongs to it insofar as it is an animal, being composed of soul and body would be a property of animal.
40| Next, from the more and the less. First, for demolishing: see whether the more is not a property of the more; for then neither will the less be a property of the less, nor the least of the least, nor the most of the most, nor the unqualified of the unqualified. For instance, since being more colored is not a property of a more colored body, neither would being less colored be a property of a less colored body, nor being colored at all be a property of body. For establishing: see whether the more is a property of the more; for then the less will also be a property of the less, and the least of the least, and the most of the most, and the unqualified of the unqualified. For instance, since perceiving more is a property of what lives more, perceiving less would also be a property of what lives less, and perceiving most a property of what lives most, and perceiving least a property of what lives least, and perceiving unqualifiedly a property of what lives unqualifiedly. And from the unqualified one must examine the same points in the same way: for demolishing, see whether the unqualified is not a property of the unqualified; for then neither will the more be a property of the more, nor the less of the less, nor the most of the most, nor the least of the least.
41| For instance, since being excellent is not a property of man, neither would being more excellent be a property of a more excellent man. For establishing: see whether the unqualified is a property of the unqualified; for then the more will also be a property of the more, and the less of the less, and the least of the least, and the most of the most. For instance, since being carried upward by nature is a property of fire, being carried more upward by nature would also be a property of more intensely burning fire. The same procedure must also be examined from the other cases in relation to all of these. Second, for demolishing: see whether the more is not a property of the more; for then neither will the less be a property of the less. For instance, since perceiving is more a property of animal than knowing is of man, and perceiving is not a property of animal, knowing would not be a property of man either. For establishing: see whether the less is a property of the less; for then the more will also be a property of the more. For instance, since being tame by nature is less a property of man than living is of animal, and being tame by nature is a property of man, living would be a property of animal.
42| Third, for demolishing: see whether what is a property of the thing to a greater degree is not a property of it; for then what is a property of it to a lesser degree will not be a property of it either. But if it is a property of the other thing, it will not be a property of this one. For instance, since being colored is more a property of surface than of body, and it is not a property of surface, being colored would not be a property of body either. But if it is a property of surface, it would not be a property of body. This commonplace is not useful for establishing, since it is impossible for the same thing to be a property of several things. Fourth, for demolishing: see whether what is more a property of the thing itself is not a property of it; for then what is less a property of it will not be a property of it either. For instance, since being perceptible is more a property of animal than being divisible is, and being perceptible is not a property of animal, being divisible would not be a property of animal either. For establishing: see whether what is less a property of the thing itself is a property of it; for then what is more a property of it will also be a property of it. For instance, since perceiving is less a property of animal than living is, and perceiving is a property of animal, living would be a property of animal.
43| Next, from things that hold similarly. First, for demolishing: see whether what is a property in a similar way is not a property of that of which it is a property in a similar way; for then what is a property in a similar way will not be a property of that of which it is a property in a similar way either. For instance, since desiring is a property of the appetitive part in the same way that reasoning is a property of the rational part, and desiring is not a property of the appetitive part, reasoning would not be a property of the rational part either. For establishing: see whether what is a property in a similar way is a property of that of which it is a property in a similar way; for then what is a property in a similar way will also be a property of that of which it is a property in a similar way. For instance, since being primarily practically wise is a property of the rational part in the same way that being primarily temperate is a property of the appetitive part, and being primarily practically wise is a property of the rational part, being primarily temperate would be a property of the appetitive part. Second, for demolishing: see whether what is a property in a similar way is not a property of the thing itself; for then what is a property in a similar way will not be a property of it either. For instance, since seeing is a property of man in the same way that hearing is, and seeing is not a property of man, hearing would not be a property of man either. For establishing: see whether what is a property of it in a similar way is a property of it;
44| for then what is a property of it in a similar way will also be a property of it. For instance, since its appetitive part being primary is a property of soul in the same way that its rational part being primary is, and its appetitive part being primary is a property of soul, its rational part being primary would be a property of soul. Third, for demolishing: see whether what is a property in a similar way is not a property; for then what is a property in a similar way will not be a property either. But if it is a property of the other thing, it will not be a property of the one. For instance, since burning is a property of flame in the same way that it is of a live coal, and burning is not a property of flame, burning would not be a property of a live coal either. But if it is a property of flame, it would not be a property of a live coal. This commonplace is of no use for establishing. The argument from things that hold in like manner differs from the argument from things that belong in a similar way, in that the former is taken by analogy, not considered in respect of something's belonging, while the latter is compared on the basis of something's belonging.
45| Next, for demolishing a proprium, see whether, in assigning it by means of a potentiality, he has thereby assigned the proprium in relation to what does not exist, when the potentiality cannot belong to what does not exist; for then the thing posited to be a proprium will not be a proprium. For example, since the one who said that being breathable is a proprium of air has assigned the proprium by means of a potentiality (for what is breathable is whatever is such as to be breathed), he has also assigned the proprium in relation to what does not exist. For even if no animal exists whose nature it is to breathe the air, it is still possible for air to exist; yet if no animal exists, breathing is not possible. So being such as to be breathed will not be a proprium of air either, at a time when there is no animal such as to breathe. Being breathable, then, would not be a proprium of air. For establishing, see whether, in assigning the proprium by means of a potentiality, he assigns it in relation to what exists rather than to what does not exist, when the potentiality cannot belong to what does not exist; for then the thing posited will indeed be a proprium. For example, since the one who assigns to what exists, as its proprium, being capable of being affected or of acting, assigns the proprium by means of a potentiality, he has assigned the proprium in relation to what exists; for whenever a thing exists, it will also be capable of being affected by, or of acting on, something —
1| — so that being capable of being affected or of acting would be a proprium of what exists. Next, for demolishing, see whether he has stated the proprium by means of an extreme superlative; for then the thing posited to be a proprium will not be a proprium. For it turns out, for those who assign the proprium in this way, that the name is not truly said of that of which the formula is true; for even once the thing has perished, the formula will hold no less, since it belongs, in the highest degree, to some one among the things that exist. For example, if someone were to assign 'the lightest body' as a proprium of fire: for even once fire has perished, there will still be some body that is the lightest, so that 'the lightest body' would not be a proprium of fire. For establishing, see whether he has stated the proprium without a superlative; for on this point the proprium will have been well laid down. For example, since the one who posits 'an animal tame by nature' as a proprium of man has assigned the proprium without a superlative, on this point the proprium would have been well laid down. Book Six.
2| There are five parts to the study of definitions. For the attack is either that it is simply not true to predicate the formula also of that of which the name is predicated (for the definition of man must be true of every man); or that, a genus existing, he has not placed the thing in the genus, or has not placed it in its proper genus (for the person defining must place the thing in its genus and then attach the differentiae, since of the elements in a definition it is above all the genus that seems to signify the substance of the thing defined); or that the formula is not proper to the thing (for a definition must be proper, as has been said before); or that, although he has done everything just mentioned, he has still not defined the thing, and has not stated its essence. What remains, beyond what has been said, is the case where the thing has indeed been defined, but not well defined. If, then, the formula is not true of that of which the name is true, the examination must proceed by means of the commonplaces concerning accident. For there too the whole inquiry turns on whether it is true or not true: whenever we argue that the accident belongs, we say that it is true, and whenever we argue that it does not belong, we say that it is not true. But if he has not placed the thing in its proper genus, or if the formula given is not proper to it, the examination must proceed by means of the commonplaces stated concerning genus and proprium. What remains is to state how one is to proceed if the thing has not been defined, or has not been well defined. First, then, one must examine whether it has not been well defined; for it is easier to do anything at all than to do it well. It is clear, then, that error is more frequent on this point, since it is more laborious, so that the attempt against it is easier than the attempt against the other.
3| There are two parts to 'not well': one is using an unclear expression (for the person defining must use as clear an expression as possible, since a definition is given for the sake of making something known); the second is whether he has stated the formula at greater length than necessary, for everything added on beyond what is needed in a definition is superfluous. And again, each of these two is divided into several further parts.
4| One commonplace, then, for detecting unclearness is whether what has been said is homonymous with something else — for example, that coming-to-be is 'a passage into substance,' or that health is 'a proportion of hot and cold things.' For 'passage' and 'proportion' are both said in more than one way; so it is unclear which of the things signified by the term he means. Likewise too if, the thing being defined itself being said in several senses, he has spoken without distinguishing them; for it is unclear of which sense he has given the definition, and it becomes possible to raise a captious objection on the ground that the formula does not fit all the things of which he has given the definition as applying. This is most possible to do when the homonymy passes unnoticed. It is also possible, by distinguishing for oneself in how many ways the term given in the definition is said, to construct a deduction against it; for if it has not been adequately stated in any of the ways, it is clear that the thing would not have been properly defined. Another commonplace: whether he has spoken by way of metaphor — for example, calling knowledge 'unshifting,' or the earth 'a nurse,' or temperance 'a harmony.' For everything said by way of metaphor is unclear. It is also possible, when someone has spoken metaphorically, to raise a captious objection against him as though he had spoken in the strict sense; for the definition as stated will not fit — for example in the case of temperance, since every harmony is among sounds. Further, if 'harmony' is the genus of temperance, the same thing will fall under two genera that do not contain one another; for harmony does not contain virtue, nor does virtue contain harmony.
5| Further, whether he uses words that are not established usage — as Plato calls the eye 'brow-shaded,' or the venomous spider 'flesh-rotting-biter,' or marrow 'bone-engendering'; for everything not customary is unclear. Some expressions are said neither by way of homonymy, nor by way of metaphor, nor in the strict sense — for example, that law is 'a measure' or 'an image' of the things that are just by nature. Expressions of this kind are worse than metaphor; for a metaphor makes what is signified known, in a way, through the resemblance — since everyone who uses a metaphor transfers the term on the basis of some resemblance — whereas an expression of this other kind makes nothing known, since neither does the resemblance exist in virtue of which law is a measure or an image, nor is it customary for it to be said in the strict sense either. So that if he says, in the strict sense, that law is a measure or an image, he speaks falsely; for an image is a thing whose coming-to-be is through imitation, and this does not belong to law. And if not in the strict sense, it is clear that he has spoken unclearly, and worse than any of the things said by way of metaphor. Further, whether the formula of the contrary is not made clear from what has been said; for definitions well given also indicate their contraries besides. Or whether, said just by itself, it is not plain what it is a definition of, but is like the works of the ancient painters — where, unless someone had written a caption, it would not have been recognized what each thing was.
6| If, then, the definition has been stated unclearly, the examination must proceed from considerations of this kind. But if he has stated the definition at greater length than needed, one must first examine whether he has used something that belongs to everything — either to things that exist in general, or to the things falling under the same genus as the thing defined; for this is necessarily stated at greater length than is required. For the genus must mark the thing off from the other things, while the differentia must mark it off from some of the things within the same genus. Now what belongs to everything without qualification marks the thing off from nothing, while what belongs to all the things falling under the same genus does not mark it off from the things in that same genus, so that adding a term of this kind is pointless.
7| Or: is the addition proprium, but once it is removed does the remaining account also state something proprium and reveal the substance? For example, in the account of man, adding "capable of receiving knowledge" is superfluous; for even with this removed the remaining account is proprium and reveals the substance. To put it generally, anything is superfluous whose removal leaves the remainder still making clear what is being defined. Such, too, is the definition of soul, if it is "a number moving itself"; for what moves itself is soul, as Plato has defined it. Or perhaps: what is stated is proprium, but does not reveal the substance once "number" is removed. Which way the matter stands is hard to make clear; one must, in all such cases, argue whichever way is advantageous. For example: the definition of phlegm is "the first fluid from nourishment that is unconcocted." For if it is the first, it is not many things, so that adding "unconcocted" is superfluous; for even with this removed the remainder will be a proprium account, since it is not possible for both this and something else to be first from nourishment. Or else: phlegm is not the first thing from nourishment without qualification, but the first of the unconcocted things, so that "unconcocted" must be added; for stated the other way, the account is not true, if indeed it is not first of all things.
8| Again, see whether some element in the account fails to belong to all the things that fall under the same species; for such a person has defined worse than those who use something that belongs to all beings. For in that other case, if the remaining account is proprium, then the whole account too will be proprium; for in general, once something true is added to a proprium, the whole becomes proprium. But if some element in the account fails to belong to all things under the same species, it is impossible for the whole account to be proprium; for it will not be predicated convertibly of the thing. For example: "animal, footed, two-footed, four cubits tall"; such an account is not predicated convertibly of the thing, because "four cubits tall" does not belong to all things under the same species. Again, see whether he has said the same thing more than once, as when someone says appetite is "desire for the pleasant"; for every appetite is of the pleasant, so that "the same as appetite" will also be "of the pleasant." The definition of appetite then becomes "desire for the pleasant pleasant"; for it makes no difference to say "appetite" or "desire for the pleasant," so that each of them will be "of the pleasant." Or perhaps there is nothing strange in this; for man too is two-footed, so that what is the same as man will also be two-footed. And "animal, footed, two-footed" is the same as man, so that "animal, footed, two-footed" is two-footed.
9| But nothing strange results from this; for "two-footed" is not predicated of "animal, footed" (for in that case "two-footed" would be predicated twice of the same thing), but "two-footed" is said of "animal, footed, two-footed," so that "two-footed" is predicated only once. Likewise too with appetite; for "being of the pleasant" is not predicated of "desire," but of the whole together, so that here too the predication occurs only once. And uttering the same name twice is not among the strange cases, but predicating the same thing more than once of something is — as when Xenocrates says practical wisdom is "determinative and theoretical of the things that are." For the determinative is a kind of theoretical, so that he says the same thing twice by adding "and theoretical" as well. Likewise too with all those who say that chilling is "privation of the natural heat"; for every privation is of what belongs by nature, so that adding "natural" is superfluous, and it would have sufficed to say "privation of heat," since the privation itself makes it known that what is meant is the natural heat. Again, see whether, having stated the universal, he adds also the particular, as when someone defines decency as "a diminishing of what is advantageous and just"; for the just is a kind of advantageous, so that it is contained within the advantageous. "Just" is therefore redundant, so that having spoken universally he has added the particular too. So also if someone defines the medical craft as "of the things healthy for an animal and for man," or the law as "an image of the things fine and just by nature"; for the just is a kind of fine, so that he says the same thing more than once.
10| Whether it has been stated well or not well, then, is to be examined by these and similar means; but whether one has stated and defined the essence or not is to be examined from what follows. First, see whether the definition has not been constructed through things prior and more knowable. For since a definition is rendered for the sake of making known the thing spoken of, and we come to know not from just anything but from things prior and more knowable, as in demonstrations (for all teaching and learning work this way), it is clear that one who defines not through such things has not defined at all. If not, there will be several definitions of the same thing. For it is clear that the one defined through things prior and more knowable is better defined, so that both would be definitions of the same thing. But this is not held to be so; for each of the things that are has one thing that it is to be just what it is; so that if there will be several definitions of the same thing, then being just what the thing is, as made clear according to each of the definitions, will be the same. But these are not the same, since the definitions are different. It is clear, then, that one who has defined not through things prior and more knowable has not defined. Now the phrase "the definition has not been stated through more knowable things" can be taken in two ways:
11| for either it means through things more unknown without qualification, or through things more unknown to us; for it is possible in either sense. Now what is more knowable without qualification is what is prior to what is posterior — for example, a point is more knowable than a line, a line than a plane, and a plane than a solid, just as a unit is more knowable than number; for it is prior to and the starting point of every number. Likewise too an element is more knowable than a syllable. But for us the opposite sometimes happens; for the solid falls under perception most of all, the plane more than the line, and the line more than the point. For most people come to know things of that sort first; for these belong to any ordinary intelligence, while those others require an exact and exceptional intelligence to grasp. Without qualification, then, it is better to try to make the posterior known through the prior, for this is more scientific. Still, for those unable to gain knowledge through such means, it is presumably necessary to construct the account through things known to them. Among definitions of this sort are that of the point, that of the line, and that of the plane; for all of them make the prior known through the posterior, saying that a point is the limit of a line, a line of a plane, and a plane of a solid. But one must not fail to notice that those who define in this way cannot make clear to the thing defined what it is to be that thing, unless it happens that the same thing is both more knowable to us and more knowable without qualification — given that one who defines well must define through the genus and the differentiae, and these belong among the things more knowable without qualification and prior to the species.
12| For the genus and the differentia together do away with the species when they are removed, so that these are prior to the species. And they are also more knowable; for when the species is known, the genus and the differentia are necessarily known as well (for one who knows man also knows animal and footed), but when the genus or the differentia is known, it is not necessary for the species also to be known, so that the species is less knowable. Further, for those who say that such definitions — the ones made from things known to each individual — are the true kind, it will follow that they are speaking of many definitions of the same thing; for different things happen to be more knowable to different people, and not the same things to all, so that a different definition would have to be rendered for each person, if indeed the definition must be constructed from what is more knowable to each. Further, for the same people different things are more knowable at different times: at first the perceptible things, but for those who become more exact, the reverse — so that not even for the same person must the same definition always be rendered by those who claim the definition must be rendered through what is more knowable to each individual. It is clear, then, that one should not define through such things, but through what is more knowable without qualification; for only in this way could one and the same definition always result. And perhaps, too, what is knowable without qualification is not what is knowable to everyone, but what is knowable to those whose intellect is well disposed, just as what is healthy without qualification is what is healthy for those whose bodies are in good condition.
13| So one must work out the precise details of each such point, but in arguing use them as suits the occasion. A definition can most conclusively be demolished if its account has been built neither from things more knowable without qualification nor from things more knowable to us. Now one way of failing to proceed through more knowable things is explaining the earlier by means of the later, as we said before; another is if the account of what is at rest and determinate has been given by means of the indeterminate and of what is in motion; for what is stable and determinate is prior to what is indeterminate and in motion. Of the ways of not proceeding from what is prior there are three. The first is if the opposite has been defined by means of the opposite, for instance the good by means of the bad; for opposites are simultaneous in nature. To some it also seems that the same knowledge covers both, so that neither is more knowable than the other. But one must not fail to notice that some things perhaps cannot be defined otherwise, for instance the double without the half, and all things that are said to be relative in their own right; for in all such cases their being is the same as standing in some relation, so that it is impossible to know the one without the other, and hence the one must necessarily be included in the account of the other as well.
14| Now one must know all such points, but use them as seems to serve one's purpose. Another way is if he has used the very term being defined. This escapes notice when he does not use the actual name of the thing defined, for instance if someone defined the sun as the star that shines by day; for whoever uses 'day' uses 'sun'. To catch such cases one must substitute the account for the name, for instance that day is the passage of the sun above the earth; for it is clear that whoever has spoken of the passage of the sun above the earth has spoken of the sun, so that whoever has used 'day' has used 'sun'. Again, if the correlatively divided term has been defined by means of its correlative, for instance the odd as what is greater than the even by a unit. For things divided off from the same genus by correlation are simultaneous in nature, and odd and even are so divided off; for both are differentiae of number. Likewise too if the higher term has been defined by means of what is lower, for instance an even number as one divisible into two halves, or the good as a state of virtue; for 'in half' is derived from 'two', which is even, and virtue is a kind of good, so that these are lower than those. Further, whoever uses the lower term is necessarily using the higher one too; for whoever uses virtue uses the good, since virtue is a kind of good;
15| and likewise whoever uses 'in half' uses 'even', since 'in half' signifies being divided into two, and two is even.
16| To speak generally, then, there is one common topic — not constructing the account from things prior and more knowable — and the points mentioned are parts of it. A second topic is: if, though the thing belongs in a genus, it is not placed in a genus. This is a mistake in all cases where the account is not meant to state what the thing is, for instance the definition of body as that which has three dimensions, or if someone were to define man as that which knows how to count. For it has not been said what, being such-and-such, has three dimensions, or what, being such-and-such, knows how to count; and the genus is meant to signify the what-it-is, and is posited first among the things stated in the definition. Further, if the thing defined is spoken of in relation to several things and the account has not been fitted to all of them, for instance if grammatical knowledge is defined as knowledge of writing what is dictated; for it also needs to add 'and of reading', since it is no more by virtue of writing than of reading that it has been defined, so that neither one alone but the one who states both is the one who has defined it, since more than one definition of the same thing cannot exist. Now in some cases this holds as a matter of truth, as has been said, but in others it does not, namely in cases where the thing is not said in its own right in relation to both, as medicine is said to produce disease and health; for it is said of health in its own right, but of disease accidentally, since producing disease is absolutely alien to medicine. So one who has given the definition in relation to both is no more accurate than one who gave it in relation to the one alone, but perhaps even worse, since any of the rest is also capable of producing disease. Further, if he has fitted the account not to the better but to the worse, when there are several things in relation to which the thing defined is spoken of; for every science and power is thought to be of the best. Again, if what is stated is not placed in its proper genus, one must examine it by means of the elements concerning genera, as was said before.
17| Further, if he says something that oversteps the genera, for instance one who defines justice as a state productive of equality or distributive of the equal. For in defining it this way he oversteps virtue. So by leaving out the genus of justice he does not state the essence; for the substance of each thing comes together with its genus. And this is the same as not placing the thing in its nearest genus; for whoever places it in its nearest genus has stated all the genera above it as well, since all the higher genera are predicated of the lower ones. So one must either place it in its nearest genus, or else attach to the higher genus all the differentiae by which the nearest genus is defined. For in this way he would have left out nothing, but would have stated the lower genus in an account instead of by a name. But whoever states only the higher genus by itself does not thereby also state the lower genus; for whoever says 'plant' does not say 'tree'.
18| Again, in the case of the differentiae one must likewise examine whether he has also stated the differentiae of the genus. For if the thing has not been defined by the differentiae proper to it, or if he has stated something of such a kind that it cannot possibly be the differentia of anything, for instance animal or substance, it is clear that it has not been defined; for what has been stated is a differentia of nothing. One must also look and see whether there is something set off correlatively against the stated differentia. For if there is not, it is clear that what was stated could not be the differentia of the genus; for every genus is divided by correlatively opposed differentiae, as animal is divided by footed and winged and aquatic and two-footed. Or if the correlative differentia does exist but is not truly predicated of the genus. For it is clear that neither could then be the differentia of the genus; for all correlatively opposed differentiae are truly predicated of their proper genus. Likewise too if it is truly predicated but, when added to the genus, does not produce a species. For it is clear that this could not then be a species-making differentia of the genus; for every species-making differentia, together with the genus, produces a species. And if this is not a differentia, neither is the one stated, since it is set off correlatively against this one.
19| Further, if he divides the genus by negation, as those do who define the line as length without breadth. For this signifies nothing other than that it does not have breadth. It will then follow that the genus partakes of the species; for every length either lacks breadth or has breadth, since of everything either the affirmation or the negation is true, so that the genus of the line, being length, will be either without breadth or having breadth. But length without breadth is the account of a species, and likewise length having breadth; for 'without breadth' and 'having breadth' are differentiae, and the account of the species comes from the differentia together with the genus, so that the genus would admit the account of the species. And likewise the account of the differentia, since one of the differentiae mentioned is necessarily predicated of the genus. Now the topic just stated is useful against those who posit that Forms exist. For if length itself exists, how will it be predicated of the genus that it has breadth or is without breadth? For one or the other of these must be true of every length, if it is indeed going to be true of the genus. But this does not turn out to be so; for there are lengths without breadth and lengths having breadth.
20| So this topic is useful only against those who say that the genus is one in number. This is what those do who posit the Forms: they say that length itself and animal itself are a genus. But perhaps in some cases the person giving the definition must also use negation, as in the case of privations: for the blind is what does not have sight, when it is natural to have it. It makes no difference whether one divides the genus by negation, or by an affirmation of a kind against which a negation must be counter-divided, as if length were defined as having breadth: for what does not have breadth is counter-divided against what has breadth, and nothing else, so that the genus is again divided by negation. Again, one must see if he has rendered the species as a differentia, as those do who define insult as hubris accompanied by mockery: for mockery is a kind of hubris, so that mockery is not a differentia but a species. Further, if he has stated the genus as a differentia, as when virtue is defined as a good or excellent state: for the good is a genus of virtue. Or rather the good is not a genus but a differentia, if it is true that the same thing cannot be in two genera that do not contain one another. For neither does the good contain the state, nor does the state contain the good: for not every state is good, nor is everything good a state, so that both could not be genera.
21| If then the state is the genus of virtue, clearly the good is not a genus but rather a differentia. Further, the state signifies what virtue is, but the good does not signify what a thing is but of what quality it is; and the differentia seems to signify a quality of some kind. One must also see whether the differentia rendered signifies not a quality but a 'this': for every differentia seems to indicate some quality. One must also examine whether the differentia belongs to the thing defined accidentally. For no differentia is among the things that belong accidentally, any more than the genus is: for it is not possible for the differentia to belong to a thing and not belong to it. Further, if the differentia, or the species, or something below the species, is predicated of the genus, the definition cannot be correct: for none of the things mentioned can be predicated of the genus, since the genus is said of the greatest number of things of all. Again, if the genus is predicated of the differentia: for the genus seems to be predicated not of the differentia but of the things of which the differentia is said, as animal is predicated of man and of ox and of the other footed animals, not of the differentia itself that is said of the species.
22| For if animal were to be predicated of each of the differentiae, many animals would be predicated of the species; for the differentiae are predicated of the species. Further, differentiae will all turn out to be species or individuals, if indeed they are animals: for each of the animals is either a species or an individual. One must likewise examine whether the species, or something below the species, is predicated of the differentia: this is impossible, since the differentia is said of a wider range than the species. Further, it will follow that the differentia is a species, if one of the species is predicated of it: for if man is predicated of it, clearly the differentia is a man. Again, if the differentia is not prior to the species: for the differentia must be posterior to the genus but prior to the species. One must also examine whether the differentia stated belongs to another genus that neither contains nor is contained by the genus in question. For the same differentia does not seem to belong to two genera that do not contain one another. If it does, it will follow that the same species also is in two genera that do not contain one another: for each of the differentiae brings along with it its own proper genus, just as footed and two-footed together bring along animal. So that whatever the differentia is predicated of, each of the two genera will be predicated of as well.
23| It is clear, then, that the species is not in two genera that do not contain one another. Or rather, it is not impossible for the same differentia to belong to two genera that do not contain one another, but one must add the qualification that the two genera are also not both under the same genus. For footed animal and winged animal are genera that do not contain one another, and two-footed is a differentia of both of them. So one must add that the two are also not both under the same thing: for both of these are under animal. It is also clear that the differentia need not bring along with it every one of its proper genera, since it is possible for the same differentia to belong to two genera that do not contain one another; rather it need only bring along the one, together with the things above that one, just as two-footed brings along with it winged or footed, and animal. One must also see whether he has rendered as the differentia of a substance something's being in something: for one substance does not seem to differ from another substance by where it is. This is why people also censure those who divide animal into footed and aquatic, on the ground that footed and aquatic signify where a thing is. But in these cases the censure is not correct: for aquatic signifies not being in something, nor where a thing is, but a quality of some kind; for even if a thing is in what is dry, it is aquatic just the same;
24| and likewise the land-dweller, even if it is in what is wet, will be a land-dweller and not aquatic. But all the same, if the differentia ever does signify being in something, it is clear that it will be mistaken. Again, one must see if he has rendered an affection as a differentia. For every affection, when it increases, removes the thing from its substance, but the differentia is not of this kind: rather the differentia seems more to preserve the thing of which it is the differentia, and it is in general impossible for anything to exist without its proper differentia; for if footed did not exist, there would be no man. To put it simply, whatever respects a thing is altered in, none of these is a differentia of it: for all such things, when they increase, remove the thing from its substance. So that if anyone has rendered such a thing as a differentia, he has erred; for in general we are not altered in respect of our differentiae. And also, if he has rendered the differentia of something relative without reference to something else: for the differentiae of relatives are also relative, as with knowledge; for knowledge is called theoretical and practical and productive, and each of these signifies something relative to something: theoretical of something, and productive of something, and practical of something. One must also examine whether the person defining renders each of the relatives with reference to that toward which it is naturally directed. For with some relatives it is possible to use each of them only with reference to that toward which it is naturally directed, and for nothing else, while with others it is possible to use them for something else too, as sight only for seeing, but a strigil one might also use to bail water with;
25| but all the same, if one were to define the strigil as an instrument for bailing water, one would be mistaken: for it is not naturally directed to this. The definition of that toward which a thing is naturally directed is that toward which the practically wise person, qua practically wise, would use it, together with the proper science concerned with each thing. Or, if he has not rendered the primary object, when the thing happens to be said with reference to several things, as when practical wisdom is defined as the virtue of man or of the soul, and not of the rational part: for practical wisdom is the virtue of the rational part primarily; for it is in virtue of this that both the soul and the man are said to be practically wise. Further, if the thing said to possess the given affection or disposition or anything else whatever is not receptive of it, he has erred. For every disposition and every affection naturally comes to be in that of which it is the disposition or affection, just as knowledge too, being a disposition of the soul, comes to be in the soul. But sometimes people err in such cases, as those who say that sleep is an incapacity of perception, and that perplexity is an equality of opposing calculations, and that pain is a violent separation of connate parts: for sleep does not belong to perception—yet it ought to, if indeed it is an incapacity of perception. Likewise, neither does perplexity belong to the opposing calculations, nor pain to the connate parts;
26| For inanimate things will feel pain, if pain is present in them. Such also is the definition of health, if it is a balance of hot and cold; for it will be necessary that hot and cold things be healthy - for the balance of each thing exists in those things of which it is a balance, so that health would belong to them. Again, those who define in this way happen to be putting what is produced in place of what is productive, or the reverse. For pain is not the separation of connate parts, but is productive of pain; nor is sleep the incapacity of perception, but each is productive of the other - for either we sleep because of the incapacity, or we are incapacitated because of sleep. Similarly the equality of opposing calculations would seem to be productive of puzzlement; for when, reckoning on both sides, everything appears to us to come out alike on either side, we are at a loss which of the two to do. Again, one should look across all the times, to see if it conflicts anywhere - for instance if someone defined the immortal as an animal now indestructible; for what is now an indestructible animal will now be immortal. Or does this not follow in this case? For 'now indestructible' is ambiguous: it may mean either that it has not now perished, or that it is not now capable of perishing, or that it is now such as never to perish.
27| So when we say that an animal is now indestructible, we mean by this that it is now such an animal as never to perish. But this is the same thing as the immortal, so that it does not follow that it is now immortal in the sense objected to. But all the same, if it turns out that what is given according to the account holds now or earlier, while what is given according to the name does not hold, they would not be the same. One must use the topic, then, as has been said.
28| One must also examine whether the thing defined is said rather in accordance with something else than in accordance with the account given - for instance, if justice is defined as the power of distributing what is equal. For a man is more just for choosing to distribute what is equal than for being able to; so that justice would not be the power of distributing what is equal - for indeed the man most able to distribute what is equal would be most just on that definition. Again, look whether the thing admits the more while what is given according to the account does not admit it, or conversely whether what is given according to the account admits the more while the thing does not. For both must admit it or neither must, if indeed what is given according to the account is the same as the thing. Again, look whether, though both admit the more, they do not receive the increase at the same time - for instance if love is defined as desire for intercourse; for the man who loves more does not desire intercourse more, so that the more is not admitted by both together; yet it ought to be, if they were the same. Again, look whether, when two things are proposed, that in respect of which the thing is said more is that of which the account is said less - for instance if fire is defined as the body of finest parts;
29| for flame is fire more than light is, but as body of finest parts flame is less than light; but both ought to belong more to the same thing, if they were the same. Again, look whether one thing belongs alike to both of the things proposed, while the other does not belong alike to both but more to one. Again, if he gives the definition with reference to two things according to each - as when the fine is defined as what is pleasant through sight or through hearing, and being as what is capable of being affected or of acting - then the same thing will be at once fine and not fine, and likewise both being and not being. For pleasant through hearing will be the same as fine, so that not pleasant through hearing will be the same as not fine - for opposites belong to the same things, and opposed to fine is not fine, while opposed to pleasant through hearing is not pleasant through hearing. It is clear, then, that not pleasant through hearing is the same as not fine. If, then, something is pleasant through sight but not through hearing, it will be both fine and not fine. We shall show similarly that the same thing is also both being and not being.
30| Again, one should take the accounts in place of the names for the genera and the differentiae and everything else given in the definitions, and see whether anything conflicts. If the thing defined is relative, either in its own right or in respect of its genus, one should examine whether what it is said in relation to has not been stated in the definition, either the thing itself or its genus - for instance if he defined knowledge as a supposition not to be changed by persuasion, or wish as desire free from pain. For the substance of everything relative is relative to something else, since for each relative, being is the same as being related to something in a certain way. He ought, then, to have said that knowledge is supposition of a knowable object, and wish desire for a good. Similarly too if he defined grammar as knowledge of letters - for one ought to give, in the definition, either that to which the thing itself is said to relate, or that to which its genus at some point relates. Or look whether, though it has been stated as relative, it has not been given with reference to the end. For in each case the end is the best thing, or the thing for the sake of which everything else exists. One should therefore state either the best thing or the furthest thing - for instance, appetite should be defined not as desire for the pleasant thing but as desire for pleasure; for it is for the sake of pleasure that we choose the pleasant thing too. One should also examine whether what he has given is a coming-to-be or an activity in each case; for none of such things is an end - for having-been-active and having-come-to-be are ends more than coming-to-be and being-active are.
31| Or is this not true in every case? For most people, pretty much, wish to be enjoying pleasure rather than to have stopped enjoying it, so that they would make being-active more the end than having-been-active. Again, in some cases one should examine whether he has not marked off the quantity or quality or place or the other differentiae - for instance, in defining the lover of honor, of what kind and how much honor he desires; for everyone desires honor, so it is not enough to say that the lover of honor is the one who desires honor, but the aforementioned differentiae must be added. Similarly too the lover of money is the one who desires how much money; or the incontinent person, in regard to what kind of pleasures - for it is not the person overcome by just any pleasure whatever who is called incontinent, but the person overcome by a certain kind. Or again, as people define night as the shadow of the earth, or earthquake as a motion of the earth, or cloud as a condensation of air, or wind as a motion of air - one must add how much and of what kind and by what. Similarly too in the other such cases; for by leaving out any differentia whatever, one fails to state the essence. And one must always attack the point that is lacking; for it is not the case that, however the earth is moved and to whatever extent, there will be an earthquake, nor likewise that, however the air is moved and to whatever extent, there will be wind.
32| Again, in the case of desires, one should examine whether 'apparent' has not been added, and in as many other cases as this is fitting - for instance, that wish is desire for the good, and appetite desire for the pleasant, rather than for the apparent good or the apparent pleasant. For often those who desire are unaware what the good or pleasant thing is, so that it need not be good or pleasant, but only apparent. One ought, then, to have made the definition in this way too. But if he does give it as stated, one must lead the person who posits that there are Forms toward the Forms; for there is no Form of anything apparent, while a form is held to be said in relation to a form - for instance, appetite itself is for pleasant itself, and wish itself is for good itself. It is not, then, for apparent good nor for apparent pleasant; for it would be absurd for the very thing itself to be apparent good or apparent pleasant.
33| Again, if the definition given is of the state, look to see whether it applies to the thing that has the state; if it is of the thing that has the state, look to the state; and likewise for other such pairs. For example, if what is pleasant is what is beneficial, then the person feeling pleasure is being benefited. In general, in definitions of this sort it turns out that, in a way, the person giving the definition defines more than one thing at once. For the person who defines knowledge in a way also defines ignorance, and likewise the knowing subject and the unknowing subject, and knowing and being ignorant; for once the first is made clear, in a way the rest become clear too. One must therefore examine all such cases to see whether there is any discrepancy, using as tools the terms drawn from the opposites and the coordinate terms. Again, in the case of relatives, examine whether, corresponding to what the genus is said in relation to, the species is also said in relation to some corresponding thing — for example, if supposing is in relation to something supposable, then a particular supposing is in relation to some particular supposable thing; and if the multiple is in relation to the fraction, then a particular multiple is in relation to a particular fraction. For if it is not rendered in this way, clearly a mistake has been made. One should also see whether the account of the opposite is the opposite of the account given — for example, whether the account of the half is opposite to that of the double;
34| for if the double is what exceeds by an equal amount, the half is what is exceeded by an equal amount. And likewise with contraries: for the account of the contrary must be the contrary of the account of the other, by some pairing of contraries — for example, if the beneficial is what produces good, the harmful is what produces evil, or what destroys good; for one or the other of these must necessarily be contrary to what was originally said. If, then, neither is contrary to what was originally said, clearly neither of the accounts subsequently given would be the account of the contrary, so that the one originally given has not been correctly given either. But since some contraries are spoken of as the privation of the other — for example, inequality seems to be the privation of equality (for things not equal are called unequal) — clearly the term spoken of by way of privation must necessarily be defined by means of the other, whereas the other must not in turn be defined by means of the term spoken of by way of privation; for otherwise it would turn out that each is known by means of the other. One must therefore examine, in the case of contraries, for this kind of mistake — for example, if someone were to define equality as the contrary of inequality; for this defines it by means of the term spoken of by way of privation. Moreover, the person who defines in this way must necessarily be using the very term being defined. This becomes clear if the account is substituted for the name;
35| for to say 'inequality' differs not at all from saying 'privation of equality.' Equality will accordingly be the contrary of the privation of equality, so that he would be using the very term itself. But if neither of the contraries is spoken of by way of privation, and yet the account is rendered in the same way — for example, the good is the contrary of the evil — clearly the evil will be the contrary of the good; for of contraries so related the account must be rendered in the same way in each direction. So again it turns out that he uses the very term being defined; for the good is present within the account of the evil. So that if the good is what is contrary to the evil, and the evil differs not at all from what is contrary to the good, then the good will turn out to be the contrary of what is contrary to the good. It is clear, then, that he has used the term itself. Again, see whether, in rendering the term spoken of by way of privation, he has failed to state that of which it is the privation — for example, of the state, or of the contrary, or of whatever it is the privation; and whether he has failed to add that in which it naturally occurs, either without qualification or in that in which it primarily and naturally occurs — for example, if in saying that ignorance is a privation he did not say it was privation of knowledge, or did not add that in which it naturally occurs, or, having added it, did not give that in which it primarily occurs, saying for instance not that it occurs in the rational faculty but in man or in soul;
36| for if he fails to do any of these things, he has made a mistake. Likewise too if he said that blindness is privation of sight without adding 'in the eye'; for the person correctly rendering what a thing is must also render both of what it is the privation and what it is that has been deprived. One should also see whether he has defined by privation something that is not spoken of by way of privation — for example, in the case of ignorance, such a mistake would seem to belong to those who do not describe ignorance in terms of negation. For what has no knowledge does not seem to be ignorant, but rather what has been deceived; hence we say that neither inanimate things nor children are ignorant, so that ignorance is not spoken of as the privation of knowledge.
37| Again, see whether, of similar inflections of the name, similar inflections of the account apply as well — for example, if the beneficial is what is productive of health, then 'beneficially' should mean 'in a way productive of health,' and 'has benefited' should mean 'has produced health.' One should also examine whether the stated definition will apply to the Form. For in some cases it does not — for example, as Plato defines things, attaching 'mortal' in his definitions of living creatures; for the Form will not be mortal, for example the Man-itself, so that the account will not apply to the Form. And in general, wherever 'productive' or 'affected by' is added, the definition must necessarily be at odds with the Form; for those who say there are Forms hold that Forms are unaffected and unchanging. Against such people arguments of this sort are also useful. Again, see whether, for things spoken of homonymously, he has rendered one account common to them all. For things are synonymous when there is one account corresponding to the name, so that the definition given applies to none of the things falling under the name, if indeed it applies equally to everything the homonymous term covers. This is what has happened to Dionysius's definition of life too, if it is 'a self-caused motion of a nourishing kind, sustained continuously'; for this belongs no more to animals than to plants, whereas life does not seem to be spoken of according to a single form, but is thought to belong to animals in one way and to plants in another.
38| It is indeed possible to render the definition deliberately in this way, as though 'life' were synonymous and spoken of according to a single form covering all of it; but nothing prevents someone who is aware of the homonymy, and who wishes to give the definition of one of the two things, from unwittingly rendering an account that is not proper to it but common to both. But no less, if he has done either of these, he has made a mistake. And since some cases of homonymy go unnoticed, when questioning one must treat them as synonymous (for the definition of one will not apply to the other, so it will seem that the definition has not been correctly given; for it must apply to everything synonymous), but when answering oneself, one must draw the distinction. And since some of those who answer say that what is synonymous is homonymous, whenever the account given does not apply to everything, and that what is homonymous is synonymous, if it applies to both, one must reach prior agreement about such cases, or argue in advance by syllogism that it is homonymous or synonymous, whichever it is; for people concede more readily when they do not foresee what will follow. And if, without any such agreement having been reached, someone says that what is synonymous is homonymous because the account given does not apply to this case too, one should examine whether the account of this case applies to the remaining ones as well; for clearly it would then be synonymous with the rest.
39| But if not, there will be more definitions than one of the remaining cases; for two accounts corresponding to the name will apply to them, the one given earlier and the one given later. Again, if someone, having defined something that is spoken of in several ways, finds that the account does not apply to all of them, and yet says it is not homonymous, while denying that the name applies to all the cases just as the account does not — one should say to such a person that one must use the name in its traditional and customary sense and not disturb such usage, though some things must not be said in the same way as the many say them.
40| If a definition has been given of one of two things joined together, one should look, by stripping away the account of one of the two joined items, at whether the remaining part of the account also fits the remaining item; for if it does not, it is clear that the whole does not fit the whole either. For example, if someone defined a finite straight line as "the boundary of a plane figure that has boundaries, whose middle screens the boundaries": if the account of "finite line" is "boundary of a plane figure that has boundaries," then the remainder, "whose middle screens the boundaries," ought to belong to "straight." But an infinite line has neither a middle nor boundaries, and yet it is straight; so the remainder does not fit the remainder. Again, when the thing being defined is composite, check whether the account given is matched clause for clause with it. An account is called matched clause for clause when, however many components make up the thing, that many nouns and verbs occur in the account. For in cases like this, some or all of the words are bound to be exchanged, since no more words are now used than before; and the definer must give his account in place of the words, all of them if possible, or if not, most of them. That is how, even in simple cases, someone who substitutes a word for a word would count as having given a definition — for example "cloak" instead of "garment." It is a still greater fault, moreover, if he has substituted less familiar words, for example "pale mortal" for "white man": the thing is no better defined that way, and it is spoken less clearly.
41| One should also check, in the exchange of words, whether the meaning has actually stayed the same — for example, someone who calls theoretical knowledge "theoretical supposition." For supposition is not the same as knowledge, yet it must be, if the whole is to remain the same; for "theoretical" is common to both accounts, while the remaining part differs. Again, check whether, in substituting one of the words, he has replaced not the differentia but the genus, as in the case just mentioned. For "theoretical" is less familiar than "knowledge": the one is the genus, the other the differentia, and the genus is always the more familiar of the two; so it was the differentia, not the genus, that should have been replaced, since it is the less familiar. Or perhaps this objection is silly: nothing prevents the differentia from being expressed in the more familiar word while the genus is not; and if that is how things stand, clearly it is the genus, not the differentia, that must be substituted for by name. But if he substitutes not a word for a word but an account for a word, clearly it is a definition of the differentia rather than of the genus that must be given, since a definition is given for the sake of making something known, and the differentia is less familiar than the genus.
42| If he has given the definition of the differentia, check whether the definition given also fits something else, for example when he says an odd number is "a number having a middle term": one must further specify what having a middle term means. For "number" belongs in common to both accounts, while the account of "odd" is the part substituted; but a line and a body also have a middle, without being odd. So this could not be a definition of "odd." And if "having a middle" is said in several ways, one must specify in what way it has a middle. The result will be either an objection or a proof by syllogism that it has not been defined.
43| Again, check whether the thing whose account he gives belongs among the things that are, while what falls under the account does not, for example if he defined white as "a color mixed with fire": for it is impossible for something bodiless to be mixed with a body, so that there could be no such thing as "a color mixed with fire" — yet white exists. Again, all those who, in dealing with relatives, fail to specify that in relation to which the thing is said, but instead speak of it as embracing several things, are lying either wholly or in part — for example, if someone said that the science of medicine is a science of what is. For if medicine is not a science of anything that is, clearly he is wholly mistaken, while if it is a science of some things but not of others, he is mistaken in part; for it must hold of every case, given that a thing is said to be what it is in its own right and not accidentally, just as with the other relatives — for everything knowable is spoken of in relation to knowledge. The same holds for the other relatives too, since all relatives are convertible. Again, if the person who makes his statement not in its own right but accidentally is giving it correctly, then each relative would be said in relation not to one thing but to several. For nothing prevents the same thing from being both a being and white and good, so that giving the account in relation to any one of these whatever would be giving it correctly, if indeed the person who gives it accidentally gives it correctly.
44| Again, it is impossible for such an account to be peculiar to the thing defined; for not only medicine but most of the other sciences too are spoken of in relation to what is, so that each science would be a science of what is. It is clear, then, that such an account is a definition of no science; for a definition must be peculiar, not common. Sometimes people define not the thing itself but the thing in its good or completed state. Such is the definition of the orator and of the thief, if indeed the orator is one able to see what is persuasive in each case and to leave nothing out, and the thief is one who takes secretly; for it is clear that, on this account, the one will be a good orator and the other a good thief — since it is not the one who takes secretly but the one who wishes to take secretly who is a thief. Again, check whether he has given what is choiceworthy for its own sake as choiceworthy for the sake of something else, as productive or practical, or in whatever way choiceworthy on account of something else — for example, calling justice "preservative of the laws," or wisdom "productive of happiness"; for being productive or preservative belongs among things choiceworthy on account of something else. Or perhaps nothing prevents what is choiceworthy for its own sake from also being choiceworthy on account of something else; nonetheless, whoever defines what is choiceworthy for its own sake in this way has erred none the less,
45| for in each thing the best element lies especially in its substance, and being choiceworthy for its own sake is better than being choiceworthy on account of something else, so that the definition ought rather to have signified this. One should also check, in giving the definition of something, whether he has defined it as these things, or as what comes from these things, or as this together with this. For if as these things, it will follow that it belongs to both and to neither — for example, if he defined justice as temperance and courage; for since these are two, if each person has one of them, both will be just and neither will be, since both together have justice while each separately does not. And if what has been said is not yet altogether absurd, because the same thing happens in other cases too (for nothing prevents both together having a mina while neither has it), still, at any rate, that contrary attributes should belong to them would seem altogether absurd. And this will follow if one of them has temperance and cowardice, and the other courage and self-indulgence; for both will then have justice and injustice. For if justice is temperance and courage, injustice will be cowardice and self-indulgence. And in general, all the lines of argument available for showing that the parts are not the same as the whole are useful for the point now made; for one who defines in this way seems to be saying that the parts are the same as the whole. Such accounts are most apt when the composition of the parts is evident, as with a house and other things of that kind.
46| For it is clear that, given the parts, nothing prevents the whole from not existing, so that the parts are not the same as the whole. But if he said that the thing defined is not these parts but what is made out of them, first one must consider whether it is not natural for a single thing to come to be out of the things named; for some things stand to one another in such a way that nothing comes to be out of them, for instance a line and a number. Again, if what is defined is naturally found in some single primary thing, while the things he said it is made of are not found in any single primary thing but each in a different thing, then clearly that thing could not be made out of these; for wherever the parts are, the whole must also be present, so that the whole is not in one primary thing but in several. But if both the parts and the whole are in some single primary thing, one must consider whether the whole is not in the same thing as the parts but in a different one. Again, one must ask whether the parts perish along with the whole; for the reverse ought to hold — when the parts perish, the whole perishes, but when the whole perishes, it is not necessary that the parts have also perished. Or whether the whole is good or bad while the parts are neither, or conversely the parts are good or bad while the whole is neither;
47| for it is not possible for something good or bad to come from two things neither of which is good or bad, nor for something neither good nor bad to come from things that are bad or good. Or whether one of the two is more good than the other is bad, while what is made out of them is not more good than bad — for instance, if shamelessness is said to be made out of courage and false belief. For courage is more good than false belief is bad; so what is made out of them ought to follow the greater, and be either good without qualification, or more good than bad. Or this is not necessary, unless each of the two is good or bad in its own right; for many productive things are not good in their own right but become so when mixed, or conversely each is good by itself but becomes bad, or neither, when mixed. What has just been said is most evident in the case of healthy and disease-causing things; for some drugs are such that each by itself is good, but if both are given mixed together, the result is bad. Again, one must ask whether, being made out of a better and a worse thing, the whole is not worse than the better and better than the worse. Or this too is not necessary, unless the things it is composed of are good in their own right; nothing prevents the whole from failing to be good, just as in the cases just mentioned.
48| Again, one must ask whether the whole is synonymous with either of the two; for it should not be, just as in the case of syllables — for the whole syllable is synonymous with none of the letters it is composed of. Again, one must ask whether he has stated the manner of the combination. For it is not sufficient for making the thing known to say it is made out of these; for the substance of each compound thing is not simply being made out of these, but being made out of these in this particular way — as with a house, for it is not a house however these materials happen to be put together. But if he has rendered it as 'this together with that,' first it must be said that 'this together with that' is the same either as 'these' or as 'what is made out of these'; for one who says 'honey with water' means either honey and water, or what is made out of honey and water, so that whichever of the stated alternatives he agrees 'this together with that' is the same as, the same objections will fit that were raised earlier against each of the two. Again, having distinguished the ways in which one thing is said to be 'with' another, one must consider whether 'this together with that' holds in none of them. For instance, if one thing is said to be with another either as being in some one and the same receptacle, as justice and courage are in the soul, or as being in the same place at the same time — and the statement in question turns out to be true in neither of these ways — clearly the definition given would apply to nothing, since 'this together with that' does not hold in any way.
49| But if it is true, on the division made, that each of the two is present at the same time, one must consider whether it is possible that the two are not said in relation to the same thing. For instance, if he defined courage as boldness together with correct thinking; for it is possible to have boldness for the purpose of committing theft, and correct thinking about matters of health — but a person who has, at the same time, this together with that in this sense is not yet courageous. Again, one must consider whether even if both are said in relation to the same thing, for instance to matters of medicine — for nothing prevents someone from having both boldness and correct thinking with respect to medical matters — even so this person, who has this together with that, is not courageous either. For neither should each of the two be said in relation to something different from the other, nor in relation to any random thing that happens to be the same for both, but in relation to the end proper to courage, for instance in relation to the dangers of war, or whatever end is more properly its own than this. Some definitions rendered in this fashion do not fall under the stated division at all — for instance, if anger is defined as pain accompanied by a supposition of being slighted. For what this wants to show is that the pain comes about because of this sort of supposition; and for something to come about because of this is not, in any of the ways stated, the same as for this to exist together with that.
50| Again, one must ask whether he has called the whole a combination of these, for instance calling an animal a combination of soul and body; first one must consider whether he has failed to state what kind of combination it is — just as if, in defining flesh or bone, one said it was a combination of fire, earth, and air. For it is not enough to say 'combination'; one must also further specify of what kind — for it is not by these being combined in just any way that flesh comes to be, but by their being combined in this particular way flesh results, and in that particular way bone results. And it seems that neither of the things named is, in general, the same as combination at all; for to every combination dissolution is contrary, but to neither of the things named is anything contrary. Again, one must consider whether it is equally plausible that every composite thing is a combination, or that none is; and since each animal, though composite, is not a combination, none of the other composite things would be a combination either. Again, one must ask whether contrary things are equally natural to be present in something, yet the thing has been defined by way of one of the two only — clearly in that case it has not been defined. For otherwise, several definitions of the same thing will result; for why should the person who defined by way of this one have spoken more truly than the one who defined by way of the other, given that both are equally natural to come about in it? Such is the definition of the soul, if it is said to be a substance receptive of knowledge;
51| for it is equally receptive of ignorance. And even if one's argument is not addressed to the whole of the definition, because the whole is not well known, one must still try to attack some part of it, if that part is well known and appears to have been badly rendered; for once the part is destroyed, the whole definition is destroyed along with it. As for definitions that are unclear, having first jointly corrected and reshaped them so as to make something clear and to have a point of attack, one should examine them in that form; for the answerer must either accept the sense grasped by the questioner, or himself make clear what exactly is meant by the formula. Again, just as in assemblies people are accustomed to bring in a new law, and if the one brought in is better they repeal the earlier one, so too one must do with definitions and bring forward a different definition oneself; for if it appears better and makes what is being defined clearer, clearly the one already laid down will have been overturned, since there cannot be several definitions of the same thing. And for dealing with all definitions, not the least important element is defining the subject at issue skillfully for oneself, or adopting a well-stated definition already given; for then, as if looking at a model, one is bound to see clearly both what is lacking that the definition ought to have, and what is superfluously added, so that one is better supplied with points of attack.
1| Let this much, then, be said about definitions. H. Whether a thing is the same or different in the strictest of the senses discussed regarding sameness (and it was said that the strictest sense of sameness is what is one in number) should be examined by way of inflections, coordinate terms, and opposites. For if justice is the same as courage, then the just person is the same as the courageous person, and "justly" is the same as "courageously." And likewise with opposites: if these things are the same, then the things opposed to them are also the same, in whatever kind of opposition is meant. For it makes no difference which of the two you take the opposite of, since they are the same. Again, one should look from the point of view of what produces and destroys them, of their comings-to-be and passings-away, and in general of whatever stands in a like relation to each: for things that are the same without qualification also have the same comings-to-be and the same passings-away, and the same things that produce and destroy them. One should also examine those things of which either term is most properly said, to see whether the other of these same terms is also most properly said in the same respect, just as Xenocrates proves that the happy life and the excellent life are the same, since of all lives the excellent is most choiceworthy and so is the happy; for the most choiceworthy and the greatest are one. And likewise in other such cases.
2| But each of the two things called "greatest" or "most choiceworthy" must be one in number. Otherwise it will not have been shown that they are the same; for it is not necessary, if the Peloponnesians and the Spartans are the most courageous of the Greeks, that the Peloponnesians be the same as the Spartans, since neither "Peloponnesian" nor "Spartan" is one in number. Rather, it is necessary that the one be contained by the other, as the Spartans are contained by the Peloponnesians. Otherwise it will follow that each is better than the other, if the ones are not contained by the others. For it would be necessary for the Peloponnesians to be better than the Spartans, if the ones are not contained by the others; for they are better than all the rest. And likewise it would be necessary for the Spartans to be better than the Peloponnesians; for they too are better than all the rest. So they turn out to be better than each other. It is clear, then, that what is called best and greatest must be one in number, if it is to be shown to be the same. That is why Xenocrates does not prove his point: for the happy life and the excellent life are not one in number, so it is not necessary that they be the same because both are most choiceworthy — rather, the one is contained under the other. Again, one should examine whether that with which one of the two is the same, the other is also the same with;
3| for if both are not the same as the same thing, it is clear that they are not the same as each other either. Further, one should examine on the basis of what is accidental to them, and to the things to which they are accidental: for whatever is accidental to the one must also be accidental to the other, and whatever the one of them is accidental to, the other must be accidental to as well. If any of these fails to agree, it is clear that they are not the same. One should also see whether they do not both belong to one genus of predicate, but the one signifies a quality and the other a quantity or a relation. Again, whether the genus of each is not the same, but the one is good and the other bad, or the one is a virtue and the other a knowledge. Or whether, though the genus is the same, the differentiae predicated of each are not the same, but of the one it is said that it is a theoretical knowledge, and of the other that it is a practical one. And likewise in other cases. Further, from the point of view of the more and less: whether the one admits of the more and the other does not, or whether both admit of it but not at the same time — just as the one who is more in love does not more desire intercourse, so that love and the desire for intercourse are not the same. Further, from the point of view of addition: whether each, when added to the same thing, fails to make the whole the same.
4| Or whether, when the same thing is subtracted from each, what remains is different — for instance, if someone said that double a half and multiple of a half are the same. For when the half is subtracted from each, the remainders ought to signify the same thing, but they do not; for "double" and "multiple" do not signify the same thing. One should examine not only whether something impossible already follows from the position as stated, but also whether it would be possible for something impossible to result on a hypothesis, as with those who say that the void and what is full of air are the same. For it is clear that if the air goes out, it will be no less but more void, while it will no longer be full of air. So that, once something is hypothesized, whether false or true (for it makes no difference), the one of them is destroyed and the other is not. So they are not the same. To put it generally: one should examine, from whatever is predicated of each in any way at all, and the things of which these are predicated, whether there is any disagreement anywhere; for whatever is predicated of the one must also be predicated of the other, and whatever the one is predicated of, the other must be predicated of as well. Further, since "the same" is said in many ways, one should examine whether they are the same in some other way as well: for things that are the same in species or genus are not necessarily, or cannot possibly be, the same in number, and we examine whether they are the same in this way or not.
5| Further, whether it is possible for the one to exist without the other; for then they would not be the same. So many, then, are the commonplaces that concern sameness. It is clear from what has been said that all the destructive commonplaces concerning sameness are also useful with regard to definition, as has been said before; for if the name and the account do not signify the same thing, it is clear that the account given could not be the definition. But none of the constructive commonplaces is useful with regard to definition; for it is not enough to show that what falls under the account and the name are the same, in order to establish that it is a definition, but the definition must also have all the other qualities that have been laid down.
6| One must always attempt to demolish a definition in this way and by these means; but if we wish to establish one, first one must know that none, or few, of those who engage in discussion arrive at a definition by syllogism, but all take such a thing as a starting point, as do those concerned with geometry and arithmetic and the other such branches of learning. Next, one must know that it belongs to another study to give a precise account of what a definition is and how one ought to define, while for the present it is enough to say only so much as suffices for our present need — namely, that it is possible for there to be a syllogism of a definition and of the essence. For if a definition is an account that makes clear the essence of a thing, and the things predicated in the definition must be predicated only among the things predicated in the essence of the thing, and the genera and differentiae are what are predicated in the essence, it is evident that if one took only these to be predicated in the essence of the thing, the account containing them would necessarily be a definition; for it is not possible for the definition to be something else, since nothing else is predicated in the essence of the thing. That it is possible, then, for there to be a syllogism of a definition, is evident;
7| but from what premises one must construct it has been determined more precisely elsewhere, while for the present method the same commonplaces are useful. For one must examine the case of contraries and of the other opposites, considering both whole accounts and them part by part; for if the opposite belongs to the opposite, then the stated account must also belong to the thing under discussion. And since there are several combinations of contraries, one must take, of the contraries, whichever contrary definition appears most clearly. So then, whole accounts should be examined as has been said, and part by part as follows. First, whether the genus assigned has been correctly assigned. For if the contrary is in the contrary genus, and the thing under discussion is not in the same genus, it is clear that it would be in the contrary genus, since contraries must be in the same genus or in contrary genera. And we also require that the contrary differentiae be predicated of contraries, as of white and black: for the one is dispersive and the other is contractive of sight. So that if the contrary differentiae are predicated of the contrary, the differentiae assigned would be predicated of the thing under discussion. So that, since both the genus and the differentiae have been correctly assigned, it is clear that the account given would be the definition.
8| Or is it not necessary that contrary things have contrary differentiae predicated of them, unless the contraries are in the same genus? For things whose genera are contrary, nothing prevents the same differentia being predicated of both, as with justice and injustice: the one is a virtue of soul and the other a vice of soul, so that "of soul" is a differentia predicated in both cases, since there is also a virtue and a vice of body. But this much at least is true, that of contraries the differentiae are either contrary or the same. If, then, the contrary of the term in question has the contrary differentia predicated of it, but this term does not have that differentia predicated of it, clearly the differentia we have mentioned would be predicated of it. Speaking generally, since a definition is made up of genus and differentiae, if the definition of the contrary is clear, the definition of the thing before us will also be clear. For since the contrary is either in the same genus or in the contrary genus, and likewise the differentiae predicated of contraries are either contrary or the same, clearly of the thing before us either the very same genus will be predicated as of its contrary, and the differentiae will be contrary, either all of them or some, with the rest the same; or conversely the differentiae will be the same and the genera contrary;
9| or both will be contrary, both the genera and the differentiae. For it is not possible for both to be the same; if they were, the contraries would have the same definition. Further, argue from the inflected forms and from cognate words: for the genera must follow the genera, and the definitions the definitions. For instance, if forgetting is the loss of knowledge, then to forget will be to lose knowledge, and to have forgotten will be to have lost knowledge. So once any one of the terms mentioned has been agreed to, the rest must also be agreed to. Likewise too, if destruction is the dissolution of substance, then to be destroyed is to have substance dissolved, and "destructively" is "dissolutively," and if that which is destructive is dissolutive of substance, then destruction is dissolution of substance. And likewise in other cases too. So that once any one is taken, all the rest are agreed to as well. Argue also from things that stand in a similar relation to one another. For if the healthy is productive of health, then the fitness-producing will be productive of good condition, and the beneficial will be productive of good. For each of the terms mentioned stands in a similar way toward its own proper end, so that if the definition of one of them is "being productive of the end," this would also be the definition of each of the rest.
10| Further, argue from the more and the equally, in as many ways as it is possible to establish the point by comparing two things with two, for instance: if this is more of a definition of this than that is of that, and the latter is a definition, then so is the former, the greater one. And if this is a definition of this in the same way as that is of that, then if the one is a definition of the one, the remaining one is a definition of the remaining one. But when one definition is compared with two things, or two definitions with one thing, the examination from the more is of no use at all; for it is not possible for one term to be the definition of two things, nor for two terms to be the definition of the same thing. The most opportune of the commonplaces are both the ones just mentioned and those from cognate words and from inflected forms. That is why one must above all keep hold of these and have them ready to hand, for they are the most useful for the most cases. And among the rest, the most common ones; for these are the most effective of the others, for instance looking to particular cases, and examining, in the case of the forms (species), whether the account fits, since the form is a synonymous term. Such a procedure is useful against those who posit that there are Forms (Ideas), as has been said before. Further, ask whether he has used the name metaphorically, or has predicated it of itself as though it were something other than itself. And if there is any other commonplace that is common and effective, it must be used.
11| That it is harder to establish a definition than to demolish it will be clear from what will be said next. For it is not easy even to see the point and to obtain from those questioned premises of the following sort: that of the elements given in the account rendered, one is the genus and another the differentia, and that it is in the "what it is" that the genus and the differentiae are predicated. Without these it is impossible for there to be a deduction of a definition; for if certain other things too are predicated of the thing in its "what it is," it is unclear whether the account stated, or some other, is its definition, since a definition is an account that signifies the essence. This is clear also from the following. It is easier to conclude one thing than many. In demolishing, then, it is enough to argue against one point (for once we have demolished any one point whatever, we shall have destroyed the definition), but in establishing it is necessary to bring together the whole case, that everything in the definition belongs. Further, in establishing one must bring a universal deduction; for the definition must be predicated of everything of which the name is predicated, and further, in addition to this, it must convert, if the definition given is to be proper to the thing. In demolishing, on the other hand, it is no longer necessary to show the universal point; it is enough to show that the account is not true of some one of the things that fall under the name.
12| And even if it should be necessary to demolish universally, still even so converting is not necessary for the demolishing; it is enough for one who demolishes universally to show that the account is not predicated of something of which the name is predicated. But the converse is not necessary for showing that the name is predicated of things of which the account is not predicated. Further, even if the account belongs to everything that falls under the name, but not to that alone, the definition is thereby demolished. The same holds likewise for the property and for the genus; in both cases it is easier to demolish than to establish. Concerning the property this is clear from what has been said; for as a rule the property is rendered in a complex form, so that it is possible to demolish it by removing one element, whereas one who establishes it must deduce all the elements together. And nearly all the rest of the points that apply to the definition will fit in being said of the property as well; for one who establishes must show that it belongs to everything that falls under the name, while one who demolishes need only show, in one case, that it does not belong; and if it belongs to everything but not to that alone, it is likewise demolished, just as is said in the case of the definition. Concerning the genus, one must establish it in only one way, by showing that it belongs to everything, but one who demolishes it may do so in two ways;
13| for whether it has been shown not to belong to none, or not to belong to some one thing, the point at issue has been destroyed. Further, in establishing it is not enough to show that it belongs; one must also show why it belongs as a genus. In demolishing, it is enough to show that it does not belong, either to some one thing, or not to all. It seems that, just as in other matters it is easier to destroy than to make, so too in these cases it is easier to demolish than to establish.
14| In the case of the accident, the universal is easier to demolish than to establish; for one who establishes must show that it belongs to everything, while one who demolishes need only show, in one case, that it does not belong. The particular, on the other hand, is conversely easier to establish than to demolish; for one who establishes need only show that it belongs to some one thing, while one who demolishes must show that it belongs to nothing. It is also clear why of all these it is easiest to demolish a definition; for it contains the most given elements, since much has been stated, and a deduction comes about more quickly from more elements, since it is likely that error occurs more in many things than in few. Further, against a definition it is also possible to argue by means of the other topics as well; for whether the account is not proper to the thing, or the genus given is not the genus, or something within the account does not belong, the definition is thereby destroyed. But against the other topics it is not possible to bring to bear either all the arguments drawn from definitions or all the rest; only the arguments directed at the accident are common to all the things mentioned. For each of the things mentioned must belong; but if the genus belongs, though not as a property, the genus has not thereby been destroyed. Likewise, too, the property need not belong as a genus, nor the accident as a genus or property, but only needs to belong.
15| So it is not possible to argue from the other predicables to their counterparts except in the case of definition. It is clear, then, that of all of them a definition is easiest to demolish, but hardest to establish; for one must reason out all of the following (that the things stated do belong, that the genus assigned is the genus, and that the account is peculiar to the thing), and beyond these, that the account shows the essence, and that this has been done correctly. Of the other predicables, the property is most in this position: it is easier to demolish, because it usually rests on many points, but hardest to establish, both because one must fit many things together, and further because it belongs to the thing alone and is counterpredicated of it. Easiest of all to establish is the accident; for with the others one must show not only that the attribute belongs but also that it belongs in this way, whereas with the accident it is enough to show that it belongs at all. But the accident is hardest to overturn, because least is conceded in it; for in stating an accident one does not indicate further how it belongs, so that with the others there are two ways of demolishing it, either by showing that the attribute does not belong or that it does not belong in this way, while with the accident it cannot be demolished except by showing that it does not belong at all.
1| The commonplaces, then, by means of which we shall be well supplied for arguing about each of the problems, have been enumerated fairly adequately. Book Theta. After this we must speak about order, and about how one ought to put questions. First, before one is going to question, one must find the commonplace from which the argument is to be drawn; second, one must put the questions and arrange them, each in relation to the others, for oneself; and the remaining, third, task is to state these, now, to another person. Up to the point of finding the commonplace, the inquiry of the philosopher and of the dialectician is alike, but the arranging and putting of questions is peculiar to the dialectician; for all of this is directed toward another person, whereas the philosopher, inquiring on his own, does not care at all if the answerer refuses to grant them, provided that the premises through which the reasoning proceeds are true and known, because they lie too close to the starting point and he can foresee what will result; rather he would perhaps even be eager for the axioms to be as knowable and as close as possible, since it is from these that scientific syllogisms proceed. The commonplaces, then, from which one must take one's premises have been stated earlier; about order and about questioning we must speak, first distinguishing the premises that must be taken besides the necessary ones. The necessary premises are those through which the syllogism comes about. Those taken besides these are of four kinds: either for the sake of induction, so that the universal may be granted, or for bulk of the argument, or to conceal the conclusion, or to make the argument clearer.
2| Besides these no other premise should be taken, but one must try to amplify and to question by means of these. Those aimed at concealment are for the sake of contest; but since all such activity is directed toward another person, one is bound to make use of these too. Now the necessary premises, through which the syllogism proceeds, should not be put forward straightaway, but one should hold off from them as far as possible, for example, not requiring that the same science covers contraries, if one wishes to secure this, but rather that it covers opposites; for once this is granted, one will also be able to infer that the same science covers contraries, since contraries are opposites. And if the answerer will not grant this, it must be taken by induction, putting it forward in the case of particular contraries. For the necessary premises must be taken either by syllogism or by induction, or some by induction and some by syllogism, while those that are exceedingly obvious may simply be put forward as they are; for what will result is always less clear in the case of holding off and of induction, and at the same time, putting forward the useful premises themselves is ready to hand for one who cannot obtain them in the other way. The premises spoken of besides these must be taken for the sake of the above, and each is to be used as follows: leading by induction from particulars to the universal and from the known to the unknown; and more known are the things according to perception, either absolutely or to the many.
3| In concealing, one should reason out beforehand the things through which the syllogism regarding the original point is going to come about, and as many of these as possible. This would happen if one reasoned out not only the necessary premises but also some of those useful in relation to these. Further, one should not state the conclusions but reason them out later all together; for in this way one would remove them furthest from the original position. To put it generally, one who inquires by way of concealment ought to question in such a way that, when the whole argument has been asked and the conclusion stated, it is sought why it is so. This will happen best by the method described before; for when only the final conclusion has been stated it is unclear how it comes about, because the answerer does not foresee from what it results, since the earlier syllogisms have not been articulated. The syllogism of the conclusion would be least articulated if we do not lay down its premises directly, but rather those from which the syllogism producing them comes about. It is also useful not to take the axioms from which the syllogisms proceed in a continuous series, but to alternate between arguments directed toward one conclusion and toward another; for when the related premises are placed side by side, what will result from them is more evident. One should also, wherever it is possible, take the universal premise by definition, not applied to the things themselves but to what is coordinate with them;
4| for people deceive themselves when the definition is taken in application to what is coordinate, thinking that they are not conceding the universal. For example, if one needed to secure that the angry man desires vengeance because of an apparent slight, and it were secured that anger is desire for vengeance because of an apparent slight, it is clear that once this is secured we would have, universally, what we intended to establish. But those who put the premise forward in application to the things themselves often find the answerer refusing it, because his objection has more purchase there — for example, that the angry man does not desire vengeance, since we are angry with our parents but do not desire vengeance on them. Now perhaps the objection is not true, for with some people it is enough vengeance simply to pain them and make them regret it; nonetheless it has some plausibility, so as not to seem to be refusing what is put forward without reason. But in the case of the definition of anger it is not equally easy to find an objection. Further, one should put a premise forward not as being wanted for its own sake but for the sake of something else, since people are wary of what is useful for the thesis. Generally speaking, one should make it as unclear as possible whether one wants to secure the premise put forward or its opposite; for when it is unclear which is useful for the argument, people are more inclined to lay down what seems true to themselves.
5| Further, one should inquire by way of resemblance; for this is persuasive, and the universal is more likely to pass unnoticed. For example, that just as knowledge and ignorance of contraries are the same, so too perception of contraries is the same, or conversely, since perception of them is the same, so too is knowledge. This is like induction, yet not the same thing; for there, the universal is taken from the particulars, whereas in the case of resemblances what is taken is not the universal under which all the resembling things fall. One should also sometimes bring an objection against oneself; for answerers are unsuspicious toward those who seem to be arguing fairly. It is also useful to add that such a point is customary and commonly said; for people are reluctant to disturb what is habitual when they have no objection to it. At the same time, by using such points themselves they are on guard against disturbing them. Further, one should not press the point earnestly, even if it is generally useful; for people resist more against those who press earnestly. And one should put things forward as though in a comparison; for what is put forward for the sake of something else, and not for its own sake, people set down as useful more readily. Further, one should not put forward the very point that needs to be taken, but that from which it follows of necessity; for people concede this more readily, because what will result is not equally evident from it, and once this is taken, that other point has also been taken along with it.
6| And ask last the thing you most want to get granted; for people are most likely to shake their heads at the first questions, because most questioners state first the points they are most eager about. But against some people, propose such things first; for the difficult ones grant the first points most readily, if what will follow is not entirely obvious, and grow difficult at the end. Similarly also with those who think they are sharp in answering; for having granted most of the points, at the end they quibble that the conclusion does not follow from what has been laid down; but they grant things carelessly, trusting their own cleverness and supposing they will suffer nothing from it. Further, there is drawing the argument out and inserting things of no use for it, as those who draw false diagrams do; for when there are many things present, it is unclear in which of them the falsity lies. Hence questioners sometimes go unnoticed when, in the midst of the rest, they insert points which, if proposed by themselves, would not be granted. For concealment, then, one should use the devices mentioned; for ornament, induction and division of things akin to the subject. Now what sort of thing induction is, is clear; and division is of this sort: that one science is better than another either by being more exact or by being about better things, and that of the sciences some are theoretical, some practical, some productive.
7| For each of these things helps adorn the argument, but they are not necessary for stating the conclusion. For clarity one should bring in examples and comparisons — examples that are familiar and drawn from what we know, such as Homer's, not such as Choerilus's; for so the point proposed will be clearer. In discussion one must use deduction more against dialecticians than against ordinary people, and induction, on the contrary, more against ordinary people; this has also been said before. Now in some cases, by inducing, one can ask for the universal, but in others it is not easy, because there is no name lying ready that is common to all the similar cases; but when one needs to take the universal, they say 'so in all such cases' — and it is one of the hardest things to determine which of the things brought forward are of this kind and which are not. And on this account people often mislead one another in arguments: some claiming that things not alike are alike, others disputing that things alike are not alike. Hence one should try, in all such cases, to coin a name for oneself, so that the answerer cannot dispute that what is being added is not said in the same manner, nor can the questioner play the sycophant by claiming it is said in the same manner, since many things not said in the same manner appear to be said so. But when, in inducing over many cases, the answerer does not grant the universal, then it is fair to demand an objection from him. But if he himself has not said in which cases it holds, it is not fair to demand of him in which cases it does not hold; for the one inducing must first demand the objection in this way.
8| One should also require that objections not be brought against the very thing proposed, unless that is the only instance of its kind — as the dyad is the only even number that is prime; for the objector must bring the objection against some other instance, or say that this alone is of this kind. Against those who object to the universal, not bringing the objection against the universal itself but against the equivocal term — for instance, that one might have a color, or a foot, or a hand, that is not one's own (for a painter might have a color, and a cook a foot, that is not his own) — one should make a distinction and put the question accordingly in such cases; for when the equivocation goes unnoticed, the objection will seem to be a good one against the premise. But if the objector, not bringing the objection against the equivocal term but against the thing itself, blocks the question, then one must take away that in which the objection lies and propose the remainder as universal, generalizing it, until one gets what is useful. For instance, in the case of forgetting and having forgotten: they do not concede that one who has lost knowledge has forgotten, on the ground that, the situation having changed, he has lost the knowledge but has not forgotten it. One should, then, take away that in which the objection lies and state the remainder — for instance, that if, the situation remaining the same, he has lost the knowledge, he has forgotten it.
9| Similarly also against those who object that a greater evil is opposed to a greater good; for they bring forward that to health, which is a lesser good than good condition, a greater evil is opposed — since disease, they say, is a greater evil than bad condition. One must, then, take away, in this case too, that in which the objection lies; for once it is taken away, the answerer would more readily grant the point — for instance, that a greater evil is opposed to a greater good, provided neither of the two entails the other, as good condition entails health. And this must be done not only when an objection is raised, but even if, without an objection, the answerer denies the point because he foresees something of this kind; for once that in which the objection lies has been taken away, he will be forced to grant it, because he cannot foresee, in what remains, a case where it is not so; and if he does not grant it, when an objection is demanded of him he will not be able to produce one. Premises of the following sort are such as to be false in one respect and true in another; for in these cases it is possible to take away the false part and leave the remainder true. But if, when one is proposing something that holds over many cases, the answerer brings no objection, one should require him to grant it; for a dialectical premise is one against which, holding thus in many cases, there is no objection. And when it is possible to draw the same conclusion both without the impossible and through the impossible, for one who is demonstrating and not conversing in dialectic it makes no difference whether he draws it one way or the other; but for one conversing in dialectic with another, he should not use the deduction through the impossible.
10| For when one has drawn a conclusion without the impossible, there is no room to dispute it; but when one draws the impossible conclusion, unless it is an extremely manifest falsehood, people say it is not impossible, so that questioners do not get what they want. One should propose such things as hold in this way in many cases, where either there is no objection at all, or it is not easy to see one at a glance; for the answerer, unable to see the cases where it does not hold, posits it as true. One should not put the conclusion itself as a question; otherwise, if the answerer shakes his head, it will seem that no deduction has taken place. For often, even when one does not ask but states it as a consequence, they deny it — and in doing this they do not seem to be refuted, in the eyes of those who do not see what follows from what has been laid down. So when one asks without even having stated that the point follows, and the answerer denies it, it seems that no deduction at all has taken place. Nor does every universal question seem to be a dialectical premise — for instance, 'What is man?' or 'In how many ways is the good spoken of?'; for a dialectical premise is one to which it is possible to answer yes or no, but to the questions just mentioned it is not. Hence such questions are not dialectical, unless the questioner himself, having drawn a distinction or made a division, puts it that way — for instance, 'Is the good spoken of in this way, or in that way?'
11| for to such questions the answer is easy, either by affirming or by denying. One should therefore try to propose premises of this sort in that form. And at the same time it is perhaps also fair to ask the other person in how many ways the good is spoken of, when, though he himself divides it up and proposes it, he grants it in no way at all. Whoever asks about one and the same argument at great length inquires badly. For if it is because the one being questioned keeps answering what is asked, clearly the questioner is asking many questions, or asking the same things many times, so that he is either babbling or has no deduction — for every deduction is drawn from few premises; but if it is because the other does not answer, it is because the questioner either fails to press the point or gives up.
12| It is hard to argue for, and easy to maintain, the very same hypotheses. Such are both the things that are first by nature and the things that are last. For the first need a definition, while the last are worked out through many steps by anyone who wants to take the continuous chain from the first things — otherwise the arguments appear sophistical; for it is impossible to demonstrate anything without starting from its proper principles and stringing the chain together as far as the last terms. Now answerers do not think it right to give definitions, nor, even when the questioner does define something, do they pay attention to it; and since it has not been made clear what the thing proposed actually is, it is not easy to argue about it. This happens most of all in the case of principles; for the other things are proved by means of these, while these cannot be proved by means of anything else, but each of them must necessarily be known through definition. Also hard to argue for are the things very close to a principle; for it is not possible to procure many arguments bearing on them, since there are few intermediate steps between them and the principle, through which the things that come after must be shown. And of definitions, the hardest of all to argue about are those that employ such terms as are, in the first place, unclear as to whether they are said simply or in many ways, and, besides this, not even known whether they are used by the one who framed the definition in their proper sense or metaphorically.
13| For because they are unclear, such problems have no arguments to bring against them, and because it is unknown whether they are of this kind on account of being spoken metaphorically, they admit of no censure. In general, whenever a problem is hard to attack, we must suppose either that it needs a definition, or that it belongs to the things that are said in several ways or spoken metaphorically, or that it is not far from the principles, or that the reason is that it is not yet clear to us in which of the stated ways the difficulty it presents arises. For once the way is clear, it is plain that either a definition must be given, or a division made, or the intermediate premises must be supplied; for it is through these that the extreme terms are shown. In the case of many positions, too, when the definition has not been correctly given, it is not easy to argue and to attack them—for instance, whether one thing is contrary to one thing, or to more than one. But once the contraries have been properly defined, it is easy to establish agreement whether it is possible for more than one thing to be contrary to the same thing or not. And the same holds in the other cases that need a definition. It seems that even in mathematics some things are not easily proved for want of a definition—for instance, that the line drawn parallel to the side, cutting the plane figure, divides the line and the area alike.
14| But once the definition is stated, what is meant becomes immediately clear; for the areas and the lines undergo the same reciprocal subtraction, and this is the definition of ratios being the same. In general, when the definitions of the primary elements are laid down—for instance, what a line is and what a circle is—it is easiest to demonstrate things, except that not many arguments can be brought to bear on each of these, because there are not many intermediate steps; but if the definitions of the principles are not laid down, it is difficult, and perhaps altogether impossible. The same holds, similarly, in the case of arguments concerned with accounts. So we must not fail to notice, whenever a position is hard to attack, that it is affected by one of the things just mentioned. But when it is a greater task to argue against the axiom and the premise than against the position itself, one might be at a loss whether such things should be granted or not. For if the answerer will not grant it but demands that the questioner argue for this point too, he will be requiring more than what was laid down at the start; but if he does grant it, he will be believing on the strength of things less credible than what is at issue. If, then, the problem must not be made more difficult, it should be granted; but if the argument ought to proceed through things better known, it should not be granted. Or rather: to the learner it should not be granted, unless it is better known, but to the one in training it should be granted, provided only that it appears true.
15| So it is clear that one ought not to grant premises in the same way to a questioner as to a teacher. On how one ought to put questions and arrange them, then, what has been said is more or less sufficient. Concerning answering, first we must determine what the function of the good answerer is, just as we did for the good questioner. It is the function of the questioner to lead the argument in such a way as to make the answerer say the things that are least reputable among those necessitated by his position; and it is the function of the answerer to make it appear that the impossibility or the paradox does not come about through him, but through the position—for perhaps it is one mistake to have laid down at the start what one should not have laid down, and another to have failed to maintain properly what one did lay down.
16| Since these matters are left undetermined for those who carry on arguments for the sake of practice and trial—for the aims are not the same for teachers and learners as for competitors, nor for these as for those who spend time discussing together for the sake of inquiry. For the learner, one should always grant what seems to be the case; for no one even attempts to teach falsehood. But among those competing, the questioner must clearly be seen to be doing something at all costs, while the answerer must be seen to be suffering nothing. In dialectical meetings, however, among those who carry on arguments not for the sake of competition but for trial and inquiry, it has not yet been worked out at what the answerer should aim, and what sorts of things he should grant and what sorts not, with a view to maintaining his position well or badly. Since, then, we have nothing handed down to us by others, let us ourselves try to say something. Now the answerer must, of necessity, sustain his argument having laid down a position either reputable or unreputable or neither, and either reputable or unreputable simply, or in a qualified way—for instance, reputable to some particular person, either to himself or to another. It makes no difference in what way it is reputable or unreputable; for the manner of answering well will be the same, whether to grant or not to grant what is asked. If, then, the position is unreputable, the conclusion must necessarily be reputable, but if the position is reputable, the conclusion must be unreputable;
17| for the questioner always concludes the opposite of the position. But if what is laid down is neither unreputable nor reputable, the conclusion too will be of that same kind. Since the one who reasons well demonstrates the problem proposed from things more reputable and better known, it is clear that if what is laid down is simply unreputable, the answerer should grant neither what is simply not held to be true, nor what is held to be true but less so than the conclusion. For since the position is unreputable, the conclusion is reputable, so that everything taken as premises must be reputable, and more reputable than the point at issue, if the less known thing is to be established by way of the better known. So if any of the things asked is not of this kind, the answerer should not grant it. But if the position is simply reputable, it is clear that the conclusion is simply unreputable. He should therefore grant all the things that seem to be true, and, of those that do not, whatever are less unreputable than the conclusion; for in this way he would seem to have argued adequately. Similarly, if the position is neither unreputable nor reputable; for in this case too he must grant everything that appears to be so, and, of the things that do not seem so, whatever are more reputable than the conclusion; for in this way the arguments will turn out more reputable. If, then, what is laid down is simply reputable or unreputable, the comparison must be made against what seems to be true simply;
18| but if what is laid down is reputable or unreputable not simply but to the answerer, then he must judge what seems and does not seem to be true by reference to himself, and grant or not grant accordingly. But if the answerer is maintaining someone else's opinion, it is clear that he must grant or deny each point with an eye to that person's way of thinking. This is why those who introduce other people's opinions—for instance, that good and bad are the same, as Heraclitus says—do not grant that the contraries cannot be present in the same thing at the same time, not because this does not seem so to them, but because, on Heraclitus's view, it must be said in that way. Those who take up positions from one another do the same thing; for they aim at saying what the one who laid down the position would say.
19| It is clear, then, at what the answerer should aim, whether what is laid down is reputable simply or reputable to someone in particular. Since everything asked must be either reputable or unreputable or neither, and must be either relevant to the argument or not relevant to it, if it is held to be true and not relevant to the argument, it should be granted, with the answerer saying that it seems so; but if it is not held to be true and not relevant to the argument, it should be granted, but he should note that it is not held to be true, as a safeguard against appearing simple-minded. But if it is relevant to the argument and held to be true, he should say that it does seem so, but that it is very close to the point at issue from the start, and that if this is granted, the position laid down is destroyed. But if it is relevant to the argument, and the claim is very unreputable, he should say that it does follow if this is granted, but that what is being proposed is very simple-minded. But if it is neither unreputable nor reputable, then if it is not at all relevant to the argument, it should be granted without qualification; but if it is relevant to the argument, he should note that if it is granted, the point at issue from the start is destroyed. For in this way the answerer will not be thought to suffer anything through his own fault, if he foresees each point and lays it down accordingly, and the questioner will get his syllogism, since everything more reputable than the conclusion has been granted him. But those who attempt to reason from premises less reputable than the conclusion clearly do not reason well; hence such things should not be granted to questioners.
20| One must respond in the same way in the case of things said unclearly or in several ways. For since it is granted to the answerer, when he does not understand, to say "I do not understand," and, when a thing is said in several ways, he is not compelled either to agree or to deny it, it is clear, first, that if what has been said is not clear, one should not hesitate to say that one does not follow; for often, from having granted something asked unclearly, one runs into some difficulty. But if the thing is familiar yet said in several ways, then if what is said is true or false of all the senses alike, one should grant or deny it without qualification; but if it is false in one sense and true in another, one should point out that it is said in several ways, and that it is false in one sense but true in another. For if the distinction is drawn only later, it is unclear whether the ambiguity was seen from the start as well. And if one has not foreseen the ambiguity but, looking to one of the senses, has granted it, one should say, to the person who tries to lead one to the other sense, that it was not with a view to that sense that the concession was granted but to the other. For when several things fall under the same name or account, dispute arises easily. But if what is asked is both clear and simple, one should answer either yes or no.
21| Since every premise used in argument either is one of the things a syllogism is drawn from, or is asked for the sake of one of these — and it is clear when something is being taken for the sake of something else, by the fact that several similar things are being asked, since it is by induction, or by likeness, that people usually get the universal — one should grant all the particular cases, provided they are true and reputable, but should try to bring an objection against the universal; for to block the argument without an objection, whether real or apparent, is to be quarrelsome. If, then, when many things are apparent, someone does not grant the universal and has no objection, it is clear that he is being quarrelsome. Further, if he cannot even counter-argue that it is not true, he would seem to be being quarrelsome all the more. Yet even this is not sufficient; for we have many arguments contrary to what is believed, which are hard to resolve — as with Zeno's argument that motion is impossible, and that one cannot even traverse the stadium; but this is no reason not to grant the opposite of such conclusions. If, then, someone neither raises an objection nor is able to counter-argue, and yet does not grant the point, it is clear that he is being quarrelsome; for quarrelsomeness in arguments is answering in a way contrary to the ways stated, one that destroys the syllogism.
22| One who is about to defend a thesis and a definition should first examine it himself, on his own account; for it is clear that one must set oneself against the very points from which questioners overturn a position laid down. One should be wary of defending an unreputable premise. A premise may be unreputable in two ways: either because absurd things follow from stating it — for instance if someone were to say that everything is in motion, or that nothing is — or because it is such as would be chosen only by a worse character and is contrary to what people wish, for instance that pleasure is the good, or that doing wrong is better than suffering it. For people will hate someone not as defending it for the sake of argument but as saying what he actually believes.
23| As for arguments that infer something false, the resolution must consist in demolishing the point through which the falsity arises. For not just any demolition counts as a resolution, even if what is demolished is false. For the argument may contain several falsehoods — for instance, if someone assumes that the one who is sitting is writing, and that Socrates is sitting; for from these it follows that Socrates is writing. Demolishing the claim that Socrates is sitting does not resolve the argument any more, even though that premise is false; but it is not on account of this premise that the argument is false. For if someone happens to be sitting but not writing, the same resolution will no longer fit such a case. So this is not what must be demolished, but rather the claim that the one who is sitting is writing; for not everyone who is sitting writes. So whoever demolishes the point through which the falsity arises has resolved the argument in every case, but only the one who knows that the argument turns on this point knows the resolution, as with cases of false diagrams; for it is not enough to raise the objection, even if what is demolished is false, but one must also demonstrate why it is false; for only then would it be clear whether the objector has foreseen something or not. There are four ways of preventing an argument from reaching its conclusion. Either by demolishing the point through which the falsity arises, or by stating an objection against the questioner —
24| for often one has not really resolved the argument, but the questioner is nonetheless unable to carry it any further. A third way is directed against the questions asked; for it may happen that what the questioner wants does not follow from the questions asked, because they were badly framed, but that the conclusion would follow if something were added. If, then, the questioner can no longer advance, the objection would be directed against the questioner; but if he can, it should be directed against the questions asked. A fourth kind of objection, and the worst, is the one directed against the time available; for some people raise objections of a kind that would take longer to discuss than the present session allows. The objections, then, as we have said, arise in four ways; but of these, only the first is a resolution, while the rest are merely certain hindrances and obstructions to the conclusions.
25| Criticism of an argument in itself, and criticism of it as it is being put through questioning, are not the same thing; for often the answerer is himself responsible for the argument's not having been conducted well, by not conceding the points from which it was possible to argue well against the thesis; for it does not rest with one party alone to see the common task carried through well. It is sometimes necessary, then, to argue against the speaker and not against the thesis, when the answerer keeps opposing whatever the questioner says, out of sheer spite. People who do this, being quarrelsome, turn their discussions into contests rather than dialectical exchanges. Further, since arguments of this kind exist for the sake of practice and testing rather than teaching, it is clear that one should draw syllogisms not only from truths but also from falsehoods, and not always through true premises but sometimes through false ones as well. For often, when a true premise has been laid down, the person arguing dialectically is compelled to demolish it, so that false premises must be put forward instead. And sometimes, even when a false premise has been laid down, it must be demolished by means of falsehoods; for nothing prevents someone from believing things that are not so more readily than things that are true, so that if the argument proceeds from what he believes, he will be more convinced than benefited. But one who shifts ground well must do so dialectically and not eristically, just as the geometer does so in a geometrical manner, whether the conclusion reached is false or true —
26| what kinds of syllogisms are dialectical has been stated earlier. Since a partner who obstructs the common task is a poor partner, this clearly holds in argument as well. For here too there is some common goal set before the parties, except in the case of contestants; for these two cannot both attain the same end, since it is impossible for more than one to win. And it makes no difference whether someone does this through answering or through questioning; for the one who asks questions in an eristic manner argues badly, and so does the one who, in answering, will not grant what is apparent nor accept whatever it is the questioner wants to establish. It is clear, then, from what has been said, that one must not criticize the argument in itself and the questioner in the same way; for nothing prevents the argument from being poor while the questioner has conducted the discussion against the answerer as well as could be done. For against quarrelsome people it is perhaps not possible to construct the syllogisms one wants straightaway, but only such as are possible. And since it is undefined when people are taking the contrary of what was granted and when they are taking the point at issue itself (for often, speaking on their own, they say contrary things, and having first denied something, they later grant it — which is why, when questioned, they often assent both to the contrary and to the point at issue), the arguments are bound to turn out poor.
27| The answerer is responsible—by not granting some things, and by granting others that are of that sort. It is clear, then, that questioners and arguments should not be criticized in the same way. In its own right, there are five criticisms that apply to an argument. The first is when nothing is concluded from the questions asked—neither the thesis originally proposed nor anything else at all—though none of the premises on which the conclusion depends are false or lacking reputation (either all of them or most), and the conclusion does not come about even if certain premises are taken away, or added, or some taken away and others added. The second is if the syllogism does not bear on the thesis, even though it is constructed from such premises and in the way stated before. The third is if a syllogism comes about only when certain things are added, and these are worse than what was asked and less reputable than the conclusion. Again, the fourth is if it comes about only when certain things are taken away; for sometimes people take more premises than are necessary, so that the syllogism does not come about because of these particular premises being present. Further, the fifth is if it proceeds from premises less reputable and less credible than the conclusion, or from premises that are true but require more work to demonstrate than the problem itself. One should not demand that the syllogisms for every problem be equally reputable and persuasive; for by nature some of the things under investigation are straightaway easier, others harder, so that if someone draws his conclusion from the most reputable premises available, he has argued well.
28| It is clear, then, that even in the case of an argument, the same criticism does not apply both in relation to the problem proposed and in the argument's own right. For nothing prevents an argument from being blameworthy in its own right but praiseworthy in relation to the problem, and again, conversely, praiseworthy in its own right but blameworthy in relation to the problem, whenever it is easy to draw a conclusion from many true and reputable premises. Indeed, an argument that has actually reached a conclusion could sometimes be worse than one that has not—when the former is concluded from silly premises though the problem itself is not of that sort, while the latter still needs premises that are reputable and true, and the deficiency does not lie in the argument itself but in what remains to be assumed. It is not fair to criticize arguments that reach a true conclusion through false premises; for a false conclusion must always be reached through a false premise, but a true conclusion can sometimes also be reached through false premises. This is clear from the Analytics. Whenever the argument stated is a demonstration of something, then if some other point has no bearing at all on the conclusion, there will be no syllogism from that point; but if there appears to be one, it will be a sophism, not a demonstration. A philosopheme is a demonstrative syllogism, an epicheireme is a dialectical syllogism, a sophism is a contentious syllogism, and an aporema is a dialectical syllogism concerning a contradiction. If something is proved from two premises that are both reputable but not equally so, nothing prevents the thing proved from being more reputable than either premise.
29| But if one premise is reputable and the other neither reputable nor disreputable, or if one is reputable and the other not reputable, then, if they are equally matched, the conclusion will likewise be equally matched; but if one is more so, the conclusion will follow the stronger one. There is also this further error concerning syllogisms: when one proves a point through more steps than necessary, though it was possible to prove it through fewer, using premises already present in the argument. For example, that one opinion is more truly an opinion than another: suppose someone claims that the thing-itself-in-each-case exists most fully, and that it is truly an object of opinion, so that it is more fully an object of opinion than particular things; and that what corresponds to the more is itself more; and that there is also a true opinion-itself, which will be more exact than particular opinions; but it has already been claimed both that opinion-itself is true and that the thing-itself-in-each-case exists most fully; so that this opinion, being most true, is more exact. What, then, is the fault here? It is that it causes the actual reason the argument works to go unnoticed.
30| An argument is clear in one way, the most obvious way, if it is so concluded that nothing further need be asked; and in another way, the one most properly so called, when the premises taken are such that the conclusion necessarily follows from them, and they are drawn together through intermediate conclusions; further, an argument is unclear if it seriously falls short of reputable premises. An argument is called false in four ways. In one way, when it appears to reach a conclusion without actually doing so, which is called a contentious syllogism. In another way, when it does reach a conclusion, but not one bearing on the point at issue—which happens especially with arguments leading to an impossibility—or when it reaches a conclusion bearing on the point at issue, but not by the method proper to it. This last happens when someone who is not a doctor seems to argue as a doctor would, or someone who is not a geometer seems to argue as a geometer would, or someone who is not skilled in dialectic seems to argue as a dialectician would, whether the resulting conclusion is false or true. In yet another way, when the conclusion is reached through false premises. Of this kind, the conclusion will sometimes be false, sometimes true; for a false conclusion is always reached through false premises, but a true conclusion may come about even when not drawn from true premises, as has been said before. Now, an argument's being false is a fault of the speaker rather than of the argument, and not even always of the speaker, but only when it escapes his own notice; since, in its own right, we accept such an argument more readily than many true ones, if it does away with something true by proceeding from the most reputable premises possible.
31| For, being of this sort, it is a demonstration of other truths; for it must be that one of the premises laid down does not hold at all, and so there will be a demonstration of this. But if a true conclusion is reached through premises that are false and excessively silly, it would be worse than many arguments that conclude falsely; and such an argument might in fact also conclude falsely. So it is clear that the first thing to examine about an argument in its own right is whether it reaches a conclusion at all; the second, whether the conclusion is true or false; the third, from what sort of premises it proceeds. For if it comes from premises that are false but reputable, it is a dialectical argument; if from premises that are true but not reputable, it is a poor one. And if the premises are both false and utterly disreputable, it is clearly a poor argument, either without qualification or with respect to the matter at hand.
32| How the questioner begs the original point, and how he begs contraries, has been discussed with respect to truth in the Analytics; it must now be discussed with respect to reputation. People appear to beg the original point in five ways. Most obviously, and first, if someone posits the very thing that needs to be proved. This is not easy to do unnoticed when the very same thing is stated outright, but it is more likely with synonyms, and in cases where the name and the definition signify the same thing. Second, when, though it is a particular case that needs to be proved, someone posits the universal—for example, in attempting to show that there is one science of contraries, he claims outright that there is one science of opposites in general; for what needed to be proved on its own is thereby seen to be claimed together with a number of other things. Third, if, though the task set is to prove the universal, someone posits the particular case—for example, if, though the task is to prove it of all contraries, he claims it merely of certain particular ones; for this person too is seen to claim, on its own and separately, what needed to be proved together with a number of others. Again, if someone divides up the problem proposed and then claims it—for example, if, though it is necessary to show that medicine is concerned with both the healthy and the diseased, he claims each of these separately. Or if, of two things that necessarily follow from each other, someone claims one of them—for example, claiming that the side is incommensurable with the diagonal, when what needs to be proved is that the diagonal is incommensurable with the side.
33| Contraries are begged in an equal number of ways as the original point. First, if someone claims both an opposed affirmation and denial. Second, if he claims contraries according to their opposition—for example, that good and bad are the same. Third, if, having claimed the universal, someone then claims the contradictory of it in a particular case—for example, if, having taken it that there is one science of contraries, he then claims that there is a different science of the healthy and the diseased; or, having claimed this particular case, he tries to take the opposite of it as the universal. Again, if someone claims the contrary of what necessarily follows from the premises laid down, and likewise if, without taking the opposites themselves, he claims two such things from which the opposite contradiction will follow. Taking contraries differs from begging the original point in this: in the latter case, the fault lies with respect to the conclusion (for it is with an eye to the conclusion that we speak of begging the original point), whereas contraries lie in the premises, in virtue of how these stand in relation to one another.
34| For exercise and practice in arguments of this kind, the first thing to make a habit of is converting arguments. This will make us more resourceful with regard to what is said, and will let us come to know many arguments from a few. For converting an argument means taking the conclusion together with the remaining premises and doing away with one of the premises granted; for it is necessary, if the conclusion is not so, that one of the premises be done away with, given that when all were laid down the conclusion had to hold. And for every thesis one must examine the argument both for its being so and for its not being so, and one must examine the argument ... and when one has found it, one must at once seek the solution; for in this way we shall at the same time have become practiced both in questioning and in answering. And if we have no one else to argue with, we must do it with ourselves. And one should set arguments side by side, picking out arguments bearing on the opposition; for this creates great resourcefulness for forcing an opponent's hand, and is a great help toward refutation, whenever one is well supplied both for the position that it is so and that it is not so; for then the defense comes to be made against opposites. And for knowledge and for the practical wisdom that comes with philosophy, the ability to see together, and to have seen together, the consequences of each of the two hypotheses is no small instrument; for what remains is to choose the right one of the two correctly.
35| For this one must have a natural gift; and this is what natural aptitude with regard to truth is, the ability to choose well what is true and avoid what is false; which is what those who are well endowed by nature can do; for by loving and hating well what is presented to them, they judge well what is best. And one must know by heart the arguments that bear on the problems that come up most often, and above all those concerning the first theses; for it is with these that answerers most often lose heart. Further, one must be well supplied with definitions, and have those in current repute and the primary ones ready to hand; for it is through these that syllogisms come about. And one must try to get a grip on the topics into which other arguments most often fall. For just as in geometry it is useful to have been trained about the elements, and in arithmetic to have ready to hand the multiplication tables, which makes a great difference for also knowing the rest of number when it is multiplied out, likewise also in arguments it is useful to have the principles and the premises ready, to know them by heart; for just as in the art of memory the mere placing of the topics at once makes people remember the things themselves, so too this will make one more capable of syllogizing, because one looks to premises that are fixed and countable. And one should set down in memory a common premise rather than an argument;
36| for it is hard to be adequately supplied with a starting point and a hypothesis. Further, one must make a habit of turning one argument into many, disguising it as unrecognizably as possible. This would be achieved if one removed it as far as possible from its family relation to the subject the argument is about. Those arguments will be capable of undergoing this most of all which are most universal, for instance that there is not a single knowledge of several things; for this holds both in the case of relatives and in the case of contraries and of things in the same coordinate series. And one must also make one's records of arguments universal, even if the argument was discussed in a particular case; for in this way it will be possible to turn the one into many. Likewise also in rhetoric, in the case of enthymemes. And one should oneself, as far as possible, avoid carrying syllogisms toward the universal. And one must always examine whether arguments are discussing common matters; for all who discuss particulars are also discussing universals, since the demonstration of the universal is present in the particular, because it is not possible to draw a syllogism about anything without the universal. Exercise in inductive arguments should be assigned to the young, exercise in syllogistic ones to the experienced. And one must try to get premises from those trained in syllogistic argument, and comparisons from those trained in induction;
37| for it is in these that each of the two groups is practiced. And in general, from practicing in discussion one must try to carry away either a syllogism about something, or a solution, or a premise, or whether a given question was asked correctly or not, whether by oneself or by someone else, and in virtue of what each was so. For it is from these that capacity comes, and the practicing is for the sake of capacity, above all concerning premises and objections; for, to put it simply, the dialectician is the one skilled at putting forward premises and at raising objections. Now to put forward a premise is to make the many into one (for what the argument is directed at must be grasped as a whole), while to raise an objection is to make the one into many; for it either divides or does away with it, granting one part of what is put forward and not the other. One should not engage in discussion with everyone, nor practice with just anyone one meets. For with some people the arguments are bound to turn out worthless; for against someone who tries by every means to appear to escape, it is right to try by every means to draw the syllogism, but it is not a graceful thing to do. That is why one should not readily enter into argument with chance people; for base talk is bound to result; and indeed even those who are in training find it impossible to keep from arguing in a contentious way. And one must also have arguments already prepared for problems of the following sort, in which, by being well supplied with very few, we shall have arguments useful for very many.
38| These are the universal ones, and it is against these that it is harder to provide resources out of what lies ready to hand.
1| ON SOPHISTICAL REFUTATIONS. Let us now discuss sophistical refutations and refutations that are apparent but are in fact not refutations but fallacies, beginning, as is natural, from the first things. That some deductions are genuine while others seem to be but are not, is clear. For just as this happens elsewhere through some resemblance, so too it holds with arguments. In physical condition, some people really have it well, others merely appear to, by puffing themselves up and dressing themselves up in a showy way; and some are beautiful because of real beauty, others merely appear to be, by adorning themselves. It is the same with lifeless things too: of these, some are really silver and some really gold, while others are not but appear so to perception — for instance things made of litharge and tin appear silver, and things dipped in gall-nut appear gold. In the same way a deduction and a refutation are in one case genuine, in another not genuine but only apparent, on account of inexperience; for the inexperienced are like people viewing things from a distance. For a deduction proceeds from certain things laid down, such that it states something other than what was laid down, of necessity, through what was laid down; a refutation is a deduction accompanied by a contradiction of the conclusion. Some people do not achieve this but seem to, for many reasons, of which the most natural and most widespread source is the one that works through names.
2| Since it is not possible to bring the very things themselves into a discussion, but we use names as symbols in place of things, we suppose that what follows for the names also follows for the things, just as those who calculate suppose the same about their counters. But the case is not similar. For names, and the multitude of arguments, are finite, while things are infinite in number. It is therefore necessary that the same expression, and the single name, signify several things. Just as in the case of counters, then, those who are not skilled at handling them are tricked by the experts, in the same way, in arguments too, those inexperienced in the force of names are led into fallacy, both when arguing themselves and when listening to others. For this reason, then, and for the reasons to be stated, there both is a deduction and a refutation that is apparent but is not real. Since for some people it matters more to seem wise than to be wise without seeming so (for sophistry is apparent wisdom, not real wisdom, and the sophist is one who makes money from apparent, not real, wisdom), it is clear that for such people it is necessary to seem to perform the work of the wise man rather than to perform it and not seem to.
3| To put it, so to speak, as one thing set against one thing: it is the task of the man who knows, with respect to each subject, both not to be in error himself about the things he knows, and to be able to expose the one who is in error. Of these, the one consists in the ability to give an account, the other in the ability to take one. Those, then, who wish to practice sophistry must necessarily seek out this class of arguments just described; for it serves the purpose, since this capacity will produce the appearance of wisdom, which is the very thing such people happen to have chosen as their aim. That there is, then, some such class of arguments, and that those we call sophists aim at this capacity, is clear. Let us now say how many species there are of sophistical arguments, out of how many elements this capacity is composed, and how many parts the subject actually has, and about the other things that contribute to this art. Now of the arguments used in discussion there are four classes: didactic, dialectical, examination-arguments, and contentious. Didactic arguments are those that deduce from the principles proper to each subject and not from the opinions of the answerer (for the learner must trust the teacher); dialectical arguments are those that deduce a contradiction from reputable opinions; examination-arguments are those that deduce from what seems true to the answerer and what is necessarily known to one who claims to possess the knowledge in question (the manner of this has been distinguished elsewhere); contentious arguments are those that deduce, or appear to deduce, from what appear to be, but are not, reputable opinions. Demonstrative arguments have been discussed in the Analytics; dialectical and examination-arguments in other works. Let us now speak of the competitive and contentious kind.
4| First we must grasp how many things those who compete and quarrel in arguments aim at. These are five in number: refutation, falsehood, paradox, solecism, and fifth, making the person one is arguing against talk nonsense — that is, forcing him repeatedly to say the same thing over and over; or rather, making each of these appear to happen rather than actually happen. For their chief preference is to appear to refute; second, to show someone saying something false; third, to lead into paradox; fourth, to make him commit a solecism — that is, to make the answerer, through the argument, speak in a barbarous way in his diction; and last, to make him say the same thing repeatedly.
5| There are two ways of producing refutation: some depend on the diction, others lie outside the diction. Those depending on diction that produce the illusion are six in number: homonymy, amphiboly, combination, division, accent, and form of expression. Proof of this comes both through induction and through deduction, if one takes some other premise, and from the fact that the same names and expressions and from the fact that in just so many ways we could fail to signify the same thing by the same names and expressions. The following are examples of arguments that depend on homonymy: that those who know, learn — for grammarians learn the things that are dictated to them. For "to learn" is homonymous, meaning both "to come to understand by using knowledge" and "to acquire knowledge." And again, that bad things are good: for the things that are needful are good, and bad things are needful. For "needful" is twofold: what is necessary, which often applies even to bad things (for some evil is necessary), and we also say that good things are needful. Again, that the same person is both sitting and standing, and both sick and healthy. For whoever got up, stands; and whoever was getting well, is well; but it was the one sitting who got up, and the one sick who was getting well. For to say that the sick person does or undergoes anything whatever does not signify one thing, but sometimes means the one who is now sick or sitting, sometimes the one who was sick before.
6| Except that it was the one who was sick, even while still sick, who was getting well; but it is not the sick person who is now well, but the one who was sick before. Examples of arguments that depend on amphiboly are: "my wish is that I capture the enemy"; and "is what someone knows, known by him?" for by this expression it is possible to signify both the knower and the thing known, as being known. And, "does one see what one sees?" one sees the pillar, so the pillar sees. And, "is what you say to be, what you say?" you say a stone to be; therefore you say you are a stone. And, "is it possible to speak while silent?" for "to speak while silent" is twofold: it can mean that the speaker is silent, or that the things spoken of are silent. There are three ways in which arguments depend on homonymy and amphiboly: one, when either the expression or the name properly signifies several things, for instance "aetos" (eagle, or a kind of pediment) and "kyon" (dog, or the dog-star); another, when we are accustomed to speak that way; and a third, when the combined expression signifies several things, though each part taken separately signifies only one thing simply, for instance "he knows letters." For each of the two words, if it so happens, signifies some one thing, "knows" and "letters"; but the two together signify several things, either that the letters themselves have knowledge, or that someone else has knowledge of the letters.
7| Ambiguity and equivocation, then, occur in these ways. Fallacies from composition are of the following kind: for example, that a sitting person can walk, and that a person not writing can write. For these do not mean the same thing depending on whether one states them dividing the words or combining them: taken divided, it is possible for the sitting person to walk and for the person not writing to write; and if one likewise combines this, that the person not writing writes, it signifies that he has the capacity, while not writing, to write. But if one does not combine it, it signifies that he has, at a time when he is not writing, the capacity to write. And a person is now learning letters, if indeed he was learning what he now knows. Again: the person who has the capacity to carry only one thing at a time has the capacity to carry many things. Fallacies from division are of this kind: that five is two and three, and both odd and even, and that the greater is equal; for it is that much and something more besides. For the same expression, divided and combined, does not always seem to signify the same thing, as for example 'I made you, being a slave, free' and 'Fifty men, a hundred, noble Achilles left behind.' As for fallacies from accent, in spoken arguments without writing it is not easy to construct one, but it is easier in written texts and poems, as for instance some people emend the text of Homer against those who criticize him for having spoken absurdly
8| in the line 'Its part rots in the rain.' They resolve this by the accent, pronouncing the word for 'not' with an acute accent. And likewise, in the matter of Agamemnon's dream, they argue that it was not Zeus himself who said 'We grant him to win the glory he prays for,' but that Zeus was instructing the dream to grant it. Such cases, then, are fallacies from accent. Those from the form of the expression occur whenever what is not the same is expressed in the same way — for example, when the masculine is expressed as feminine, or the feminine as masculine, or something intermediate as one of the two; or again, when a quality is expressed as a quantity or a quantity as a quality, or what acts as what is acted on, or a state as an action, and the rest as distinguished earlier. For it is possible, by the form of expression, to signify as belonging to the class of actions what does not belong to that class. For example, 'to be healthy' is expressed, in the form of the expression, in a way similar to 'to cut' or 'to build'; and yet the one signifies a quality and a certain state, while the other signifies doing something. And the same way with the rest. The refutations that depend on language, then, arise from these topics. Of the fallacies outside language there are seven kinds: one from accident; a second from something being said without qualification, or not without qualification but in a certain respect, or place, or time, or in relation to something; a third from ignorance of what a refutation is; a fourth from the consequent; a fifth from assuming the original point; a sixth from setting down what is not the cause as the cause; and a seventh from making several questions into one.
9| Fallacies from accident, then, occur whenever anything whatever is claimed to belong alike to the thing itself and to what is accidental to it. For since many things are accidental to one and the same thing, it is not necessary that all these belong to everything that is predicated of it, and to that of which it is predicated. For example: if Coriscus is other than man, he is other than himself, since he is a man. Or: if he is other than Socrates, and Socrates is a man, they claim he has admitted that he is other than man — because it is accidental to the one he said Coriscus was other than, that this one happens to be a man.
10| Fallacies from something being said without qualification, or in a certain respect and not in the strict sense, occur when what is said in a particular respect is taken as said without qualification. For example: if what is not is an object of opinion, they conclude that what is not, is; yet being something and being unqualifiedly are two different things. Or again: that what is, is not, if some one of the things that are, is not — for example, if it is not a man. Not being something and not being at all are likewise distinct, though the wording makes them seem alike, since being something is barely different from being, and not being something barely different from not being. And likewise for the fallacy from something being said in a certain respect and without qualification. For example: if the Indian, being wholly black, is white as to his teeth, he is therefore both white and not white. Or: if both belong in a certain respect, they conclude that the opposites belong at the same time without qualification. In some cases this is easy for anyone to see through — for example, if someone, having granted that the Ethiopian is black, should then ask whether he is white; and then, if he is white in this respect, concludes that he is black and not black, and thinks he has argued syllogistically by completing the question. But in other cases it often goes unnoticed — in all the cases where, when something is said in a certain respect, the unqualified statement also seems to follow, and where it is not easy to see which of the two ought properly to be assigned. This happens in cases where the opposites belong alike; for it seems that one must grant that either both, or neither, are to be predicated without qualification — for example, if half is white and half is black, is it white or black?
11| Fallacies from not having defined what a syllogism is or what a refutation is arise from a deficiency in the account. For a refutation is a contradiction of one and the same thing — not of a name but of a fact, and of a name that is not merely synonymous but the very same name — following of necessity from what has been granted, without the original point being counted among the premises, in the same respect, in relation to the same thing, in the same way, and at the same time. And falsifying an opinion about something works in the same manner. Some people, then, by leaving out one of these conditions, appear to refute — for example, arguing that the same thing is double and not double: for two is double of one, but not double of three. Or, that the same thing is double and not double of the same thing, but not in the same respect: for in length it is double, but in breadth it is not double. Or, that it is double of the same thing, in the same respect, and in the same way, but not at the same time; and this is precisely why it is only an apparent refutation. One might, however, drag this case in among the fallacies dependent on language as well. Fallacies from assuming the original point arise in as many ways as it is possible to beg the question, and they appear to refute because one is unable to see clearly what is the same and what is different.
12| The refutation from the consequent occurs because of supposing that a relation of following can be converted. For whenever, given this, that necessarily is, people also suppose that, given that, this necessarily is. This is also the source of the deceptions about opinion that arise from perception. For people have often taken bile to be honey, because a yellow color follows upon honey; and since it happens that when it has rained the earth becomes soaked, if it is soaked we suppose that it has rained. But this is not necessary. And in rhetoric, demonstrations from a sign are drawn from the consequent. For wanting to show that someone is an adulterer, they seize on the consequent — that he grooms himself elaborately, or that he is seen wandering about at night. But many people to whom these things belong do not have the thing predicated of them actually belong to them. And likewise in syllogistic arguments — for example, the argument of Melissus that the universe is infinite, which takes it that the universe is ungenerated (for nothing could come to be out of what is not), and that whatever has come to be has come to be from a starting point. If, then, it has not come to be, the universe has no starting point, and so it is infinite. But this does not necessarily follow; for it is not the case that, if everything that has come to be has a starting point, then also whatever has a starting point has come to be — just as it is not the case that, if the feverish person is hot, the hot person must be feverish.
13| The fallacy of treating what is not the cause as the cause occurs when the non-cause is added in as though the refutation came about because of it. This happens in arguments that reduce to an impossibility, since in these it is necessary to do away with one of the things laid down. If, then, the non-cause is counted among the questions necessary for producing the impossible conclusion, it will often seem that the refutation comes about because of it — for example, the argument that soul and life are not the same thing: for if coming-to-be is contrary to perishing, then some particular coming-to-be will be contrary to some particular perishing; but death is a kind of perishing and is contrary to life; therefore life is a coming-to-be, and living is coming-to-be; but this is impossible; therefore soul and life are not the same. Now this has not in fact been proved by syllogism: for the impossibility follows even if one does not say life is the same as soul, but only that life, being contrary to death, which is a perishing, is contrary, and perishing is contrary to coming-to-be. Such arguments, then, are not without a syllogism absolutely, but they are without a syllogism relative to the point at issue. And this often escapes the notice of the questioners themselves no less than of others.
14| Such, then, are the arguments that depend on the consequent and on treating a non-cause as a cause. Those that depend on making two questions into one occur when it goes unnoticed that there are several questions and a single answer is given as though there were only one. In some cases it is easy to see that there are several and that an answer ought not to be given, for instance: is the earth sea, or is the sky? But in others it is less easy, and people either concede as though there were one question, by not answering what is asked, or appear to be refuted — for example: is this one and this one a man? So that if someone strikes this one and this one, he will have struck a man, not men. Or again: of things some of which are good and some not good, are all of them good, or not good? For whichever he says, he might seem to produce a refutation, or an apparent falsehood: for to say that something not good is good, or that something good is not good, is false. But sometimes, if certain further things are granted, even a genuine refutation would come about — for instance, if someone were to grant that 'white' and 'naked' and 'blind' are said in the same way of one thing and of many things. For if what is blind is what naturally has sight but does not have it, then things will be blind that do not have sight though naturally fitted to have it. So whenever one has it and another does not, both will be either seeing or blind — which is impossible.
15| Either, then, apparent syllogisms and refutations must be divided in this way, or else all of them must be traced back to ignorance of what refutation is, taking this as the starting point: for it is possible to resolve all the ways described into the definition of refutation. First, one should ask whether they lack a syllogism: for the conclusion must follow from the things laid down, so that it is stated of necessity and not merely appears to be. Next, one should also go by the parts of the definition. Of the fallacies that depend on language, some depend on the double meaning — such as ambiguity of a word, ambiguity of a phrase, and likeness of form (for it is customary for all things to signify a 'this something'), while composition, division, and accent differ in that the phrase or the name is not the same. But it was also necessary — just as the thing itself must be the same — that this too be the same, if there is to be a refutation or a syllogism; for example, if it is a cloak, one should conclude 'cloak,' not 'garment.' For that too is true, but it has not been proved by syllogism; a further question is still needed — namely, that it signifies the same thing — addressed to someone asking why.
16| Fallacies that depend on accident become clear once the syllogism has been defined. For the same definition must hold of refutation too, except that the contradiction must be added; for a refutation is a syllogism of a contradiction. If, then, there is no syllogism of the accidental attribute, no refutation occurs. For it is not the case that, if these things being so, this must be so, and this is white, it is therefore necessary that it be white because of the syllogism. Nor, if the triangle has angles equal to two right angles, and it is accidental to it to be a figure, or a first thing, or a principle, does it follow that it is because it is a figure or a principle or a first thing — for the demonstration holds not insofar as it is a figure nor insofar as it is a first thing, but insofar as it is a triangle. Similarly in the other cases too. So that if refutation is a kind of syllogism, refutation by accident could not be one. But it is because of this that even craftsmen, and in general those who possess knowledge, are refuted by those without knowledge: for the latter construct their syllogisms against the experts on the basis of accident, and the experts, being unable to make the distinction, either grant what is asked, or, without having granted it, suppose they have granted it. Fallacies that depend on the qualified and the unqualified occur because the affirmation and the negation are not of the same thing. For the denial of what is white in a certain respect is what is not white in that respect, whereas the denial of what is white without qualification is what is not white without qualification. So if, when someone has granted that a thing is white in a certain respect, one takes this as though it had been said without qualification, one does not produce a refutation, but it appears to, on account of ignorance of what refutation is.
17| Most evident of all are those previously described as depending on the definition of refutation, which is why they have been given that name: for the appearance of them arises from the deficiency of the argument, and, dividing them this way, one should set down the deficiency of the argument as common to all of them. And those that depend on begging the original point, and on positing the non-cause as cause, are also clear through the definition. For the conclusion must be true because these things are the causes of its coming about, which was not the case in the arguments involving a non-cause; and again, the point at issue must not be counted among the premises, which is not so with those that beg the original point.
18| Fallacies that depend on the consequent are a part of those that depend on accident: for what follows is an accident, but it differs from the accident in that the accident can be taken with respect to one thing only — for instance, that the tawny and honey are the same, and the white and a swan — whereas what follows is always taken with respect to several things; for we hold that things that are the same as one and the same thing are also the same as one another. This is why a refutation depending on the consequent comes about. But it is not always true — for instance, if a thing is white by accident: for snow and a swan are both the same as white. Or again, as in the argument of Melissus, it is taken that having come to be and having a beginning are the same, or that becoming equal and taking on the same magnitude are the same. For because what has come to be has a beginning, one also claims that what has a beginning has come to be, on the assumption that both — what has come to be and what is bounded — are the same in virtue of having a beginning. Likewise also in the case of things becoming equal: if things that take on the same and a single magnitude become equal, then things that become equal also take on a single magnitude. Thus the consequent is taken as though it were reversible. Since, then, refutation by accident lies in ignorance of what refutation is, it is clear that refutation by the consequent does too. This point should also be examined in another way.
19| Fallacies that depend on making several questions into one occur because we fail to articulate, or fail to divide, the account given in the premise. For a premise is one thing said of one thing. For the same term applies to one thing only and to that thing taken simply — for instance, to man, and to one man only; and likewise in the other cases. If, then, a premise is one thing that claims one thing of one thing, then a question of this kind will also be a premise without qualification. And since a syllogism is composed of premises, and a refutation is a syllogism, a refutation too will be composed of premises. If, then, a premise is one thing said of one thing, it is clear that this fallacy too lies in ignorance of what a refutation is: for what is not really a premise appears to be a premise. If, then, an answer has been given as though to a single question, there will be a refutation; but if it has not really been given, though it appears to have been, there will be an apparent refutation. So all the topics fall under ignorance of what refutation is — those depending on language, because there is an apparent contradiction, which was the distinctive mark of refutation, and the others, because they depart from the definition of syllogism.
20| The deception in the fallacies arising from ambiguity of name and of phrase comes from being unable to distinguish what is said in several ways (some things are not easy to divide, for instance the one, being, and the same); in those arising from composition and division, it comes from thinking that the phrase, whether composed or divided, makes no difference — as happens in most cases. Similarly with those arising from accent: for the sentence, whether relaxed or intensified, does not seem to signify anything different — in no case, or in not many. Those arising from figure of speech depend on the similarity of the expression. For it is hard to distinguish which things are said in the same way and which in a different way; indeed, whoever is able to do this is close to contemplating the truth, and above all knows how to give assent correctly, because we suppose that everything predicated of something is a "this" and understand it as one; for being a "this" and being seem most of all to accompany unity and substance. Hence this mode too must be classed among those arising from language — first, because deception occurs more when we examine together with others than by ourselves (for examination with another proceeds through words, but examination by oneself proceeds no less through the thing itself), and then because deception happens even when alone, whenever one conducts the examination upon the phrase;
21| further, the deception comes from the resemblance, and the resemblance comes from the language. Those arising from accident occur through inability to distinguish the same and the different, and one and many, and to distinguish which of the predicates all belong to equally with the thing itself. Similarly too with those arising from the consequent; for the consequent is a part of the accident. Further, in many cases it also appears, and is claimed, to hold that if this is not separated from that, then that is not separated from this either. Those arising from deficiency of statement, and those arising from the qualified taken as unqualified — the deception in general lies in the small omission; for we concede the universal as though the "something," or "in a certain respect," or "in a certain way," or "now," added nothing extra to the meaning. Similarly too with those who assume the point at issue, and those who give a non-cause as cause, and all who make several questions into one; for in all of these the deception is due to the small omission; for we do not scrutinize precisely the term of either the premise or the syllogism, for the reason stated.
22| Since we have the sources from which apparent syllogisms arise, we also have the sources from which sophistical syllogisms and refutations would arise. And I call a refutation and syllogism sophistical not only the one that appears to be a syllogism or refutation but is not, but also the one that is a genuine syllogism but only appears to be proper to the matter in question. These are the ones that do not refute in accordance with the matter and merely show people to be ignorant — which was the business of the art of testing. Now the art of testing is a part of dialectic; and this art can reason falsely because of the ignorance of the one who grants the argument. Sophistical refutations, even when they do reason to the contradiction, do not make it clear whether the person is ignorant; for they trip up even the one who knows, by means of these very arguments.
23| That we grasp them by the same method is clear: for the very things that make it appear to the hearers that a conclusion has been reasoned from what was asked would also seem so to the answerer, so that there will be false syllogisms through these — either all of them or some; for what a person thinks he has granted without being asked, he would also grant if asked. Except that in some cases it happens that, in asking the further question, one at the same time reveals both the deficiency and the falsity — as in the cases arising from language and from solecism. If, then, the paralogisms of the contradiction arise from what makes for an apparent refutation, it is clear that false syllogisms too would arise from just as many sources as the apparent refutation does. And the apparent refutation arises from the parts of the genuine one; for when each of these fails, a merely apparent refutation would appear — for instance, the one arising from what does not follow because of the argument, the one leading to the impossible, and the one that makes two questions into one, arising from the premise; and instead of what holds in a thing's own right, the one arising from accident, and a part of this, the one arising from the consequent; further, the fallacy of its happening not with respect to the thing but with respect to the argument; then, instead of the universal, taking the contradiction according to the same thing and in relation to the same thing and in the same way, arising from the qualified taken as unqualified, or from each of these individually; further, arising from assuming the point at issue when it is not being counted as part of the premises. So we would have the sources from which the paralogisms arise; for they could not arise from more sources than these, but all of them will arise from the ones stated.
24| The sophistical refutation is not a refutation without qualification, but a refutation relative to someone; and likewise the syllogism. For if the one arising from the ambiguous term does not take it as signifying one thing, and the one arising from similarity of figure does not take "only this," and the others likewise, they will be neither refutations nor syllogisms, either without qualification or relative to the person questioned; but if they do take it so, they will be refutations relative to the person questioned, but not without qualification; for they have not taken something that signifies one thing, but only something apparent, and that from this particular person.
25| One should not try to grasp the number of ways in which those who are refuted are refuted without having knowledge of all things that are. But this belongs to no single art; for the sciences are perhaps unlimited in number, so that clearly the demonstrations are too. But there are also true refutations; for whatever can be demonstrated can also be used to refute the person who posits the contradiction of the truth — for instance, if someone posited that the diagonal is commensurable, one could refute him by the demonstration that it is incommensurable. So on this reasoning one would need to have knowledge of everything; for some refutations will arise from the principles of geometry and their conclusions, others from those of medicine, others from those of the other sciences. But indeed the false refutations too are likewise unlimited in number; for in accordance with each art there is a false syllogism — for instance, in accordance with geometry the geometrical one, and in accordance with medicine the medical one. And by "in accordance with the art" I mean in accordance with that art's own principles. It is clear, then, that one need not grasp the topics of all refutations, but only those arising in connection with dialectic; for these are common to every art and capacity. And it belongs to the expert in each science to examine the refutation that arises in accordance with that science — whether it merely appears not to be a genuine refutation or actually is one, and if it is, why it is;
26| but the refutation that arises from what is common and falls under no art belongs to the dialectician. For if we have the sources of the reputable syllogisms about anything whatsoever, we have the sources of refutations too; for a refutation is a syllogism of the contradiction, so that either one or two syllogisms of the contradiction constitute a refutation. We have, then, the sources from which all such refutations come. And if we have this, we also have the solutions; for the objections to these are the solutions. And we have, from the sources from which they arise, the apparent ones too — apparent, however, not to just anyone, but to people of a certain sort; for it is indefinite if one examines the sources from which they appear convincing to random people. So it is clear that it belongs to the dialectician to be able to grasp the sources from which, by means of what is common, there arises either a genuine refutation or an apparent refutation, and either a dialectical or an apparent-dialectical or a testing argument.
27| There is no such distinction among arguments as some people state, namely that some arguments are directed against the name while others are directed against the thought. For it is absurd to suppose that there are arguments against the name and different ones, other than these same arguments, against the thought. For what is it not to be directed against the thought, except when someone does not use the name in the sense in which he thinks he is asking about what the person questioned granted? And this very thing is also being directed against the name. Being directed against the thought is when one uses it in the sense in which the person granted it, having thought it through. If, then, when a name signifies several things, both the questioner and the person questioned suppose it signifies one thing — as perhaps "being" or "the one" signifies many things, but both the answerer and the questioner, Zeno, supposing it to be one, asked his question, and the argument is that all things are one — this argument will have been conducted either against the name or against the thought of the person questioned, depending on how it has proceeded. But if someone supposes it signifies many things, clearly he is not arguing against the thought. For in the first place, "against the name" and "against the thought" hold only of arguments concerning things that signify several things; but then again "against the name" holds concerning anything whatsoever;
28| for being directed against the thought does not lie in the argument itself, but in how the person answering stands in relation to what has been granted. Next, it is possible for all arguments to be against the name. For here being against the name is the same as not being against the thought. For if not all are, there will be some arguments that are neither against the name nor against the thought; but they say all are, and they divide arguments into being either against the name or against the thought, all of them, no others. But in fact, among the syllogisms that turn on multiple meaning, some are the ones that turn on the name. For it has been stated absurdly to call all arguments that turn on expression "against the name"; still, there are some false reasonings that arise not because the answerer stands in some particular relation to them, but because the question itself, put in a certain way, contains a term that signifies several things. And in general it is absurd to discuss refutation without first discussing syllogism; for refutation is a syllogism, so one must discuss syllogism before discussing false refutation, since this kind of refutation is an apparent syllogism of a contradiction. Hence the cause will lie either in the syllogism or in the contradiction (for the contradiction must be added), and sometimes in both, if it is to be an apparent refutation. Now the fallacy of the silent one speaking lies in the contradiction, not in the syllogism; the fallacy of giving what one does not have lies in both; and the fallacy that Homer's poem is a figure by means of the circle lies in the syllogism. But a syllogism that is true in neither respect is a genuine syllogism.
29| But indeed, to return to the point from which the argument came: are the arguments used in the mathematical sciences directed against the thought or not? And if someone thinks "triangle" signifies many things, and granted it not as meaning this figure regarding which it was concluded that it has two right angles, has this person conducted the discussion against that person's thought or not? Further, if the name signifies many things, but the answerer does not have this in mind and does not suppose it, how has this person not conducted the discussion against the thought? Or how else must one ask a question, except by giving the distinction, if someone should ask whether it is possible for the silent one to speak or not, or whether it is possible in one sense and not in another? If, then, someone grants it in no sense at all, and the other then argues, has he not conducted the discussion against the thought? And yet the argument seems to belong among those that turn on the name. Therefore there is no genus of arguments that is "against the thought." Rather, some arguments are against the name; and not even all of these are such — not only are the refutations not all such, but not even all the apparent refutations are. For there are also apparent refutations that do not turn on expression, such as those that turn on accident, and others.
30| But if someone claims the right to make the distinction — saying, "by 'the silent one speaking' I mean it in this sense in one case, in that sense in another" — in the first place, this very claim is absurd (for sometimes the question does not seem to be ambiguous, and it is impossible to distinguish what one does not think is ambiguous); and next, what else will this be but teaching? For it will make plain how the matter stands to someone who has neither examined it, nor knows it, nor supposes that it is said in another sense. Since indeed, what prevents this same thing from happening even in cases that are not double in meaning? Are the units in four equal to the twos? And there are twos present in one way and in another way. And is there one science of contraries or not? Some contraries are knowable and others unknowable. So the person who makes this claim seems not to know that teaching is different from engaging in discussion, and that the teacher must not ask questions but must himself make things clear, while the discussant must ask questions.
31| Further, to claim the right to assert or deny is not the mark of one who is demonstrating, but of one who is making trial. For the art of testing is a kind of dialectic, and it examines not the person who knows but the person who is ignorant and pretends to know. Now the one who examines the common principles with a view to the subject matter is a dialectician, while the one who does this only in appearance is a sophist. And there is one kind of contentious and sophistical syllogism, which is an apparent syllogism concerning those matters about which dialectic is a means of testing, even if the conclusion is true; for it is deceptive as regards the reason why. And there are also false reasonings which, though not falling under the method proper to each subject, seem to be so according to the art. For false diagrams are not contentious (since the false reasonings occur within what falls under the art), nor is it contentious if there is some false diagram concerning something true, such as that of Hippocrates, or the squaring by means of the lunes. But as Bryson squared the circle — even if the circle is squared — still, because it is not done in accordance with the subject matter, it is for this reason sophistical. So both the apparent syllogism about these matters is a contentious argument, and the apparent syllogism concerning the subject matter, even if it is a genuine syllogism, is a contentious argument; for it is apparent with respect to the subject matter, so that it is deceptive and unjust. For just as wrongdoing in a contest has a certain form and is a kind of unjust fighting, so too in argumentative dispute the contentious is a kind of unjust fighting;
32| for there too, those who choose to win at all costs resort to everything, and here too do the contentious. Those, then, who are such for the sake of victory itself seem to be contentious people and lovers of strife, while those who are such for the sake of reputation leading to money-making are sophistical; for the sophistical art is, as we said, a kind of money-making from apparent wisdom, and this is why they aim at apparent demonstration. And the same arguments belong to both the lovers of strife and the sophists, but not for the sake of the same things. And the same argument will be both sophistical and contentious, but not in the same respect: insofar as it aims at apparent victory, it is contentious; insofar as it aims at apparent wisdom, it is sophistical. For the sophistical art is indeed a kind of apparent wisdom, but is not wisdom. The contentious person stands in somewhat the same relation to the dialectician as the false-diagram-maker stands to the geometer; for the false-diagram-maker deceives the geometer by means of the same principles as dialectic uses, and out of those same principles the contentious person misleads. But the false-diagram-maker is not contentious, because he draws his false diagram from the principles and conclusions that fall under the art; whereas the one who works under dialectic will clearly be contentious with regard to other matters. For instance, the squaring by means of the lunes is not contentious, but that of Bryson is contentious;
33| One sort cannot be transferred except to geometry alone, because it proceeds from principles peculiar to that science; the other can be transferred to many people—all those who do not know what is possible and what is impossible in each case, for it will fit them too. Or take the way Antiphon squared the circle. Or if someone refuses to admit that it is better to walk after dinner, on the strength of Zeno's argument—that is not a point of medicine, since it is common property. Now if the disputant stood toward the dialectician in exactly the way the man who draws false figures stands toward the geometer, he would not be disputatious about those other matters. But as things are, the dialectician is not concerned with some determinate genus, nor is he a demonstrator of anything, nor is he like the universal science. For not all things fall under one single genus, nor, even if they did, could the things that are fall under the same principles. So no craft that demonstrates some determinate nature proceeds by questioning: for it is not possible to grant whichever of the two parts one likes, since a syllogism does not come from both together. But dialectic does proceed by questioning. And if it demonstrated anything, even if not everything, then at least it would not put the first things and its own proper principles in question. For if people did not grant these, it would no longer have anything left from which to go on arguing against the objection.
34| The same holds for the art of testing. For the art of testing is not like geometry either, but is something one could possess even without knowing the subject. For it is possible even for someone who does not know the matter to take a test of someone else who does not know it, provided the person being tested grants his answers not from what he knows, nor from what is peculiar to the subject, but from what follows—such things as, if he knows them, nothing prevents him from not knowing the craft, while if he does not know them, he is bound to be ignorant of it. So it is clear that the art of testing is knowledge of nothing determinate. That is why it concerns everything: for all the crafts make use of certain common things as well. That is why everyone, even laymen, in some fashion make use of dialectic and the art of testing: for everyone, up to a point, tries to cross-examine those who profess a subject. Now these are the common things: for people know them no less well than the experts, even if they seem to be speaking quite outside the subject. So everyone practices refutation: for they share unartfully in that in which dialectic shares artfully, and the man who tests by the craft of the syllogism is a dialectician. Since there are many such common things, and they hold of everything, yet are not such as to constitute some single nature and genus, but are rather like negations, while other things are not of this sort but peculiar to a subject, it is possible, on the strength of these, to take a test about everything, and for there to be some craft of doing so—yet not a craft of the sort that demonstrates.
35| That is why the eristic disputant is not in every respect in the same position as the man who draws false figures: for he will not be a false reasoner working from some determinate genus of principles, but the eristic disputant will operate about every genus. These, then, are the ways of sophistical refutations. That it belongs to the dialectician to study these matters and to be able to produce them is not hard to see, for the method concerning premises covers this whole subject of study. We have now spoken about apparent refutations. As for showing something false and leading the argument into a paradoxical conclusion—this was the second aim of the sophistical purpose—this comes about above all through a kind of questioning, that is, through interrogation. For to question someone whose position is fixed with respect to nothing definite is a way of hunting for these results: for people who speak at random are more likely to go wrong, and they speak at random when they have nothing set before them. Asking many questions—even when what one is arguing about is determinate—and requiring the other person to say what seems to him to be so, provides a certain resourcefulness for leading him into a paradox or a falsehood: for whether the person questioned affirms or denies any of these points, one can lead him toward whatever gives one resources for an attack. It is possible now to do less mischief by these means than formerly, for people demand to know what this has to do with the original point. An element in hitting on some falsehood or paradox is not to ask any thesis straight out, but to claim that one is asking merely because one wants to learn: for inquiry of this kind creates room for an attack.
36| For showing something false, the special sophistical topic is leading the other person into just those things for which one has arguments ready to hand; and this can be done well or badly, as was said before. Again, for getting someone to say paradoxical things, one should consider from what genus the person one is arguing with comes, and then ask him the sort of question that people of that kind regard as paradoxical: for each group has something of this sort. An element of this technique is to have grasped, in the premises, the positions characteristic of each group. The proper solution for these cases too is to point out that the paradoxical result does not come about because of the argument—and that is always what the contestant is aiming to show. Further, one can work from people's wishes and from their openly held opinions. For people do not wish for the same things they say: they state the most respectable-sounding accounts, but they wish for what appears to be advantageous—for instance, they say one ought to die nobly rather than live pleasantly, and be poor justly rather than rich shamefully, but they wish for the opposite. So the man who speaks according to his wishes should be led toward his openly held opinions, and the man who speaks according to those should be led toward his hidden ones: for either way he is bound to say paradoxical things, since he will be saying things contrary either to his openly held opinions or to his hidden ones.
37| The greatest topic for producing paradoxical statements—as Callicles too is portrayed as saying in the Gorgias, and as all the ancients supposed to hold—turns on nature and law: for they held that nature and law are opposed, and that justice is fine according to law but not fine according to nature. So one ought, against the man who speaks in terms of nature, to meet him in terms of law, and against the man who speaks in terms of law, to lead him toward nature: for either way one gets him to say paradoxical things. For them, what accorded with nature was the truth, while what accorded with law was what seems so to the many. So it is clear that those thinkers too, just like people today, tried to make the answerer either be refuted or say paradoxical things. Some questions have the property that either answer is bound to seem unacceptable, for instance whether one ought to obey the wise or one's father, and whether to do what is advantageous or what is just, and whether it is more choiceworthy to suffer wrong or to do harm. One ought to lead a person toward whatever is contrary both to the many and to the wise, according as he speaks like the experts in argument or like the many: if he speaks like the experts, lead him toward the views of the many; if like the many, toward the views of the experts. For some say that the happy man is necessarily just, while to the many it seems unacceptable that a king should not be happy. And bringing someone to unacceptable conclusions of this sort is the same thing as leading him into the opposition between nature and law: for law is the opinion of the many, while the wise speak according to nature and according to truth.
38| Paradoxical statements, then, must be sought out from these topics. As for producing tedious verbosity, we have already said what we mean by "being tediously verbose." All arguments of the following kind aim to produce this effect: if it makes no difference whether one states the name or the account that defines it, and double and double-of-half are the same thing, then, if double is of half, it will be double of half-of-half. And again, if "double" is replaced by "double of half," the phrase will be said three times over: "half of half of half, double." Or again: is appetite a striving for what is pleasant? That is exactly what striving for what is pleasant is; appetite, then, is a striving for what is pleasant, pleasant. Now all arguments of this sort occur among relative terms—namely, all those cases where not only the genera but the terms themselves are said relative to something, and are rendered relative to one and the same thing. For example, both striving is a striving for something and appetite is an appetite for something, and double is a double of something, and double is double of half. And in the case of things whose substance is not relative at all, but of which there are states or affections or something of the kind, this is made additionally clear in their account when they are predicated of these subjects. For example: the odd is a number having a middle term; and an odd number is a number; therefore an odd number is a number having a middle term, a number. And if snub-nosed is a concavity of the nose, and a nose is snub, then a nose is a concave nose, nose.
39| They appear to be doing something, sometimes, when they are not doing it, because they fail to go on and ask whether 'the double,' said just by itself, signifies something or nothing, and if it signifies something, whether the same thing or a different thing, but state the conclusion straightaway. But it appears (to signify the same), because the name is the same, so it appears also to signify the same thing. What sort of thing solecism is has been stated earlier. It is possible both to commit it and appear not to, and to commit it and not be thought to — as Protagoras used to argue, in the case of whether 'wrath' and 'helmet' are masculine. The one who says 'oulomenēn' (feminine) commits a solecism by his account, though it does not appear so to others; the one who says 'oulomenon' (the other form) appears to, but does not commit one. It is clear, then, that this could also be produced by skill. That is why many arguments, without actually reasoning to a solecism, appear to reason to one, as happens in refutations.
40| Nearly all apparent solecisms arise around the word 'this,' and whenever the case-form shows neither the masculine nor the feminine but the form in between. 'Houtos' ('this,' masculine) signifies the masculine, and 'hautē' ('this,' feminine) the feminine; 'touto' ('this,' neuter) is meant to signify the one in between, but often signifies each of the other two as well — for instance, 'What is this (touto)?' 'Calliope,' 'a piece of wood,' 'Koriskos.' Now for the masculine and the feminine all the case-forms differ, but for the one in between some do and some do not. So when 'touto' has repeatedly been granted, people reason as though 'touton' (the masculine accusative) had been stated; and likewise with one case-form substituted for another. The fallacy arises because 'touto' is common to several case-forms; for 'touto' signifies at one time 'houtos' and at another 'touton.' But it ought to signify each in its proper turn — with 'esti' (is) the form 'houtos,' and with 'einai' (to be) the form 'touton' — for instance, 'Koriskos is' and 'that it is Koriskos.' And the same holds for feminine names, and for things called 'implements' that nonetheless carry a feminine or a masculine designation. For only those nouns ending in -on carry the designation proper to an implement, such as 'wood' and 'rope'; those not so ending are masculine or feminine, and some of these we apply to implements — for instance 'wineskin' is masculine in name, while 'couch' is feminine. That is why in such cases too 'esti' and 'einai' will differ in the same way. And in a way solecism is similar to those refutations that arise from calling things alike that are not alike. For just as those fallacies occur with respect to things, these occur with respect to names; for 'man' is both a thing and a name, and so is 'white.'
41| It is clear, then, that one must try to reason to a solecism out of the case-forms just described. These, then, are the species of contentious arguments, and the parts of the species, and the methods that have been stated. And it makes no small difference if the questions are arranged in a certain order with a view to going unnoticed, as happens in dialectical arguments as well. So, following what has been said, these points must be discussed first. Now for refuting there is, first, length; for it is hard to take in many things at once. For length one must use the elements stated earlier. Second, speed; for those who lag behind see less far ahead. Further, anger and contentiousness; for when people are disturbed they are all less able to guard themselves. The elements that produce anger are making it obvious that one means to do the man wrong, and being utterly shameless. Further, putting the questions in alternation, whether one has several arguments bearing on the same point, or arguments both that it is so and that it is not so; for it then happens that one's guard must be kept up against several things at once, or against opposites at once. And in general everything said earlier about concealment is useful also for contentious arguments; for concealment is for the sake of going unnoticed, and going unnoticed is for the sake of deception.
42| Against those who shake their heads at whatever they suspect bears on the argument, one must question by way of the negation, as though wanting the opposite, or else frame the question neutrally; for since it is then unclear what one wants granted, they are less reluctant. And whenever someone has granted the particular cases one by one, one need not, in going on to the universal by induction, often ask for it, but should use it as though it had been granted; for sometimes people think they have granted it themselves too, and it appears so to the listeners as well, because of the mention of the induction, as though the particulars would not have been asked in vain. And in cases where the universal is not signified by a single name, one must make use of the resemblance to one's advantage; for the resemblance often goes unnoticed. And to get a premise granted, one should ask by setting it beside its opposite — for instance, if one needed to get it granted that one must obey one's father in everything, ask whether one must obey one's parents in everything or disobey in everything; and for 'often, many things,' whether one should concede many or few; for it would seem, if anything is necessary at all, more likely to be many — since when opposites are set close together, things appear both greater and great, and both worse and better, to people. And what very often produces, in the strongest degree, the appearance of having been refuted is the most sophistical trick of questioners: without having reasoned anything out, not to put the last point as a question but to state it as a conclusion, as though it had been reasoned out — 'so it is not this-and-that.'
43| It is also sophistical, when a paradoxical thesis has been laid down, to demand that the respondent answer with the ordinary, apparent view, when what is actually at issue from the start is the paradoxical opinion, and to frame the question of such matters thus: 'Does it seem so to you?' For necessarily, if the question is drawn from the premises out of which the deduction is built, the result is either a refutation or a paradox: if he grants it, a refutation follows; if he does not grant it but denies that it seems so to him, an implausibility follows; and if he does not grant it but agrees that it does seem so, something refutation-like follows.
44| Further, just as in rhetorical arguments, so too in refutative ones, one must look for the contradictions either against what the man has himself said, or against those whom he agrees speak or act rightly, further against those thought to be such, or against people like them, or against the majority, or against everyone. And just as respondents, when they are about to be refuted, often draw a distinction if it looks as though the refutation is going to succeed, so too when questioning one must sometimes use this same device against those who raise objections — that if the result follows in one way but not in another, it is because he took the term in this particular sense — as Cleophon does in the Mandrobulus. And one must also, when abandoning a line of argument, cut short the remaining attempts at proof; and the respondent, if he senses this coming, should raise his objection and give warning in advance. And sometimes one must attempt an argument against something other than what was actually said, taking that up instead, when one has nothing to argue against the thesis as laid down — which is what Lycophron did when asked to deliver a eulogy of the lyre. And against those who demand that an argument be brought to bear on a single point, since it seems one ought to give the reason, though once certain things have been said the universal outcome is more easily guarded against in refutations, one should state the contradiction — namely that what he affirmed he (elsewhere) denied, or what he denied he affirmed — rather than claim that the same knowledge is, or is not, of contraries. And one must not ask for the conclusion in the form of a premise; and some things must not even be asked at all, but simply used as though agreed.
45| The sources, then, from which the questions are drawn, and how one must question in contentious discussions, have been stated. About answering — how one must solve such arguments, and what one must solve, and for what use arguments of this kind are beneficial — must be discussed next. They are useful for philosophy on account of two things. First, because, arising for the most part around diction, they leave one better equipped to see in how many ways each thing is said, and which things hold alike and which differently, both in the case of things and in the case of names. Second, with a view to inquiries carried on by oneself; for a man easily paralogized by another, and who does not notice it, might often suffer the same thing at his own hands. And third, still remaining, with a view to reputation — namely, to appear to have been exercised in everything and to be inexperienced in nothing. For when people who take part in discussions find fault with arguments without being able to specify anything about what is wrong with them, this gives rise to the suspicion that they are thought to object not on account of the truth but on account of inexperience.
46| How one ought to answer, when responding to arguments of this kind, is clear, provided we have correctly stated earlier what fallacies are made of, and have adequately distinguished the advantages sought in questioning. But grasping an argument and seeing how to resolve its badness is not the same as being able to answer quickly when questioned. For we often fail to recognize what we know once it has been reformulated. Further, just as in other pursuits the being quicker or slower comes about more from practice, so it is too with arguments: so that if the point is clear to us but we are unpracticed, we often fall behind the opportunity. And something happens here, as it does with geometrical diagrams: there too, having sometimes analyzed a figure, we are unable to put it together again; so too in refutations, though we know the point on which the argument turns, we are at a loss to trace back and undo the argument.
47| First, then, just as we say one ought to reason sometimes from reputable premises rather than true ones when that is one's aim, so too one ought sometimes to resolve an argument in the way that is more reputable rather than strictly according to the truth. For in general one must fight against contentious arguers not as people who are refuting but as people who merely appear to refute; for we say they are not really reasoning, so the correction must be aimed at not appearing to be refuted. For if a refutation is a contradiction derived from certain premises without equivocation, there would be no need at all to draw distinctions against ambiguous and equivocal terms — for these do not produce a valid deduction. But the only reason for drawing the further distinction is that the conclusion appears refutation-like. So it is not being refuted but merely seeming to be that one must guard against, since asking ambiguous or equivocal questions, and all such tricks of deception, both obscure genuine refutation and make it unclear whether the person has been refuted or not. For since it is possible, once the conclusion has been drawn, to say that one is denying not what one actually asserted but something merely homonymous with it, even if it happens to point to exactly the same thing, it is unclear whether the person has been refuted; for it is unclear whether he is now speaking the truth. But if he had asked his question by first distinguishing the equivocal or ambiguous term, the refutation would not have been unclear. And what the contentious arguers now demand less, but formerly demanded more — that the person questioned answer either yes or no — would then have come about. As it is, because questioners do not put their questions well, the person answering is forced to add something further, correcting the badness of the premise, since if the questioner divides his premise adequately, the answerer is bound to say either yes or no.
48| But if someone supposes that a refutation by equivocation is a genuine refutation, in a certain way the person answering will not be able to escape being refuted; for in the case of visible things it is necessary that what he affirmed he must also deny, and what he denied he must also affirm. For the way some people try to correct this is of no use. They do not say Coriscus is both musical and unmusical, but rather this Coriscus is musical and this Coriscus is unmusical. For the claim that this Coriscus is unmusical or musical will amount to the same statement as Coriscus, which is at once to affirm and to deny the same thing. But perhaps it does not signify the same thing; for the name does not signify the same thing there either — so that there is some difference. But if to the one he assigns simply saying 'Coriscus' while to the other he adds 'a certain' or 'this', that is absurd; for it is no more true of the one than of the other — for whichever one he takes, it makes no difference. All the same, since it is unclear, when someone has not distinguished the ambiguity, whether he has been refuted or not, while it is granted in argument that one may draw such distinctions, it is plain that to give one's answer to the question without distinguishing, but simply, is simply a mistake — so that even if the person himself has not been refuted, still the argument is like one that has refuted him. It happens often, however, that people who see the ambiguity are reluctant to draw the distinction, because of how frequently such premises are put forward, so as not to seem to be objecting to everything; then, not expecting the argument to turn on this point, they are often met with a paradox. So since it is granted that one may draw the distinction, one must not hesitate to do so, just as was said before.
49| If someone does not treat two questions as one question, then the fallacy that arises through equivocation and ambiguity would not occur either — the result would be either a genuine refutation or none at all. For what difference is there between asking whether Callias and Themistocles are musical, and asking whether the same one name belonged to two different people? For if it signifies more than one thing, he has asked more than one question. If then it is not right to demand a single answer, simply given, to two questions, it is plain that it is proper to give a simple answer to none of the equivocal terms, not even if the thing is true of all of them, as some people claim. For this is no different from asking whether Coriscus and Callias are at home or not at home, whether both are present or neither is present; for in both cases the premises are more than one — the fact that it is true to say so does not make the question one. For it is possible for countless other questions too, asked one after another, all to be truly answerable by yes or no; but nevertheless one should not answer with a single answer, for that would abolish dialectical discussion. This is like assigning the same name to different things. If then one ought not to give a single answer to two questions, it is plain that in the case of equivocal terms too, one should not say simply yes or no. For the one who does so has not really answered but merely spoken. Still, in the course of discussion, people are somehow permitted to do this, because what is happening escapes notice.
50| As we said, then, since even some things that are not really refutations seem to be refutations, in the same way some things that are not really resolutions will seem to be resolutions; and these, we say, one should sometimes bring forward in preference to the true ones, in competitive arguments and in meeting the doubled question. One should answer, in the case of things that merely seem so, by saying 'let it be so' — for in this way a spurious refutation would least occur; but if one is forced to say something paradoxical, at that point above all one must add 'it seems so' — for in this way it will seem that neither a refutation nor a paradox has come about. Since it is clear how one begs the original question, and everyone thinks that, when the case is close, one must reject it and not concede certain things as though the questioner were begging the original point — one should say the same thing when someone demands something that necessarily follows from the position but is false or contrary to reputable opinion; for what follows of necessity is thought to belong to the same position. Further, when the universal is taken not by name but by way of an illustrative comparison, one must say that it is not taken as it was granted or as it was put forward — for it is often on this point that a refutation arises. And when shut out from these resources, one must proceed to say that the point has not been properly demonstrated, meeting the argument according to the distinction stated.
51| In the case of terms used in their proper, strict sense, one must answer either simply or by drawing a distinction. But as for the things we posit while also implying something further along with them — that is, whatever is asked not clearly but in truncated form — it is on this account that the refutation arises: for example, is whatever belongs to the Athenians the property of the Athenians? Yes. And similarly in the other cases. But surely a human being belongs among the animals? Yes. Then a human being is the property of the animals. For we say a human being belongs among the animals because he is an animal, and we say Lysander belongs among the Spartans because he is a Spartan. It is plain, then, that in cases where the premise put forward is unclear, one should not concede it simply. And when, of two things, if one holds it seems necessary that the other holds too, but not the reverse, then when questioned one should grant the lesser first; for it is harder to draw the conclusion from more premises. And if the opponent argues that a thing is contrary to one thing but not to another, then, if the argument is true, one should say it is contrary, but that no name has been assigned to the other thing.
52| Since some of the things the many say, they would call false if one refused to concede them, while others they would not — for example, matters over which opinion is divided (for whether the soul of animals is perishable or immortal has not been settled among the many) — in cases, then, where it is unclear in which of two ways the premise put forward is customarily meant, whether as maxims are meant (for people call maxims both true opinions and general assertions), or as the diagonal is said to be incommensurable, then further, wherever the truth is a matter of disputed opinion, one might most easily shift the terms without being noticed. For because it is unclear which way the truth actually lies, the speaker will not seem to be using sophistry, while because opinion is divided, he will not seem to be lying; but the shift of meaning will make the argument impossible to refute. Further, whatever questions one can anticipate in advance, one should raise objections to and give warning of beforehand; for in this way one would most effectively hinder the questioner.
53| Since the correct solution is the exposure of the false syllogism—showing at which of the questions the falsity arises—and since a false syllogism is spoken of in two ways (either it has actually reasoned to a false conclusion, or it is not really a syllogism though it seems to be one), the solution just described, and also the correction of the apparent syllogism by showing at which question it merely appears to be one, would both count as solutions. So it turns out that we solve arguments either by demolishing those that have genuinely reasoned to a conclusion, or by drawing distinctions in those that merely appear to reason. Again, since among arguments that have genuinely reasoned to a conclusion some have a true conclusion and some a false one, those that are false in respect of the conclusion admit of solution in two ways: either by demolishing one of the things asked, or by showing that the conclusion does not in fact stand as stated. But those that are false in respect of their premises can be solved only by demolishing one of the premises, since the conclusion is true. So those who wish to solve an argument must first examine whether it is a genuine syllogism or not a syllogism at all, and then whether the conclusion is true or false, so that we may solve it either by drawing a distinction or by demolition—and if by demolition, in one of the two ways stated earlier. It makes a great difference whether one solves an argument while it is being put to one in questions or afterward: to foresee it is difficult, but to see it at leisure is easier.
54| Now among refutations that turn on ambiguity or amphiboly, some have one of the questions signifying more than one thing, others have the conclusion said in several ways—for instance, in "speaking while silent" the conclusion is twofold, while in "knowing together with one who knows" it is one of the questions that is ambiguous. And the twofold sense is sometimes actually present, and sometimes not actually present but only appears to be, the apparent double sense being in one respect real and in another not.
55| Now wherever the multiple sense occurs at the end, in the conclusion, no refutation results unless the contradiction is added in beforehand—as in "the blind man sees"; for without a contradiction there was no refutation. But wherever it occurs in the questions, it is not necessary to deny the double sense in advance; for the argument is not aimed at this but proceeds by means of it. So at the outset, in the case of a double name and a double account, one must answer in this way: that it is so in one sense and not so in another—just as with "speaking while silent," that it is so in one sense and not in another. And "one must do the things that are needful" holds in some respects and not in others; for "the things that are needful" is said in many senses. But if this escapes notice at first, it must be corrected at the end by adding to the question: "Is it possible to speak while silent?" "No—but this man, while silent, can be spoken of." And likewise in cases where the multiplicity of sense lies in the premises. "So they do not know together that they know?" "Yes—but not those who know in this particular way"; saying that joint-knowing is impossible outright is a different claim from saying that it is impossible for people who know in this particular way. And in general one must insist, even where the argument has reasoned to a conclusion without qualification, that what the answerer denied is not the very thing he had affirmed, but only the word for it; and so there is no refutation.
56| It is also clear how one must solve refutations that turn on division and combination: for if the sentence, when divided and when combined, signifies something different, one must state whichever is the opposite of what is concluded. All arguments of this kind turn on combination or division. "Is it the case that the man by whom you saw this fellow being struck, this fellow was struck by him?" and "the man by whom he was struck, it was by him that you saw it?" This does draw something even from the ambiguous questions, but it turns on combination. For the fault that turns on division is not a double meaning; the sentence, when divided, does not become the same sentence—unless "a boundary" and "a definition," spoken with different accent, also signify something different when written the same way. But in writing the word is the same, when it is written from the same letters in the same way, and there too people already mark it specially, while the things spoken are not the same. So the fault that turns on division is not a double meaning. It is also clear that not all refutations turn on the double meaning, as some people claim.
57| So the answerer must draw the distinction: it is not the same thing to see with one's own eyes a man being struck, and to say that one sees with one's own eyes that he is struck. And there is also Euthydemus's argument: "Do you, being now in Sicily, know that there are triremes in the Piraeus?" And again: "Can a man who is a good shoemaker be bad?" But a man might be a good shoemaker and yet be a bad man; so there will be "a good shoemaker who is bad." "Are the subjects whose sciences are excellent, excellent subjects of study?" But the study of evil is excellent; therefore evil is an excellent subject of study. But evil is both "evil" and "a subject of study," so that evil is an evil subject of study. Yet there is an excellent science of evils. "Is it true to say now that you have come to be?" "Then you have come to be now." Or does the sentence signify something different when divided? For it is true to say now that you have come to be, but you did not come to be now. "Could you do these things too, in the way and to the extent that you have the power to do them?" "But you have, while not playing the lyre, the capacity for lyre-playing; so you could play the lyre while not playing it." Or rather: he does not have the capacity for playing the lyre while not playing it, but the capacity, for when he is not doing it, of doing it at another time. Some solve this argument differently as well. For they say that if he granted it in the sense of "as he is able to do it," it does not follow that a man not playing the lyre plays the lyre; for it was not granted without qualification that he would do it "in every way he is able to do it"—for "as he is able" is not the same as "in every way he is able." But it is clear that this is not a good solution; for the same solution applies to arguments that turn on the same point, and this one will not fit every case nor every way of putting the question, but bears on the questioner, not on the argument.
58| Arguments that turn on accent do not really occur, either in writing or in speech, except perhaps a few, such as this one: "Is that which you are un-lodging a house?" "Yes." "And is 'not lodging' the negation of 'lodging'?" "Yes." "But you affirmed that what you are un-lodging is a house; so the house is a negation." How this must be solved is clear: for the word pronounced with the acute accent does not signify the same as when pronounced with the grave.
59| It is also clear, for those refutations that turn on things not the same being spoken of in a like way, how one must meet them, now that we have the genera of the categories to hand. For one man, on being questioned, granted that something did not belong which signifies "what a thing is"; the other then showed that something belonging to the relative, or to quantity, did belong—things which, because of the wording, seem to signify "what a thing is"—as in the following argument. "Is it possible for the same thing, at the same time, to be doing and to have done a thing?" "No." "But surely it is possible for the same thing, in the same respect and at the same time, to be seeing and to have seen it." "Is any of the things one undergoes the same as doing something?" "No." "Well then, 'being cut,' 'being burned,' 'perceiving' are said in a like way, and all signify undergoing something; and again 'speaking,' 'running,' 'seeing' are said in a like way to one another; but surely seeing is a kind of perceiving, so that it is also undergoing something and doing something at the same time." Now if someone, having granted there that the same thing cannot at the same time be doing and have done a thing, then says that seeing and having seen can hold together, he has not yet been refuted—unless he also says that seeing is not doing something but undergoing something; for this further question is still needed. But the hearer supposes it has been granted, once he grants that "cutting" is doing something and "having cut" is having done something, and all the other things said in a like way; for the hearer himself adds the rest, on the assumption that it is said in a like way—but it is not said in a like way, though it appears to be, because of the wording. The very same thing happens as in cases of ambiguous names; for in the ambiguous cases, one unfamiliar with arguments thinks that the person has denied the very thing he affirmed, not merely the word for it—but this still needs a further question, whether he means the ambiguous term with a single thing in view; for only if he grants that will there be a refutation.
60| Similar to these are also arguments of the following kind: whether someone who later does not have what he had has thrown it away. For someone who has thrown away only one knucklebone will not have ten knucklebones. Or rather: what a person previously had and now does not have, that he has thrown away, but it is not necessary that he has thrown away as many as the number he now lacks. So having asked about what he has, the arguer draws his conclusion about how many; for the ten are a quantity. If, then, one had asked from the start whether, of whatever number a person previously had and now does not have, he has thrown away that many, no one would have granted it — only that many, or some of them. And also that a person might give what he does not have. For he does not have only one knucklebone. Or rather: he has not given what he did not have, but has given the one as he did not have it — that is, alone. For 'only' does not signify a this, nor a such, nor a so-much, but a relation — namely, that it is not together with another. So just as if one had asked whether a person would give what he does not have, and on his denying it had then asked whether someone not having something quickly would quickly give it, and on his assenting had inferred that a person would give what he does not have — it is clear that no valid inference has been drawn; for 'quickly' does not signify giving this, but giving in this manner —
61| just as a person might give in a manner in which he does not have something, for instance a man who has something pleasantly might give it painfully. Similar too are all arguments of the following kind: would a person strike with the hand he does not have? Or see with the eye he does not have? For he does not have only one. Now some solve this by saying that a man who has more than one eye, or anything else, also has only one — in the sense that he has one and no more of a further set. Others say that what he has, he has received; for the other party was giving only one pebble, and this man, they say, has only one pebble from him. Others do away with the question straightaway, on the ground that it is possible to have what one did not receive — for instance, to receive wine sweet and, once it has spoiled in the receiving, to have it sour. But, as was said before, all these people are answering not the argument but the man. For if this were a genuine solution, it would not be possible to solve it once the opposite had been granted, as in other cases; for instance, if a thing both is and is not — the solution, if one lets it be stated without qualification, is drawn out in the inference; but if no inference follows, there is no solution at all — whereas in the cases mentioned above, even granting everything, we say no syllogism results.
62| Further, the following also belong among these arguments. Did someone write what has been written? Now it has been written just now that you are sitting, which is a false statement; but it was true when it was being written; so it was being written both false and true at once. For to say that an account or an opinion is false or true signifies not a this but a such — for the same account applies to opinion as well. And again: is what the learner learns the very thing he learns? Now someone learns the slow quickly. So he has said, not what he learns, but the manner in which he learns it. And again: does a person tread what he walks? Now he walks the whole day. Or rather, he has said not what he walks but when he walks; nor, when someone is said to be drinking the cup, does he drink what he drinks, but that from which he drinks. And again: does a person know what he knows either by learning or by discovering? But of the things some he discovered, some he learned; neither applies to both together. Or rather: the one term applies to the whole taken as a unity, the other to all the parts. And so too the argument that there is a third man beside the man himself and the individual men. For 'man,' and every common term, signifies not a this, but a such, or a relation, or a how, or something of that sort. And likewise in the case of Coriscus and musical Coriscus — are they the same or different?
63| For the one signifies a this, the other a such, so that it cannot be set out as a single thing; and it is not the setting-out that produces the third man, but the conceding that it is a this precisely. For it will not be possible for that to be a this precisely which is what Callias is and what man is. Nor will it make any difference if someone says that what is set out is not a this precisely but a such precisely; for there will still be some one thing beside the many, for instance man. It is clear, then, that one must not grant that what is predicated in common of all of them is a this, but rather that it signifies either a such, or a relation, or a quantity, or something of that sort.
64| In general, in arguments that depend on the expression, the solution will always lie in the opposite of that on which the argument turns. For instance, if the argument turns on composition, the solution is division; if on division, composition. Again, if it turns on an acute accent, the grave accent is the solution; if on a grave accent, the acute. If it turns on ambiguity of a word, one can solve it by stating the opposite term — for instance, if it results in saying that something is ensouled, one denies this by asserting that it is, showing how it is ensouled; and if he said 'soulless' but the other inferred 'ensouled,' one should say how it is soulless. Likewise too with amphiboly. And if it turns on similarity of expression, the opposite will be the solution. Would a person give what he does not have? Rather, not what he does not have, but as he does not have it — for instance, only one knucklebone. Does a person, when he knows something, know it by learning or discovering it? But not the things he knows. And if a person treads what he walks — rather, not what, but when. Likewise too in the other cases.
65| Against those arguments that depend on accident, there is one and the same solution for them all. Since it is indeterminate when one ought to say something holds of the thing, given that it holds of the accident, and in some cases it seems and people say it must, in others they say it need not — one must say, having brought it round in the same way for all cases, that it is not necessary. But one must be ready to bring forward the particular example. All arguments of the following kind depend on accident. Do you know what I am about to ask you? Do you know the man approaching, or the man muffled up? Is the statue your work, or is the dog your father? Are few times few, few? For it is clear in all these cases that what is true of the accident need not also be true of the thing; for it is only for things that do not differ in substance and are one that everything seems to hold in common. But for the good, being good and being about to be asked a question are not the same, nor for the approaching or muffled-up man, being approaching and being Coriscus; so that it is not the case that, if I know Coriscus but do not know the approaching man, I both know and do not know the same man; nor, if this is mine and is a work, is it my work — rather it is a possession, or a thing, or something else. And in the same way too with the other cases.
66| Some solve this by destroying the question itself: they say it is possible to know and not know the same thing, but not in the same respect; so, not knowing the man approaching but knowing Coriscus, they say the same thing is both known and not known, but not in the same respect. And yet, first, as we have already said, the correction must be the same for arguments that turn on the same point; but this will not hold if one takes the same premise not with respect to knowing but with respect to being, or being in some way — for example, whether this man is a father, and is yours. For if in some cases this is true, and it is possible to know and not know the same thing, still here what has been said has nothing in common with that case. And nothing prevents the same argument from having several faults. But not every exposure of an error is a solution: for it is possible to show that someone has drawn a false conclusion, without showing the point on which he went wrong — for example, Zeno's argument, that motion is impossible. So too if someone tries to conclude that it is impossible, he is in error, even if he has argued the syllogism ten thousand times; for this is not a solution. For the solution was the exposure of a false syllogism — the point at which it is false; so if no conclusion has actually been drawn, or he is trying to draw a true or false conclusion without one, pointing that out is the solution. Perhaps in some cases nothing prevents this too from happening; but in these cases at least it would not seem to. For one knows that Coriscus is Coriscus, and that the man approaching is approaching. It does seem possible to know and not know the same thing — for example, to know that it is white, but not recognize that it is musical; for in this way one knows and does not know the same thing, but not in the same respect. But the man approaching, and Coriscus — both that he is approaching and that he is Coriscus — one knows.
67| Similarly those also err who solve the puzzle that every number is small, as we mentioned of those before: for if, passing over the fact that no conclusion has been drawn, they say the conclusion has truly been reached — that everything is both many and few — they are in error. Some also solve syllogisms by appeal to double meaning, for example, that this man is your father, or son, or slave. And yet it is clear that if the refutation appears to arise from a word being said in several ways, the name or the account must properly belong to more than one thing; but no one properly calls this man the child of that man merely because he is master of the child — rather the combination rests on accident. Is this yours? Yes. And this is a child. Then this is your child — no: because it happens to be both yours and a child, but not that it is your child.
68| And likewise the claim that something of the evils is good; for practical wisdom is knowledge of evils. But 'this belongs to these' is not said in several ways, but rather as a possession is said. If it were indeed said in several ways (for we also say man is of the animals, yet not at all as a possession), and if something is said in relation to evils as belonging to some class, then on that account it is 'of the evils' — but this thing itself is not thereby 'of the evils.' So the appearance rests on the qualified and the unqualified. And yet perhaps it is possible for something to be good of the evils in two ways — though not in this argument, but rather if some slave were good, good belonging to a bad man, in that sense more so. Perhaps not even that: being good and belonging to a given thing does not, by itself, make something good-of-that-thing at the same moment. Nor is saying that man is of the animals said in several ways; for it is not the case that whenever we signify something by leaving part out, that expression is thereby said in several ways — for indeed, by speaking half the line, we signify 'Give me the Iliad,' for instance by saying 'Sing, goddess, the wrath.' Those fallacies that turn on something being said properly as 'this,' or in a certain respect, or place, or manner, or in relation to something, and not without qualification, must be solved by examining the conclusion against the contradictory, to see whether it admits of being affected in one of these ways. For it is impossible for contraries and opposites, and affirmation and negation, to belong to the same thing without qualification; but nothing prevents each from belonging in a certain respect, or in relation to something, or in a certain manner — or the one without qualification, the other in a certain respect. So if this belongs without qualification and that in a certain respect, there is not yet a refutation. And this must be examined by looking at the conclusion against the contradictory.
69| All such arguments share this feature. Is it possible for what is not to be? But surely there is something that is not. Likewise, what is will also not be; for it will not be one of the things that are. Is it possible for the same man at the same time both to keep his oath and to break it? Is it possible for the same man at the same time both to obey and disobey the same thing? Or is 'being something' not the same as 'being' without qualification? And with regard to what is not: it does not follow, if something is something, that it also is without qualification; nor, if a man keeps his oath in this or that respect, is it necessary that he keeps it without qualification — the man who swore that he would break his oath keeps his oath only in this, that he breaks it, but he does not keep his oath without qualification; nor does the man who disobeys thereby obey — rather, he obeys in some respect. The argument is similar too concerning the same man both lying and speaking the truth at the same time; but because it is not easy to see how, in either direction, one should assign 'speaking the truth without qualification' or 'lying without qualification,' it appears difficult. But nothing prevents him from being false without qualification, yet true in a certain respect or of something — and from being true of some things while not being true without qualification. Similarly too in the case of relatives, and place, and time; for all such arguments turn on this point. Is health, or wealth, a good?
70| But to the fool, and to one who does not use it rightly, it is not good; so it is both good and not good. Is being healthy, or holding power in the city, a good? But there are times when it is not better; so the same thing is both good and not good for the same man. Or does nothing prevent a thing that is good without qualification from not being good for this man — or being good for this man, but not now, or not good here? Is what the practically wise man would not wish for bad? But he does not wish to throw away the good; so the good is bad. For it is not the same to say that the good is bad, and that throwing away the good is bad. Similarly too the argument about the thief. For it is not the case that, if the thief is bad, the taking is also bad; so he does not wish for the bad, but the good — for taking a good thing is good. And disease is bad, but getting rid of disease is not. Is the just more choiceworthy than the unjust, and acting justly than acting unjustly? But dying unjustly is more choiceworthy. Is it just for each man to have what is his own? But whatever someone judges according to his own opinion, even if false, is authoritative by law; so the same thing is both just and not just. And which ought one to judge right — the one who states the just things, or the one who states the unjust things?
71| But surely it is also just for the man who has been wronged to state adequately what he suffered — and these things were unjust. For it is not the case that, if suffering something unjustly is choiceworthy, the unjust is thereby more choiceworthy than the just; rather, without qualification the just is more choiceworthy, though nothing prevents this particular thing from being more choiceworthy unjustly or justly, depending on the case. And having what is one's own is just, and having what belongs to another is not just; yet nothing prevents this judgment from being just — for example, if it accords with the judge's own opinion — for it is not the case that, if this or that is just, it is also just without qualification. Likewise too, though the things said are unjust, nothing prevents calling the saying of them just; for it is not the case that, if it is just to say them, they must therefore be just — just as, if it is beneficial to say something, it is not thereby beneficial. Likewise too in the case of just things. So it is not the case that, if the things said are unjust, the one who says the unjust things wins; for he says what it is just to say, though the things themselves are, without qualification, also unjust to suffer.
72| For refutations that arise in violation of the definition of a refutation, as was sketched out earlier, one must respond by examining the conclusion in relation to the contradiction, to see whether it will be the same thing, in the same respect, in relation to the same thing, in the same way, and at the same time. But if this is put forward as a premise right at the start, one must not concede that it is impossible for the same thing to be both double and not double; rather, one must grant it — though not in the way in which being refuted was once agreed to hold. All these arguments turn on a defect of this kind. Does someone who knows of each thing that it is that thing thereby know the thing? And does someone who is ignorant likewise not know it? Now someone who knows Coriscus, in that he knows he is Coriscus, might not know that he is musical, so that he both knows and does not know the same thing. Is the four-cubit thing greater than the three-cubit thing? A thing three cubits long might become four cubits long; and what is greater is greater than what is smaller; therefore the thing is itself greater than itself, and smaller than itself. As for those refutations that turn on begging and assuming the very point at issue: if this is asked and it is obvious that this is what is being asked, it must not be granted, even if it is a reputable opinion, and the truth must be stated instead. But if it goes unnoticed, then, on account of the badness of arguments of this kind, the fault must be turned back onto the questioner, as one who has not properly argued; for a refutation must proceed without assuming the point at issue. Then one must say that it was granted not on the supposition that he would use it as he did, but on the supposition that he would draw the opposite conclusion from it — or else the case must be treated as one of the merely apparent refutations.
73| As for those who force an agreement through the fallacy of the consequent, this must be exposed on the argument itself. The following of consequents is twofold. Either it is as the universal follows the particular, as animal follows man; for it is claimed that if this goes with that, then that too goes with this. Or it is in accordance with opposites: for if this follows that, then the opposite follows the opposite. It is on account of this that Melissus's argument too proceeds: for if what has come to be has a beginning, he claims that what has not come to be has none, so that if the heaven is ungenerated, it is also unlimited. But this is not so; for the consequence runs the other way round. As for those who draw their conclusion by adding something, one must examine whether, when it is removed, the impossibility results none the less. And then this must be pointed out, and it must be said that he granted it not because it seemed true but for the sake of the argument, while the other has made no use of it for the argument.
74| Against those who make several questions into one, the distinction must be drawn right at the start. For a question is single when there is a single answer to it, so that one must neither say several things of one subject nor one thing of several subjects, but must affirm or deny one thing of one thing. Just as, in the case of equivocal terms, a predicate sometimes belongs to both senses and sometimes to neither, so that when the question is not simple, no harm comes to those who answer it simply, the same holds in these cases too. So then, when several things belong to the one thing, or the one thing belongs to several, no contrary result comes about for the person who has answered simply and so made this kind of mistake. But when it belongs to the one and not the other, or several things are predicated of several subjects, and in one way both belong to both while in another way again they do not, then one must be on guard against this. As, for example, in the following arguments. If one thing is good and the other bad, the sophist argues that it is true to say that these, taken together, are good and bad, and again neither good nor bad; for neither of them is the other, so that the same pair is both good and bad and neither good nor bad. And if each thing is the same as itself and different from something else, then, since they are not the same as other things but as themselves, and are different from themselves, it follows that the same things are, to themselves, both different and the same. Further, if the good becomes bad, and the bad is good, then two things would come to be out of one. And, being two and unequal, each of them is equal to itself, so that they are, to themselves, both equal and unequal.
75| Now these arguments fall under other solutions as well; for both 'both' and 'all' signify more than one thing, so that it is not the same thing, except in name, that turns out to be both affirmed and denied — and this was not a refutation. But it is clear that, when the question is not a single one but several are being asked, and one thing is affirmed or denied of one thing, the impossibility will not result.
76| Concerning those arguments that lead one to say the same thing many times over, it is clear that one must not concede, in the case of relative terms, that the predicates signify anything when separated and taken by themselves — for instance, that 'double' signifies something apart from 'double of half' — on the ground that the half is already implied within it. For indeed 'ten' is implied in 'ten short of one', and 'doing' is implied in 'not doing', and in general the affirmation is implied in the negation; but all the same, if someone says that this thing is not white, he is not thereby saying that it is white. But perhaps 'double' by itself signifies nothing at all, any more than the term embedded within 'half' does; and if after all it does signify something, it is not the same thing as what it signifies when combined with its correlate. Nor is 'knowledge' already contained in the species — for example, it does not follow that if medicine is knowledge, it is knowledge in the sense of the general term; for that, the general term, was knowledge of a knowable object. In the case of predicated terms that are made clear by means of other terms, this must be said: that what is indicated is not the same taken separately as it is within the full account. For 'concave' signifies the same thing in general in the case of 'snub' and of 'bandy-legged', but there is nothing to prevent it, once something is added, from differing; rather, one applies to the nose and the other to the leg, for in the one place it signifies 'snub', in the other 'bowed'; and it makes no difference to say 'snub nose' or 'concave nose'. Further, one must not concede the expression taken straightforwardly; for it is false. For 'snub' is not 'a concave nose', but a certain something belonging to a nose, an affection of it, so to speak, so that there is nothing absurd in the fact that the snub nose is a nose having concavity of nose.
77| Concerning solecisms, we have already said earlier what it is on account of which they appear to occur; how they are to be resolved will become clear from the arguments themselves. For all arguments of this sort aim to establish the following. Is what you truly say also truly the case? Now you say that something is 'a stone'; therefore something is 'a stone'. Or rather, to say 'a stone' is not to say 'what' (neuter) but 'whom' (masculine), nor 'this' (neuter) but 'this' (masculine). If, then, someone were to ask, 'Is he whom you truly speak of, this one (masculine)?' he would not seem to be speaking correct Greek — any more than if he asked, 'Is she whom you say to be, this one (masculine)?' But it makes no difference if he had said 'wood' (neuter), or named anything else that signifies neither feminine nor masculine. That is why no solecism results when one asks: 'Is what (neuter) you say to be, this (neuter)?' — 'You say wood to be the case'; 'therefore it is wood.' But 'stone' and 'this' both take the masculine form. So if someone were to ask, 'Is this (masculine) that (feminine)?' and then again, 'Well then — is this (masculine) not Coriscus?' and then said, 'therefore this (masculine) is that (feminine)', he has not validly inferred the solecism — not even if 'Coriscus' signifies the very thing that 'that' (feminine) does, since the answerer does not grant this in his reply, but it must further be put to him as a question. And if it neither is so nor is granted, he has drawn no valid inference either in reality or in relation to what was asked.
78| Likewise, then, there too 'stone' must signify 'this' (masculine). And if it neither is so nor is granted, the conclusion must not be stated; the appearance of validity arises because a dissimilar case-form of the noun looks like a similar one. Is it true to say that this (feminine) is what you say it to be? Now you say it to be 'a shield'; therefore this (feminine) is a shield. Or rather, it is not necessary — since 'this' (nominative) does not signify 'shield' (accusative) but 'shield' (nominative), while 'shield' (accusative) signifies 'this' (accusative). Nor does it follow, if what (neuter) you say to be this (accusative, masculine) is this (nominative, masculine), and you say it to be Cleon (accusative), that therefore this (nominative) is Cleon (accusative). For 'this' (nominative) is not 'Cleon' (accusative); for what has been said is that what I say to be this (accusative) is this (nominative), not this (accusative); indeed the question, put in that way, would not even be correct Greek. 'Do you know this (accusative)?' — 'And this (nominative) is a stone (nominative)'; 'therefore you know a stone (nominative).' Or rather, 'this' does not signify the same thing in 'do you know this?' as in 'this is a stone' — in the first case it means 'this' (accusative), in the second, 'this' (nominative). 'Do you know that of which you have knowledge?' — 'And you have knowledge of a stone (genitive)'; 'therefore you know of a stone (genitive).' Or rather, one thing is meant by 'of this, of a stone' (genitive), another by 'this, a stone' (accusative); and what was granted was that you know — with the accusative — that of which you have knowledge (genitive), not 'of this', but 'this' — so that what you know is not 'of a stone' but 'the stone' (accusative).
79| It is clear, then, from what has been said, that arguments of this kind do not validly infer a solecism but only appear to, and why they appear to, and how one must respond to them.
80| We must also understand that, among all arguments, some are easier and some harder to see through -- that is, to see through what point and in what respect they mislead the hearer -- even though they are often the same arguments as one another. For we must call an argument the same when it arises from the same source. But the same argument may seem to some to be a fallacy of language, to others a fallacy of accident, and to others a fallacy of some other kind, because each term, when transferred to a new case, is not equally clear. So then, just as with fallacies of ambiguity -- which seem to be the silliest kind of fallacy -- some are obvious even to ordinary people (indeed nearly all jokes turn on language: for example, 'A man carried a chair down the stairs'; 'And where are you sailing to?' 'To the yard-arm'; 'And which of the two cows will calve first?' 'Neither -- both calve from behind'; 'And is the North Wind pure?' 'Not at all -- it has killed the beggar and the buyer'; 'Is that Euarchus?' 'No, it's Apollonides' -- and most of the rest work the same way), others evidently escape the notice even of the most experienced people. A sign of this is that they often dispute about names -- for instance, whether 'being' and 'one' signify the same thing in every case, or something different. For to some it seems that 'being' and 'the one' signify the same thing; while others solve the argument of Zeno and Parmenides by saying that 'the one' and 'being' are said in many ways. Likewise, concerning accident and each of the other kinds, some arguments will be easier to see through and others harder; and it is not equally easy in every case to grasp under which genus a fallacy falls, and whether it is a refutation or not.
81| An argument is sharp when it produces the greatest perplexity; for such an argument bites hardest. Perplexity is of two kinds: one occurs in arguments that have been validly syllogized -- the perplexity of which of the questions one should reject; the other occurs in contentious arguments -- how one is to answer what has been proposed. That is why, among syllogistic arguments, the sharper ones make one search harder. A syllogistic argument is sharpest when, from premises that are as reputable as possible, it destroys a conclusion that is as reputable as possible. For being a single argument, when the contradictory is substituted, it will have all its syllogisms alike; since it will always, from reputable premises, likewise either destroy or establish a reputable conclusion, which is why one is bound to be perplexed. The sharpest argument of this kind, then, is the one that makes its conclusion equal in reputability to its questions; second is the one proceeding from premises that are all alike in reputability, for this too will likewise produce perplexity as to which of the questions must be rejected. And this is difficult: for one of them must be rejected, but which one must be rejected is unclear. Among contentious arguments, the sharpest is the one where it is unclear right from the start whether it has been validly syllogized or not, and whether the solution lies in denying a falsehood or in drawing a distinction; second among the rest is the one that is clearly to be solved by distinction or denial, but where it is not evident by rejecting or distinguishing which of the questions asked it must be solved -- that is, whether the fault lies in the conclusion or in one of the premises.
82| Now sometimes an argument that has not been validly syllogized is simple-minded, if its premises are excessively implausible or false; but sometimes it does not deserve to be dismissed. For whenever one of the relevant questions is missing -- the one the argument concerns and proceeds through -- and the arguer has not added this and has not validly syllogized, the syllogism is silly. But whenever what is missing is one of the external premises, the argument is by no means to be despised; rather the argument itself is sound, and it is the questioner who has not asked his questions well. And just as one can solve an argument sometimes with reference to the argument itself, sometimes with reference to the questioner and the question, and sometimes with reference to neither of these, so likewise one can also question and construct syllogisms with reference to the thesis, with reference to the answerer, and with reference to the time -- whenever the solution requires more time than the present occasion allows for arguing one's way through to it. From how many sources, then, and of what kinds, fallacies arise for people engaged in discussion, and how we shall show someone to be speaking falsely and make him say paradoxical things; further, from what premises a syllogism results, and how one must put questions, and what the order of the questions should be; further, for what purpose all arguments of this kind are useful, and about answering -- every kind of answering in general -- and how arguments and syllogisms are to be solved: let this be all we have to say on these points. It remains, having reminded ourselves of our original purpose, to say something brief about it and to put an end to what has been said.
83| We set out, then, to discover a certain capacity for reasoning syllogistically about a given problem, from the premises available that are as reputable as possible; for this is the function of dialectic in its own right, and of the art of testing. But since, because of its kinship with sophistic, something further gets built onto this capacity -- namely, that it can not only test dialectically but can also speak as one who knows -- for this reason we set down as the task of this treatise not only the function just mentioned, being able to get hold of an argument, but also how, in submitting to be questioned, we shall defend our thesis in the same way, through premises as reputable as possible. We have already stated the reason for this: it was for this same reason that Socrates used to ask questions but not answer them, for he admitted that he did not know. It has been shown in what precedes both with a view to how many things, and from how many premises, this will be achieved, and where we shall find an ample supply of these; further, how the whole line of questioning must be put or arranged, and about answers and about solutions to syllogisms. It has also been shown concerning the other matters that belong to this same method of argument. In addition to this we have gone through the fallacies, as we have already said before. That the tasks we set out to do, then, have reached a sufficient conclusion is clear; but we must not fail to notice what has happened in the course of this undertaking.
84| Of all discoveries, those taken over from others and previously worked on in part have been advanced bit by bit by those who received them later; but discoveries made from the very beginning generally receive only a small advance at first, though one far more useful than the growth that comes from it later. For perhaps the beginning of anything is its greatest part, as the saying goes, and that is also why it is the hardest; for the more powerful it is in capacity, the smaller it is in size, and so the harder it is to see. But once this beginning has been found, it is easier to add to it and build up the rest -- which is exactly what has happened with rhetorical speeches, and indeed with practically all the other crafts as well. For those who found the starting points advanced them only a little way in all; but those held in high repute today, having received the subject from many predecessors who had advanced it bit by bit in succession, so to speak, have built it up in this way -- Tisias coming after the first pioneers, Thrasymachus after Tisias, Theodorus after him, and many people having contributed many parts. That is why it is no wonder that the craft has attained some considerable bulk. But of this undertaking of ours, it was not the case that part had been worked out before and part had not -- rather, nothing at all existed beforehand. Indeed, the training given by those who worked for hire in contentious arguments was something like the practice of Gorgias.
85| For some of them gave their pupils rhetorical speeches to memorize, others gave them speeches in question-and-answer form -- the very speeches into which each side thought the other's arguments would most often fall. That is why the teaching they gave their students was quick, but unsystematic; for they supposed they were educating them by handing over, not a craft, but the products of a craft -- just as if someone, claiming he would hand down a science for keeping the feet from ever suffering pain, were then not to teach the craft of shoemaking, nor the means by which one will be able to procure such things for oneself, but were instead to give many kinds of shoes of every sort; for such a person has helped meet the need, but has not handed down a craft. Now concerning rhetoric there already existed much that had been said, and of long standing; but concerning syllogistic reasoning we had nothing whatever to say beforehand -- instead we labored for a long time, searching by trial and error. So if, on examining it, our method appears to you to hold up well enough, starting from such beginnings, by comparison with the other studies that have grown through a long tradition, then it remains for all of you, or for those who have heard these lectures, to grant forgiveness for what has been left out of the method, and much gratitude for what has been discovered.
1| Physics, Book 1 Since knowing and understanding, in all branches of inquiry that have principles, causes, or elements, comes from grasping these (for we think we know each thing only when we have grasped its primary causes, its primary principles, and traced it down to its elements), clearly, in the science concerned with nature as well, we must try first to determine the questions concerning principles. The natural path is from what is more knowable and clearer to us toward what is clearer and more knowable by nature; for the things knowable to us and the things knowable without qualification are not the same. That is why we must proceed in this way: from what is less clear by nature but clearer to us, toward what is clearer and more knowable by nature. Now the things that are plain and clear to us at first are rather confused masses; it is only later, by analyzing these, that their elements and principles become known. That is why we must proceed from the universal to the particular; for the whole is more knowable to perception, and the universal is a kind of whole, since the universal embraces many things as parts. Names, too, stand to their definition in much the same way: a name signifies some whole, undifferentiated—'circle,' say—while its definition divides that whole into its particulars. And children, too, at first call all men 'father' and all women 'mother,' and only later distinguish each of them.
2| The principle must be either one or many. And if one, it must be either unmoved, as Parmenides and Melissus say, or in motion, as the natural philosophers hold—some declaring air to be the first principle, others water. If there are many, they are either limited or unlimited in number; and if limited but more than one, either two or three or four or some other number; and if unlimited, either in Democritus' way—one in genus but differing in shape—or differing in species, or even opposite in kind. In the same way, those who inquire how many the things that are amount to are asking the same question; for they inquire whether the primary constituents from which existing things are made are one or many, and if many, whether limited or unlimited—so that in effect they are asking whether the principle and the element are one or many.
3| Now, to inquire whether what is is one and unmoved is not to inquire about nature. For just as the geometer has no further argument against someone who does away with his principles—that belongs to a different science, or to one common to all sciences—so it is with the one who studies principles as such. For there is no longer a principle at all, if there is only one thing, and one in this way; for a principle is a principle of something, or of several things. So examining whether being is one in this way is much like arguing against any other position stated merely for argument's sake—Heraclitus' thesis, say, or the claim that being is one man—or like refuting an eristic argument, which is exactly what both Melissus' argument and Parmenides' amount to. For both take false premises and are invalid as syllogisms—Melissus' argument more so, being crude and posing no real difficulty: grant one absurdity and the rest follow, and that is no hard thing to do. Let it be assumed by us that the things that exist by nature are, either all or some of them, in motion; this is clear from induction. At the same time, it is not fitting to refute every argument, but only those that draw their false conclusion from the principles of the science in question, and not those that do not; for instance, it belongs to the geometer to refute the squaring of the circle by means of segments, but not to refute Antiphon's version. All the same, since although Parmenides and Melissus are not talking about nature, they do happen to raise difficulties that are natural ones, it is perhaps well to discuss them briefly; for the inquiry has a philosophical interest.
4| The most fitting starting point of all, since being is said in many ways, is to ask in what sense those who say that all things are one mean this: whether they mean that all things are substance, or quantities, or qualities; and again, whether they mean that all things are one substance—one man, say, or one horse, or one soul—or one quality, such as white or hot or some other thing of that kind. For all these positions differ greatly from one another, and are impossible to maintain. For if there is to be substance and quality and quantity all together, whether these are separate from one another or not, then the things that are are many. But if all things are quality or quantity, whether substance exists as well or not, that is absurd—if we should call the impossible absurd. For none of the other categories is separable apart from substance; all of them are said of substance as their subject. Now Melissus says that what is is unlimited. Being is therefore some quantity; for the unlimited belongs among quantities, whereas it is not possible for a substance, a quality, or an affection to be unlimited except accidentally—that is, if these should also happen to be quantities at the same time; for the account of the unlimited makes use of quantity, but not of substance or of quality. If, then, being is both substance and quantity, it is two things and not one; but if it is substance only, it is not unlimited, and will have no magnitude at all—for that would make it a quantity of some sort.
5| Further, since the one itself, like being, is said in many ways, we must examine in what sense they mean that the universe is one. A thing is called one either because it is continuous, or because it is indivisible, or because the things in question have one and the same account of their essence—as, for instance, 'liquor' and 'wine.' If, then, it is one in the sense of continuous, the one is many; for what is continuous is divisible without limit. (There is a puzzle here about the part and the whole—though perhaps it does not bear on the present argument but is worth raising in its own right—namely, whether the part and the whole are one or many, and in what way one or many, and if many, in what way many; and a puzzle too about parts that are not continuous; and whether each part is one with the whole as something indivisible, on the ground that each is one with itself.) But then again, if the one is one in the sense of indivisible, nothing will be a quantity or a quality, and being will be neither unlimited, as Melissus says, nor limited, as Parmenides says; for it is the limit that is indivisible, not the limited thing. But then again, if all existing things are one in account, as 'cloak' and 'coat' are, it turns out that they are saying Heraclitus' thesis. For then to be good and to be bad will be the same, and to be good and not to be good will be the same—so that the same thing will be good and not good, and man and horse; and the argument will no longer be about the things that are being one, but about their being nothing—and being of such-and-such a quality will be the same as being of such-and-such a quantity.
6| The later thinkers among the ancients, too, were troubled that the same thing should turn out for them to be at once one and many. That is why some, like Lycophron, did away with the word 'is,' while others reshaped their phrasing, saying not 'the man is white' but 'the man has been whitened,' and not 'is walking' but 'walks'—so that by attaching the word 'is' they might never make the one turn out to be many, on the assumption that the one, or being, is said in only one way. But things that are, are many, either in account (for being white is different from being musical, though the same subject is both—so the one is many) or by division, as the whole and its parts are many. At this point they were genuinely at a loss, and had to concede that the one is many—as though it were not possible for the same thing to be both one and many, so long as they are not opposites; for a thing is one both potentially and in realization.
7| To anyone who examines it in this way, it appears impossible for the things that are to be one, and it is not hard to refute the arguments by which they try to show it. For both reason eristically — both Melissus and Parmenides. That Melissus commits a fallacy is clear: he thinks he has established that if everything that has come to be has a starting point, then what has not come to be has none. Then this too is strange: that there should be a starting point for the thing in every case but not for time, and one not only for generation in the unqualified sense but for alteration as well — as though change did not happen all at once. Next, why should it be unmoved, if it is one? For just as a part of it that is one — this water here — moves within itself, why should not the whole do so too? Next, why should there not be alteration? But moreover it cannot be one in form either, except in the sense of that out of which it comes (and some of the natural philosophers do call it one in this sense, but not in that other sense); for man differs from horse in form, and contraries differ from one another. And the same kind of arguments apply against Parmenides too,
8| as well as any that are peculiar to him. And the resolution lies partly in the fact that his premise is false, partly in the fact that his conclusion does not follow: false, in that he takes 'being' to be said without qualification, when it is said in many ways; and invalid, because, even if only white things were taken, with 'white' signifying one thing, the white things would nonetheless be many and not one. For the white will not be one either by continuity or by definition. For the being of white will be different from the being of what has received it. And there will be nothing separate over and above the white; for it is not different in the sense of being separable, but in the sense that the white differs in being from that in which it is present. But this Parmenides did not yet see. We must therefore grasp that 'being' does not signify one thing only, of whatever it is predicated, but also signifies a being in the strict sense and a one in the strict sense. For an accident is said of some underlying subject, so that that of which being is an accident will not itself be — for it is other than being; there will therefore be something that is not-being. Being in the strict sense, then, will not exist as belonging to something else. For it will not be possible for it itself to be some being, unless 'being' signifies many things in such a way that each thing is something. But it is assumed that 'being' signifies one thing. If, then, being in the strict sense is an accident of nothing, but the other things are accidents of it, why should being in the strict sense signify being any more than not-being?
9| For if being in the strict sense is also to be white, while being-white is not being in the strict sense (for being cannot be an accident of it either — since nothing that is fails to be being in the strict sense), then the white will not be — not in the sense of being some particular not-being, but of being not-being altogether. Being in the strict sense, then, is not-being; for it is true to say that something is white, and this signified not-being. So white too signifies being in the strict sense; therefore 'being' signifies more than one thing. Being, then, will not have magnitude either, if being is being in the strict sense; for the being of each of its two parts will be different.
10| And that being in the strict sense divides into some other being in the strict sense is clear from its definition too: for example, if man is a being in the strict sense, then animal too must be a being in the strict sense, and two-footed as well. For if it is not a being in the strict sense, it will be accidental — either to man or to some other underlying subject. But that is impossible. For a thing is called accidental either as that which can both belong and not belong, or as that whose definition includes the definition of that to which it belongs (for instance, sitting is an accident in the sense of being separable, whereas in snub the definition of nose is present, in respect of which we say snubness is an accident). Further, whatever is present in the defining account of a thing, or whatever it is composed of, the definition of the whole is not present in the definition of these — for instance, the definition of man is not present in two-footed, nor the definition of white man in white. If, then, this is how things stand, and two-footed is an accident of man, it must be separable, so that it would be possible for man not to be two-footed; or else the definition of man will be present in the definition of two-footed. But that is impossible: for the one is present in the definition of the other. And if two-footed and animal are accidents of something else, and neither of them is a being in the strict sense, then man too would be one of the things that are accidents of something else.
11| But let being in the strict sense be an accident of nothing, and let both be said of that of which it is the subject, and let what is composed of these be said of it too — is the whole, then, made up of indivisibles? Some, indeed, gave way to both these arguments: to the first, that all things are one if 'being' signifies one thing, by conceding that what is not exists; and to the second, the argument from dichotomy, by making magnitudes indivisible. But it is clear also that it is not true that, if 'being' signifies one thing and the contradictory cannot hold at once, there will be nothing that is not-being; for nothing prevents 'what is not' from not existing without qualification, while still being a particular not-being. But indeed to assert that, if there is to be nothing else besides being itself, all things will be one, is absurd. For who understands 'being itself' as anything other than being some being in the strict sense? But if this is so, nothing nonetheless prevents the things that are from being many, as has been said. That it is impossible, then, for being to be one in this way, is clear.
12| As for what the natural philosophers say, there are two ways. Some make the underlying body one — either one of the three elements, or something else that is denser than fire but finer than air — (and these — density and rarity — are contraries, and, in general, excess and deficiency, as Plato speaks of the great and the small, except that he makes these the matter and the one the form, while they make the one the underlying matter, and the contraries differentiae and forms). Others hold that the contraries, being present within the one, are separated out of it, as Anaximander says, and so do all who say that there are both one and many, as Empedocles and Anaxagoras do; for these too separate out everything else from the mixture, but they differ from one another in that the one makes a cycle of this, while the other does it only once, and the one holds there are infinite things — both the homoiomeries and the contraries — while the other holds there are only the so-called elements. Anaxagoras seems to have come to think there are infinite things of this kind because he supposed the common opinion of the natural philosophers to be true — that nothing comes to be from what is not (for this is why they say, 'all things were together,' and coming to be of a given kind has been taken to be alteration, while others take it to be combination and separation);
13| further, from the fact that contraries come to be out of one another — they were present within all along. For if everything that comes to be must come to be either from things that are or from things that are not, and coming to be from things that are not is impossible among these (for on this opinion all who study nature agree), they thought that what remained followed of necessity: that things come to be from things that are and are already present within, but are imperceptible to us because of the smallness of their masses. This is why they say that everything is mixed in everything, because they saw everything coming to be out of everything; but things appear different from one another, and are called by different names, based on whichever ingredient, in the mixture of the infinitely many things, most predominates in quantity; for nothing is purely and entirely white, or black, or sweet, or flesh, or bone, but whatever each thing has the most of — this is thought to be the nature of the thing.
14| If, then, the infinite, qua infinite, is unknowable, then what is infinite in multitude or in magnitude is unknowable as to how much it is, and what is infinite in form is unknowable as to what sort it is. Now if the principles are infinite both in multitude and in form, it is impossible to know the things composed of them; for we suppose we know a composite thing in just this way, when we know from what elements, and how many, it is composed. Further, if it is necessary that, whenever a part can be of any size whatever, large or small, the whole to which it belongs can be so too (I mean one of those parts which, being present in the whole, the whole is divided into), then if it is impossible for an animal or a plant to be of just any size, large or small, it is clear that none of its parts can be either; for the whole will be affected in the same way. Flesh and bone and parts of that sort are parts of an animal, and fruits are parts of plants. It is clear, then, that it is impossible for flesh or bone or anything else to be of just any size whatever, either larger or smaller. Further, if all such things are present in one another, and do not come to be but are separated out while already present, and each is named after whichever ingredient predominates, and anything comes to be out of anything whatever (for example water separated out of flesh, and flesh out of water), while every finite body is eliminated by the subtraction of a finite body, it is clear that it is not possible for each thing to be present in each.
15| For when flesh has been taken away from water, and again more flesh comes to be from what remains by a further separating-out, then even if what is separated out is always smaller, it will nonetheless not go below some minimum magnitude. So that if the separating-out comes to a stop, not everything will be present in everything — for flesh will no longer be present in what remains of the water; but if it does not stop, and there is always a further subtraction to be made, then within a finite magnitude there will be equal finite magnitudes infinite in number; and this is impossible. Besides this, if every body must become smaller once something has been taken from it, and the quantity of flesh is bounded both in largeness and in smallness, then it is clear that no body at all can be separated out from the smallest flesh; for it would have to be smaller than the smallest. Further, among the infinite bodies there would already be present an infinite quantity of flesh, and of blood, and of brain — not separated from one another, yet none the less existing, and each one infinite; and this is absurd. The claim that they will never be separated is made without full understanding, yet it is made correctly; for affections are inseparable. If, then, colors and states have been mixed together, then were they to be separated out, there would be something white, and something healthy, that is nothing else besides that quality, and is not predicated of any underlying subject.
16| So the intellect is absurd in seeking impossibilities, if it wants to separate things out completely, when this is impossible to do both as to quantity and as to quality — as to quantity, because there is no smallest magnitude; as to quality, because affections are inseparable. Nor does he get the coming-to-be of things alike in form right either. For in one sense clay is divided into portions of clay, and in another sense it is not; and it is not in the same way that bricks come from a house and a house from bricks as it is that water and air both are and come to be from each other. It is better to posit fewer principles, and finite ones, as Empedocles does. All thinkers, then, make contraries their principles: both those who say that the universe is one and unmoved (for Parmenides too makes hot and cold his principles, though he calls them fire and earth), and those who posit the rare and the dense, and Democritus, who posits the full and the void, of which he says the one is what is and the other is what is not — further, by position, shape, and arrangement. And these are genera of contraries: of position, up and down, front and back; of shape, angular and unangular, straight and curved. It is clear, then, that everyone in some way makes contraries the principles. And this is reasonable; for the principles must be neither from one another nor from other things, while everything must come from them; and this holds of the primary contraries, because, being primary, they are not from other things, and because, being contraries, they are not from one another.
17| But we must also examine how this turns out in terms of argument. First we must grasp that, of all the things there are, none is by nature such as to act on, or be acted on by, just anything whatever, nor does anything whatever come to be from anything whatever, unless one takes the case accidentally. For how could white come to be from musical, except accidentally, if musical happened to belong to what is not white, or to what is black? No — white comes to be from not-white, and not from just any not-white thing, but from black or from the intermediates; and musical comes to be from not-musical, but again not from just anything, but from unmusical, or from whatever lies between them, if anything does. Nor, again, does a thing perish, in the first instance, into just anything: white does not perish into musical, except perhaps accidentally, but into not-white, and not into just anything, but into black or the intermediate; and likewise musical perishes into not-musical, and this too not into just anything, but into unmusical, or into whatever lies between them, if anything does. And this holds in the same way for the other cases too, since even things that are not simple but composite have the same account —
18| but because the opposed states have not been given names, this fact goes unnoticed. For everything attuned must necessarily come to be from something unattuned, and the unattuned from the attuned, and the attuned perishes into unattunement — and not into just any unattunement, but into the opposite one. And it makes no difference whether we speak of attunement, or of arrangement, or of composition; for clearly the account is the same. And indeed a house, and a statue, and anything else whatever, come to be in the same way: the house comes to be from materials that were not put together but lying apart in such-and-such a way, and the statue, and anything else shaped, comes to be from shapelessness; and each of these is, in one respect, an arrangement, and in another, a kind of composition. If, then, this is true, everything that comes to be would come to be, and everything that perishes would perish, either from contraries or into contraries, or from and into the intermediates between these. And the intermediates are composed of the contraries — for example, intermediate colors are composed of white and black — so that everything that comes to be by nature would be either a contrary or composed of contraries.
19| Up to this point, then, pretty much all the rest of the thinkers have followed the same line, as we said before; for all of them, in positing the elements and what they call the principles, even though they do so without giving any rational account, nonetheless speak of contraries, as though compelled by the truth itself. They differ from one another in that some take principles that are prior, others ones that are posterior; and some take what is more knowable in respect of the account, others what is more knowable in respect of perception (for some posit hot and cold, others wet and dry, still others odd and even, or strife and love, as the causes of coming-to-be; and these differ from one another in the way just stated), so that they say, in a way, both the same things and things different from one another — different, as most people think, but the same, or at least analogous; for they take their principles from the same column of opposites: some of the contraries include others, while some are included by others. In this respect, then, they speak both alike and differently, and both worse and better; and some take what is more knowable in respect of the account, as has been said before, others what is more knowable in respect of perception (for the universal is knowable in respect of the account, the particular in respect of perception; for the account concerns the universal, and perception the particular) — for example, large and small are known in respect of the account, but rare and dense in respect of perception. That the principles, then, must be contraries, is clear.
20| The next thing would be to say whether they are two, three, or more. They cannot be one, because the contraries are not one; nor can they be infinite, because then being would not be knowable, since there is one contrariety in any single genus, and substance is a single genus; and because it is possible to give an account from a finite number of principles, and it is better to do so from a finite number, as Empedocles does, than from an infinite number, as Anaxagoras does — for Empedocles thinks he accounts for everything that Anaxagoras accounts for from the infinite, and does so from a finite number. Further, some contraries are prior to others, and some come to be out of one another, such as sweet and bitter, white and black; but the principles must always remain. That they are, then, neither one nor infinite, is clear from this.
21| Since they are finite in number, there is some reason for not making them only two. For one might raise the difficulty how density is by nature able to do anything to rarity, or rarity to density; and similarly with any other contrariety whatever. For it is not love that draws strife together and makes something out of it, nor strife out of love, but both act on some third thing other than themselves. And some take even more principles than this from which they construct the nature of the things that are. Besides this, one might further raise this difficulty too, unless one posits some other nature underlying the contraries: for we see that the contraries are the substance of nothing among the things that are, yet a principle ought not to be predicated of any underlying subject; for otherwise there will be a principle of the principle, since the underlying subject is itself a principle, and seems to be prior to what is predicated of it. Further, we say that no substance is contrary to a substance; how then could substance come to be from things that are not substances? Or how could a non-substance be prior to a substance? Hence if one judges both the earlier argument and this one to be true, it is necessary, if one means to preserve them both, to posit some third thing, as those do who say that the universe is some single nature, such as water or fire or what is intermediate between these.
22| The intermediate seems the better choice; for fire, earth, air, and water are already bound up with contrarieties. Hence it is not unreasonable that some make the underlying subject something other than these, while others among the rest choose air; for air has the least perceptible differentiae of the others, and water comes next. But all of them, at any rate, give shape to this one thing by means of the contraries, by density and rarity and by the more and the less. And these are, in general, clearly excess and deficiency, as has been said before. And this opinion too, that the one, together with excess and deficiency, are principles of the things that are, seems to be an old one — except not in the same way: the ancients say the two act and the one is acted on, while some of the later thinkers say the contrary rather, that the one acts and the two are acted on.
23| So then, to those who examine the matter on the basis of these and similar considerations, saying that the elements are three would seem to have some reason, as we said, but saying they are more than three no longer seems so; for one thing is sufficient for being acted on, but if there are four, there will be two contrarieties, and each of the two will need, separately, some further intermediate nature belonging to it; and if, being two, they are able to generate things out of one another, then one of the two contrarieties would be superfluous. At the same time it is also impossible for the primary contrarieties to be more than one. For substance is a single genus of being, so that the principles will differ from one another only in being prior and posterior, not in genus; for in any one genus there is always one contrariety, and all contrarieties seem to be reducible to one. That the element, then, is neither one nor more than two or three, is clear; but which of these it is, as we said, presents much difficulty.
24| Let us, then, proceed as follows, first going over the subject of coming-to-be in general; for it is natural, having first stated what is common, to go on in this way to examine what is peculiar to each case. We say that one thing comes to be from another, and a different thing from a different thing, whether we are speaking of simple things or of composite things. I mean this as follows. It is possible for a musical man to come to be, and it is possible for the not-musical to become musical, or for the not-musical man to become a musical man. Now I call the man and the not-musical simple, as what comes to be, and the musical simple too, as what it comes to be; but I call both what comes to be and that which comes to be it composite, when we say that the not-musical man comes to be a musical man. Of these, in one case we say not only that this comes to be, but also that it comes to be out of this — for instance, that the musical comes to be out of the not-musical — but in the other case this is not said in every instance; for the musical did not come to be out of a man, but the man came to be musical. Of the things that come to be in the way we call simple, one persists in coming to be and the other does not persist; for the man persists, remaining a man while becoming musical, but the not-musical, that is, the unmusical, does not persist, either simply or in combination.
25| Now that these distinctions have been made, this can be grasped from all cases of coming-to-be
26| if one looks at it as we are describing: that what comes to be must always have something underlying it, and that this, even if it is one in number, is nonetheless not one in form — for by form I mean the same as by definition, and being a man and being unmusical are not the same thing. And the one persists, the other does not persist: what is not opposite persists (for the man persists), while the not-musical, that is, the unmusical, does not persist, nor does what is composed of both, such as the unmusical man. Saying that something comes to be out of something, rather than that this comes to be something, is said more properly of things that do not persist — for instance, that the musical comes to be out of the unmusical, but not out of the man; not but that it is sometimes said in the same way of things that persist too, for we say that a statue comes to be out of bronze, not that the bronze becomes a statue. In the case, however, of what comes from the opposite and does not persist, it is said both ways, both that this comes from this and that this becomes this; for indeed the musical comes to be both out of the unmusical and as the unmusical man becoming musical. Hence it is the same too in the case of the composite: for indeed we say both that the musical comes to be out of an unmusical man, and that the unmusical man becomes musical. Since coming-to-be is spoken of in many ways, and of some things we do not say without qualification that they come to be, but that they come to be a certain something, while it is only substances that are said to come to be without qualification, in the other categories it is clear that what comes to be must have something underlying it (for indeed a quantity, a quality, a relation, and a place come to be only when something underlies them, because it is substance alone that is not said of any other underlying subject, while everything else is said of a substance).
27| That substances too, and whatever else exists without qualification, come to be out of some underlying subject, would become clear to one who examines the matter. For there is always something underlying, out of which what comes to be comes to be, as plants and animals come to be out of seed. And things that come to be without qualification come to be, some by change of shape, such as a statue; some by addition, such as things that grow; some by subtraction, such as the Hermes carved out of the stone; some by combination, such as a house; and some by alteration, such as things that are transformed in respect of their matter. And it is clear that all things that come to be in these ways come to be out of things underlying them. So it is clear from what has been said that everything that comes to be is always composite, and that there is, on the one hand, something that comes to be, and, on the other, something which becomes this, and this latter is twofold: for it is either the underlying subject or the opposite. By opposite I mean the unmusical, and by underlying subject I mean the man; and shapelessness, formlessness, and disorder are the opposite, while the bronze, the stone, or the gold is the underlying subject. It is clear, then, that, if there are causes and principles of the
28| ...that exist by nature — from what primary things they are and have come to be, not accidentally, but each thing insofar as it is spoken of in respect of its substance — that everything comes to be from both the underlying subject and the form. For the musical man is composed, in a way, of man and musical: you can resolve him into the accounts of these. It is clear, then, that things that come to be would come to be from these. Now the underlying subject is one in number but two in form (for the man, and the gold, and matter in general, are countable — each is more properly a this-something, and what comes to be does not come from it accidentally; whereas privation and contrariety are accidental); and the form is one, for instance order, or musical skill, or whatever else of the things predicated in this way. Hence in one sense the principles must be said to be two, and in another sense three; and in one sense they are the contraries, as if one were to say the musical and the unmusical, or the hot and the cold, or the attuned and the unattuned, but in another sense they are not, since it is impossible for the contraries to be acted on by one another. This too is resolved by the fact that the underlying subject is something different: for that is not a contrary. So the principles are, in a way, not more than the contraries — two, so to speak, in number — yet they are not simply two either, because their being is not the same for the two of them, but three: for what it is to be man is different from what it is to be unmusical, and what it is to be shapeless is different from what it is to be bronze.
29| How many, then, the principles of natural things that come to be are, and in what way they are that many, has been stated; and it is clear that there must be something underlying the contraries, and that the contraries must be two. In another sense this is not necessary: for it will be enough for one of the two contraries to produce the change by its absence and presence. The underlying nature is knowable by analogy. For as bronze stands to a statue, or wood to a bed, or the shapeless to any other of the things that have form, before it takes on the form, so this underlying nature stands to substance, to the this-something, and to being. This, then, is one principle — not one, nor a being, in the way a this-something is, but one in the sense that its account is one — and there is, further, the contrary to this, namely privation. In what way these are two and in what way more has been said above. First it was said that the principles were only the contraries; later, that something else too must underlie them, and that they are three. From what has now been said it is clear what the difference between the contraries is, how the principles stand to one another, and what the underlying subject is. But whether it is the form or the underlying subject that is substance is not yet clear. What is clear is that the principles are three, in what way they are three, and what their manner of being is. Let this, then, serve as our study of how many the principles are and what they are.
30| Let us next say that it is only in this way that the difficulty of the ancients, too, is resolved. For the first of those who pursued philosophy in search of the truth and the nature of things that exist were turned aside, as it were onto another road, pushed off course by inexperience, and they say that nothing that exists either comes to be or perishes, on the ground that what comes to be must come to be either from what is or from what is not, and that it is impossible to come to be from either of these: for what is cannot come to be, since it already is, and from what is not nothing could come to be, since something must underlie it. And so, magnifying what follows from this, they go on to say that not even the many exist, but only being itself.
31| Those thinkers, then, adopted this view for the reasons stated. But we say that to come to be from what is or from what is not, or for what is not or what is to act or be acted on or to become some particular thing, is in one sense no different from saying that a doctor does something, or is acted on, or comes to be something, or comes to be from a doctor. Since this last is said in two ways, it is clear that the same holds for coming to be from what is, and for what is either acting or being acted on. So the doctor builds a house not insofar as he is a doctor but insofar as he is a builder, and he becomes pale not insofar as he is a doctor but insofar as he is dark; but he practices medicine, and ceases to be skilled in medicine, insofar as he is a doctor. Since we say, in the strict and proper sense, that the doctor does something, or is acted on, or comes to be something, from a doctor, only when it is insofar as he is a doctor that he undergoes, does, or becomes these things, it is clear that coming to be from what is not means this too: coming to be insofar as it is not. This is the distinction those thinkers failed to draw, and so they abandoned the inquiry; and through this ignorance they went on to a further ignorance so great that they supposed nothing else comes to be or exists at all, and did away with all coming-to-be. We ourselves say that nothing comes to be, without qualification, from what is not, but that in a sense things do come to be from what is not, namely accidentally. For a thing comes to be from privation, which in its own right is a not-being not present in the thing —
32| and this is found astonishing, and it seems impossible for something to come to be in this way, from what is not. Likewise, too, what is does not come to be from what is, nor does what is come to be at all, except accidentally; but in this same sense it too comes to be — just as, for instance, if an animal were to come to be from an animal, and some particular animal from some particular animal, as if a dog were to come to be from a dog, or a horse from a horse. For the dog would come to be not only from some particular animal, but also from an animal — yet not insofar as it is an animal, since this already belongs to it. But if something is going to come to be an animal, not accidentally, it will not be from an animal; and if it is going to come to be something that is, it will not be from what is — nor yet from what is not, for we have already said what coming to be from what is not means: coming to be insofar as it is not. Further, we are not doing away with the principle that everything either is or is not. This, then, is one way of resolving the difficulty; another is that it is possible to say the same things in terms of potentiality and actuality, but this has been determined elsewhere with greater precision. So, as we were saying, the difficulties are resolved that force people, when pressed, to do away with some of the things stated; and it was for this very reason that the earlier thinkers were turned aside so far from the road leading to coming-to-be and perishing and change in general — for if this nature had been seen, it would have resolved the whole of their ignorance.
34| There are others, too, who have laid hold of this nature, but not adequately. In the first place, they agree that something comes to be, without qualification, from what is not, granting that far Parmenides was right. Next, it seems to them that, if this nature is one in number, it must also be one in potentiality only. But this makes a very great difference. For we say that matter and privation are different things, and that of these, matter is not-being accidentally, while privation is not-being in its own right; and that matter is close to substance and in a way is substance, while privation is not, in any way. But they hold that not-being is the great and the small alike — either the two together, or each separately. So this triad of theirs is entirely different from ours. They got as far as this: that some nature must underlie the contraries; but they make this a single thing. For even if someone makes it a dyad, calling it the great and the small, he is doing no less the same thing — he has simply overlooked the other one. For the nature that persists is a joint cause, along with the form, of the things that come to be, like a mother; but the other portion of the contrariety might often appear, to one who fixes his thought on its harmful aspect, not to exist at all. For given that there is something divine and good and desirable, we say that the one thing is contrary to it, while the other is what by its nature desires it and reaches for it, in accordance with its own nature. But on their view it turns out that the contrary desires its own destruction. Yet the form cannot desire itself, since it is not lacking anything, nor can the contrary desire it, for contraries are destructive of one another. No, it is matter that does the desiring, as the female desires the male and the ugly the beautiful — except that it is not ugly in its own right, but accidentally, nor female in its own right, but accidentally.
1| The matter both perishes and comes to be — in one sense, yes, in another, no. For as that in which the privation resides, it perishes in its own right (for what perishes, the privation, is present in it). But as understood in respect of potentiality, it does not perish in its own right; rather, it must necessarily be imperishable and ungenerated. For if it came to be, there would have to be some primary underlying thing already present in it, out of which it came to be — but this is precisely its own nature, so that it would exist before it came to be (for I call matter the primary underlying thing for each thing, present in it, out of which something comes to be, not accidentally). And if it perishes, it will arrive, as its final stage, at this very thing, so that it will have perished before it perished. As for the principle that corresponds to form — whether it is one or many, and what it is or what they are — determining this with precision is the task of first philosophy; so let it be reserved for that occasion, and we will speak about the natural and perishable forms among the things demonstrated later. That there are principles, then, and what they are, and how many in number — let this stand as our determination. Let us begin again from another starting point and speak. B.
2| Of the things that exist, some exist by nature, others through other causes. By nature: animals and their parts, plants, and the simple bodies — earth, fire, air, and water (for we say that these and things like them exist by nature), and all of these plainly differ from things not constituted by nature. For each of these has within itself a principle of motion and rest — some in respect of place, some in respect of growth and decay, some in respect of alteration. A bed, on the other hand, or a cloak, or any other class of thing of that sort, insofar as it falls under each such predicate and to the extent that it is a product of craft, has no innate impulse to change at all; but insofar as it happens to be made of stone or earth or a mixture of these, it does have such an impulse, and only to that extent — nature being a certain principle and cause of being moved and being at rest, present primarily in that in which it belongs in its own right and not accidentally (I say "not accidentally" because a person who is a doctor might become the cause of health to himself; but even so, it is not insofar as he is being healed that he has medical knowledge — rather, it is accidental that the same person is both a doctor and someone being healed;
3| which is why the two are sometimes found apart from one another). The same holds, similarly, for each of the other things that are made: none of them has within itself the principle of its own making. Rather, in some cases the principle is in something else and external — as with a house and each of the other things made by hand — while in others it is within the thing itself, but not in its own right, namely in all the cases where the thing might become, accidentally, a cause to itself. Nature, then, is what has been described; and a thing has a nature if it has a principle of this kind. And all such things are substance; for each is some underlying subject, and nature is always present in an underlying subject. In accordance with nature are these things themselves, and whatever belongs to them in their own right — for instance, fire's moving upward; for this is not itself a nature, nor does it have a nature, but it exists by nature and in accordance with nature. What nature is, then, has been stated, and also what "by nature" and "in accordance with nature" mean. To try to prove that nature exists is ridiculous; for it is obvious that many things of this kind exist. And to try to prove what is obvious by means of what is not obvious marks someone incapable of distinguishing what is known through itself from what is not known through itself (that it is possible to be in this condition is not hard to see —
4| someone blind from birth might reason about colors) — so that people of this sort are necessarily engaged in argument about mere words, understanding nothing. To some, the nature and substance of things that exist by nature seems to be the primary constituent present in each thing, unshaped in its own right — for instance, wood is the nature of a bed, bronze the nature of a statue. Antiphon offers as a sign of this that if one were to bury a bed and the rot gained enough power to send up a shoot, what would come to be would not be a bed but wood — on the ground that the arrangement in accordance with convention and craft belongs to it only accidentally, while its substance is that other thing which persists continuously through undergoing these very processes. And if each of these materials in turn stands in this same relation to some further thing (bronze and gold, for instance, in relation to water; bones and wood in relation to earth; and likewise for anything else whatever), then that further thing is their nature and substance. That is why some say fire, others earth, others air, others water, others some of these, and others all of them, are the nature of the things that exist. For whichever of these each thinker took to be of this kind — whether one or several — this, and just this many, he says the whole of substance is, while everything else he says is an affection, state, or condition of these; and any one of these he says is eternal (for there is no change of them out of themselves), while everything else comes to be and perishes endlessly.
5| In one way, then, nature is spoken of in this sense — as the primary matter underlying each thing that has within itself a principle of motion and change; in another way, as the shape and the form given in the definition. For just as "craft" is used of what accords with craft and what is craftsmanlike, so too "nature" is used of what accords with nature and what is natural. And in the former case we would not yet say that a thing has anything in accordance with craft if it is only potentially a bed and does not yet have the form of a bed, nor that craft is present in it; nor is it so among things constituted by nature: what is only potentially flesh or bone does not yet have its own nature until it takes on the form given in the definition, by reference to which, in defining it, we say what flesh or bone is — nor does it yet exist by nature. So in another sense, the nature of things that have within themselves a principle of motion would be the shape and the form — not separable except in definition. (What is composed of matter and form together is not itself a nature, but exists by nature — a human being, for instance.) And this form is nature more than the matter is; for each thing is called by its name more when it exists in realization than when it exists in potentiality. Furthermore, a human being comes to be from a human being, but a bed does not come to be from a bed —
6| which is why they say it is not the shape but the wood that is the nature, on the ground that if it were to sprout, what would result would not be a bed but wood. But if that is nature, then form too is nature; for a human being comes to be from a human being. Furthermore, the nature spoken of as coming-to-be is a path toward a nature. For it is not as with medical treatment, which is said to be a path not toward medical craft but toward health — treatment necessarily proceeds from medical craft, not toward medical craft; nature, however, is not related to nature in this way, but rather what grows proceeds from something toward something, in the very respect in which it grows. What, then, is it that grows? Not that from which, but that into which. The form, therefore, is nature. But "form" and "nature" are each spoken of in two ways; for privation too is, in a way, a form. Whether there is privation, and something contrary, in unqualified coming-to-be, or whether there is not, must be examined later.
7| Now that we have distinguished the senses in which nature is spoken of, we must next examine how the mathematician differs from the student of nature (for natural bodies too have surfaces, solids, lengths, and points, which are what the mathematician studies); and further, whether astronomy is different from natural science or a part of it. For it would be absurd for the student of nature to know what the sun or the moon is, but none of the attributes that belong to them in their own right — especially since writers on nature are seen discussing the shape of the moon and the sun as well, and indeed whether the earth and the universe are spherical or not. Now these matters are treated by the mathematician too, but not insofar as each is the boundary of a natural body; nor does he study the attributes as belonging to such bodies. That is why he separates them out — for they are separable in thought from motion, and it makes no difference, nor does any falsehood result from separating them. Those who speak of the Forms do the same thing without noticing it; for they separate natural things, which are less separable than mathematical objects. This would become clear if one tried to define each of the two — the objects themselves and their attributes. For odd and even, straight and curved, and also number, line, and figure will be definable without motion; but flesh, bone, and man will not — these are spoken of as 'snub nose' is, not as 'curved' is. The more physical branches of mathematics show this too, such as optics, harmonics, and astronomy; for these stand in a way opposite to geometry. Geometry investigates natural lines, but not insofar as they are natural, while optics investigates a mathematical line, but not insofar as it is mathematical — rather, insofar as it is natural.
8| Since nature is spoken of in two ways — as form and as matter — we must study it as we would if we were investigating what snubness is: such things must be treated neither apart from matter nor purely in terms of matter. Indeed one might raise a difficulty about this very point: since there are two natures, which of the two does the study of nature concern? Or does it concern what is composed of both? But if it concerns what is composed of both, then it concerns each of the two as well. Is it then the same knowledge, or a different one, that knows each? Looking to the ancients, one might suppose the study belongs to matter (for Empedocles and Democritus laid hold of form and essence only to a small degree); but if craft imitates nature, and it belongs to the same knowledge to know the form and the matter, up to a point (for instance, it belongs to the doctor to know health, and also bile and phlegm, in which health resides; and likewise it belongs to the builder to know both the form of the house and the matter — that it is bricks and timber; and so on with the rest), then it would belong to natural science to know both natures as well. Further, the end and that for the sake of which belong to the same knowledge, and so do whatever serves these ends. Now nature is an end and that for the sake of which — for whenever there is continuous motion toward some end, that final point is also the end, that for the sake of which;
9| that is why the poet was ridiculously carried away when he said, 'it has the end for the sake of which it came to be' — for he means that not every final point is an end, but only the best one) — and since, further, the crafts make their matter, some simply, others so as to make it serviceable, and we use all things as though they existed for our sake (for we too are in a way an end; for that for the sake of which is spoken of in two ways, and this has been discussed in the works on philosophy). There are two crafts that govern matter and have knowledge of it: the using craft, and, within the productive craft, the master craft. That is why the using craft is in a way a master craft too; but they differ in that the master craft knows the form, while the other, as merely productive, knows the matter. For the helmsman knows and prescribes what sort of form the rudder should have, while the shipbuilder knows out of what wood, and by what motions, it will be made. So in the products of craft we make the matter for the sake of the work, while in natural things the matter is already present. Further, matter is relative: for different matter belongs to different form. To what point, then, must the student of nature know the form and the essence? Is it as the doctor must know sinew, or the smith bronze — up to the point of knowing that for the sake of which each exists, and concerning those things that are separable in form but exist in matter? For man begets man, and so does the sun. But how the separable exists, and what it is, is the task of first philosophy to determine.
11| Now that these points have been settled, we must go on to examine the causes — what kinds there are and how many in number. For since our undertaking is for the sake of knowing, and we do not think we know a thing until we have grasped the why of it in each case (and this is to grasp its primary cause), clearly we too must do this concerning coming-to-be and perishing and every kind of natural change, so that, knowing their principles, we may try to refer each of the things under inquiry back to them. In one sense, then, that out of which a thing comes to be, and which persists in it, is called a cause — for instance, the bronze of the statue, and the silver of the bowl, and the genera to which these belong. In another sense, the cause is the form or the pattern — that is, the account of the essence, and the genera of this (for instance, the ratio two to one, and number generally, are the cause of the octave), and the parts that appear in the account. Again, a cause is that from which the primary source of change or of rest arises — for instance, the one who deliberated is a cause, and the father is the cause of the child, and in general the maker is a cause of the thing made, and what brings about change is a cause of what is changed. Again, a cause is spoken of as the end — that is, that for the sake of which, as health is the cause of walking. For why does someone walk? We say, 'in order to be healthy,' and in saying this we think we have given the cause. And so too are all the things that come between, once something else has set them in motion toward the end — as, in the case of health, thinning, purging, drugs, or instruments; for all of these are for the sake of the end, though they differ from one another in that some are actions and others instruments.
12| The causes, then, are spoken of in about this many ways. But since causes are spoken of in many ways, it follows that there can be several causes of the same thing, and not accidentally — for instance, both the sculptor's craft and the bronze are causes of the statue, not in virtue of anything else but in virtue of being a statue, though not in the same way: the one as matter, the other as the source of motion. There are also things that are causes of one another — for instance, exertion is a cause of good condition, and good condition is a cause of exertion; but not in the same way, the one as end, the other as source of motion. Again, the same thing is a cause of opposites; for what, by its presence, is the cause of a given thing, we sometimes hold responsible, by its absence, for the opposite — for instance, we say the helmsman's absence caused the capsizing of the ship, when his presence would have been the cause of its safety. All the causes now mentioned fall under four principal headings, the most evident of these. For the letters are causes of syllables, and the matter is a cause of manufactured things, and fire and the like are causes of bodies, and the parts are causes of the whole, and the premises are causes of the conclusion, in the sense of that out of which; but of these, some are causes as the underlying subject (for instance, the parts), while others are causes as the essence — the whole, the combination, and the form. The seed, the doctor, the one who deliberated, and in general the agent, are all causes in the sense of that from which the source of change or of rest arises. Others are causes as the end, and as the good of the rest; for that for the sake of which tends to be the best, and the end of the other things. And let it make no difference whether we call it the good itself, or the apparent good.
13| These, then, are the causes, and this many in form; but the modes of the causes are many in number, though these too, when summed up, are fewer. For a cause is spoken of in many ways, and even among causes of the same kind, one is prior and another posterior to another—for example, of health, the physician and the craftsman more generally; and of the octave, the double ratio and number; and always the encompassing things are causes relative to the particulars they encompass. Again, a thing is a cause as an accident, and so are the genera of these—for example, Polyclitus is a cause of the statue in one way, and the sculptor in another, because it is accidental to the sculptor to be Polyclitus. And the things that encompass the accident are also causes—for example, if a human being is the cause of a statue, or, more generally, an animal. And among accidents too, some are further off and some nearer—for example if the pale and the musical were said to be causes of the statue. And all of these—both the ones spoken of in their own right and the ones spoken of accidentally—are spoken of either as being causes in potentiality or as being causes in actuality; for example, the builder is a cause of a house being built, or the builder who is actually building. And the same will be said in the case of the things of which these are the causes—for example, of this statue, or of a statue, or of an image in general; and of this bronze, or of bronze, or of matter in general; and likewise for the accidents.
14| Again, these and those will also be spoken of as combined—for example, not Polyclitus, nor the sculptor, but Polyclitus the sculptor. But all the same, all of these are six in number, though spoken of in two ways: either as the particular, or as the genus, or as the accident, or as the genus of the accident, or as these combined, or as spoken of simply; and all of them either as actual or as potential. And they differ to this extent, that the actual causes and the particular causes exist and cease to exist together with the things of which they are causes—for example, this one who is healing together with this one who is being healed, and this one who is building together with this one who is being built—whereas the potential causes do not always. For the house and the builder do not perish together. And one must always look for the highest cause of each thing, just as in other cases too (for example, a human being builds because he is a builder, and the builder builds in virtue of the craft of building; this, then, is the prior cause, and so in all cases); again, genera are causes of genera, and particulars of particulars (for example, the sculptor is cause of the statue, and this one of this one); and potentialities are causes of possible things, and actual things of things being actualized. Let this, then, be an adequate account for us of how many the causes are, and in what way they are causes.
15| Chance and spontaneity are also said to be among the causes, and many things are said both to exist and to come to be through chance and through spontaneity; we must therefore examine in what way chance and spontaneity are among these causes, and whether chance and spontaneity are the same or different, and, generally, what chance and spontaneity are. For some are even puzzled as to whether they exist or not; for they say that nothing at all comes to be from chance, but that there is some definite cause for everything we say comes to be from spontaneity or chance—for example, of someone's coming by chance into the marketplace and meeting the person he wished to meet but did not expect to, the cause is his wishing to go and buy something; and likewise in the other cases said to be from chance, one can always find some cause, but not chance—since if chance really were something, it would truly appear strange, and one might well be puzzled as to why none of the ancient sages, in stating the causes of coming-to-be and passing-away, determined anything about chance, but, as it seems, they too thought nothing came to be from chance. But this too is remarkable.
16| For many things both come to be and exist from chance and from spontaneity, and people are not unaware that it is possible to trace each of the things that come to be back to some cause—as the old argument that does away with chance put it—yet all the same they say that some of these are from chance and others are not from chance; and that is why they had, in some way or other, to make some mention of it. But then again, they did not think chance was any of the things they posited either—love, or strife, or intellect, or fire, or anything else of that kind. So it is strange, whether they supposed it did not exist, or supposed it did and left it out of their accounts—and this though they sometimes actually made use of it, as Empedocles does when he says that air is not always separated out uppermost, but however it happens to occur. At any rate he says in his cosmogony that “thus it chanced to run at that time, but often otherwise”; and he says that most of the parts of animals came to be by chance. And there are some
17| who ascribe both this heaven and all the worlds to spontaneity; for they say that the vortex and the motion that separated things out and settled the universe into this order arose from spontaneity. And this very thing is quite remarkable to wonder at: for while they say that animals and plants neither exist nor come to be by chance, but that the cause is nature, or intellect, or something else of that sort (for it is not whatever happens to result from each seed, but from this kind of seed an olive tree, and from that kind a human being), they say that the heaven and the most divine of visible things came to be from spontaneity, and that there is no cause of that sort for them such as there is for animals and plants. And yet, if this is so, this very point is worth pausing over, and it would be well to say something about it. For besides the fact that what is said is strange in other ways too, it is stranger still to say this while observing that nothing comes to be from spontaneity in the heaven, whereas among the things that are not from chance, many things happen by chance—although it would be reasonable for the opposite to occur. And there are some who think that chance is indeed a cause, but that it is unclear to human thinking, as being something divine and more supernatural. So we must examine what each of the two is, and whether spontaneity and chance are the same or different, and how they fall among the causes we have distinguished.
18| First, then, since we see that some things always come to be in the same way, and others for the most part, it is clear that chance is not said to be the cause of either of these—neither of what is of necessity and always, nor of what is for the most part. But since there are things that come to be even apart from these, and all say that these are from chance, it is clear that chance and spontaneity are something; for we know that such things are from chance, and that things from chance are of this sort. Now, among things that come to be, some come to be for the sake of something and others do not (and of these, some are in accordance with choice and some not in accordance with choice, but both kinds are among the things that are for the sake of something); so it is clear that even among the things that occur apart from what is necessary and what is for the most part, there are some in connection with which it is possible for there to be something for the sake of which. And things are for the sake of something whenever they might be done as a result of thought, and whenever they result from nature. Such things, then, whenever they come to be accidentally, we say are from chance (for just as a thing may be in its own right or accidentally, so too a cause may be; for example, the cause of a house in its own right is the housebuilding craft, but accidentally it is the pale, or the musical—
19| A cause in its own right is determinate, while an accidental cause is indeterminate; for an unlimited number of things might happen to the one thing. As we said, then, whenever this occurs among things that come about for the sake of something, it is said to happen from spontaneity or from chance (we must determine later how these two differ from each other; for now let this much be clear, that both belong among things that occur for the sake of something): for example, he would have come to get his money back from the man collecting the loan-fund, if he had known this — but he did not come for this reason; rather, it turned out that he came, and that he did this for the sake of recovering the money. And this was not something that happens to him, in frequenting that place, either for the most part or of necessity. And the end — the recovery of the money — is not among the causes within the man himself, but among the things chosen and coming from thought. And in that case he is said to have come by chance; but if he had chosen it and gone for this very purpose, either always or for the most part, it would not be by chance. It is clear, then, that chance is a cause accidentally, among things done by choice for the sake of something. This is why thought and chance are concerned with the same thing; for choice does not occur without thought.
20| The causes, then, from which
21| what happens by chance might come about must be indeterminate. This is why chance too is thought to belong to the indeterminate, and to be unclear to a human being, and why it might seem, in a way, that nothing happens by chance at all. For all these things are said correctly, and with good reason. For in one sense it is true that things do happen by chance: they happen accidentally, and chance is a cause in the sense of an accidental cause; but in the unqualified sense it is the cause of nothing. For example, the builder is the cause of a house, but the flute-player is its cause only accidentally; and the causes of a man's having come and recovered his money, when he did not come for this purpose, are unlimited in number — for he may have come wanting to see someone, or in pursuit of someone, or in flight from someone, or going to watch a spectacle. And it is also correct to say that chance is something contrary to reasonable expectation; for an account concerns either what always is or what is for the most part, and chance belongs among the things that come about apart from these. So then, since causes of this kind are indeterminate, chance too is indeterminate. All the same, in some cases one might raise a puzzle: are just any chance things the causes of a chance event — for instance, of health, wind or exposure to the sun, but not having had one's hair cut? For some accidental causes are nearer than others. Chance is called good when something good results from it, and bad when something bad results; and good fortune and misfortune are spoken of when these have some magnitude. This is also why missing a great evil or a great good by a narrow margin counts as good fortune or misfortune — because thought speaks of it as though it already belonged, since what is missed by a narrow margin seems to be no distance away at all. Further, it stands to reason that good fortune is unstable, since chance is unstable; for none of the things that come about by chance can occur either always or for the most part. Both, then, as has been said, are accidental causes — both chance and spontaneity — among things that admit of coming about neither in an unqualified way nor for the most part, and, among these, whichever ones might come about for the sake of something.
22| They differ in that spontaneity extends more widely: everything that is by chance is also from spontaneity, but not everything from spontaneity is by chance. For chance, and what is by chance, belong only to those beings to whom good fortune, and action in general, could belong. This is why chance is also necessarily concerned with things that can be done — a sign of this is that good fortune is thought to be either the same as happiness or close to it, and happiness is a kind of action, since it is doing well — so that whatever cannot act cannot do anything by chance either. And this is why nothing lifeless, and no beast, and no child does anything by chance, because none of them has choice; nor does good fortune or misfortune belong to them, except by resemblance, as Protarchus said that the stones out of which altars are made are fortunate, because they are honored, while the stones from the very same quarry-bed are trampled underfoot. But even these can, in a sense, be affected by chance, whenever someone acting upon them does something to them by chance — otherwise it cannot happen. But spontaneity belongs also to the other animals, and to many lifeless things as well: for instance, we say the horse came spontaneously, meaning that its coming saved it, though it did not come for the sake of being saved;
23| and the tripod fell spontaneously, for it stood there for the sake of being sat on, but it did not fall for the sake of being sat on. So it is clear that among things that come about, in the unqualified sense, for the sake of something, whenever the cause lies outside them and the thing does not come about for the sake of what actually resulted, then we call it spontaneous; and by chance, whenever such spontaneous events occur among the things that could have been chosen, in beings that have choice. A sign of this is the word 'in vain,' which is used whenever the thing that is for the sake of something else does not come about for the sake of that other thing — for example, if walking is for the sake of a purge, and this did not happen as a result of the walking, we say the walking was in vain and the walk was a vain one, as though this were what 'in vain' means: something whose nature is for the sake of something else, whenever it does not achieve that for the sake of which it existed and for which it was naturally suited — since if someone said he bathed in vain because the sun was not eclipsed, he would be ridiculous, for the bath was not for the sake of that. So too spontaneity is named accordingly, whenever it itself comes about in vain: the stone, for instance, did not fall for the sake of striking someone; the stone therefore fell spontaneously, because it might have been made to fall by someone, and for the sake of striking someone. Spontaneity is most clearly set apart from chance in things that come about by nature; for whenever something comes about contrary to nature, we say then that it has come about not by chance but rather spontaneously. And this too is a further difference: in the one case the cause is external, in the other, internal.
24| What spontaneity is, then, and what chance is, has been stated, and how they differ from each other. As for the modes of causation, each of the two belongs among the things from which the origin of motion comes; for the cause is always either one of the natural causes or one of the causes that come from thought, but the number of these is indeterminate. And since spontaneity and chance are causes of whatever intellect or nature might be the cause of, whenever something becomes a cause of these very things accidentally — and nothing accidental is prior to what is in its own right — it is clear that the accidental cause is not prior to the cause in its own right either. Spontaneity and chance are therefore posterior to both intellect and nature. So that even if spontaneity is, in the highest degree, the cause of the heavens, it is still necessary that intellect and nature be prior causes, both of many other things and of this universe as well. That there are causes, and that they are just as many in number as we say, is clear; for the question 'why' comprehends just this many answers. For the 'why,' in the last resort, is traced back either to the what-it-is, in the case of unchanging things (as in mathematics — it is traced back, in the last resort, to the definition of the straight, or the commensurable, or something else), or to what first set something in motion (for example, why did they go to war? Because they had been plundered), or to that for the sake of which (in order that they might rule), or, in the case of things that come to be, to the matter.
25| That the causes are these, then, and just this many, is clear.
26| Since the causes are four, it is the business of the natural philosopher to know about all of them, and referring the question "why" to all of them, he will give the explanation in the manner proper to natural science — the matter, the form, the mover, and that for the sake of which. Three of these often coincide in one: for the what-it-is and that for the sake of which are one, and the primary source of motion is the same in form as these. For man begets man — and in general this holds of everything that, being itself moved, causes motion (whatever does not move in this way no longer belongs to natural science; for such things move without having motion in themselves, nor a principle of motion, but being themselves unmoved. That is why there are three branches of study: one concerning unmoved things, one concerning things that are moved but imperishable, and one concerning perishable things). So the "why" is given both by referring to the matter, and to what the thing is, and to the primary mover. For it is especially in inquiries about coming-to-be that causes are examined in this way — what comes after what, and what acted first or what was first acted on, and so on always in sequence. The principles that produce motion in the natural way are twofold, and one of them is not itself natural; for it does not have a principle of motion in itself. Such is whatever moves without itself being moved, as the wholly unmoved and first of all things is, and also what a thing is and its shape; for these are an end and that for the sake of which. So, since nature is for the sake of something, this cause too must be known, and the "why" must be given in every way — for instance, that from this, this necessarily follows (and "from this" either without qualification or for the most part); and that, if this is going to be, that must follow from it (just as the conclusion follows from the premises); and that this was the essence; and because it is better this way — not better without qualification, but better relative to the substance of each thing.
27| We must state, then, first, that nature belongs among the causes that act for the sake of something; and next, concerning the necessary, how it stands in the things of nature. For everyone refers explanation to this cause — to the necessary — saying that since the hot is naturally of such a kind, and the cold, and each such thing, these other things are and come to be of necessity. Indeed, even when they do mention some other cause, they touch on it only in passing and let it go — one mentioning love and strife, another intellect. But there is a puzzle here: what prevents nature from acting not for the sake of something and not because it is better, but as Zeus rains not in order to make the grain grow, but of necessity (for what is drawn up must cool, and what has cooled, having become water, must come down; and it is a mere consequence that the grain grows when this happens)? Likewise, if someone's grain is ruined on the threshing floor, it does not rain for the sake of ruining it — that is merely a coincidence. So what prevents the parts of the body from being like this too — for instance, that the front teeth necessarily grow sharp, suited for cutting, and the molars broad and useful for grinding food, not because they came to be for this purpose, but because it just turned out that way? And likewise for the other parts, in all the cases where purpose seems to be present. So wherever everything turned out just as it would have if it had come to be for a purpose, these survived, having been suitably put together by spontaneity; but whatever was not put together in this way perished and goes on perishing, just as Empedocles says of his "man-faced ox-progeny."
28| This, then, is the argument by which someone might raise the puzzle, and any other argument of the same kind; but it is impossible for things to be this way. For these things, and everything that is by nature, come to be either always in this way or for the most part, but nothing that results from chance or spontaneity does. For we do not think it is by chance or coincidence that it rains often in winter, but rather if it rains often under the Dog Star; nor that there is heat under the Dog Star, but rather if there is heat in winter. If, then, things are held to be either by coincidence or for the sake of something, and if it is not possible for these things to be either by coincidence or by spontaneity, they would be for the sake of something. But surely all such things are by nature, as even the very people who make this argument would themselves admit. The for-the-sake-of-something, then, is present in things that come to be and exist by nature.
29| Further, in all cases where there is some end, the earlier step and the one that follows are done for the sake of that end. So as a thing is done, that is how it is naturally constituted to be done, and as it is naturally constituted, so each thing is done — unless something impedes it. But it is done for the sake of something; therefore it is also naturally constituted for the sake of something. For example, if a house were one of the things that come to be by nature, it would come to be just as it now does by craft; and if things that come to be by nature came to be not only by nature but also by craft, they would come to be in just the way they are naturally constituted to come to be. Each, then, is for the sake of the other. And in general craft, in some cases, completes what nature is unable to bring to completion, and in others imitates nature. If, then, the products of craft are for the sake of something, clearly so are the products of nature; for the later stages stand in the same relation to the earlier both in things done by craft and in things that occur by nature. This is most evident in the case of the other animals,
30| which act neither by craft nor after inquiring nor after deliberating — which is why some raise the puzzle whether spiders and ants and creatures of that sort work by intellect or by something else. And proceeding a little further along these lines, in plants too the things that are useful for the end are seen to come about — for instance, the leaves grow for the sake of shelter for the fruit. So if the swallow makes its nest, and the spider its web, both by nature and for the sake of something, and plants produce their leaves for the sake of their fruit and send their roots down, not up, for the sake of their nourishment, it is clear that this kind of cause is present among things that come to be and exist by nature. And since nature is spoken of in two ways, as matter and as form, and the form is the end, and everything else is for the sake of the end, this — the form — would be the cause in the sense of that for the sake of which. Now error occurs even in the products of craft (for the grammarian wrote incorrectly, and the doctor administered the medicine wrongly). So it is clear that error is possible in the products of nature as well. If, then, there are cases in the arts where what is done correctly is for the sake of something, and in cases of error the attempt is likewise for the sake of something but fails to achieve it, the same would hold in the products of nature, and monstrosities would be failures in that aiming at an end. So too, in the original formations of things, the "ox-progeny" — if they were unable to arrive at some determinate limit and end — must have come about through the corruption of some starting principle, just as now happens with the seed.
31| Further, it is necessary that seed should come to be first, and not the animals themselves at once; and the "whole-natured, first" was seed. Further, purposiveness is present in plants too, though less articulated. Did there then also occur in plants, just as there were man-faced ox-progeny, also olive-faced vine-progeny? Or not? For that is absurd. And yet there ought to have been, if indeed there were in the case of animals. Further, on this view chance combinations ought to have occurred among the seeds too. But in general, whoever argues this way does away with both natural things and nature itself. For things are by nature whatever, moving continuously from some principle within themselves, arrive at some end; and from each starting principle the outcome is not the same for every kind of thing, nor is it a chance outcome, but it always tends toward the same result, unless something impedes it. Now that for the sake of which, and what exists for the sake of it, could also come about by chance — for instance, we say that the stranger came by chance and, after paying his ransom, went away, when he acts as if he had come for this purpose, though he did not come for the sake of it. And this is accidental (for chance belongs among the accidental causes, as we said before); but when something happens always or for the most part, it is not accidental nor the result of chance — and in the case of natural things it always happens this way, unless something impedes it.
32| It is absurd to think that something does not come to be for the sake of something, just because we do not see the mover deliberating. And yet craft, too, does not deliberate. If shipbuilding were present in the wood itself, it would produce its effects in the same way as nature does. So if the for-the-sake-of-something is present in craft, it is present in nature as well. This is most evident when someone doctors himself, for in this case nature resembles craft. That nature, then, is a cause, and a cause in this way — as acting for the sake of something — is clear.
33| But does what is of necessity hold on a hypothesis, or without qualification as well? As things stand, people suppose that necessity is present in coming-to-be in the way that someone might suppose a wall has come to be of necessity, on the ground that heavy things are naturally carried downward and light things to the surface — which is why the stones and the foundations are below, the earth is above because of its lightness, and the timbers are most of all on the surface, since they are the lightest of all. But nevertheless it has not come to be without these, though not because of these, except as through matter — it has come to be for the sake of sheltering and protecting certain things. Similarly too in all the other cases in which there is a for-the-sake-of-something: they do not come to be without the things that have a necessary nature, yet not because of these, except as matter — they come to be for the sake of something. For example: why is the saw such as it is? So that it may perform this function, for the sake of that. But this end cannot come about unless the saw is made of iron; it is therefore necessary for it to be of iron, if there is to be a saw and its function. The necessary, then, holds on a hypothesis, not as an end in itself; for the necessity lies in the matter, while that for the sake of which lies in the account.
34| The necessary is present, in a certain way, similarly both in mathematics and in things that come to be by nature. Since the straight line is what it is, it is necessary that the triangle have angles equal to two right angles; but it is not because of this that the straight line is what it is — yet if this does not hold, the straight line does not hold either. In things that come to be for the sake of something, however, it is the reverse: if the end is to be, or is, then what comes before it is to be, or is, as well; and if not, then — just as there, when the conclusion does not hold, the starting-point does not hold either — so here too the end, that for the sake of which, will not hold. For this too is a starting-point, not of the action but of the reasoning (and there too it is a starting-point of the reasoning only, since there are no actions in mathematics). So if there is to be a house, it is necessary for these things to come to be or be present, or for the matter that is for the sake of something to exist at all — bricks and stones, say, if there is to be a house. Yet the end does not exist because of these, except as matter, nor will it come to be because of these. And yet without these existing at all, there will be neither the house nor the saw — the house not without the stones, the saw not without the iron. For neither, in mathematics, will the starting-points hold, if the triangle does not have two right angles.
1| It is clear, then, that in the things of nature, the necessary is what is called matter, along with the motions belonging to it. And both causes must be stated by the student of nature, but especially that for the sake of which; for this is the cause of the matter, while the matter is not the cause of the end. And the end is that for the sake of which, and the starting-point proceeds from the definition and the account, just as in the products of craft: since the house is of such-and-such a kind, these things must of necessity come to be and be present; and since health is this, these things must of necessity come to be and be present. So too, if a human being is this, then these things must be present; and if these, then these. Perhaps the necessary is present in the account as well. For once one has defined the function of sawing as being a division of such-and-such a kind, this will not be possible unless it has teeth of such-and-such a kind, and these will not be possible unless they are of iron. For even in the account there are certain parts that function as the matter of the account. Γ.
2| Since nature is a principle of motion and change, and our inquiry concerns nature, we must not let it escape us what motion is; for if it remains unknown, nature too must remain unknown. Once we have determined the question of motion, we must try to proceed in the same way concerning what comes next. Motion is held to belong among continuous things, and the infinite makes its first appearance in the continuous — which is why those who define the continuous often find themselves making further use of the account of the infinite, on the ground that the continuous is what is divisible without limit. Besides this, it is impossible for there to be motion without place, void, and time. It is clear, then, that for these reasons — and because these things are common and universal to all cases — we must examine each of them in turn, taking them up first (for the study of what is particular comes after the study of what is common); and first, as we said, we must examine motion. Now, one thing exists only in actuality, another both potentially and in actuality — one a this, another a so-much, another a such, and likewise for the other categories of being. Of the relative, one kind is spoken of in terms of excess and deficiency, another in terms of the active and the passive, and in general as what can cause motion and what can be moved;
3| for what can cause motion causes motion in what can be moved, and what can be moved is moved by what can cause motion; and there is no motion apart from things. For what changes always changes either in respect of substance, or of quantity, or of quality, or of place, and there is nothing common to be grasped over and above these, as we say — nothing that is neither a this, nor a quantity, nor a quality, nor any of the other predicates. So there will be no motion or change of anything over and above what has been mentioned, since nothing exists over and above what has been mentioned. Each of these belongs to everything in two ways — for example the this (one is its form, the other its privation), and likewise for quality (one is white, the other black), and for quantity, one is complete and the other incomplete. Similarly too for locomotion, one is up and the other down, or one light and the other heavy. So there are as many species of motion and change as there are of being. Now that a distinction has been drawn
4| within each genus between what is in actuality and what is in potentiality, the actuality of what exists potentially, qua such, is motion — for example, of what is alterable, qua alterable, alteration; of what admits of growth, and of its opposite, what admits of diminution (for there is no name common to both), growth and diminution; of what admits of coming-to-be and passing-away, coming-to-be and passing-away; of what admits of being carried along, locomotion. That this is what motion is, is clear from the following. When the buildable, in so far as we call it just that, is in actuality, it is being built, and this is building; and likewise learning, doctoring, rolling, leaping, ripening, and aging. But since some things are the same thing both potentially and in actuality, though not at the same time, or not in the same respect — for instance, a thing may be hot in actuality but cold in potentiality — many things will then act on one another and be acted on by one another; for everything will be at once active and passive. So too what causes motion is, in the natural world, itself movable; for everything of this sort causes motion by being itself in motion. Some, then, think that whatever causes motion is itself in motion; but how this actually stands will become clear from other considerations (for there is something that causes motion while itself unmoved) — and the actuality of what exists potentially, when, existing in actuality, it is active not qua itself but qua movable, is motion.
5| I mean it this way. Bronze is potentially a statue, but all the same the realization of the bronze, as bronze, is not motion. For being bronze and being potentially something are not the same thing, since if they were the same without qualification and by definition, then the realization of the bronze, as bronze, would be motion. But they are not the same, as has been said (this is clear in the case of contraries: being able to be healthy and being able to be sick are different — for otherwise being sick and being healthy would be the same — while the substrate that is healthy and that is diseased, whether it is fluid or blood, is the same and one). Since they are not the same, just as color and the visible are not the same, it is evident that the realization of the potential, as potential, is motion. That this is what motion is, then, and that a thing is in motion precisely when this realization occurs, and neither before nor after, is clear. For each thing admits of being at one time in activity and at another time not — take, for example, the buildable: the activity of the buildable, as buildable, is building (for the activity is either the building or the house; but once there is a house, the buildable no longer exists —
6| what is being built is the buildable; so the activity must be the building) — and building is a kind of motion. But indeed the same account will fit the other kinds of motion as well.
7| That this has been well stated is clear also from what others say about motion, and from the fact that it is not easy to define it in any other way. For one could not place motion and change in any other genus — this is clear if you consider how some people classify it, calling motion otherness, inequality, and not-being; but none of these is necessarily in motion, whether things are other, or unequal, or not-being; nor, again, is change any more into these or out of these than it is out of their opposites. The reason they classify it this way is that motion seems to be something indeterminate, while the principles of the other column are indeterminate because they are privative — for none of them is a this or a such, nor does it fall under any of the other categories. The reason motion seems indeterminate is that it cannot be placed either under the potentiality of things or under their actuality: what is potentially of a certain quantity is not necessarily in motion, nor is what is actually of a certain quantity, and motion seems to be a kind of activity, but an incomplete one — and the reason is that the potential thing, of which it is the activity, is incomplete. And this is exactly why it is hard to grasp what motion is: it seems necessary to place it either under privation, or under potentiality, or under unqualified actuality, and none of these appears to admit it. What remains, then, is the way we have stated: that it is a certain activity, an activity of the kind we have described — hard to see, but possible for it to be so. And what moves is also moved, as has been said, everything that is
8| potentially moveable, and whose immobility is rest (for that to which motion belongs, the immobility of this same thing is rest). For to be in activity toward this, as such, is precisely to move it; and it does this by contact, so that at the same time it is also acted on. Hence motion is the realization of the moveable, as moveable, and this comes about by contact with what can move it, so that at the same time it is also acted on. And what moves will always bring some form — either a this, or a such, or a so-much — which will be the starting point and cause of the motion, when it moves the thing, as for instance a man in actuality makes a man out of what is potentially a man. And the puzzle raised is also clear: that motion is in the moveable thing — for it is the realization of this thing, brought about by what can move it. And the activity of what can move is not a different thing; for there must be a realization belonging to both: a thing is capable of moving by having a capacity, and it moves by being in activity, but it is active upon the moveable — so that the activity of both alike is one, just as the same interval is one whether from one to two or from two to one, and just as the uphill and the downhill are one; for these are one, though their definition is not one; and likewise too in the case of what moves and what is moved.
9| But there is a puzzle of logic here. For it is presumably necessary that there be some activity belonging to what acts and to what is acted on: the one is a doing, the other an undergoing, and the work and end of the one is a product, of the other an affection. Since, then, both are motions, if they are different motions, in what are they? Either both are in the thing acted on and moved, or the doing is in the thing doing it while the undergoing is in the thing acted on (and if this too must be called a doing, it would be so only by an equivocation). But if this is so, the motion will be in the thing that moves it (for the same account applies to the mover and the moved), so that either everything that moves will itself be in motion, or a thing that has motion will not be in motion. And if both — the doing and the undergoing — are in the thing moved and acted on, and if teaching and learning, being two, are both in the learner, then, first of all, the activity of each will not belong to each, and next it is absurd for two motions to be going on at once — for what will the two alterations be, belonging to one thing and toward one form? But that is impossible. So the activity will be one. But it is unreasonable for the activity of two things differing in form to be the same, single activity — and yet it will be so, if teaching and learning are the same, and doing and undergoing are the same, and teaching is the same as learning and acting is the same as being acted on, so that it will be necessary for the teacher to be learning everything he teaches, and for the agent to be undergoing what he does.
10| Or rather, there is nothing absurd in the activity of one thing being in another (for teaching is an activity of the person capable of teaching, but it is in something — it is not detached, but belongs to this person and is in that other person), and nothing prevents one and the same activity from belonging to two things — not as though its being were the same in each, but rather as the potentially existing thing stands to what is actually operating — nor is it necessary for the teacher to be learning, even if acting and being acted on are the same, provided this does not mean that the account stating what it is to be each of them is one, as with a cloak and a garment, but rather as with the road from Thebes to Athens and the road from Athens to Thebes, as has also been said before. For it is not the case that all the same things belong to things that are the same in just any way, but only to things whose being is the same. So it does not follow, even if teaching is the same as learning, that learning is the same as teaching, any more than, if the distance between two separated things is one, the moving apart from here to there and from there to here is one and the same. To put it generally, neither teaching and learning, nor doing and undergoing, are, strictly speaking, the same thing — rather, what is the same is that to which these belong, namely the motion. For the being-in-activity of this thing in that one, and of this thing by that one, is different in account. What motion is, then, has been stated, both in general and in particular — for it is not unclear how each of its species will be defined: alteration is the realization of the alterable, as alterable. And, to put it in more familiar terms, it is the realization of what is potentially productive and potentially affectable, as such, both without qualification and again in each particular case — for instance, building or healing. The same account will apply, in the same way, to each of the other kinds of motion as well.
11| Since natural science is concerned with magnitudes and motion and time, each of which must be either infinite or finite, even if not everything is infinite or finite (an affection, for instance, or a point — for perhaps none of such things need be in either of these), it would be fitting for the one who studies nature to examine the infinite: whether it exists or not, and if it exists, what it is. A sign that the inquiry into it belongs to this science is this: all those who seem to have engaged worthily with this kind of philosophy have given an account of the infinite, and all posit it as a kind of principle of the things that are — some, like the Pythagoreans and Plato, positing it in its own right, not as an accident belonging to something else but as the infinite itself being a substance. Except that the Pythagoreans place it among the perceptible things (for they do not make number separable), and hold that what is outside the heaven is infinite; whereas Plato holds that there is no body outside, nor are the forms outside either, since they are not even anywhere, but that the infinite is present both in the perceptible things and in those forms. And some hold that the infinite is the even (for this, they say, when enclosed and bounded by the odd, provides things with infinitude; a sign of this is what happens in the case of numbers: for when the gnomons are placed around the one, and separately, at one time the resulting figure is always different, at another time it is one); Plato, however, holds that there are two infinites, the great and the small.
12| The natural philosophers, on the other hand, all of them posit for the infinite some further, particular nature drawn from the so-called elements — water, for instance, or air, or what is between these. Of those who make the elements finite, none makes them infinite; but all who make the elements infinite, such as Anaxagoras and Democritus — the one out of the things with like parts, the other out of the seed-mixture of shapes — say that the infinite is continuous by contact. And Anaxagoras holds that any part whatever is a mixture similar to the whole, because he sees anything whatever coming to be out of anything whatever; for it is from this, it seems, that he also says that all things were once together, such as this flesh and this bone, and so with anything whatever — and therefore all things were together; and therefore also all at once. For there is a starting point of separating-out not only within each thing but of all things together. For since what comes to be comes to be from a body of this kind, and there is coming-to-be of all things, though not all at once, and there must be some principle of the coming-to-be, and this is one — what he calls Intellect — and Intellect, in thinking, works from some starting point; so it is necessary that all things were at some time together and began at some time to be in motion. Democritus, however, says that none of the primary bodies comes to be from another;
13| but nonetheless, for him, the common body underlying all things is a principle, differing part by part in magnitude and shape. That the inquiry, then, belongs to the natural philosophers is clear from these considerations. And reasonably all posit it as a principle; for it cannot exist in vain, nor can any other power belong to it except that of a principle — for everything is either a principle or from a principle. But there is no principle of the infinite; for then there would be a limit of it. Further, it is also ungenerated and indestructible, as being a kind of principle; for what has come to be must reach an end, and there is a termination to every process of perishing. Therefore, as we say, there is no principle of it, but it itself seems to be the principle of the other things, and to encompass all things and govern all things, as those say who posit no causes beyond the infinite, such as Intellect or Love; and that this is the divine — for it is immortal and indestructible, as Anaximander says, and most of the natural philosophers say. The conviction that there is something infinite would arise, on examination, especially from five considerations
14| namely, from time (for this is infinite), and from the division of magnitudes (for the mathematicians too make use of the infinite); further, from the fact that coming-to-be and perishing would fail to give out only in this way, if that from which what comes to be is drawn off were infinite; further, from the fact that the finite always reaches its limit against something else, so that, if one thing must always be bounded against another, there must be no limit at all. But most of all, and most decisively, there is the consideration that creates the common difficulty for everyone: because thought does not give out, number too seems to be infinite, and so do the mathematical magnitudes, and what is outside the heaven. And since what is outside is infinite, body too seems to be infinite, and worlds as well; for why should there be void here rather than there? So that, if bulk exists in one place, it must exist everywhere. And at the same time, if there is void and infinite place, then body too must exist; for in the case of eternal things, being possible and actually being make no difference.
15| But the inquiry concerning the infinite involves difficulty; for many impossibilities result both for those who posit that it does not exist and for those who posit that it does. Further, in which way does it exist — as a substance, or as an accident in its own right belonging to some particular nature? Or in neither way, but nonetheless there is something infinite, or infinitely many things in number? But it belongs above all to the natural philosopher to examine whether there is an infinite perceptible magnitude. First, then, we must determine in how many senses "the infinite" is spoken of. In one sense, it is what cannot be gone through because it is not of such a nature as to be gone through, just as a sound is invisible; in another sense, it is what has a passage-through that is endless, or one that is scarcely possible, or what, though naturally fitted to have a passage-through or a limit, does not have one. Further, everything infinite is so either by addition or by division or in both ways.
16| That the infinite should exist separately from perceptible things, itself being some infinite thing, is not possible. For if it is neither a magnitude nor a multitude, but the infinite is itself a substance and not an accident, it will be indivisible (for what is divisible will be either a magnitude or a multitude); and if it is such, it is not infinite, except as a sound is invisible. But this is not how those who assert that the infinite exists say it exists, nor is it how we are inquiring about it, but rather as what cannot be traversed. But if the infinite exists by accident, it would not be an element of the things that are, insofar as it is infinite, just as the invisible is not an element of speech, even though sound is invisible. Further, how is it possible for something to be itself infinite, unless number and magnitude also are, of which the infinite is an attribute in its own right? Indeed it is even less necessary for the infinite itself to be a substance than it is for number or magnitude. And it is also clear that the infinite cannot exist as something actual, and as a substance and a principle; for any part of it whatever that is taken will be infinite, if it is divisible into parts (for to be infinite and to be an infinite thing are the same, if the infinite is a substance and not said of a subject), so that it will be either indivisible or divisible into infinitely many parts; but it is impossible for the same thing to be many infinites (and yet, just as a part of air is air, so too a part of the infinite would be infinite, if indeed it is a substance and a principle); therefore it is without parts and indivisible. But it is impossible for the infinite to exist in actuality; for it must be some quantity. Therefore the infinite belongs by accident. But if so, it has been said that it is not possible to call the infinite itself a principle, but rather that to which it is accidental — air, or the even. So that those who speak as the Pythagoreans do would be declaring something absurd; for at the same time they make the infinite a substance and divide it into parts.
17| But perhaps this inquiry is a universal one — whether it is possible for the infinite to exist among mathematical objects as well, and among objects of thought that have no magnitude at all. We, however, are examining perceptible things, and the things about which we are conducting our inquiry: whether or not there is among them a body infinite in the direction of increase. Now to those examining the question logically, it would seem from considerations of the following kind that there is not. For if the definition of body is that which is bounded by a surface, there could not be an infinite body, neither an intelligible one nor a perceptible one (nor, again, could number, taken as separate, be infinite; for number is what is countable, or what has a count, so that if what is countable can be counted, then it would also be possible to traverse the infinite completely). But to those who examine the question more in the manner of natural science, it appears from the following. It cannot be either composite or simple. It will not be a composite infinite body, then, if the elements are finite in number. For there must be more than one element, and the opposites must always be equal to one another, and none of them can be infinite (for if the power of one element in a given body falls short at all of that of the other — suppose fire is finite and air is infinite, and an equal quantity of fire exceeds an equal quantity of air in power by some multiple whatever, provided only that multiple is some definite number — it is nonetheless clear that the infinite will exceed and destroy the finite). But it is impossible for each element to be infinite, since a body is what has extension in every direction, and the infinite is what is extended without limit, so that an infinite body would be extended without limit in every direction.
18| But, moreover, it is not possible for the infinite body to be one and simple either — neither, as some say, something apart from the elements out of which they generate the elements, nor simply one of the elements. For there are some who make this the infinite, rather than air or water, so that the other elements are not destroyed by the one of them being infinite; for the elements stand in opposition to one another — air, for example, is cold, water is wet, fire is hot — and if one of these were infinite, the others would already have been destroyed. As it is, they say that the thing from which these come is something different from them. But it is impossible for such a thing to exist — not because it is infinite (for on that point something must be said that applies alike to every case, to air and water and anything else), but because there is no such perceptible body apart from the so-called elements. For everything is resolved into that from which it comes, and dissolves into it, so that this thing would have to appear here alongside air and fire and earth and water; but nothing of the sort appears. Nor, then, can fire or any other of the elements be infinite. For quite apart from the question of any one of them being infinite, it is impossible for the universe, even if finite, either to be or to become any single one of them, as Heraclitus says everything at some time becomes fire (and the same argument applies also to the one that the natural philosophers posit apart from the elements); for everything changes from opposite into opposite, as, for example, from hot into cold.
19| We must examine the question for every case in general on the following basis, asking whether or not it is possible for such a thing to exist. That it is altogether impossible for there to be an infinite perceptible body is clear from what follows. Every perceptible thing naturally exists somewhere, and there is some place for each thing, and the same place holds for the part as for the whole — for the whole earth and for a single clod alike, and for fire and for a spark alike. So that if the infinite body is uniform in kind, it will be either unmoved or always in motion; yet this is impossible (for why should it move down rather than up, or in any direction whatever? I mean, for instance, if it were a clod, where would it move to, or where would it remain? For the place proper to the body of the same kind as it is infinite. Will it, then, occupy the whole of that place? And how? What, then, or where, is its remaining at rest and its motion? Will it remain everywhere? Then it will not move at all. Or will it move everywhere? Then it will never come to rest). But if the whole is not uniform, then the places are not uniform either; and, first of all, the body of the universe will not be one except by contact; and next, these constituents will be either finite or infinite in kind. They cannot be finite in kind (for then some will be infinite and others not, if the whole is infinite — fire, say, or water
20| — and such a state of affairs means destruction for things that are opposites). But if they are infinite in kind, and simple, then the places too will be infinite, and the elements will be infinite in number; and if that is impossible, and the places are finite, then the whole must be finite too. For it is impossible for place and body not to match each other exactly: the whole place is not greater than the body could possibly be (and in that case the body will no longer be infinite either), nor is the body greater than the place; for otherwise there would be either some void, or a body that by nature exists nowhere. And it is for this reason that none of the natural philosophers made the one infinite body fire or earth, but rather water or air, or what is intermediate between them, because the place proper to each of the first two was clearly marked out, whereas water and air are ambiguous as between up and down. But Anaxagoras —
21| — speaks absurdly about the infinite's remaining at rest. For he says that the infinite fixes itself in place, and this because it is in itself — since nothing else contains it, on the assumption that wherever a thing is, it is its nature to be there. But this is not true; for a thing might be somewhere by force and not where it naturally belongs. So even granting, as far as possible, that the whole does not move (for what is fixed by itself and is in itself must necessarily be unmoved), one must still state why it is not its nature to move. For it is not enough to say this and consider the matter settled; a thing might also fail to move simply because it has nowhere else to move to, while nothing prevents its being naturally disposed to move all the same. Consider the earth: it does not move, even supposing it were infinite, being held fast by the center; yet it would not remain at rest because there is no other place for it to move to, but because that is its nature. And yet one could equally well say that it fixes itself. If, then, this is not the cause even in the case of the earth, supposing it infinite, but rather the fact that it has weight, and what is heavy remains at the center, while the earth is at the center — then likewise the infinite, too, would remain within itself on account of some other cause, and not because it is infinite and fixes itself. At the same time it is clear that any part of it whatever would equally have to remain at rest; for just as the infinite remains in itself, fixing itself, so too any part of it, once taken, will remain in itself. For the places of the whole and of the part are the same in kind — the place of the whole earth and of a clod alike is down, and that of all fire and of a spark alike is up. So that if the place of the infinite is to be within itself, the place of the part is the same too. It will therefore remain within itself.
22| In general, it is clear that it is impossible to say at once that body is infinite and that there is some place for bodies, if every perceptible body has either weight or lightness, and if, being heavy, its natural motion is toward the center, while if light, upward. For this must hold of the infinite body too; but it is impossible for it to be affected in either way, either wholly one way or the other, or half one way and half the other. For how will you divide it? Or how will one part of the infinite be up and another down, or how will it have an outermost part and a middle? Further, every perceptible body is in a place, and the kinds and differentiae of place are up and down, front and back, right and left; and these are marked out not merely relative to us and by our own position, but within the whole universe itself. But it is impossible for these distinctions to exist within the infinite. And, simply put, if it is impossible for place to be infinite, and every body is in a place, then it is impossible for body to be infinite. But surely what is somewhere is in a place, and what is in a place is somewhere. If, then, the infinite cannot even be a determinate quantity — for it would then be some definite quantity, say two cubits or three cubits, since that is what quantity signifies — so too being in a place means being somewhere, and this means being either up or down or in some other of the six directions, and each of these is itself a kind of limit. That there is, then, no body infinite in actuality is clear from these considerations.
23| It is clear that if there is no infinite at all, many impossible consequences follow. For time will have a beginning and an end, magnitudes will not be divisible into magnitudes, and number will not be infinite. Now when, matters having been distinguished in this way, neither alternative appears possible, an arbiter is needed, and it is clear that in one sense the infinite exists and in another it does not. Being, then, is spoken of in one sense as potential and in another as actual, and the infinite exists both by addition and by division. Now it has been said that a magnitude is not actually infinite, but it is infinite by division — for it is not difficult to refute the theory of indivisible lines. It remains, then, that the infinite exists potentially. But we must not take "what exists potentially" the way we do when we say this may possibly become a statue, meaning that this will also actually be a statue, and suppose the infinite is likewise something that will actually be. Rather, since being is spoken of in many ways — just as the day is, and the games are, by one thing after another continually coming to be — so too is the infinite (for in these cases too there is both potentiality and actuality: the Olympic games exist both in the sense that the contest is capable of occurring and in the sense that it is occurring). This is clear in another way too, both in time and in the case of human beings, and in the division of magnitudes. For in general the infinite exists in this way: by one thing after another continually being taken, and what is taken is always finite, but always different in turn —
24| but in the case of magnitudes what has been taken persists, while in the case of time and of human beings, they perish in such a way that the series does not run out. And what proceeds by addition is in a way the same as
25| what proceeds by division. For in a finite whole, addition happens in a way that is the inverse of division: in the way a thing is seen to be divisible without limit, in that same way what is added will appear to tend toward a determinate whole. For if, within a finite magnitude, one takes a determinate amount and keeps taking more in the same ratio, without taking in each time the same fraction of the whole magnitude, one will not use up the finite magnitude; but if one increases the ratio so as always to take in the same magnitude, one will use it up, because every finite thing is exhausted by any determinate amount whatever. So the infinite does not exist in any other way, but it does exist in this way — potentially, and by way of reduction (and it also exists in actuality, in the sense in which we say the day exists, and the games) — and it exists potentially the way matter does, not in its own right, the way the finite does. And so too by way of addition the infinite exists potentially, which we say is in a certain way the same as the infinite by division: for there will always be something to take from outside, but it will never exceed every magnitude — whereas in division what is taken does exceed every determinate amount, and will always be less. But that it should exceed every magnitude by addition is not even possible potentially, unless there is an accidental actual infinite of the kind the natural philosophers speak of — the body outside the universe, whose substance, whether air or something else of that sort, they say is infinite. But if it is not possible for a perceptible body to be actually infinite in that way, then clearly it could not be potentially infinite by addition either, except in the way stated — inversely to division. This, indeed, is why Plato made two infinites: because both in growth and in diminution a thing seems to exceed every limit and go on without end. Yet having made two, he does not use them: for in numbers the infinite by diminution does not occur, since the unit is the smallest, nor does the infinite by growth, since he makes number go only as far as the decad.
26| But it turns out that the infinite is the opposite of what they say: for the infinite is not that outside of which there is nothing, but that outside of which there is always something. Here is a sign of this: people call rings that have no bezel "infinite," because it is always possible to take something further outside — speaking by way of a certain resemblance, but not strictly, since strictly this must also hold: that the same point is never reached again; whereas in a circle this does not happen, but each successive part is simply other than the last. The infinite, then, is that outside of which, however much quantity is taken, there is always something further to take. But that outside of which there is nothing is complete and whole; for this is how we define the whole — that from which nothing is absent, a whole man, say, or a whole box. And just as this holds for a particular case, so it holds strictly in general: the whole is that outside of which there is nothing, while that from which something is absent is not a whole, whatever it is that is missing. Whole and complete are either exactly the same in nature or close to it. And nothing is complete that has no end, and the end is a limit. This is why one should think Parmenides spoke better than Melissus: for the one says the infinite is whole, while the other says the whole is limited, "equally balanced from the middle."
27| For the infinite is not, so to speak, thread joined to thread with the all and the whole — even though it is precisely from this that people derive their reverence for the infinite, the idea that it contains all things and holds the universe within itself, because it bears a certain resemblance to the whole. For the infinite is the matter belonging to the completeness of magnitude, and is the whole potentially, not actually; it is divisible both by reduction and by the addition that is the inverse of that; and it is whole and finite not in its own right but in virtue of something else. And it does not contain but is contained, insofar as it is infinite. This is also why it is unknowable insofar as it is infinite: for matter has no form. So it is clear that the infinite falls under the account of a part rather than of a whole — for matter is a part of the whole, as bronze is a part of the bronze statue. Since, if the infinite really did contain things in the case of perceptible objects, then in the case of intelligible objects the great and the small would have to contain the intelligible objects too. But it is absurd and impossible for what is unknowable and indeterminate to contain and to define what is determinate.
28| It also follows, reasonably enough, that the infinite by addition does not seem to exist in such a way as to exceed every magnitude, while the infinite by division does exist (for matter and the infinite are contained within, while form contains). And it is also reasonable that in the case of number there is a limit toward the least, while toward the greater it always exceeds every plurality, whereas with magnitudes the opposite holds: toward the smaller it exceeds every magnitude, but toward the larger there is no infinite magnitude. The cause is that the one is indivisible, whatever the thing is that is one — one man, for instance, is one man and not many — whereas number is a plurality of ones, some determinate number of them, so that it is necessary to stop at the indivisible (for "three" and "two" are derivative terms, and likewise each of the other numbers), while toward the greater it is always possible to think further, since the bisections of a magnitude are infinite. So it exists potentially, not actually, but what is taken always exceeds every determinate plurality. But this number is not separable, nor does the infinity remain fixed — rather it comes to be, just as time also does, and the number belonging to time.
29| But with magnitudes it is the opposite: the continuous is divided into infinite parts, but toward the greater there is no infinite. For whatever amount is possible potentially, that same amount is also possible actually. So since no perceptible magnitude is infinite, it is not possible for there to be an excess over every determinate magnitude — for then there would be something greater than the heavens. But the infinite is not the same thing in magnitude, in motion, and in time, as though it were a single nature; rather the later is spoken of in accordance with the earlier — motion is called infinite, for instance, because the magnitude over which something moves, or alters, or grows is infinite, and time is called infinite on account of motion. For now, then, we are simply using these terms; later we will also say what each of them is, and why every magnitude is divisible into magnitudes. This account does not take away the mathematicians' study either, by doing away with the infinite in the sense that would make it actually exist so as to be inexhaustible in growth. For they have no need of the infinite even now — they make no use of it — but only need there to be a finite magnitude as large as they wish; and any other magnitude whatever, however large, can be cut in the same ratio as the greatest magnitude. So, as far as proving their results goes, whether the infinite actually occurs among real magnitudes changes nothing for them.
30| Since the causes have been divided four ways, it is clear that the infinite is a cause as matter, and that while its being consists in privation, its substrate in its own right is the continuous and the perceptible. All the others, too, evidently treat the infinite as matter; that is why it is also strange to make it the container rather than something contained.
31| It remains to go through the arguments by which the infinite seems to exist not only potentially but as something determinate. Some of them are not compelling, while others admit certain other, true answers. For it is not necessary, in order that coming-to-be should not run short, that there be a perceptible body infinite in actuality; for it is possible for the destruction of one thing to be the coming-to-be of another, the whole being finite. Again, being in contact and being finite are different things. For contact is relative to something and of something (for everything that is in contact is in contact with something), and belongs accidentally to some finite things, whereas the finite is not itself relative to something; nor can just anything be in contact with just anything. And it is strange to put one's trust in thinking here; for the excess and the deficiency lie not in the thing but in the thinking. For one might conceive of each of us as many times larger than we are, increasing us to infinity; but it does not follow from this that anyone is outside the size he actually has because someone thinks it, but because he actually is that size — the thinking of it is merely accidental. But time and motion are infinite, and so is the process of thinking, without what is taken persisting. Magnitude, however, is not infinite either by division or by increase in thought. As for the infinite, then — how it exists, how it does not exist, and what it is — this has been stated.
1| Physics, Book 4. Likewise the student of nature must also know about place, just as about the infinite — whether it exists or not, and how it exists, and what it is. For everyone supposes that the things that are, are somewhere (since what is not is nowhere — for where is a goat-stag or a sphinx?); and of motion, the most common and most fundamental kind is motion with respect to place, which we call locomotion. But there are many puzzles as to what place actually is; for it does not appear to be the same thing to those who survey it in the light of all the relevant facts. Moreover, we have nothing handed down from others, either previously raised as a difficulty or previously worked out, concerning it.
2| That place exists, then, seems to be clear from mutual replacement: where water now is, there air is present in turn once the water has gone out, as if from a vessel, and at other times some other body occupies this same place; and this place seems to be different from all the things that come to be in it and change. For in the place where air now is, water previously was, so that it is clear that place is something, and that the region is different from both — the region into which and out of which they changed. Further, the movements of the natural and simple bodies, such as fire and earth and the like, show not only that place is something, but also that it has a certain power. For each of them, when not prevented, is carried to its own place, one up and the other down; and these — the up and the down and the rest of the six directions — are parts and kinds of place. And such things are not only relative to us — the up and down and right and left. For to us they are not always the same, but come about according to our position, however we turn (which is why the same thing is often right and left, up and down, in front and behind); but in nature each is marked off separately.
3| For up is not just whatever happens to be up, but where fire and what is light are carried; and likewise down is not just whatever happens to be down, but where the things that have weight and the earthy things are carried — since up and down differ not only in position but also in power. Mathematical objects also make this clear: for although they are not in place, they nevertheless have right and left relative to their position toward us, since these are said to belong to them only by position, none of them possessing such a thing by nature. Further, those who assert that the void exists call it place; for the void would be place deprived of body. That place, then, is something over and above bodies, and that every perceptible body is in place, one might suppose from these considerations. And Hesiod too might seem to speak rightly in making chaos come first. At any rate he says, "First of all things chaos came to be, but then next, wide-bosomed earth," as though room had to exist first for the things that are, because he supposed, like most people, that everything is somewhere and in a place. And if this is so, the power of place would be something remarkable, and prior to all other things; for that without which none of the other things can exist, while it itself can exist without the others, must be first; for place does not perish along with the things in it that perish.
4| Still, it does present a puzzle, if it exists, what it is — whether it is some bulk of body or some other nature. For its genus must be sought first. Now it has three dimensions, length and width and depth, by which every body is bounded. But it is impossible for place to be a body; for then two bodies would be in the same place. Further, if there is a place and a region for a body, clearly there is also one for a surface and for the remaining limits; for the same account will fit them — for where the planes of the water were before, there in turn will be the planes of the air. But then again we have no way of distinguishing a point from the place of a point, so that if place is not different even from this, it is not different from any of the others either, nor is place anything over and above each of these. For what, then, could we ever suppose place to be? For, having such a nature, it cannot be either an element or composed out of elements, whether corporeal or incorporeal; for it has magnitude, but is no body — and while the elements of perceptible things are bodies, no magnitude arises out of intelligible things. And further, of what could one posit place to be the cause for the things that are? For none of the four causes belongs to it —
5| for it is neither as matter of the things that are (since nothing is composed out of it), nor as the form and definition of things, nor as an end; nor does it move the things that are. Further, if it itself is one of the things that are, where will it be? For Zeno's puzzle calls for some account: if everything that is is in a place, clearly there will also be a place of the place, and this to infinity. Again, just as every body is in a place, so too in every place there is a body. How then shall we speak about things that grow? For it is necessary, from these premises, that the place grow along with them, if the place of each thing is neither smaller nor larger than it. Through these considerations, then, it is necessary to be puzzled not only about what place is, but even about whether it is.
6| Since one thing is said in its own right, and another in virtue of something else, and place too is in one sense common — the place in which all bodies are — and in another sense proper, namely the primary place in which a thing is (I mean, for example, that you are now in the heavens because you are in the air, and this in the heavens, and you are in the air because you are on the earth, and likewise on the earth because you are in this particular place, which encloses nothing more than you) — if, then, place is the primary thing that encloses each of the bodies, it would be a kind of limit, so that it would seem that the form and the shape of each thing is its place, that by which the magnitude is bounded, and the matter of the magnitude; for this is the limit of each thing. Looked at in this way, then, place is the form of each thing; but insofar as place seems to be the extension of the magnitude, it is the matter; for this is different from the magnitude, and this is what is enclosed and bounded by the form, as by a plane and a limit, and matter and the indeterminate are of this sort; for when the limit and the affections of the sphere are taken away, nothing is left beside the matter. This is why Plato too, in the Timaeus, says that matter and space are the same thing; for the participant and space are one and the same. But though he speaks of the participant in one way there and in another way in his so-called unwritten doctrines, he nevertheless declared place and space to be the same thing. For everyone says that place is something, but he alone attempted to say what it is.
7| It is reasonable, then, that to those examining the question on these grounds it should seem difficult to recognize what place is, if it is indeed either of these two — either the matter or the form; for in any case this requires the most acute observation, and it is not easy to recognize them apart from one another. But that place cannot be either of these two, at any rate, is not hard to see. For the form and the matter are not separated from the thing, but place admits of being separated; for in the place where air was, water in turn comes to be, as we said, the water and the air changing places with one another, and likewise with the other bodies too, so that the place of each thing is neither a part nor a state of it, but is separable. Indeed place does seem to be something of the sort that a vessel is — for a vessel is a portable place — but the vessel is nothing that belongs to the thing. Insofar, then, as it is separable from the thing, in this respect it is not the form; and insofar as it encloses the thing, in this respect it is different from the matter. And it always seems that what is, is somewhere, being itself something and also something else outside itself. (One must say to Plato, however, if we may digress to say so, why the forms and the numbers are not in place, if the participant is place — whether the participant is the great and the small, or the matter, as he wrote in the Timaeus.) Further, how could a thing be carried to its own place, if place is the matter or the form?
8| For it is impossible for that in which there is no motion, and no up or down, to be place. So place must be sought among things of this sort. But if place is in the thing itself (and it must be, if it is either shape or matter), then place will be in a place; for the form and the indeterminate change and move together with the thing, not always being in the same place, but wherever the thing is — so that there will be a place of the place. Further, when water comes to be from air, the place has perished; for the resulting body is not in the same place. What, then, is this perishing? We have now stated the grounds requiring that place be something, together with the grounds that would leave its essence open to doubt.
9| After this we must grasp in how many ways one thing is said to be in another. In one way, as the finger is in the hand, and generally the part in the whole. In another way, as the whole is in its parts; for the whole is not something beside the parts. In another way, as man is in animal, and generally species in genus. In another way, as the genus is in the species, and generally the part of the species is in the definition. Further, as health is in what is hot and cold, and generally the form is in the matter. Further, as the affairs of the Greeks are in the king, and generally as effects are in their primary moving cause. Further, as something is in the good, and generally as it is in the end; and this is the that-for-the-sake-of-which. But the most proper sense of all is as something is in a vessel, and generally as a thing is in place. One might be puzzled whether it is even possible for a thing to be in itself, or whether nothing is, but everything is either nowhere or in something else. This is so in two ways, either in its own right or in virtue of something else. For when the thing in which something is and the thing that is in it are parts of a whole, then the whole will be said to be in itself;
10| for a thing is also called something in respect of its parts, as it is called white because its surface is white, and knowledgeable because its rational part is knowledgeable. So the jar itself will not be in itself, nor will the wine be in itself; but the jar-of-wine will be in itself; for both the containing thing and that which is in it are parts of the same whole. In this way, then, it is possible for a thing to be in itself, but not primarily. For example, the white is in a body — for the surface is in a body — and knowledge is in a soul; and it is in virtue of these, as parts, that such designations apply, as indeed is the case in a man (whereas the jar and the wine, taken apart, are not parts, but taken together they are; hence, when they are parts, the thing will be in itself). For example, the white is in a man because it is in his body, and in this because it is in the surface; but in the surface it is no longer there in virtue of anything else. And these — the surface and the white — are different in kind, and each has a different nature and power. So, whether we look at the matter inductively, we see nothing that is in itself under any of these distinctions, and by argument too it is clear that it is impossible; for it would be necessary for each of the two to have both characters, for instance for the jar to be both a vessel and wine, and for the wine to be both wine and a jar, if indeed it is possible for a thing to be in itself.
11| So that even if they were, as far as possible, in one another, the jar would receive the wine not insofar as it is itself wine but insofar as the other thing is wine, and the wine would be in the jar not insofar as it is itself a jar but insofar as the other thing is a jar. That they are different, then, in respect of their being, is clear; for the account of the container and the account of the thing contained are different. But indeed it is not possible either, even accidentally; for then two things would be in the same thing at once; for the jar itself would be in itself, if that whose nature it is to receive something can be in itself, and further that which it receives as well — for instance, if it receives wine, the wine too. That it is impossible, then, for anything to be in itself primarily, is clear. As for the puzzle Zeno raised — that if place is something, it will be in something — this is not hard to resolve; for nothing prevents the primary place from being in something else, not, however, as being in a place in that thing, but just as health is in what is hot as a state, while the hot is in a body as an affection. So there is no necessity of going on to infinity. But this much is evident: since the vessel is nothing that belongs to the thing in it — for what is in something primarily and that in which it is are different — place would be neither the matter nor the form, but something else; for these, the matter and the shape, belong to that which is in the place. Let these points, then, stand as having been set out as puzzles.
12| What place is will become clear in the following way. Let us take up, concerning it, all the things that seem truly to belong to it in its own right. We hold, then, that place is, first, what contains that of which it is the place, and is nothing that belongs to the thing itself; further, that the primary place is neither less nor greater than the thing; further, that it is left behind by each thing and is separable; and besides these, that every place has an up and a down, and that each of the bodies is carried by nature to, and remains in, its own proper places, and that it does this either upward or downward. With these laid down, we must examine what remains. And the inquiry should be conducted in such a way that the what-it-is will be given, so that the puzzles will be resolved, the things that seem to belong to place will turn out to belong to it, and further the cause of the difficulty and of the puzzles about it will become clear; for in this way each point would be shown to best effect. First, then, we must understand that place would not have been sought if there were no motion with respect to place; and it is for this reason, above all, that we think the heaven is in a place, because it is always in motion. Of this motion, one kind is locomotion, another is growth and decay;
13| for indeed in growth and decay a thing changes, and what was previously here has now shifted into something smaller or larger. And of things that move, some move in their own right, in actuality, others accidentally; and of the things that move accidentally, some are capable of moving in their own right, for example the parts of the body and the nail in a ship, while others are not capable of it but always move accidentally, for example whiteness and knowledge — for these have changed place in this way, because the things in which they are present change place. Now since we say that a thing is, as it were, in a place, in the heaven, because it is in the air, and this in turn is in the heaven; and it is not in the whole of the air either, but we say it is in the air on account of the outer limit of the air that contains it (for if the whole air were its place, the place of a thing and the thing itself would not be equal, though the place is thought to be equal, and the primary place in which a thing is, is of this sort) — so then, whenever the containing thing is not divided off but continuous, the contained thing is said to be in it not as in a place, but as a part in a whole; but whenever the containing thing is divided off and in contact, the contained thing is in the primary limit of the container, which is neither a part of the thing in it nor greater than its extension, but equal to it;
14| for the limits of things in contact are in the same place. And when a thing is continuous with its container, it does not move in it but along with it, whereas when it is divided off, it moves in it; and this holds no less whether the container is moving or not. From this, then, it is already clear what place is. For there are, roughly, four things of which place must be one: either shape, or matter, or some extension between the limits, or the limits themselves, if there is no extension over and above the magnitude of the body that comes to be in it. Now it is clear that three of these cannot be place; but because it contains, shape is thought to be place, since the limits of the containing thing and of the contained thing are in the same place. Both, then, are limits, but not of the same thing: rather, the one is the form of the thing, the other is the place of the containing body. And because the contained and divided-off thing often changes while the containing thing remains — as water flows out of a vessel — the intervening extension is thought to be something, as if it were something over and above the body that shifts. But it is not; rather, whatever body happens to be among those that shift and are naturally in contact falls into it. And if there were some extension that was by nature fixed and remained, there would be infinitely many places in the same place (for as the water and the air shift, all the parts within the whole would do the same thing that the whole water does within the vessel);
15| and at the same time the place itself would be changing, so that there would be another place of the place, and there would be many places at once. But the place of the part in which it moves is not different when the whole vessel shifts, but the same; for within that in which it is, the air and the water, or the parts of the water, exchange places with each other, but not within the place in which they come to be, which is a part of the place that is the place of the whole heaven. And matter, too, might seem to be place, if one considered a thing that is at rest and not divided off but continuous. For just as, if something is altered, there is something that is now white though formerly black, and now hard though formerly soft (and this is why we say matter is something), so too place is thought to be something on account of some such appearance — except that in the former case it is because what was air is now water, whereas in the case of place it is because where there was air, there is now water in that same place. But matter, as was said earlier, is neither separable from the thing nor does it contain it, whereas place does both. If, then, place is none of the three —
16| the form, the matter, or some extension that always exists as something distinct from that of the thing that shifts — then place must be the remaining one of the four: the limit of the containing body at which it is in contact with the contained body. By the contained body I mean the body that is capable of locomotion. Place seems to be something great and difficult to grasp, both because matter and shape are made to appear together with it, and because the shifting of the moving thing takes place while the containing thing is at rest; for it appears possible that there is some other extension between the moving magnitudes. The air, too, since it is thought to be incorporeal, contributes something to this; for it appears that place is not only the limits of the vessel, but also the space between them, as if it were void. And just as the vessel is a place that can be carried about, so too place is a vessel that cannot be moved. And this is why, when a thing moves and its contents change within something that is itself moving, as a ship on a river, it uses that as a vessel rather than as the place that contains it. But place wants to be unmoved; and this is why it is rather the whole river that is place, because the whole is unmoved. So the primary unmoved limit of the containing body — this is place.
17| And this is why the center of the heaven, and the limit of the circular motion that faces us, are thought by everyone, most properly of all, to be down and up respectively: because the one always remains, while the limit of the circular motion, though it revolves, remains the same in its condition. So then, since the light is what is by nature carried upward, and the heavy what is carried downward, the containing limit toward the center is down, and so is the center itself, while the limit toward the outer boundary is up, and so is the outer boundary itself. And this is why place is thought to be a kind of plane, and, as it were, a vessel and something that contains. Further, place is together with the thing; for the limits are together with the thing that is bounded.
18| A body that has some other body outside it, containing it, is in place; one that does not is not. This is why, even if water were to become such a thing, its parts will be in motion (for they are contained by one another), while the whole is in one way in motion and in another way not. For as a whole it does not change its place all at once, but it moves in a circle — for this is the place of its parts — and some things move neither up nor down but only in a circle, while others move both up and down, namely those that have condensation and rarefaction. And as was said, some things are in place potentially, others actually. So when the homogeneous thing is continuous, its parts are in place potentially; but when it is divided yet still in contact, like a heap, they are in place actually. And some things are in place in their own right (every body, for instance, that is movable either by locomotion or by growth is in some place in its own right; but the heaven, as has been said, is not as a whole anywhere, nor in any place at all, given that no body contains it — though in respect of that in which it moves, in that respect there is a place for its parts, since one part of it is next to another);
19| while other things are in place accidentally — for example the soul, and the heaven. For all the parts of the heaven are in some sense in place, since on the circle each part contains another. This is why the upper part moves in a circle, while the whole is not anywhere. For what is somewhere is itself something, and there must further be something else beside it, in which it is, that contains it; but beside the universe and the whole there is nothing outside the whole, and this is why all things are in the heaven — for the heaven, presumably, is the universe. But place is not the heaven, but a certain limit of the heaven, the part that touches the movable body. This is why earth is in water, water is in air, air is in aether, and aether is in the heaven — but the heaven is no longer in anything else. And it is clear from this that also
20| the puzzles would all be resolved if place is spoken of in this way. For place need not grow along with the thing that is in it, nor is there a place of a point, nor are there two bodies in the same place, nor is there any bodily interval (for whatever body happens to lie between the limits of a place is a body, not a bodily interval). And place is also somewhere, though not as being in a place, but as a limit is in what is limited — for not everything that is, is in place, but only the movable body. And indeed it is reasonable that each thing is carried to its own place: for what is next to something and in contact with it without force is akin to it; and things that have grown together are unaffected by one another, while things that are merely in contact are affected by and act on one another. And it is not without reason that each thing by nature stays in its proper place; for the part too — the part that is in place stands to the whole as a divisible part stands to it, as when someone sets in motion a portion of water or of air. And air stands to water in the same way: the one is, so to speak, matter, the other form; water is matter for air, and air is, as it were, a kind of actuality of water, since water is potentially air, and air is potentially water, in another way. These matters must be determined more precisely later; but for the present occasion something must be said, even if what is said now is unclear and will be clearer then. If, then, the same thing is both matter and realization (for both are water, but the one potentially and the other in realization), it would stand as a sort of part to the whole. This is why there is contact between them; and there is organic union when both come to be actually one. And about place, both that it is and what it is, we have now spoken.
22| In the same way it must be supposed to belong to the student of nature to examine the void as well — whether it exists or not, and how it exists, and what it is — just as with place. For the subject involves a similar mix of distrust and credence, based on what people assume. Those who assert it treat the void as a kind of place or container, and a thing seems to be full when it holds the bulk it is receptive of, and void when it is deprived of that — as though the void, the full, and place were the same thing, though what it is to be each of them is not the same. We must begin the inquiry by taking up what those who say it exists claim, and again what those who deny it claim, and third, the common opinions held about it. Now those who try to show that it does not exist do not refute what people actually mean by 'void'; they speak mistakenly — as do Anaxagoras and those who refute it in his manner. For they show that air is something by twisting wineskins and demonstrating how strong the air is, and by trapping it in water-clocks. But what people mean by void is an interval in which there is no perceptible body; and since they suppose that everything that is, is body, they say that whatever contains nothing at all is void, and hence that what is full of air is void. So what needs to be shown is not that air is something, but that there is no interval distinct from bodies — neither one that is separable nor one that actually exists — which divides the whole body up so that it is not continuous, as Democritus and Leucippus and many other natural philosophers say; nor, for that matter, whether there is anything outside the whole body, given that it is continuous.
23| These thinkers, then, do not come at the problem by the front door,
24| but rather those who assert that it exists do. They say, first, that there could be no motion with respect to place (that is, locomotion and growth); for motion would not seem to be possible unless there were void, since what is full cannot possibly receive anything. But if it can receive something, so that two things are in the same place at once, then any number whatsoever of bodies could be together at once — for one cannot state the difference by which this would fail to hold. And if this is possible, then even the smallest thing will receive the largest, since a large thing is many small things; so that if many equal things can be in the same place, so can many unequal ones. Melissus, then, actually uses these considerations to show that the universe is unmoved: for if it were to move, he says, there would have to be void, and void is not among the things that are. From these facts, then, they establish the existence of void in one way; in a second way, from the fact that certain things visibly draw together and grow denser — they say, for example, that storage jars take up the wine along with their skins, on the ground that a body, as it grows compact, gathers into the voids it already contains. Again, growth too is thought by everyone to occur through the void, since nourishment is a body, and it is impossible for two bodies to be in the same place at once. And they offer as evidence what happens with ash, which takes in as much water as the empty vessel does. The Pythagoreans, too, said that void exists, and that it enters the heaven itself out of the boundless breath, on the ground that the heaven, as it were, breathes it in; and that the void marks off natures, as though the void were a kind of separation and differentiation of things that stand in a row — and that this is found first of all among the numbers, since the void marks off their nature. Such, roughly, and so many, are the grounds on which some say that void exists and others deny it.
25| To settle the question either way, we need to grasp what the name means. The void is thought to be a place in which there is nothing. The reason for this is that people suppose what exists to be body, and every body to be in a place, and a void to be a place in which there is no body, so that if there is somewhere no body, there is nothing there. Again, they suppose every body to be tangible, and a thing is of this sort if it has weight or lightness. It follows, then, by syllogism, that this is void in which there is nothing heavy or light. So these conclusions, as we said before too, follow by syllogism. But it would be absurd if a point were void; for there must be a place in which there is an interval of tangible body. Still, the void is evidently spoken of in one way as what is not full of perceptible body in respect of touch — and a thing is perceptible in respect of touch if it has weight or lightness (hence one might also raise the puzzle: what would people say if the interval had color or sound — void or not? Surely it is clear that if it admits tangible body, it is void, and if not, it is not) — and in another way as that in which there is no this-something, nor any bodily substance. That is why some say the void is the matter of body (the same people who also say this about place), speaking incorrectly; for matter is not separable from the things it belongs to, whereas the void they seek is something separable.
26| Now since we have determined the account of place, and the void must
27| be a place, if it exists, deprived of body — and since we have said both how place exists and how it does not — it is clear that in this sense the void does not exist, neither as separated nor as unseparated. For the void is not a body, but is meant to be an interval of body; that is also why the void seems to be something, because place does too, and for the same reasons. For indeed, motion with respect to place lends support both to those who say that place is something over and above the bodies that occupy it, and to those who say the void is. They suppose the void to be a cause of motion in this way, as that in which motion occurs; and this would be the sort of thing that some say place is. But there is no necessity, if motion exists, that void should exist. This holds not at all for motion in general — which is why it escaped Melissus's notice too; for the full can undergo alteration. But it does not even hold for motion with respect to place; for it is possible for things to give way to one another simultaneously, there being no separate interval over and above the bodies that are moved. This is clear too in the rotations of continuous bodies, as also in those of liquids. And it is possible for a thing to become denser not into the void but through the squeezing out of what is contained in it (as when water is compressed, it squeezes out the air contained in it), and to grow not only by something entering it but also by alteration, as when air comes to be out of water. And in general, the argument about growth and about the water poured into ashes gets in its own way. For either nothing grows, or not by body, or it is possible for two bodies to be in the same place (in which case they are trying to solve a common puzzle, but are not showing that void exists), or it is necessary that the whole body be void, if it grows in every part and grows through void. The same argument applies also to the case of the ashes. It is clear, then, that it is easy to refute the void from the very grounds on which they show it exists.
28| Let us say again why there is no void that is separate in this way, as some claim. For if each of the simple bodies has by nature some motion — fire, for instance, upward, and earth downward and toward the middle — clearly the void would not be a cause of motion. Of what, then, will the void be a cause? It is thought to be a cause of motion with respect to place, but it is not the cause of this. Again, if there is something like a place deprived of body, when it is void, where will a body placed into it be carried? Surely not into all of it. The same argument applies also against those who suppose place to be something separate, into which a thing is carried; for how will the thing placed into it be carried, or will it remain at rest? And the same argument will fit reasonably both the case of up and down and the case of the void; for those who claim the void exists make it a place. And how, then, will a thing be present, either in a place or in the void? For it does not turn out so when a whole is placed as if in a separate and persisting place — some body; for the part, if it is not placed separately, will not be in a place but in the whole. Again, if there is no place, there will be no void either.
29| But for those who say the void exists as something necessary, if there is to be motion, the opposite turns out to be the case instead, if one examines it: it is not even possible for a single thing to move, if there is a void. For just as those who say the earth is at rest because of its uniformity say this, so too in the void a thing must be at rest; for there is no place where it will move more or less, since insofar as it is void, it admits no differentiation. Next, every motion is either forced or in accordance with nature. And if the forced motion exists, the natural motion must exist too (for forced motion is contrary to nature, and what is contrary to nature is posterior to what is in accordance with nature); so that if there is no motion in accordance with nature for each of the natural bodies, none of the other motions will exist either. But then how will there be motion in accordance with nature, when there is no differentiation at all in respect of the void, any more than in the infinite? For insofar as it is infinite, there will be no up, no down, no middle; and insofar as it is void, up is no different from down (for just as there is no differentiation in what is nothing, so too in the void; for the void is thought to be a kind of not-being, and a privation). But motion in accordance with nature is differentiated, so that there will be natural differentiations. Either, then, there is nowhere by nature any motion for anything, or, if this is so, there is no void.
30| Again, as things stand, projectiles keep moving after the thing that threw them is no longer touching them, either because of mutual replacement, as some say, or because the air that has been pushed pushes the projectile with a motion faster than the natural motion by which the projectile is carried to its proper place; but in the void none of this can occur, nor will anything be carried except as what is merely conveyed along. Again, no one could say why a thing once moved will come to rest anywhere; for why here rather than there? So it will either remain at rest, or it must be carried on to infinity, unless something stronger gets in its way. Again, currently a thing is thought to move into the void because it yields; but in the void this holds everywhere alike, so that it will be carried in every direction. Further, what has been said is clear from the following considerations as well.
31| For we see the same weight, that is, the same body, carried faster for two reasons: either because the medium through which it moves differs, as through water or earth, or through water or air, or because the moving body itself differs, other things being equal, on account of an excess of weight or of lightness. Now the medium through which a thing moves is a cause of this because it impedes — most of all if it moves in the opposite direction, but also if it simply remains at rest; and what is not easily divided impedes more, and the thicker medium is of this kind. Let A, then, be carried through B in a time C, and through D, which is thinner, in a time E, if the length of B is equal to that of D, in proportion to the impeding body. Let B be water and D be air; then by as much as air is thinner than water and less bodily, by that much A will be carried faster through D than through B. Let the speed to the speed, then, have the same ratio as air has to water. So that if air is twice as thin, A will traverse the distance B in twice the time it takes to traverse the distance D, and the time C will be double the time E.
32| And always, indeed, the more incorporeal, less obstructive, and more easily divisible the medium through which a thing is carried, the faster it will be carried. But the void has no ratio by which it is exceeded by body, just as nothing has no ratio to a number. For if four exceeds three by one, and exceeds two by more, and exceeds one by more still than it exceeds two, yet it no longer has a ratio by which it exceeds nothing; for the excessive term must be divided into the excess and the thing exceeded, so that four will be both the amount by which it exceeds and nothing. That is why a line does not exceed a point either, unless it is composed of points. Likewise the void can have no ratio at all to the full, and so neither can motion through the one have a ratio to motion through the other; rather, if a body is carried a given distance in a given time through the thinnest medium, then through the void it exceeds every ratio. For let
33| Ζ be a void, equal to Β and to Δ. Now if Α passes through it and is moved in a certain time — the time designated Η — and in less time than the one designated Ε, then the void will bear to the full this same ratio, namely that of Η to Ε. But in as much time as Η, Α passes through Θ of Δ. And indeed it would also pass through some body differing in fineness from Δ, one bearing to Δ the ratio which the time designated Ε bears to the time designated Η. For if the body is thinner than Δ by as much as Ε exceeds Η, then Α, moving in inverse proportion to its speed, will pass through the distance in as much time as Η, if it is carried through it. If, then, there is no body at all in Ζ, it will be carried through still faster. But it was assumed to be carried through in the time Η. So it will pass through an equal distance in an equal time whether the medium is full or void. But that is impossible. It is clear, then, that if there is any time in which a body will be carried through any part of the void, this impossibility will follow: for it will turn out that the same distance is passed through in an equal time whether the medium is full or void, since there will be some body bearing to another body the ratio that one time bears to another time. To put it briefly, the cause of this outcome is plain: between any motion and any motion there is a ratio, since each is in time, and between any two finite times there is a ratio — but between void and full there is none.
34| This, then, is what follows in respect of the difference between the media through which things are carried; but in respect of the excess of the things carried, the following holds. For we see that things having a greater tendency, whether of weight or of lightness, if everything else is alike, are carried faster over an equal distance, and in the ratio that their magnitudes bear to one another. So it would also be through the void. But that is impossible: for what cause will make it carried faster? In full media it is of necessity so, since the greater body divides faster by its strength — for it divides either by its shape, or by the impulse that the moving or thrown thing possesses; so in the void all things will move at equal speed. But that is impossible. It is clear, then, from what has been said, that if there is a void, the opposite follows from what those who assert that there is a void mean to establish. Now some think that the void exists, if there is to be motion with respect to place, as something separated in its own right; but this is the same as saying that place is something separate — and that this is impossible has been said already.
35| And if one examines it in its own right, what is called the void would appear to be a void in truth. For just as, if one puts a cube in water, as much water is displaced as the cube's size, so too in air — though this is imperceptible to sense. And indeed, always in every body capable of displacement, wherever it naturally shifts to, it is necessary, unless it is compressed together, that it be displaced — either always downward, if its motion is downward as with earth, or upward, if it is fire, or in both directions, whatever the thing inserted may be. But in the void this is impossible, since there is no body there; rather, an equal interval has been passed through by way of the cube, the very interval that was there before in the void — as if the water were not displaced by the wooden cube, nor the air either, but they passed everywhere straight through it. But surely the cube has just as much magnitude as the void it occupies; and this magnitude, even if it is hot or cold or heavy or light, is nonetheless something different in being from all these affections, even if it is not separable from them — I mean the bulk of the wooden cube. So that even if it were separated from all the others and were neither heavy nor light, it will occupy an equal void and will be in the same place both as the place and as the portion of void equal to itself.
36| What, then, will distinguish the body of the cube from an equal void and place? And if two such things can occupy the same place, why will not any number whatever be in the same place? This, then, is one absurd and impossible consequence. Further, it is clear that the cube, even when it shifts elsewhere, will retain this bulk, which all the other bodies also have. So if it differs in no way from place, why must we posit a place for bodies beyond each thing's own bulk, if the bulk is unaffected? For nothing is gained if some other, equal interval of this sort surrounds it. That there is, then, no separated void is clear from these considerations.
37| There are some who think it is evident, from the rare and the dense, that there is a void. For if there is no rare and dense, then it is not possible for things to condense and be compressed either; and if this were not possible, then either there will be no motion at all, or the whole heaven will bulge outward, as Xuthus said, or air and water must always change into an equal amount of each other — I mean, for example, that if air has come to be from a ladleful of water, an equal amount of water must at the same time have come to be from an equal amount of air — or else there must, of necessity, be a void; for it is not possible for things to be compressed and to expand in any other way. Now if by 'rare' they mean that which has many separated voids in it, it is clear that, if it is no more possible for a void to exist separately than for place to have an interval of its own, then the rare cannot exist in this way either. But if it is not separate, and yet some void is nonetheless present in it, this is less impossible — but the consequence is, first, that the void is not the cause of every motion but only of upward motion (for the rare is light, which is why they also say fire is rare); and next, that the void is a cause of motion not in the way of that in which motion occurs, but rather — just as wineskins, by being carried upward themselves, carry along with them what is attached to them — so the void carries things upward. And yet how can there be motion of a void, or a place of a void? For a void of a void results — the very thing it moves into. Further, how will they account for a heavy thing's moving downward? And it is clear that if a thing is carried upward in proportion as it is rarer and more void, then, if it were void outright, it would be carried upward fastest of all. But perhaps it too is incapable of being moved — the argument being the same as the one showing that, just as all things are motionless in the void, so the void itself is motionless; for speeds through it are incommensurable.
38| But since we say there is no void, while the other difficulties raised are genuine — namely, that either there will be no motion, if there is to be no condensation and rarefaction, or the heavens will bulge outward, or an equal amount of water must always come to be from air, and air from water (for it is clear that more air comes to be from water) — it is necessary, then, if there is no compression, either that the outermost adjoining part, being pushed outward, causes the whole to bulge, or that, somewhere else, an equal amount of water changes from air, so that the whole bulk of the universe remains equal, or that nothing moves at all — for this will always result from something being displaced, unless it goes round in a circle; and motion is not always circular, but also rectilinear. For these reasons, then, some would say there is some void. But we say, on the basis of what has been laid down, that there is a single matter underlying the contraries — hot and cold and the other natural contrarieties — and that what exists in actuality comes to be out of what exists potentially; and that matter is not separable, though it is different in being, and is one in number, it may be, for color and for hot and for cold. And there is matter also for body, both large and
39| ...is the same as that of the small. This is clear: when air comes to be from water, the same matter has come to be air without taking on anything else in addition; rather, what was potentially air has become actually air. And again water comes from air in the same way, sometimes changing from smallness to greatness, sometimes from greatness to smallness. So likewise, when a large quantity of air comes to occupy a smaller bulk, and a smaller quantity becomes larger, it is the matter existing potentially that becomes both. For just as the matter that becomes hot from cold, and cold from hot, is the same matter, because it was potentially hot or cold, so too the matter that becomes hotter from hot is the same: nothing has come to be hot in the matter that was not already hot when it was less hot. It is just the same as with the curvature and convexity of a larger circle when it becomes that of a smaller circle, whether the curvature is the same or different: in no case has the convex come to be in something that was not convex but straight (for the more and the less do not come about through any discontinuity). Nor is it possible to take any magnitude of flame in which heat and whiteness are not both present. So too, then, is the earlier heat related to the later heat. Hence both the largeness and the smallness of the perceptible bulk are extended not because the matter has taken on anything additional, but because the matter is potentially both. So the dense and the rare are the same matter, and there is one matter for both. The dense is heavy, and the rare is light. For there are two things involved in each, in the dense and in the rare: the heavy and the hard both seem to be dense, and their opposites, the light and the soft, seem to be rare; but the heavy and the hard come apart from each other in the case of lead and iron.
40| Given the points just established, no void exists as a separated thing — not unqualifiedly, not within the rare, and not even potentially — unless someone insists on using 'void', in every application of the word, for whatever causes locomotion. In that sense the matter of the heavy and the light, insofar as it is such, would be the void. For the dense and the rare, in respect of this opposition, are productive of locomotion, but in respect of the hard and the soft they are productive of being affected and not being affected, and of alteration rather than locomotion. Let this, then, be our determination about the void — in what sense it exists and in what sense it does not. Following what has been said, the next thing is to go through the subject of time. It is well, first, to work through the puzzles about it, using the arguments from outside as well, as to whether it belongs among the things that are or among the things that are not, and then what its nature is. That it either does not exist at all, or barely and dimly, one might suspect from the following. Part of it has been and is not; part is going to be and is not yet. And both infinite time and time taken in any given case are composed out of these. But what is composed out of things that are not would seem to be incapable of sharing in substance.
41| Besides this, of everything divisible, if it exists, it is necessary, when it exists, that either all its parts exist or some of them. But of time, though it is divisible, part has been and part is going to be, and none of it exists. The now is not a part; for a part measures the whole, and the whole must be composed out of its parts — but time does not seem to be composed out of nows. Further, it is not easy to see whether the now, which appears to mark the boundary between the past and the future, always remains one and the same, or is always different. For if it is always different and different, and no two of the different parts within time exist together at once (except where one does not include the other, but is included by it, as the lesser time is included by the greater), then the now, since it does not exist now but existed before, must have perished at some point, and the nows will not exist together with one another — the earlier one must always have perished. Now it cannot have perished in itself, because it existed then; but it is not possible for the earlier now to have perished in another, later now. For let it be granted that it is impossible for nows to be next to one another, just as a point cannot be next to a point. If, then, it has not perished in the next now but in some other one, it would exist at once together with the nows in between, which are infinite in number —
42| but this is impossible. But then again, neither is it possible for it to remain always the same; for nothing divisible and finite has a single limit, whether it is continuous in one direction or in several — but the now is a limit, and it is possible to take a finite stretch of time. Further, if being simultaneous in time, and being neither earlier nor later, consists in being in one and the same now, then, if the things that happened ten thousand years ago and the things happening today are both in this now, they would be simultaneous with each other, and nothing would be earlier or later than anything else.
43| Let this many puzzles, then, be raised about the attributes belonging to time. But what time is, and what its nature is, is equally unclear both from the traditional accounts and from the discussions we have just gone through. Some say it is the motion of the whole, others that it is the sphere itself. Yet a part of the revolution too is some amount of time, but it is not a revolution; for what is taken is a part of the revolution, not the revolution. Further, if there were several heavens, the motion of any one of them would equally be time, so that there would be many times at once. The sphere of the whole seemed to those who made this claim to be time because all things are both in time and in the sphere of the whole; but the claim is too naive to be worth examining for its impossibilities. Since time seems above all to be motion and a kind of change, this is what we must examine. Now the change and motion of each thing is only in the thing that is changing, or wherever the very thing that is moving and changing happens to be; but time is alike everywhere and present with everything. Further, change can be faster or slower, but time cannot; for the slow and the fast are defined by time — the fast being what moves a great deal in a little time, the slow what moves a little in a great deal of time. But time is not defined by time, neither by being some quantity of it nor some quality of it. That time, then, is not motion is clear; and let it make no difference to us for the present whether we say motion or change.
44| But then again, it does not exist without change either; for whenever we ourselves undergo no change in our thinking, or fail to notice that we are changing, no time seems to us to have passed — just as it does not seem to have passed, either, to those who are said in legend to sleep among the heroes in Sardinia, when they wake up. For they join the earlier now to the later now and make them one, cutting out the interval because they did not perceive it. So then, just as there would be no time if the now were not different each time but were the same and one, so too, since it escapes notice that it is different, the interval does not seem to be time. If, then, it happens to us that we do not think time has passed just when we mark off no change, but the soul appears to remain in one undivided state, while whenever we perceive and mark a change off, then we say time has passed, it is clear that time does not exist without motion and change. That time, then, is neither motion nor exists without motion, is clear. But since we are inquiring what time is, we must take this as our starting point: what feature of motion it is. For we perceive motion and time together; even if it is dark and we are affected by nothing through the body, but some motion is present in the soul, at once some time too seems to have passed along with it. And moreover, whenever some time seems to have passed, at the same time some motion too seems to have occurred. So time is either motion or something belonging to motion. Since, then, it is not motion, it must be something belonging to motion.
45| Since what is moved moves from something to something, and every magnitude is continuous, motion follows magnitude; for because the magnitude is continuous, motion too is continuous, and because of motion, time is continuous; for time is always thought to have become as great as the motion. Now the before and after is first of all in place. Here it is by position; but since the before and after is in magnitude, the before and after must also be in motion, corresponding to what holds there. But indeed the before and after is also in time, because each of them always follows the other. Now the before and after, in motion, is at any given time motion, yet its being is something different, and not motion. But indeed we also come to know time when we mark off motion, marking it off by the before and after; and we say time has elapsed when we perceive the before and after in motion. We mark them off by taking them as one thing and then another, with something else between them; for when we think of the extremes as different from the middle, and the soul pronounces the two 'nows' — one before, one after — then we say this is time too; for what is marked off by the 'now' is held to be time, and let this be assumed. So whenever we perceive the 'now' as one, and not either as before and after in the motion, or as the same thing but belonging to some before and after, no time seems to have elapsed at all, because no motion has either. But whenever we perceive the before and after, then we speak of time; for this is what time is: a number of motion with respect to before and after.
46| Time, then, is not motion, but motion in so far as it admits of number. Here is a sign of this: we judge more and less by number, but more and less motion by time; time, then, is a kind of number. But since number is spoken of in two ways (for we call both what is counted — the countable — a number, and also that with which we count), time is what is counted, and not that with which we count. And that with which we count is different from what is counted. And just as motion is always different and different again, so too is time (though the whole of time taken together is the same; for the 'now' is the same as whatever it once was — though its being is different — and the 'now' marks off time, as before and after). The 'now' is in one sense the same, in another sense not the same; for in so far as it is in one thing and then another, it is different (and this was what it was for it to be a 'now'), but in so far as it is whatever it is at any given time, it is the same. For, as was said, motion follows magnitude, and time follows motion, as we say; and likewise the moving thing follows the point — by means of which we come to know the motion, and the before and after in it.
47| This — whatever it is at a given time — is the same thing (for it is a point, or a stone, or some other such thing), but different in account, just as the sophists take it that Coriscus being in the Lyceum is different from Coriscus being in the marketplace. And this too is different by being now in one place, now in another. The 'now' follows the moving thing, just as time follows motion (for it is by the moving thing that we come to know the before and after in motion, and in so far as the before and after is countable, the 'now' exists). So here too, whatever the 'now' is at a given time is the same (for what it is at a given time is the before and after in motion), but its being is different — for it is in so far as the before and after is countable that the 'now' exists. And this is the most knowable thing; for motion too is known through what is moved, and locomotion through what is carried along — for what is carried along is a 'this', whereas motion is not. So the 'now' is in one sense always the same, in another sense not the same; for so too is what is carried along.
48| It is also clear that if time did not exist, the 'now' would not exist, and if the 'now' did not exist, time would not exist. For just as the thing carried along and its locomotion go together, so too do the number of the thing carried along and the number of the locomotion. For time is the number of the locomotion, and the 'now' is like the thing carried along — as it were, a unit of number. And time is continuous by means of the 'now', and is divided at the 'now'; for this too follows the locomotion and the thing carried along. For motion and locomotion are one by reference to the thing carried along, because it is one (not one in the sense of whatever it is at a given moment — for it could be interrupted — but one in account); and this marks off the before and after of the motion. And this too corresponds, in a way, to the point; for the point both makes the length continuous and marks it off — for it is the beginning of one part and the end of another. But when one takes it this way, treating the one point as two, a halt is necessary, if the same point is to be both beginning and end; whereas the 'now', because what is carried along is always in motion, is always different. So time is a number, not in the sense that belongs to the same point, because it is both beginning and end, but rather in the sense that belongs to the extremities of a line — and not in the sense that belongs to its parts, both for the reason stated (for one will be treating the middle point as two, so that a state of rest will result), and, further, it is clear that the 'now' is no part of time, nor is the division a part of the motion, just as the point is no part of the line;
49| rather, the two lines are parts of the one line. So in so far as the 'now' is a limit, it is not time, but is incidental to it; but in so far as it counts, it is a number. For limits belong only to that of which they are the limits, but a number — say, the ten of these horses — belongs elsewhere too. That time, then, is a number of motion with respect to before and after, and that it is continuous (since it belongs to something continuous), is clear. The smallest number, without qualification, is two; but a number of a particular kind exists in one sense, and in another sense does not — for instance, the smallest number of a line, in point of plurality, is two, or one, but in point of magnitude there is no smallest; for every line is always divisible. So it is likewise with time: the smallest in point of number is one, or two, but in point of magnitude there is none. It is also clear that time is not called fast or slow, but much and little, and long and short. For in so far as it is continuous, it is long and short; in so far as it is a number, it is much and little. But it is not fast or slow; for no number by which we count is fast or slow either.
50| And it is the same everywhere at once; but in respect of before and after it is not the same, because the change too is one when present, but the change that has occurred and the one to come are different. Time is a number, not that with which we count but that which is counted, and this — the before and after — always turns out different; for the 'nows' are different. The number of a hundred horses and the number of a hundred men is one and the same number, but the things of which it is the number are different — the horses are different from the men. Further, just as it is possible for a motion to be the same and one again and again, so too with time — for instance, a year, or a spring, or an autumn. Not
51| Not only do we measure motion by time, but also time by motion, because each is defined by the other: for time defines motion, being its number, and motion defines time. And we speak of much or little time by measuring it with motion, just as we measure a number by what is counted, for example the number of horses by one horse. For by number we come to know the multitude of horses, and again by one horse we come to know the number of horses itself. It is the same with time and motion: we measure motion by time, and time by motion. And this happens reasonably enough, for motion follows magnitude, and time follows motion, in that all three are quantities, continuous, and divisible: motion has these features because magnitude is of this sort, and time has them because of motion. And we measure magnitude by motion, and motion by magnitude: for we say the road is long if the journey is long, and the journey is long if the road is long; and likewise the time is long if the motion is long, and the motion is long if the time is long.
52| Since time is a measure of motion and of being in motion, and it measures motion by marking off some motion that will measure out the whole (just as a cubit measures length by marking off some magnitude that will measure out the whole), and for motion, being in time is being measured by time, both itself and its being (for time measures at once the motion and the being of the motion, and this is what being in time is for it: that its being is measured) — clearly for other things too this is what being in time is: that their being is measured by time. For being in time is one of two things: one, existing at the time when time exists; the other, as we say of some things that they are in a number. This signifies either that a thing is a part of a number and an attribute of it, and in general something belonging to the number, or that there is a number of it. Since time is a number, the now and the before and all such things are in time in the way a unit or the odd and the even are in number (for the latter are something belonging to number, and the former something belonging to time);
53| but things are in time as in a number. And if this is so, they are contained by time just as things in a number are contained by number, and things in place are contained by place. It is also clear that being in time is not the same as existing when time exists, any more than being in motion or being in place is existing when motion and place exist. For if being in something worked this way, all things would be in anything whatever, and the heaven would be in a grain of millet; for when the millet exists, the heaven also exists. But this is merely coincidental, whereas the other follows of necessity: for whatever is in time, there must be some time when it too exists, and for whatever is in motion, there must then be motion. Since being in time is like being in a number,
54| a time will be found greater than anything that is in time. Hence everything that is in time must necessarily be contained by time, just as everything else that is in something is contained by it — for example, things in place are contained by place. And a thing is indeed affected by time, just as we habitually say that time wastes things away, and that all things grow old through time, and that a thing is forgotten because of time — but we never say it has learned because of time, or become young or beautiful because of time. For time is in its own right a cause of decay rather than of anything else, since it is the number of motion, and motion displaces what belongs to a thing. So it is clear that things that always are, insofar as they always are, are not in time: for they are not contained by time, nor is their being measured by time. A sign of this is that they are not affected by time at all, as things not in time are. Since time is a measure of motion, it will also be a measure of rest, for all rest is in time. For it is not the case that, just as what is in motion must be moving, so too what is in time must be moving; for time is not motion but the number of motion, and what is at rest can also fall within the number of motion.
55| For not everything unmoved is at rest, but only what is deprived of motion while naturally fitted to move, as has been said earlier. Being in a number is there being some number belonging to the thing, and its being measured by the number it is in — so that if it is in time, it is measured by time. Time will measure what is moving and what is at rest, insofar as one is moving and the other at rest: for it will measure their motion and their rest, how much each is. So what is moving will not, without qualification, be measurable by time simply insofar as it is some quantity, but insofar as its motion is a quantity. So whatever neither moves nor rests is not in time: for being in time is being measured by time, and time is a measure of motion and rest. It is clear, then, that not everything that is not will be in
56| time — for example, whatever cannot be otherwise, such as the diagonal's being commensurable with the side. For in general, if time is in its own right a measure of motion, and of other things only incidentally, it is clear that for all the things whose being it measures, their being will consist in resting or moving. So whatever is perishable and subject to coming-to-be, and in general at one time is and at another is not, must necessarily be in time (for there is some greater time, which will exceed both their being and whatever measures their substance). And among things that are not, whatever time contains: some were, as Homer once was; others will be, as something among things to come — depending on which direction it contains them; and if in both directions, then both. But whatever it does not contain in either direction neither was nor is nor will be. Such are those among the things that are not whose opposites always are — for example, the diagonal's being incommensurable always is, and this will not be in time. Nor, then, will its being commensurable be in time either; hence it always is not, because it is contrary to what always is. But whatever has a contrary that does not always exist can both be and not be, and there is coming-to-be and passing-away of it.
57| The now is a continuity of time, as was said, for it holds together the time that has passed and the time to come, and it is a limit of time: it is the beginning of one and the end of the other. But this is not evident in the way it is with a point that stays fixed. It divides potentially. And insofar as it is this, the now is always different; but insofar as it binds together, it is always the same — as with mathematical lines (for the point is not always the same to the understanding: as one divides, it is one point and then another; but insofar as it is one, it is the same throughout) — so too the now: in one respect it is a division of time potentially, in another it is the limit of both parts and their unity. The division and the union are the same thing and in the same respect, but their being is not the same. This, then, is one way the now is spoken of; another is when the time belonging to it is near. He will arrive now, meaning he will arrive today; he has arrived now, meaning he came today. But the events at Troy did not happen now, nor did the flood happen now — and yet time is continuous down to them, only they are not near. 'At some time' is a time marked off in relation to the earlier now, for example: Troy was taken at some time, and there will at some time be a flood.
58| For it must be bounded in relation to the now. There will, then, be some determinate time from this point to that one, and there was also a determinate time stretching into the past. But if there is no time of which it is not the case that it exists at some point, then all time would be finite. Will time, then, give out? Or will it not, since motion always exists? Is it, then, a different time, or the same time occurring many times over? Clearly time is however motion is: for if the motion is one and the same at some point, time too will be one and the same, but if not, it will not be. And since the now is both an end and a beginning of time — not of the same stretch of time, however, but an end of the time that has passed and a beginning of the time to come — time would be always at once at a beginning and at an end, the way a circle has, in a sense, the convex and the concave in the same point. And this is why time is thought to be always different: for the now is not the beginning and end of the same stretch, since then opposite things would hold at once and in the same respect. And so time will not give out; for it is always at a beginning. And 'just now' is what is close to the present
59| now — an indivisible part of the time to come (When are you walking? 'Just now,' because the time in which one is about to walk is near) — and also the part of past time not far from the now (When are you walking? 'I have just now walked'). But we do not say that Troy has just now been captured, because that is too far from the now. And 'lately' is the part of the past close to the present now. When did you come? 'Lately,' if the time is close to the present now. But 'long ago' refers to what is far off. And 'suddenly' is what has departed from its former state in an imperceptible time, on account of its smallness; and every change is by nature apt to make things depart from their former state. Now everything comes to be and perishes in time; and for this reason some called it the wisest thing, while the Pythagorean Paron called it the most ignorant, on the ground that people also forget in it — and he speaks more correctly. It is clear, then, that time will in its own right be a cause of perishing rather than of coming to be, as was said before as well (for change, in its own right, is apt to make things depart from their former state), but a cause of coming to be, and of being, only accidentally. A sufficient sign of this is that nothing comes to be without itself being in some way moved and acting, whereas a thing perishes even without being moved at all. And this is the kind of perishing we are most accustomed to call destruction by time. Not that time itself brings this about, all the same; rather, it merely happens that this change too takes place in time. We have now said, then, that time exists, and what it is, and in how many senses 'the now' is spoken of, and what 'at some time,' 'just now,' 'lately,' 'long ago,' and 'suddenly' are.
60| Now that these points have been settled for us in this way, it is clear that every change and everything that moves is in time. For quicker and slower hold with respect to every change (in all cases this is how it appears); and I call that motion quicker which, moving over the same interval and with a uniform motion, changes into the underlying subject earlier than another (for example in locomotion, if both move along the circular path, or both along the straight one; and likewise in the other cases as well). But surely the 'before' is in time; for we speak of 'before' and 'after' in terms of distance from the now, and the now is the boundary between the time that has passed and the time to come. So then, since the nows are in time, the before and after will also be in time; for wherever the now is, there too is the distance from the now. (But 'before' is spoken of in opposite ways with respect to past time and to future time: for in the past we call 'before' what is farther from the now and 'after' what is nearer, whereas in the future we call 'before' what is nearer and 'after' what is farther.) So then, since the before is in time, and the before accompanies every motion, it is clear that every change and every motion is in time.
61| It is also worth examining how time is related to the soul, and why time is thought to exist in everything — on earth, and in the sea, and in the heaven alike. Is it because time is some affection or state of motion, being indeed a number, and all these things are movable (for they are all in place), and time and motion exist together, both with respect to potentiality and with respect to actuality? One might raise the puzzle whether, if soul did not exist, time would exist or not. For if it is impossible for there to be something that will count, it is also impossible for there to be something countable, so that it is clear that there would then be no number either; for a number is either what has been counted or what is countable. And if nothing else is by nature capable of counting except soul, and the intellect of soul, then it is impossible for time to exist if soul does not exist — except perhaps for that underlying thing of which time is the attribute, whenever it exists, that is, if it is possible for motion to exist without soul. For the before and after are in motion, and time is these insofar as they are countable. One might also raise the puzzle
62| as to what sort of motion time is the number of. Or is it of any sort whatever? For a thing comes to be in time, and perishes, and grows, and is altered, and is carried along; so then, insofar as there is motion, in that respect there is, for each motion, a number. Hence time is, without qualification, the number of continuous motion, not of any particular motion. But it is possible that at the same time something else too has been moved, of which there would likewise be a number for each of the two motions. Is there, then, a different time, and would there at once be two equal times? Or not? For time that is equal and simultaneous is one and the same time; but even times that are not simultaneous are the same in kind. For example, if there were dogs, and there were horses, and each group were seven, the number is the same. So too, of motions completed at the same time, the time is the same, even though one may be fast and the other not, and one may be locomotion and the other alteration; nevertheless the time is the same for the alteration and for the locomotion, provided it is equal and simultaneous. And for this reason the motions are different and separate from one another, but the time is everywhere the same, because the number too is one and the same everywhere, being the number of things that are equal and simultaneous. And since there is locomotion,
63| and among locomotion, circular motion, and each thing is counted by some one thing akin to it — units by a unit, horses by a horse — so too time is counted by some determinate time, and, as we said, time is measured by motion and motion is measured by time (and this means that both the quantity of the motion and the quantity of the time are measured by the determinate motion that occupies the time). If, then, among things of the same kind the first is the measure, uniform circular motion is the measure most of all, because its number is the most familiar. Now alteration, and growth, and coming to be are not uniform, but locomotion is. This is why time is also thought to be the motion of the sphere, because the other motions are measured by this one, and time is measured by this motion. And this is also why the customary saying arises: for people say that human affairs form a circle, and so too do the affairs of the other things that have natural motion and coming to be and perishing. This is because all these things are determined by time, and take their end and their beginning as if in accordance with some cycle. For time itself too is thought to be a kind of circle; and this in turn is thought to be so because time is the measure of this sort of locomotion and is itself measured by this sort of locomotion. So that to say that the things that come to be form a circle is to say that there is a kind of circle of time; and this is because it is measured by circular locomotion. For beyond the measure, nothing else is disclosed about the thing measured, except that the whole is a number of measures.
1| It is also rightly said that the number is the same — the number belonging to the sheep and to the dogs, if each group is equal — but the ten is not the same, nor are the ten things the same, just as the equilateral triangle and the scalene triangle are not the same triangles, even though the figure is indeed the same, because both are triangles. For a thing is called the same insofar as it does not differ by a differentia, not insofar as it does differ — for example, one triangle differs from another triangle by a differentia of triangle. Accordingly they are different triangles, but not different in figure; rather they fall within the same, single division. For one figure of this sort is a circle, another of this sort is a triangle, and of this latter, one of this sort is equilateral, another of this sort is scalene. The figure, then, is the same, and this is a triangle, but the triangle is not the same. And likewise the number is the same (for their number does not differ by a differentia of number), but the ten is not the same; for the things of which it is said differ — some are dogs, others are horses. So much, then, has been said about time itself and about the matters proper to its examination. Ε.
2| Everything that changes changes in one of the following ways: it may change accidentally, as when we say that the musical thing walks, because what walks is that to which being musical happens to belong; or it may change because something belonging to it changes, and is then said to change without qualification — as with the things said to change in respect of their parts (for the body is healed because the eye or the chest is healed, and these are parts of the whole body). But there is also something that is moved neither accidentally nor because something else belonging to it is moved, but because it itself is what is primarily moved. And this is what is movable in its own right — though it differs according to the kind of motion: one thing is alterable, and within alteration the healable and the heatable are different from each other. And it is the same too on the side of the mover: one thing moves accidentally, another moves in respect of a part because something belonging to it moves, and another moves in its own right, primarily — for example, the doctor heals, while the hand strikes. Now since there is something that is the primary mover, and something that is moved, and further that in which motion occurs, namely time, and besides these, that from which and that into which — for every motion is from something and into something (for the thing that is primarily moved is different from that into which it moves and from that out of which it moves; take wood, hot, and cold: of these, the wood is the thing moved, the hot is that into which it moves, the cold is that out of which it moves) — the motion, then, is clearly in the wood, not in the form; for neither does the form move nor is it moved, nor does the place, nor the quantity, but there is the mover, the thing moved, and that into which it moves. For the change is named more from that into which it moves than from that out of which it moves. That is why destruction, too, is a change into not-being, even though what is destroyed also changes from being; and coming-to-be is a change into being, even though it is also from not-being.
3| What motion is, then, has been said earlier. But the forms, the affections, and the place into which the things that are moved are moved, are themselves unmoved — for example, knowledge and heat. Yet one might raise a difficulty: if the affections are motions, and whiteness is an affection, then there will be a change into a motion. But perhaps whiteness is not a motion, but whitening is. And within these too there is the accidental, the partial, the by-reason-of-something-else, and the primary and not-by-reason-of-something-else: for example, the thing being whitened changes into the object of thought accidentally (for it is accidental to the color to be an object of thought), and it changes into color because white is a part of color (just as it changes into Europe because Athens is a part of Europe), but it changes into white, the color, in its own right. It is clear, then, in what way a thing is moved in its own right and in what way accidentally, and in what way by reason of something else and in what way by that very thing primarily — both in the case of the mover and of the thing moved — and that the motion is not in the form but in the thing moved and movable, in actuality. Let the accidental kind of change, then, be set aside; for it occurs in absolutely all things, always, and of all things. But the change that is not accidental does not occur in all things, but among contraries, and the things between them, and in contradiction; and the proof of this is from induction. A thing changes out of the intermediate, for it treats the intermediate as a contrary relative to each extreme; for in a way the intermediate is the extremes. That is why the intermediate is said, in a way, to be contrary to the extremes and they to it — for example, the middle note is high relative to the lowest and low relative to the highest, and gray is white relative to black and black relative to white.
4| Since every change is from something into something (the name itself indicates this too, for meta signifies something after something else, and one term shows the prior, the other the posterior), the thing that changes would change in four ways: either from a subject into a subject, or from a subject into a non-subject, or from a non-subject into a subject, or from a non-subject into a non-subject. By 'subject' I mean what is signified by an affirmation. So it is necessary, from what has been said, that there be three kinds of change: that from a subject into a subject, that from a subject into a non-subject, and that from a non-subject into a subject. For the change from a non-subject into a non-subject is not a change at all, because it does not involve an opposition — it is neither a case of contraries nor of contradiction. Now the change from a non-subject into a subject, being in accordance with contradiction, is coming-to-be — coming-to-be without qualification when it is simple, and the coming-to-be of a particular thing from a particular thing when it is qualified (for example, the change out of not-white into white is the coming-to-be of this thing, a qualified coming-to-be; while the coming-to-be, without qualification, of substance out of what is, without qualification, not-being, is coming-to-be without qualification — the kind by which we say something comes to be without qualification, and not that it comes to be some particular thing). And the change from a subject into what is not a subject is destruction: destruction without qualification is that from substance into not-being, while a qualified destruction is that into the opposed negation, just as was said. And the same holds for coming-to-be.
5| Now if not-being is spoken of in many ways, and neither what is not-being in the sense of combination or separation can be in motion, nor what is not-being in the sense of potentiality — as opposed to what is unqualifiedly in actuality (for what is not-white or not-good can nonetheless be in motion accidentally, since the not-white might be a man; but what is without qualification not-a-this cannot be in motion in any way) — it is impossible for not-being to be in motion. And if this is so, coming-to-be cannot be a motion either; for what comes to be is not-being. For even if it comes to be in the highest degree accidentally, it is nonetheless true to say that not-being belongs to what comes to be, without qualification — and likewise with being at rest. These, then, are the difficulties that follow, and also this: if everything that is moved is in place, but not-being is not in place — for then it would be somewhere. Nor, again, is destruction a motion; for what is contrary to a motion is either a motion or rest, but what is contrary to coming-to-be is destruction. Since every motion is a kind of change, and the changes stated are three, and of these the ones in respect of coming-to-be and destruction are not motions — these being the ones in accordance with contradiction — it is necessary that the change from a subject into a subject alone is motion. And the subjects are either contraries or intermediates (let privation too be counted as a contrary, and it is indicated by an affirmative expression — for example, naked, toothless, and black).
6| If, then, the categories are divided into substance, quality, place, relation, quantity, and acting or being acted on, it is necessary that there be three kinds of motion: that of quality, that of quantity, and that in respect of place.
7| There is no motion in respect of substance, because nothing among the things that are is contrary to a substance. Nor is there motion in respect of relation: for when one of two related things changes, it is possible for the other to be truly asserted and then not truly asserted, even though it has not changed at all — so that their motion is only accidental. Nor again is there motion in respect of acting and being acted on, or of the mover and the moved, because there is no motion of motion, no coming-to-be of coming-to-be, and in general no change of change. For in the first place, motion could be of motion in two ways: either as of a subject — as a man moves because he changes from white to black; is motion, then, in the same way heated or cooled, or does it change place, or increase or diminish? But that is impossible, for change is not an attribute of any of the underlying subjects — or by some other underlying thing changing, through a change, into another form, as a man changes from sickness to health. But this too is impossible except accidentally. For the motion itself is a change from one form to another — for instance a man's change from sickness to health — and coming-to-be and perishing are the same way, except that they are changes into opposites in one manner, and motion in another. So a thing changes at the same time from health into sickness, and from this very change into another. Clearly, once it has fallen sick, it will have changed into some state or other (for it might also come to rest), and moreover not always into just any state that happens along, but that further change too will be from something into something else — so that the opposite change would then be a recovery of health. But this holds only accidentally, as when something changes from remembering into forgetting, because the thing that has it changes at one time into knowledge, at another into ignorance.
8| It will proceed to infinity, if there is to be a change of change and
9| a coming-to-be of coming-to-be. And necessarily the earlier change too, if the later is to exist — for instance, if the simple coming-to-be once came to be, then what was coming to be was itself coming to be, so that what was simply coming to be did not yet exist, but rather something already coming to be that was itself coming to be; and again this too once came to be, so that at that time what was coming-to-be-coming-to-be did not yet exist. And since among infinites there is no first term, there will be no first stage here, and so no next one either. So nothing can come to be, or be moved, or change at all. Further, of the same thing there is a contrary motion (and also rest), and coming-to-be and perishing likewise; so that what is coming to be, once it has come to be coming-to-be, at that very point is perishing. For it is not perishing the moment it is coming to be, nor later — for what is perishing must already exist. Further, matter must underlie both what is coming to be and what is changing. What, then, will this be? Just as body or soul is what is alterable, so what will play that role for a motion or a coming-to-be that is itself coming to be? And again, what is it that they are being moved into? For there must be a motion or coming-to-be of this thing from this into this. And at the same time, how will it even come to be? For learning is not the coming-to-be of learning, so there is no coming-to-be of coming-to-be, nor of anything of anything. Further, if there are three species of motion, then both the underlying nature and that into which things move must be one of these — for example, that locomotion is altered, or is itself carried along. And in general, since everything is moved in three ways — either accidentally, or in virtue of a part, or in its own right — change could change only accidentally, as when someone recovering health runs or learns; but the accidental case we set aside long ago.
10| Since, then, there is motion neither in respect of substance, nor of relation, nor of acting and being acted on, it remains that there is motion only in respect of quality, quantity, and place; for in each of these there is a contrariety. Let motion in respect of quality, then, be called alteration, for this is the common name that has been attached to it. By quality I mean not that which is in the substance (for the differentia too is a quality) but the affective quality, in virtue of which a thing is said to be acted on or to be unaffected. Motion in respect of quantity has no common name, but by each direction it is growth and diminution — growth being motion toward the complete magnitude, diminution being motion away from it. Motion in respect of place has no name, either common or particular; let the common name for it be locomotion. Yet, properly speaking, only those things are said to be 'carried along' which do not have it in their own power to come to rest when they change place, and which do not move themselves locally. Change within the same species toward the more and the less is alteration: for it is a motion either from a contrary or into a contrary, either without qualification or in some respect. For when it goes toward the less, it will be said to change toward the contrary, and when toward the more, as if from the contrary toward the thing itself; for it makes no difference whether the change is in some respect or without qualification, except that in the qualified case the contraries need only be present in part. And the more and the less consist in the contrary's being present to a greater or lesser degree, or not.
11| That these are the only three kinds of motion, then, is clear from what has been said. A thing is called unmoved either because it is altogether incapable of being moved — just as sound cannot be seen — or because, though it is moved, it moves only with difficulty over a long time or begins slowly, which is called hard-to-move; or because, though it is naturally disposed to be moved and capable of it, it is not being moved at the time, in the place, and in the way that it is naturally disposed to be — and this alone, among unmoved things, I call being at rest. For rest is the contrary of motion, so it would be the privation of motion in what is receptive of it. What motion is, then, and what rest is, and how many changes and what kinds of motions there are, is clear from what has been said.
12| After this, let us say what 'together' and 'apart' are, and what 'touching' is, and what 'between' is, and what 'in succession' is, and what 'contiguous' and 'continuous' are, and to what kinds of things each of these naturally belongs. I call things 'together', in respect of place, when they are in one primary place; 'apart', when they are in different places; and 'touching', when their extremities are together. Since every change is between opposites, and opposites are either contraries or contradictories, and there is nothing between the two sides of a contradiction, it is clear that the 'between' will occur among contraries. The 'between' requires at least three terms: for the contrary is the limit of the change, and the 'between' is that which a changing thing naturally arrives at earlier than the limit into which it finally changes, when it changes continuously in accordance with its nature. A thing moves continuously when there is no gap, or the smallest possible gap, in the thing that changes — not in the time (for nothing prevents a gap in the time; indeed one can sound the lowest note immediately after the highest) but in the thing in which the change occurs. This is evident both in changes of place and in the other kinds of change. The contrary in respect of place is that which is farthest apart along a straight line; for the shortest distance is bounded, and what is bounded is a measure. A thing is 'in succession' when, coming after the starting point — in position, or in form, or as marked off in some other such way — there is nothing of the same kind between it and that to which it is in succession (I mean, for example, one line in succession to another line or lines, one unit to another unit or units, one house to a house; nothing prevents there being something of a different kind between them). For what is in succession is in succession to something, and is posterior to it: it is not the one that is in succession to the two, nor the first day of the month that is in succession to the second — rather, it is these that are in succession to those. And 'contiguous' is whatever, being in succession, touches that to which it is in succession.
13| The continuous is a kind of the contiguous. I call things continuous when the limit of each, at which they touch, becomes one and the same, and — as the name indicates — they are held together; and this cannot happen while the two extremities remain two. Given this distinction, it is clear that the continuous is found among those things out of which some one thing is naturally constituted by their joining. And in whatever way the connecting factor comes to be one, in that way the whole too will be one — whether by a peg, or by glue, or by contact, or by growing together. And it is clear also that
14| The first is being-in-succession: for what is in contact must be in succession, but not everything in succession is in contact (which is why, in things prior in account — for instance in numbers — being-in-succession applies, but touching does not). And if a thing is continuous, it must be in contact, but if it is in contact, it is not yet continuous — for it is not necessary that their extremities be one, if they are together, but if they are one, they must also be together. So growing-together is last in the order of coming to be: for the extremities must touch if they are to grow together, but not everything that touches has grown together; and where there is no touching, clearly there is no growing-together there either. So if there is a point and a unit of the sort said to be separate, it is not possible for a unit and a point to be the same thing: for touching belongs to points, but being-in-succession belongs to units; and for points it is possible for there to be something between them (for every line lies between points), while for units it is not necessary — for there is nothing between a dyad and a unit. What, then, together and apart are, and what touching is, and what between and being-in-succession are, and what contiguous and continuous are, and to what sorts of things each of these belongs, has been stated.
15| Motion is called one in many ways, for we speak of the one in many ways. In genus, then, motion is one according to the figures of the category (for locomotion is one in genus with every locomotion, but alteration is other in genus from locomotion); it is one in species when, being one in genus, it is also in an indivisible species. For instance, there are differentiae of color — hence blackening and whitening are different in species — but there are no longer differentiae of whiteness; that is why one whitening is one in species with every whitening. But if there are some things that are at once both genera and species, clearly it is possible that a motion will in a sense be one in species, but not one in species without qualification — for instance learning, if knowledge is a species of supposition but a genus of the sciences. One might raise the difficulty whether motion is one in species when the same thing changes from the same thing into the same thing — for instance, a single point moving from this place into that place, over and over again. But if this is so, circular locomotion will be the same as straight locomotion, and rolling the same as walking. Or has it been determined that, where that in which the motion occurs is different in species, the motion is different — and the circular is different in species from the straight?
16| Motion is one in genus and in species in this way, then, but motion is one without qualification when it is one in substance and in number. What sort of motion this is will be clear once we have drawn the distinctions. For there are three things, in number, with reference to which we speak of motion: what is moved, that in which it moves, and when. I mean that there must be something that is moved — for instance a man or gold — and this must move in something, for instance in place or in an affection, and at some time, for everything moves in time. Of these, being one in genus or in species belongs to the thing in which the motion occurs; being contiguous belongs to the time; and being one without qualification belongs to all of these together. For that in which the motion occurs must be one and indivisible — for instance the species; and the when — for instance the time — must be one and not intermittent; and the thing moved must be one, not accidentally (as the white thing becomes black, and Coriscus walks — Coriscus and white are one, but only accidentally) — nor merely one in a common way. For otherwise it would be possible for two men to be recovering health at the same time by the same recovery, for instance from an eye-disease — but this is not one, it is one in species. As for Socrates undergoing the same alteration in species, but at one time and then again at another — if it is possible for what has perished to become one again in number, this too would be one; but if not, it is the same, but not one.
17| A difficulty close to this one also arises over whether health, and states and affections generally, are one in substance in bodies — for the things that possess them appear to be in motion and in flux. If, then, the health of this morning and the health now are the same and one, why should it not also be the case, when a person, after an interval, recovers health again, that this health and that one are one in number? For the argument is the same. Except that they differ to this extent: if they are two, then for this very reason — as being two in number — the activities too must be two, for one activity in number belongs to one thing in number. But if the state is one, perhaps it would not yet seem to anyone that the activity too is one (for when a person stops walking, the walking no longer exists, but when he walks again, it will exist again). If, then, it is one and the same, it would be possible for the same and one thing to perish and to exist many times. These, then, are the difficulties that lie outside the
18| present inquiry. But since every motion is continuous, the motion that is one without qualification must also be continuous — since everything is divisible — and if continuous, then one. For not every motion could be continuous with every other, any more than any chance thing can be continuous with any chance thing, but only those whose extremities are one. Now for some things there are no extremities, while for others the extremities are different in species and only homonymous — for how could the extremity of a line and the extremity of walking touch, or become one? Now things that are not the same in species nor even in genus could still be contiguous (for a person might run and immediately be feverish), and, for instance, the torch-race is a locomotion contiguous by relay, but not continuous. For the continuous has been laid down as that whose extremities are one. So things are contiguous and in succession by the time's being continuous, and continuous by the motions' being so — and this occurs when the extremity of both becomes one. Hence the motion that is continuous and one without qualification must be the same in species, and of one thing, and in one time: in time, so that there may be no immobility in between (for in an interval it is necessary to be at rest; so where there is a rest in between, the motion is many and not one, so that if a motion is divided by a standstill, it is not one, nor continuous;
19| and it is so divided if there is a time in between). But in the case of a motion not one in species, even if there is no interval, the time is one, but the motion is different in species: for the motion that is one without qualification must also be one in species, but a motion that is one in species need not be one without qualification. So it has been stated what motion is one without qualification. Further, the complete motion too is called one, whether it is complete in genus, in species, or in substance, just as in other cases too the complete and whole belongs to the one. And there are times when, even if it is incomplete, a motion is called one, provided only that it is continuous. Further, it is called one in yet another way besides those mentioned
20| Uniform motion is one motion. For non-uniform motion is, in a way, thought not to be one, but rather the uniform is one, just as the straight line is; for the non-uniform is divisible. It seems to differ in the sense of the more and the less. Now uniformity or its absence belongs to every kind of motion: a thing could be altered uniformly, and could be carried along a uniform path, for instance a circle or a straight line, and the same holds for growth and decay likewise. Non-uniformity is a difference that lies, on the one hand, in that over which the thing is moved (for it is impossible for the motion to be uniform unless it takes place over a uniform magnitude, for example the motion over a bent line, or over a spiral, or over some other magnitude of which no chance part fits any other chance part); while the other kind lies neither in the what, nor in the when, nor in the into-what, but in the how. For motions are sometimes marked off by speed and slowness: the motion whose speed is the same throughout is uniform, the one whose speed is not the same is non-uniform. Hence speed and slowness are not species of motion, nor differentiae of it, because they attend all the motions that differ in species. So neither are heaviness and lightness toward the same place a species or differentia, for instance earth's motion toward itself, or fire's toward itself. Non-uniform motion, then, is one in virtue of being continuous, though less so, which is what happens with motion along a bent path, and this lesser unity is always an admixture of the contrary. But if it is possible for every motion that is one to be either uniform or not, then successive motions that are not the same in species could not themselves be one and continuous; for how could a motion composed out of alteration and locomotion be uniform? For its parts would need to fit together.
21| Next we must determine what kind of motion is contrary to what motion, and treat rest in the same way. First we must distinguish whether the contrary motion is the motion from the same state as opposed to the motion to the same state (for example, the motion from health as opposed to the motion to health, the way generation and destruction also seem to be contraries), or the motion from contraries (for example, the motion from health as opposed to the motion from disease), or the motion to contraries (for example, the motion to health as opposed to the motion to disease), or the motion from a contrary as opposed to the motion to a contrary (for example, the motion from health as opposed to the motion to disease), or the motion from a contrary to a contrary as opposed to the motion from a contrary to a contrary (for example, the motion from health to disease as opposed to the motion from disease to health). For it is necessary that it be one of these ways, or several of them; there is no other way to set them in opposition. Now the motion from a contrary is not contrary to the motion to a contrary, for example the motion from health to the motion to disease; for they are the same motion, and one. Their being, however, is not the same for both, just as changing from health is not the same as changing to disease. Nor is the motion from a contrary contrary to another motion from a contrary; for it happens at the same time to be both from a contrary and to a contrary, or to an intermediate — but we will speak about this later — rather, changing to a contrary would seem to be the cause of the contrariety more than changing from a contrary; for the one is a release from the contrary state, the other a taking-on of it. And each motion is named more from what it changes into than from what it changes out of, for example the change into health is called becoming-healthy, and the change into disease is called becoming-diseased.
22| What remains, then, is the motion to contraries, and the motion to contraries out of contraries. Now perhaps it turns out that the motions to contraries are also from contraries, but their being is presumably not the same — I mean, the being of the motion to health is not the same as that of the motion from disease, nor is that of the motion from health the same as that of the motion to disease. Since change differs from motion (for motion is the change from some underlying subject into some other underlying subject), the motion from a contrary to a contrary is contrary to the motion from a contrary to a contrary, for example the motion from health to disease is contrary to the motion from disease to health. And it is also clear from induction what sorts of things are thought to be contraries: falling ill is contrary to becoming healthy, and learning to being deceived — not in virtue of themselves alone (for they are toward contraries; for just as one can acquire knowledge, so too deception, both through oneself and through another), and upward locomotion is contrary to downward (for these are contraries in length), and motion to the right is contrary to motion to the left (for these are contraries in breadth), and motion forward is contrary to motion backward (for these too are contraries). But change to a contrary alone, not out of some definite thing, is not motion but change — for example, coming to be white, not out of anything in particular.
23| And in the case of things that have no contraries, the change from the thing is contrary to the change into it; hence coming-to-be is contrary to perishing, and loss is contrary to acquisition; but these are changes, not motions. As for motions to an intermediate, in the case of contraries that have an intermediate, these are to be posited as being, in a way, motions to the contraries, since the motion treats the intermediate as a contrary, whichever direction it changes toward — for example, the motion from grey to white is treated as from black, and from white to grey as to black, while from black to grey is treated as to white, the grey being taken as white; for the middle is, in a way, called each of the two extremes in relation to each, just as has been said before also. Motion, then, is contrary to motion in this way: the motion from a contrary to a contrary is contrary to the motion from a contrary to a contrary.
24| Since it seems that not only is motion contrary to motion, but rest is too, this must be determined. Without qualification, motion is contrary to motion; but rest too is opposed to it, for rest is a privation, and privation too is in a way called a contrary. And a rest of a given kind is opposed to a motion of that kind, for example rest in respect of place to motion in respect of place. But so far this has only been said without qualification; for is it the motion from here, or the motion to here, that is opposed to remaining here? It is clear, then, that since motion involves two underlying subjects, remaining in this place is opposed to the motion from this place to its contrary, while remaining in the contrary place is opposed to the motion from the contrary to this place. And at the same time these two rests are also contrary to each other; for it would be absurd if motions were contrary but the opposed states of rest were not. And they are contrary in the case of contraries — for example, rest in health is contrary to rest in disease (and to the motion from health to disease; for its being contrary to the motion from disease to health would be unreasonable — for the motion into that state in which the thing has come to rest is rather a coming-to-rest, or at least it happens to come about together with the motion — and it is necessary that it be contrary to one or the other of these); for rest in whiteness, at any rate, is not contrary to rest in health.
25| In the case of things that have no contraries, the change from the thing is opposed to the change into it, but this is not motion — for example, the change from being as opposed to the change into being — and there is no remaining, that is, no rest, in their case, but rather unchangingness. And if there were some underlying subject, unchangingness in being would be contrary to unchangingness in not-being. But if not-being is not some subject, one might raise the difficulty of what unchangingness in being is contrary to, and whether it is a kind of rest at all. And if it is, then either not every rest is contrary to motion, or coming-to-be and perishing are motion. It is clear, then, that it should not be called rest, unless these too are motions, but that it is something similar to rest; and it is contrary either to nothing, or to unchangingness in not-being, or to perishing — for perishing proceeds out of it, while coming-to-be proceeds into it. But one might raise the difficulty
26| Why is it that in change of place there are both restings and motions that are in accordance with nature and contrary to nature, but not in the other kinds of change? Is one alteration, for example, in accordance with nature and another contrary to nature? — yet recovering health is no more in accordance with nature than falling ill, nor is falling ill any more contrary to nature than recovering health, and the same holds for whitening and blackening. And it is the same way with growth and decrease: for these are not contrary to each other as though one were in accordance with nature and the other contrary to it, nor is one growth contrary to another growth. And the same account holds for coming-to-be and passing-away: coming-to-be is not in accordance with nature while passing-away is contrary to nature (since growing old is in accordance with nature), nor do we observe one coming-to-be as in accordance with nature and another as contrary to it. Or is it rather that, if what happens by force is contrary to nature, then a passing-away brought about by force would be contrary to a passing-away that occurs in accordance with nature, since the forced one, being contrary to nature, is opposed to the one that is in accordance with it? Are there, then, also some comings-to-be that are forced and not the product of fate, to which the ones in accordance with nature are contrary — and forced growths and decreases as well, for example the growth of those who mature quickly through soft living, and grain that ripens quickly without becoming firm? And how does it stand with alteration? Is it the same way? For there would be some alterations that are forced and others that are natural — for example, patients discharged not on the critical days, and those discharged on the critical days: the former have been altered contrary to nature, the latter in accordance with nature. There will, then, also be passings-away contrary to one another, and not contrary to comings-to-be. And indeed what prevents this from being so in a way? For one passing-away might be pleasant and another painful, so that it is not passing-away without qualification that is contrary to passing-away, but rather in the respect that one is of one sort and the other of another.
27| Speaking generally, then, contrary motions and restings are, in the
28| manner stated, for example the upward contrary to the downward — for these are the contrarieties of place. Fire travels upward by nature, and earth travels downward; and their motions are contrary. Fire moves upward by nature but downward contrary to nature; and its motion in accordance with nature is contrary to its motion contrary to nature. And restings are the same way: for resting above is contrary to the motion from above to below. For earth, that resting above is contrary to nature, while this motion downward is in accordance with nature. So a resting that is contrary to nature is contrary to a motion in accordance with nature belonging to the same thing; for the motion belonging to the same thing is contrary in just this way — one of the two, the upward or the downward, being in accordance with its nature, and the other contrary to nature. There is a puzzle whether there is a coming-to-be for every resting that is not everlasting, and whether this coming-to-be is the coming-to-rest. Then of what remains contrary to nature — for example, earth resting above — there would be a coming-to-be. So when it was being carried upward by force, it was coming to rest. But what is coming to rest always seems to travel faster as it nears its place, while what moves by force does the opposite. So it will be at rest without having come to be at rest. Further, coming to rest seems either to be, without qualification, the same as being carried to one's own place, or to coincide with it. There is a puzzle whether the resting here is contrary to the motion away from here: for whenever something moves away from a given point and leaves it behind, it still seems to possess what is being left behind, so that if this resting is contrary to the motion from here toward the contrary place, the contraries will hold at the same time. Or is it at rest in a certain respect, if it still remains there, while, taken generally, of the thing that is moving, part is there and part is at the point into which it is changing? This is why motion, too, is more properly contrary to motion than resting is. So it has been stated concerning motion and resting, how each of them is one, and which are contrary to which.
1| Book Z. If continuous, touching, and successive are as they have been defined earlier — continuous things being those whose extremities are one, touching things being those whose extremities are together, and successive things being those between which there is nothing of the same kind in between — then it is impossible for anything continuous to be composed of indivisibles, for example a line to be composed of points, if indeed the line is continuous and the point is indivisible. For the extremities of points are not one (since there is no extremity of an indivisible distinct from some other part of it), nor are their extremities together (since there is no extremity at all of what has no parts, for the extremity and that of which it is the extremity are different things). Further, it is necessary that the points of which the continuous thing is composed be either continuous with one another or touching one another, and the same account holds for all indivisibles alike. Now they cannot be continuous, for the reason just stated; and everything touches either whole to whole, part to part, or whole to part. But since the indivisible has no parts, it must touch whole to whole. And what touches whole to whole will not be continuous: for the continuous has one part here and another there, and is divided into parts that are different in this way and separated in place. But neither, again, will point be successive to point, or the now to the now, so that length or time could be composed of these —
2| for successive things are those between which nothing of the same kind lies in between, and between points there is always a line, and between nows there is always time. Further, length or time would be divisible into indivisibles, if indeed each thing is divided into the things of which it is composed; but none of the continuous things was found to be divisible into partless things. And it is not possible for anything of another kind to lie between. For it will be either indivisible or divisible, and if divisible, either into indivisibles or into things always further divisible; and this last is what is continuous. And it is also clear that everything continuous is divisible into parts that are always further divisible; for if it were divisible into indivisibles, there would be an indivisible touching an indivisible, since the extremities of continuous things are one and it is by these that they touch.
3| By the same reasoning, magnitude, time, and motion are all alike composed of indivisibles and divided into indivisibles, or else none of them is. This is clear from the following. If a magnitude is composed of indivisibles, then the motion over it will also be composed of an equal number of indivisible motions — for example, if the magnitude ΑΒΓ is composed of the indivisibles Α, Β, Γ, then the motion ΔΕΖ, by which Ω was moved over ΑΒΓ, has each of its parts indivisible. If, then, wherever motion is present something must be in motion, and wherever something is in motion, motion must be present, then being-in-motion too will be composed of indivisibles. Ω, then, was moved over Α by the motion Δ, over Β by the motion Ε, and likewise over Γ by the motion Ζ. Now if it is necessary that what is moved from one place to another cannot at the same time be moving and have moved to the place it was moving toward, at the time it was moving there (for example, if something is walking to Thebes, it is impossible for it to be walking to Thebes and to have walked to Thebes at the same time), and Ω was moving over the partless Α by the motion Δ, which was present to it — then, if it had finished passing through Α at a time later than when it was passing through it, the motion would be divisible (for while it was passing through, it was neither at rest nor had it finished passing through, but was in between); whereas if it passes through and has passed through at the same time, then the thing walking, at the moment it is walking, will already have walked to that point, and will have completed its motion over the very thing it is still moving over.
4| But if something is moving over the whole of ΑΒΓ, and the motion by which it moves is ΔΕΖ, while over the partless Α it is not moving at all but has already moved, then the result would be that motion is composed not of motions but of completed movements, and that something has moved without ever being in motion — for it has completed its passage through Α without traversing it. So there will be something that has walked without ever walking: for it has walked this stretch without walking it. If, then, everything must be either at rest or in motion, it is at rest with respect to each of Α, Β, Γ, so that there will be something continuously at rest and in motion at the same time — for it was moving over the whole of ΑΒΓ, and at rest with respect to any given part of it, and therefore with respect to the whole. And if the indivisibles of ΔΕΖ are motions, then it would be possible, while motion is present, not to be in motion but to be at rest; but if they are not motions, then motion will not be composed of motions. And in the same way as with length and motion, time too must be indivisible, and composed of indivisible nows. For if the motion is wholly divisible, and a thing moving at equal speed traverses a lesser distance in a lesser time, then time too will be divisible. But if the time in which something is carried over Α is divisible, then Α too will be divisible.
5| Since every magnitude is divisible into magnitudes (for it has been shown that nothing continuous can be made of indivisibles, and every magnitude is continuous), it is necessary that the faster thing moves a greater distance in an equal time, an equal distance in a lesser time, and a greater distance in a lesser time, just as some people define the faster. For let A be faster than B. Since, then, the faster is what changes earlier, in the time in which A has changed from C to D, say ZH, B will not yet have reached D in this time but will fall short of it, so that in an equal time the faster covers more. But indeed it also covers more in a lesser time: for in the time in which A has arrived at D, let B, being the slower, be at E. Then, since A has arrived at D in the whole time ZH, it will be at the point Θ in a time less than this; let this time be ZK. Now CΘ, which A has traversed, is greater than CE, while the time ZK is less than the whole time ZH.
6| So it covers more in less time. And it is clear from this too that the faster traverses an equal distance in less time. For since it traverses the greater distance in less time than the slower does, while it itself, taken on its own, traverses a greater distance in more time than a lesser distance — say LM in more time than LΞ — the time PR, in which it traverses LM, would be more than PS, in which it traverses LΞ. So that if the time PR is less than X, the time in which the slower traverses LΞ, then PS too will be less than X: for it is less than PR, and what is less than the lesser is itself also less, so that the faster will move over the equal distance in less time. Further, since everything must move either in an equal time, a lesser time, or a greater time, and what moves in more time is slower, what moves in an equal time is of equal speed, and the faster is neither of equal speed nor slower, the faster could move in neither an equal time nor a greater time. It remains, then, that it moves in a lesser time, so that the faster must also traverse an equal magnitude in less time. Since every motion occurs in time, and in
7| any time whatever it is possible to move, and everything that moves admits of moving both faster and slower, so in any time whatever there will be motion both faster and slower. Given this, time too must be continuous. By continuous I mean what is divisible into parts that are always further divisible; for once this is laid down as what continuous means, time must be continuous. For since it has been shown that the faster traverses an equal distance in less time, let A be the faster and B the slower, and let the slower have moved over the magnitude CD in the time ZH. It is clear, then, that the faster will move over the same magnitude in less time than this; let it have moved over it in ZΘ. Again, since the faster has traversed the whole of CD in ZΘ, the slower in the same time traverses less; let this be CK. And since the slower, B, has traversed CK in the time ZΘ, the faster traverses it in less time, so that the time ZΘ will again be divided. And as this time is divided, the magnitude CK will also be divided in the same ratio. And if the magnitude is divided, so is the time.
8| And this will always happen if we keep alternating from the faster to the slower and from the slower to the faster, using what has been demonstrated: for the faster will divide the time, and the slower the length. If, then, this alternation always holds, and a division always results from the alternation, it is clear that every time will be continuous. And at the same time it is also clear that every magnitude is continuous: for time is divided into the same divisions, and equal ones, as the magnitude. Further, it is also clear from the arguments customarily given that if time is continuous, so is magnitude, since a thing traverses half the distance in half the time, and in general a lesser distance in a lesser time: for the divisions of time and of magnitude will be the same. And if either one is infinite, so is the other, and in whatever way the one is infinite, so is the other: for instance, if time is infinite at its extremities, the length is also infinite at its extremities; and if it is infinite by division, the length is also infinite by division; and if in both ways, the magnitude is also infinite in both ways.
9| For this reason too Zeno's argument assumes something false, namely that it is not possible to traverse infinitely many things, or to touch infinitely many things one by one, in a finite time. For both length and time, and in general everything continuous, are called infinite in two senses: either by division or at their extremities. Now it is not possible to touch things that are infinite in quantity in a finite time, but it is possible to touch things infinite by division: for time itself is infinite in this way too. So it turns out that a thing traverses the infinite in an infinite time, not a finite one, and touches infinitely many things by infinitely many contacts, not by finitely many. So it is not possible to traverse the infinite in a finite time, nor the finite in an infinite time; but if the time is infinite, the magnitude will also be infinite, and if the magnitude is infinite, so is the time. For let AB be a finite magnitude, and C an infinite time; and let some finite part of the time be taken, CD. In this, then, something traverses some part of the magnitude; let what it has traversed be BE. This will either measure AB exactly, or fall short of it, or exceed it: it makes no difference which.
10| For if it always traverses a magnitude equal to BE in an equal time, and BE measures the whole exactly, then the whole time in which it traversed the magnitude will be finite: for the magnitude too will be divided into equal parts corresponding to the time. Further, if not every magnitude is traversed in infinite time, but it is possible for some part to be traversed even in a finite time — for instance BE — and this measures the whole exactly, and it traverses an equal part in an equal time, then the time too will be finite. And that BE is not traversed in an infinite time is clear, if a finite time is taken on the other side: for if it traverses the part in less time, this time must be finite, since the other limit exists. And the same demonstration applies if the length is infinite but the time is finite.
11| It is clear, then, from what has been said, that neither a line nor a plane nor, in general, anything continuous will be indivisible — not only for the reason just given, but also because it will follow that the indivisible is divided. For since in every time there is a faster and a slower, and the faster traverses more in an equal time, and it is possible for it to traverse a length twice as great, or one and a half times as great as the slower — for this could be the ratio of the speed — let the faster, then, have covered one and a half times the distance in the same time, and let the magnitudes be divided: that of the faster into three indivisibles, AB, BC, CD, and that of the slower into two, EZ, ZH. Then the time too will be divided into three indivisibles: for it covers an equal part in an equal time. Let the time, then, be divided into KL, LM, MN. Again, since the slower has traversed EZH, the time too will be cut in two. The indivisible, then, will be divided, and the partless thing will traverse its distance not in an indivisible time but in more than one. It is clear, then, that nothing continuous is without parts.
12| The now — the one spoken of not in virtue of something else but in its own right, and spoken of as primary — must also be indivisible, and something of this kind must be present in every time. For there is a last point of what has come to be, beyond which nothing of what is going to be exists, and again, of what is going to be, beyond which nothing of what has come to be exists; and this we say is a limit of both. And if it is shown that this limit is one and the same thing in both cases, it will at once be clear that it is also indivisible. Now the now that is the last point of both times must be the same one; for if it were different, the one could not be next in succession to the other, since a continuum cannot be composed of things without parts, and if the two are separate, there will be time between them; for every continuum is such that there is something of the same kind between its limits. But then, if what lies between is time, it will be divisible; for every time has been shown to be divisible. So the now would be divisible. But if the now is divisible, part of what has come to be will lie in the future and part of what is going to be will lie in the past; for whatever point it is divided at will mark off the time that has elapsed from the time still to come. And at the same time the now would no longer be a now in its own right, but in virtue of something else —
13| for the division would not be in its own right. Besides this, part of the now will be past and part future, and it will not always be the same part that is past or future. Nor, then, will the now be the same now, since time is divisible in many different ways. So since these consequences are impossible, the now in each of the two times must be one and the same. But if it is the same, it is clear that it is also indivisible; for if it were divisible, the same consequences as before would follow all over again. That there is, then, something indivisible in time — what we call the now — is clear from what has been said; and that nothing moves in the now is clear from the following. For suppose something were moving in it: then nothing would stop that mover from going faster at one moment and slower at another, within that very now. Let the now, then, be N, and let the faster thing have moved through AB in it. Then the slower thing will move through less than AB in that same now — say through AC. Since the slower thing has moved through AC in the whole of the now, the faster thing will move through this distance AC in less time than that, so that the now will be divided. But it was indivisible. Therefore it is not possible for anything to move in the now. But
14| it is not at rest in it either. For we call a thing at rest when it is naturally such as to move but is not moving, when, where, and in the way it is naturally such as to move; so since nothing is naturally such as to move in the now, clearly nothing is at rest in it either. Further, if the now is the same in both times, and it is possible for the whole of one time to be a time of motion and the whole of the other a time of rest, then the thing moving through the whole time will be moving in any part of it whatsoever, in accordance with that in respect of which it is naturally such as to move, and the thing at rest will likewise be at rest in any part of its time; and it will follow that the same thing is at once at rest and in motion, since the same now is the last point of both times. Further, we call a thing at rest when it, and its parts, are in the same condition now as they were before; but in the now there is no before, so that it cannot be at rest in the now either. It is necessary, then, both that what is moving be moving in time and that what is at rest be at rest in time.
15| Everything that changes must be divisible. For since every change is from something to something, then when a thing is already in that to which it was changing, it is no longer changing, and when it — itself and all its parts — is still in that from which it was changing, it is not yet changing (for what is in the same condition, itself and all its parts, is not changing); so it is necessary that part of the changing thing be in the one state and part in the other, since it cannot be in both, nor in neither. By that into which it changes I mean the first thing reached in the course of the change — for example, from white it changes into gray, not into black; for the changing thing need not be at either of the two extremes. It is clear, then, that everything that changes will be divisible.
16| Motion is divisible in two ways: in one way by time, and in another according to the motions of the parts of the thing moved — for example, if the whole AC is moving, then AB will be moving and BC will be moving too. Let DE, then, be the motion of AB, and EF the motion of BC. Then the whole motion, DF, must be the motion of AC; for AC will move in accordance with it, since each of the two parts moves in accordance with each of the two motions, and nothing moves in accordance with the motion of something else; so the whole motion is the motion of the whole magnitude. Further, if every motion is the motion of something, and the whole motion, DF, is neither the motion of either of the two parts (for each of the two motions belongs to a part) nor the motion of anything else (for that of which the whole is the motion, of that too the parts are the motions of the parts; and the parts DE and EF are the motions of AB and BC and of nothing else, since there could not be one motion belonging to more than one thing), then the whole motion must indeed be the motion of the magnitude ABC. Further, if there is some other motion of the whole — say HI — the motion belonging to each of the two parts will be subtracted from it; and these subtracted motions will be equal to DE and EF —
17| for one motion belongs to one thing. So if the whole of HI is divided out into the motions of the parts, HI will be equal to DF; but if something is left over — say KI — this will be the motion of nothing (for it will be the motion neither of the whole nor of the parts, since one motion belongs to one thing, nor of anything else, since a continuous motion is the motion of some one continuous thing), and the same holds if the parts exceed it in the division; so since this is impossible, the two must be one and the same, and equal. This, then, is the division according to the motions of the parts, and it must hold of everything divisible; there is also another division, according to time. For since a motion of any given amount takes place in time, and every time is divisible, and in the lesser time there is less motion, every motion must be divisible according to time. And since everything that
18| is moved is moved in something and for some period of time, and there is a motion belonging to everything moved, the divisions of the time, of the motion, of the being-moved, of the thing moved, and of that in which the motion takes place must all be the same — except that they do not hold alike of all the things in which the motion takes place, but the division of place belongs to it in its own right, while the division of the quality belongs to it only accidentally. For let the time in which the thing is moved be taken as A, and the motion as B. If, then, it has moved through the whole distance in the whole time, it will move through less than the whole in half the time, and again, when this half is divided, through less than this in the smaller part, and so on always. Likewise too, if the motion is divisible, the time is also divisible; for if it moves through the whole distance in the whole time, it moves through half the distance in half the time, and again through a smaller distance in a smaller time. In the same way the being-moved will also be divided. For let the being-moved be taken as C. Then in accordance with the half of the motion it will be less than the whole, and again in accordance with the half of that half, and so on always. And it is also possible, having set out the being-moved corresponding to each of the two motions — say corresponding to DC and to CE — to say that the being-moved corresponding to the whole will correspond to the whole motion (for if it were something else, there would be more than one instance of being-moved corresponding to the same motion), just as we showed
19| that motion too is divisible into the motions of the parts. For once the being-moved corresponding to each of the two motions is taken, the whole will be continuous. In the same way it will also be shown that length is divisible, and in general everything in which change occurs (except that some things are divisible only accidentally, because the thing changing is divisible); for when the one thing is divided, all the rest will be divided along with it. And the same will hold alike of all of them as regards being finite or infinite. And it is above all from the changing thing that the divisibility and infinity of all these has followed; for the divisible and the infinite belong to the changing thing immediately. The divisible, then, has already been shown; the infinite will be made clear in what follows.
20| Since everything that changes changes from something into something, what has changed must, when it has first changed, be in that into which it has changed. For what changes departs from, or leaves behind, that from which it changes, and either changing and leaving behind are the same thing, or leaving behind follows upon changing. And if leaving behind follows upon changing, then having left behind follows upon having changed; for each stands to the other in the same way. Since, then, change according to contradiction is one kind of change, when a thing has changed from not-being into being, it has left behind not-being. It will therefore be in being; for everything must either be or not be. It is clear, then, that in change according to contradiction, what has changed will be in that into which it has changed. And if this holds in this case, it holds in the others too; for it is the same with one as with the rest. Further, this is also clear if we take each kind of change on its own, given that what has changed must be somewhere or in something. For since it has left behind that from which it has changed, and it must be somewhere, it will be either in this or in something else. Now if what has changed into B is in something else, say C, then it changes again from C into B; for B was not adjacent to C, and change is continuous. So what has changed, at the moment it has changed, is changing into that into which it has changed. But this is impossible; therefore what has changed must be in this very thing into which it has changed. It is clear, then, that what has come to be, at the moment it has come to be, will exist, and what has perished will not exist; for this has been stated universally, about every kind of change, and it is most evident in change according to contradiction.
21| That, then, what has changed, at the moment it has first changed, is in that into which it has changed, is clear. But that in which what has changed has first changed must be indivisible. By "first" I mean that which is not so in virtue of some part of it being so. For let AC be divisible, and let it be divided at B. If, then, it has changed in AB, or again in BC, it will not have changed in AC as a first interval. But if it was changing in each of the two — for it must either have changed or be changing in each of them — then it would be changing in the whole too; but it was assumed to have already changed. The same account holds if it is changing in the one and has changed in the other; for then there will be something prior to the first, so that that in which it has changed cannot be divisible. It is clear, then, that both what has perished and what has come to be do so in something indivisible — the one having perished, the other having come to be, in an indivisible interval. Now "that in which it has first changed" is spoken of in two ways:
22| on the one hand, that in which the change was first completed (for then it is true to say that it has changed), and on the other, that in which it first began to change. Now the "first" spoken of with reference to the end of the change does hold good and does exist (for a change can be completed, and there is an end of change, which has in fact been shown to be indivisible, because it is a limit); but the "first" spoken of with reference to the beginning does not exist at all. For there is no beginning of change, nor did it change in a first period of time. For let AD be supposed to be first. Now this cannot be indivisible; for it would follow that the nows are adjacent to one another. Further, if throughout the whole time CA it is at rest — let it be assumed to be at rest — then it is also at rest at A, so that if AD is without parts, it will at once be at rest and will have changed; for at A it is at rest, and at D it has changed. But since it is not without parts, it must be divisible, and it must have changed in some part of it, whatever that part may be. For if AD is divided, and it has changed in neither part, then it has not changed in the whole either; but if it is changing in both, then it is changing in the whole too; or if it has changed in one of the two, then it has not changed in the whole as a first interval. So it must have changed in some part or other. It is clear, then, that there is no first interval in which it has changed; for the divisions are infinite. Nor, again, is there any first part of what has changed that has changed. For let DZ be the first part of DE that has changed; for it has been shown that whatever changes is throughout divisible. And let the time in which DZ has changed be HI. If, then, DZ has changed in the whole of this time, then in half the time something less will have changed, and prior to DZ, and again something else prior to that, and something else prior to that, and so on forever. So there will be nothing first belonging to what is changing that has changed.
23| That, then, there is nothing first either of what is changing, or of the time in which it changes, is clear from what has been said. But the thing itself that changes, or that in respect of which it changes, will not be in the same case. For there are three things spoken of in connection with change: the thing that changes, that in which it changes, and that into which it changes — for example, the man, the time, and the white. Now the man and the time are divisible, but the case of the white calls for a different account. Except that everything is divisible in an accidental sense; for that to which the white or the quality is an accidental attribute is itself divisible. Since, in fact, whatever is called divisible in its own right, and not accidentally, there will be no first thing among these either — for example, among magnitudes. For let AB be a magnitude, and let it have moved first from B to C. Then if BC is indivisible, a partless thing will be adjacent to a partless thing; but if it is divisible, there will be something prior to C into which it has changed, and again something else prior to that, and so on forever, because the division never gives out. So there will be no first thing into which it has changed. The same holds for change in quantity too; for this too takes place in something continuous. It is clear, then, that only in motion in respect of quality is it possible for something to be indivisible in its own right.
24| Since everything that changes changes in time, and "to change in time" is said both in the sense of "in a primary time" and in the sense of "in virtue of another" — as, for instance, we say a thing changes in the year because it changes in the day — what changes, changing in a primary time, must be changing in any part whatever of that time. This is clear from the definition itself (for this is how we defined "primary"); but it is also evident from the following. For let XP be the primary time in which the moving thing is moving, and let it be divided at K; for every time is divisible. Now in the time XK it either is moving or is not moving, and likewise again in KP. If, then, it is moving in neither, it would be at rest in the whole (for it is impossible for a thing to be moving while moving in none of its parts); and if it is moving in only one of the two, then it would not be moving in XP as a primary time; for then the motion would be "in virtue of another." It is necessary, then, that it be moving in any part whatever of XP.
25| Now that this has been shown, it is clear that everything that is moving must have moved previously. For if in the primary time XP the magnitude KL has been moved through, then in half the time a thing moving at the same speed and starting at the same moment will have moved through half of it. And if a thing moving at the same speed has moved through something in the same time, then the other thing too must have moved through the same magnitude, so that what is moving will have already moved. Further, if we say that it has moved in the whole time XP, or in general in any time whatever, we say so by taking the extreme now of that time (for this is what marks it off, and what lies between the nows is time), and the same account would apply to saying that it has moved in the other parts too. And the extreme of the half is the point of division. So it will have moved in the half too, and in general in any part whatever; for at every point of division there is always a time marked off by the nows. If, then, all time is divisible, and what lies between the nows is time, then everything that changes will have changed an infinite number of times. Further, if it is necessary that whatever changes continuously, and has neither perished nor ceased from its change, either be changing or have changed in any part whatever, and it is not possible to be changing in a now, then it must have changed at each of the nows; so that, if the nows are infinite in number, everything that changes will have changed an infinite number of times.
26| And not only must what is changing have changed,
27| But also, what has changed must have been changing earlier; for everything that has changed from one thing into another has changed in time. For let it have changed from A to B in the now. Then, in the very now in which it is in A, it has not changed (for it would then be in A and in B at the same time); for it has been shown earlier that what has changed, when it has changed, is not in that from which it changed. But if it is in another now, there will be a time in between; for the nows were not next to one another. Since, then, it has changed in time, and every time is divisible, in the half of that time something else will have changed, and again in the half of that half something else, and so on forever; so that it would have been changing earlier. Further, what has been said is clearer in the case of magnitude, because the magnitude in which what changes changes is continuous. For let something have changed from Γ to Δ. Now if ΓΔ is indivisible, a partless thing will be next to a partless thing; but since this is impossible, the interval between them must be a magnitude, and divisible into infinitely many parts; so that it changes into those parts earlier. Everything that has changed, then, must have been changing earlier. For the same demonstration holds also for things that are not continuous, for instance among contraries and in contradiction; for we will take the time in which it has changed, and again say the same things. So it is necessary that what has changed be changing, and that what is changing have changed, and the having-changed will be prior to the changing, and the changing prior to the having-changed, and the first point will never be grasped. The cause of this is that a partless thing is not next to a partless thing; for the division is infinite, just as with lines that are being increased or decreased.
28| It is clear, then, that what has come to be must have been coming to be earlier, and what is coming to be must have come to be, in the case of everything divisible and continuous — not, however, always the very thing that is coming to be, but sometimes something else, some part of it, as the foundation comes to be before the house. Likewise too with what is perishing and what has perished; for something infinite is present at once in what is coming to be and in what is perishing, given that it is continuous, and it is not possible for anything to be coming to be without something having come to be, nor to have come to be without something coming to be; and likewise too with perishing and having perished, for the having-perished will always be prior to the perishing, and the perishing prior to the having-perished. It is clear, then, that what has come to be must have been coming to be earlier, and what is coming to be must have come to be; for every magnitude and every time is always divisible. So that, whatever it is in, it will not be in that as in a first thing.
29| Since everything that is moved is moved in time, and moves through a greater magnitude in more time, it is impossible for a finite magnitude to be moved through an infinite time — not in the sense that the same part is always in motion while only some part of the magnitude moves, but in the sense that the whole is in motion during every part of the time. That, if something moves at a uniform speed, the finite magnitude must be moved in a finite time is clear: for if a part is taken that will measure the whole, the whole will have been moved through in as many equal times as there are parts, so that since these are finite both in how great each is and in how many they all are, the time too would be finite; for it will be that many times as great as the time of the part, multiplied by the number of the parts. But even if it does not move at a uniform speed, it makes no difference. For let AB be a finite interval, which has been moved through in the infinite time, and let ΓΔ be the infinite time. If, then, one part of it must have been moved before another (and this is clear, because in the earlier and later part of the time a different part has been moved; for always in the greater time a different part will have been moved, whether the change is at a uniform speed or not, and whether the motion intensifies or slackens or stays the same, none the less), let some part of the interval AB be taken, AE, which will measure AB.
30| This, then, occurred in some part of the infinite time; for it cannot occur in an infinite time, since it is the whole that is moved through in the infinite time. And again, if I take another part as great as AE, it too must occur in a finite time; for again it is the whole that is moved through in the infinite time. And continuing to take parts in this way — since no part of the infinite has a measure that will measure it out (for it is impossible for the infinite to be composed of finite parts, whether equal or unequal, because the finite parts, being determinate both in number and in magnitude, would then be measured by some one thing, whether they are equal or unequal, provided each is bounded in magnitude, none the less) — while the finite interval is measured by so many parts equal to AE, AB would be moved through in a finite time (and likewise too with rest); so that it is not possible for anything one and the same to be always coming to be or perishing.
31| The same argument shows also that an infinite magnitude cannot be moved, nor brought to rest, in a finite time, whether it moves uniformly or not. For if some part is taken that will measure out the whole time, in that part the moving thing will traverse a certain amount of the magnitude, and not the whole (for in the whole time it traverses the whole, and again in an equal part it traverses another such amount, and likewise in each part, whether that amount is equal or unequal to the first; for it makes no difference, so long as each is finite); for it is clear that as the time is used up the infinite magnitude will not be used up, since the amount subtracted is finite both in size and in the number of times it is subtracted; so that the infinite is not traversed in a finite time. And it makes no difference whether the magnitude is infinite in one direction or in both, for the argument will be the same. Now that these points have been demonstrated, it is clear that a finite magnitude cannot traverse an infinite one in a finite time either, for the same reason; for in a part of the time it traverses a finite amount, and likewise in each part, so that in the whole time it traverses a finite amount. And since the finite does not traverse the infinite in a finite time, it is clear that the infinite does not traverse the finite either; for if the infinite traversed the finite, the finite would also have to traverse the infinite.
32| For it makes no difference which of the two is the thing moved; either way the finite traverses the infinite. For whenever the infinite, on which let A stand, is moved, there will be some finite part of it at B, for instance ΓΔ, and again another and another, and so on forever. So that it will follow at once both that the infinite has been moved past the finite and that the finite has traversed the infinite; for presumably it is not possible for the infinite to be moved past the finite in any other way than by the finite traversing the infinite, either by being carried along it or by measuring it out. So that, since this is impossible, the infinite cannot traverse the finite. But neither, again, does the infinite traverse the infinite in a finite time; for if the infinite magnitude does, so does the finite; for the finite is contained within the infinite. Further, if the time is also taken as infinite, the same demonstration will apply. Since, then, neither the finite traverses the infinite, nor the infinite the finite, nor the infinite the infinite, in a finite time, it is clear that motion too cannot be infinite in a finite time; for what difference does it make whether one makes the motion infinite or the magnitude? For necessarily, if either one is infinite, so is the other;
33| for every locomotion occurs in place.
34| Since everything naturally disposed to be in motion or at rest is in motion or at rest when, where, and as it is naturally disposed to be, what is coming to rest must be in motion while it is coming to rest; for if it is not in motion, it will be at rest, but what is already at rest cannot be in the process of coming to rest. Now that this has been demonstrated, it is clear that a thing must also come to rest in time (for what is in motion is in motion in time, and what is coming to rest has been shown to be in motion, so it must come to rest in time). Further, since we speak of faster and slower with reference to time, and coming to rest admits of faster and slower, then whatever time is the primary time in which a thing comes to rest, it must be coming to rest in any part whatever of that time. For if the time is divided and the thing comes to rest in neither part, then it does not come to rest in the whole either, so that what is coming to rest would not be coming to rest at all; but if it comes to rest in one of the two parts, then the whole would not be the primary time in which it comes to rest, since in that case it comes to rest in virtue of something else, namely the part, as was said earlier in the case of what is in motion. And just as there is no primary time in which what is in motion is in motion, so too there is none in which what is coming to rest is coming to rest; for there is nothing primary either of being in motion or of coming to rest. For let AB be the primary time in which it comes to rest. Now this cannot be without parts (for there is no motion in what is without parts, since something of the thing would then have to have moved, and what is coming to rest has been shown to be in motion); but then, if it is divisible, the thing comes to rest in any part whatever of it, for this was shown earlier — that whatever the primary time is in which a thing comes to rest, it comes to rest in any part whatever of that time. Since, then, the time in which it primarily comes to rest is a time, and not something indivisible, and every time is divisible into infinitely many parts, there will be no time that is the primary time in which it comes to rest.
35| Nor, again, is there a first moment at which what is at rest came to rest. For it did not come to rest in something without parts, since there is no motion in an indivisible; and wherever there is being-at-rest there is also being-in-motion (for we say a thing is at rest when, in the time in which it is naturally disposed to be in motion, the thing so disposed is not in motion; and further, we also say a thing is at rest when it is in the same condition now as before, judging this not by reference to one single now but to two nows at the least — so that the time in which a thing is at rest cannot be without parts). But if it is divisible, it will be a time, and the thing will be at rest in any part whatever of it; for this will be shown in the same way as in the previous cases, so that there will be nothing primary. The cause of this is that everything is at rest and in motion in time, and there is no primary time, nor any primary magnitude, nor indeed anything continuous at all that is primary; for everything is divisible into infinitely many parts.
36| Since everything that is in motion is in motion in time and changes from something into something, then in the time in which it is in motion in its own right, and not by virtue of being in some part of that time, it is impossible for what is in motion then to be, as a primary state, at some determinate place. For being at rest is being in the same place for some time, both the thing itself and each of its parts. For this is what we mean by being at rest: that at one now after another it is true to say that both the thing itself and its parts are in the same place. But if this is what being at rest is, then it is not possible for what is changing to be, as a whole, at some determinate place during the primary time; for every time is divisible, so that it will be true to say, at one part of it after another, that both the thing itself and its parts are in the same place. For if this is not so, but the thing is at some determinate place only at a single now, then it will be at that place for no time at all, but only at the limit of the time. Now at a now the thing always is, to be sure, at some determinate place, but it is not thereby at rest; for it is not possible either to be in motion or to be at rest at a now — rather, it is true that at a now the thing is not in motion and is at some determinate place, but it is not possible for a thing to be at rest, at some determinate place, throughout a stretch of time; for that would mean that what is being carried along is at rest.
38| Zeno's reasoning is fallacious. For, he says, if everything is always at rest whenever it occupies a space equal to itself, and what is being carried is always occupying such a space in the now, then the flying arrow is motionless. But this is false; for time is not composed of indivisible nows, any more than any other magnitude is. There are four arguments of Zeno's about motion that create difficulties for those who try to solve them. The first is the one denying motion on the ground that what is moving must arrive at the half-way point before it arrives at the end; we have dealt with this in our earlier discussions. The second is the one called the Achilles. It holds that the slowest runner will never be caught, as it runs, by the fastest; for the pursuer must first reach the point from which the pursued started, so that the slower must always be some distance ahead. This is the same argument as the dichotomy, but it differs in that the magnitude successively taken is not divided in half. So the conclusion that the slower is not caught does follow from the argument, and it arises from the same cause as in the dichotomy (for in both cases the result is a failure to reach the limit, because the magnitude is divided in some way; but this argument has the added feature that not even the fastest thing — for all the drama of the case — catches the slowest as it pursues it), so the solution must be the same as well. The claim that what is ahead is not caught is false: it is true that it is not caught while it is still ahead, but nevertheless it is caught, provided one grants that it gets through the finite distance. These, then, are the first two arguments. The third is the one just stated, that the flying arrow stands still. It results from taking time to be composed of nows; for if this is not granted, the deduction will not go through.
39| The fourth is the argument about the bodies moving in the stadium, in opposite directions, past equal bodies, at equal speed — one group starting from the end of the stadium, the other from the middle — in which he thinks it results that half a time is equal to double that time. The fallacy lies in requiring that a body of equal magnitude, moving at equal speed, takes an equal time to pass a moving body as to pass a body at rest; and this is false. For example: let the bodies at rest be equal, the A's; let the B's, equal to these in number and in magnitude, start from the middle; and let the Γ's, equal to these in number and in magnitude, start from the end, moving at the same speed as the B's. Then it results that the first B is, at the same moment, at the last A as the first Γ is, since they are moving past one another. And it results that the Γ has passed all of the B's, while the B has passed only half of the A's, so that on this reckoning the time is supposedly half as long; for each of the two takes an equal time to pass each single one. But at the same time it also results that the first B has passed all of the Γ's; for the first Γ and the first B will be at the opposite ends at the same moment, because both take an equal time to pass the A's.
40| This, then, is the argument, and it results from the falsehood already stated. Nor, again, will anything be impossible for us in the case of change between contradictories — for example, if a thing changes from not-white to white and is in neither state, it does not follow that it will then be neither white nor not-white; for it is not the case that, because it is not wholly in either state, it will therefore not be called white or not-white. We call a thing white or not-white not because it is wholly such, but because most of its parts, or the most decisive parts, are such; and not being in this state is not the same as not being wholly in this state. The same holds likewise for being and not-being, and for the other cases governed by contradiction: the thing will necessarily be in one or the other of the two opposed states, but it will not always be wholly in either. Again, take the case of the circle and the sphere, and in general of things that move within their own place: it might seem that it will result that they are at rest, since both the thing itself and its parts will be in the same place for some time, so that it would be at rest and in motion at once. But in the first place, the parts are not in the same place for any time at all,
41| Moreover, the whole is also always changing into something different. For the arc taken from A is not the same as the arc taken from B, or from C, or from each of the other points, except in the way that "the musical man" and "man" are the same — that is, accidentally. So one arc is always changing into another, and it will never be at rest. And the same holds, in the same way, for the sphere too, and for the other things that move within them.
42| Now that these points have been demonstrated, we say that what has no parts cannot move except accidentally — for example, when the body or magnitude in which it is present is moving, just as something in a ship might move because of the ship's motion, or a part might move because of the motion of the whole. (By "what has no parts" I mean what is indivisible in quantity.) For the motions of the parts are different, both from one another and from the motion of the whole. One can see this difference most clearly in the case of the sphere: the speed of the points near the center is not the same as that of the points on the outside, nor the same as that of the whole — which shows that the motion is not one. So then, as we said, what has no parts can move in this way, the way a person sitting in a ship moves while the ship runs its course, but it cannot move in its own right. For let it be changing from AB to BC — whether from one magnitude to another, or from one form to another, or between contradictories — and let the time in which it first changes be D. Then necessarily, during the time in which it is changing, it must be either in AB or in BC, or partly in the one and partly in the other —
43| for everything that changes is in this condition. Now no part of it can be in each of the two, for then it would be divisible. But it cannot be in BC either, since then it would have already changed, whereas it is assumed to be changing. It remains, then, that it is in AB during the time in which it is changing. It will therefore be at rest, since being in the same place for some time was what being at rest meant. So it is not possible for what has no parts to move, or to change at all. For its motion could occur in only one way: if time were made up of nows. For then it would always have been moving and have already changed in the now, so that it would never be moving, but would always have moved. That this is impossible has already been shown earlier: neither is time made up of nows, nor a line made up of points, nor motion made up of movements. For anyone who says this is doing nothing other than making motion out of things without parts, just as if one made time out of nows, or length out of points. It is clear from the following considerations too that —
44| — neither a point nor anything else indivisible can move. For nothing that moves can traverse a greater distance before it has traversed one equal to or less than itself. If this is so, it is clear that the point too will first traverse a distance equal to or less than itself. But since it is indivisible, it cannot first traverse a lesser distance; so it will traverse one equal to itself. This means the line will be made up of points, since the point, always traversing a distance equal to itself, will measure out the whole line. But if this is impossible, then it is also impossible for the indivisible to move. Further, if everything moves in time, and nothing moves in the now, and every time is divisible, then for anything in motion there would be some time shorter than the time in which it traverses its own extent. For this will be a time in which it is moving, since everything moves in time, and it has been shown earlier that every time is divisible. If, then, a point is moving, there will be some time shorter than the time in which it traversed itself. But that is impossible, for in a lesser time it must traverse a lesser distance. So the indivisible will turn out to be divisible into something smaller, just as the time is divisible into a smaller time. For what has no parts and is indivisible could move in only one way: if it were possible for the indivisible thing to move in the now. For to move in the now, and for something indivisible to move, come to the same thing.
45| No change is infinite. For however many changes there were, each was from something to something — both the change between contradictories and the change between contraries. So for changes by way of contradiction, the affirmation and the negation are the limits (for instance, being is the limit of coming-to-be, and not-being the limit of perishing), while for changes between contraries, the contraries themselves are the limits, since these are the extremes of the change. This holds too for every alteration, since alteration proceeds from certain contraries, and likewise for increase and decrease: the limit of increase is the complete magnitude proper to the thing's own nature, and the limit of decrease is departure from this. Locomotion, however, will not be bounded in this way, since not every locomotion is between contraries. But since what cannot be traversed in this way is impossible because it is not possible to traverse it (for "impossible" is said in several ways), what is impossible in this sense cannot be traversed; and just as, in general, what cannot come to be does not come to be, so what cannot change cannot change into that which it is impossible to change into. If, then, what is being carried along is changing into something, it must also be possible for it to change into it. So motion is not infinite, and it will not traverse the infinite, since it is impossible to get through it. That there is no change so infinite, in this sense, that it is not bounded by limits, is clear. But we must consider whether change can be infinite in this other sense: infinite in time while remaining one and the same. For if it is not one, presumably nothing prevents this — for instance, if after locomotion there were alteration, and after the alteration increase, and then coming-to-be again; for in this way motion will always exist through time, but it will not be a single motion, since no single motion is made up of all of these. But for it to become one motion, it is not possible for it to be infinite in time, except in one case — and that is circular locomotion.
1| Book Seven.
2| Everything that is in motion must be moved by something. For if it does not have the principle of its motion within itself, it is clear that it is moved by something else, since the mover will be different from it. But if it does have the principle within itself, let AB be taken as something that moves in its own right, and not because some part of it is moving. Now, in the first place, to suppose that AB is moved by itself, on the grounds that the whole is in motion and is not moved by anything outside it, is like the case where KL is moving LM and is itself in motion, and someone were to deny that KM is being moved by anything, because it is not evident which is the mover and which the moved. Next, what is not moved by anything need not stop moving because something else comes to rest; rather, if something comes to rest because something else has stopped moving, that thing must be moved by something — and once this is granted, everything that is in motion will be moved by something. For since what has been taken as being in motion is AB, it must be divisible, since everything in motion is divisible. Let it, then, be divided at C. Now if CB is not moving, AB will not be moving either; for if it were moving, clearly AC would be moving while CB was at rest, so that AB would not be moving in its own right and primarily. But it was assumed to move in its own right and primarily. So, necessarily, if CB is not moving, AB is at rest. But what is at rest because something else is not moving has been agreed to be moved by something; so everything that is in motion must be moved by something. For what is in motion will always be divisible, and if the part is not moving, the whole must be at rest too.
3| Since everything that is moved must be moved by something — for if something is moved with motion in place by another thing that is itself in motion, and again the mover is moved by something else in motion, and that in turn by yet another, and so on continually — there must be some first mover, and the series must not proceed to infinity. For suppose it does not stop, but let it be infinite. Let A, then, be moved by B, B by C, C by D, and let each thing in the series always be moved by the next. Since, then, it is assumed that the mover, itself being moved, causes motion, the motion of the thing moved and the motion of the mover must occur together (for the mover moves and the thing moved is moved at the same time); it is clear, then, that the motion of A and of B and of C and of each of the movers and things moved will occur together. Let the motion of each, then, be taken, and let E be the motion of A, F the motion of B, and G and H the motions of C and D. For even though each thing is always moved by each thing before it, it will still be possible to take one motion of each in number; for every motion is from something to something, and is not infinite at its limits.
4| I call a motion one in number when it goes from what is numerically the same to what is numerically the same, in what is numerically the same time. For a motion is the same in three ways — in genus, in species, and in number: the same in genus when it belongs to the same category, for instance substance or quality; the same in species when it goes from what is the same in species to what is the same in species, for instance from white to black, or from good to bad, when these do not differ in species; the same in number when it goes from one thing numerically one to one thing numerically one, in the same time — for instance from this white to this black, or from this place to that place, in this time. For if it occurred in a different time, it would no longer be one motion in number, but one in species. This has been discussed earlier. Let the time, too, be taken, in
5| which A has completed its own motion, and let it be K. Since the motion of A is finite, the time too will be finite. Now since the movers and the things moved are infinite in number, the motion EFGH, made up of all of them, will be infinite; for it is possible that the motion of A and of B and of the rest be equal, and it is also possible that the motions of the rest be greater — so that whether they are equal or greater, in either case the whole is infinite, since we are taking what is possible. And since A and each of the others are moved at the same time, the whole motion will occur in the same time as that of A; but that of A occurs in a finite time; so the infinite would occur in a finite time, and this is impossible. In this way
6| it might seem, then, that what was proposed at the outset has been shown; but in fact it has not been demonstrated, because nothing impossible has been shown. For it is possible for there to be an infinite motion in a finite time — not the motion of one thing, but of many. And this is exactly what happens in the present case; for each thing is moved with its own motion, and there is nothing impossible in many things being moved at the same time. But if the thing that primarily causes motion in place, motion of a bodily kind, must either be in contact with the thing moved or be continuous with it — as we see in every case — then the things moved and the things moving them must be continuous with one another or in contact, so that all of them together form a single thing. And whether this is finite or infinite makes no difference for the present purpose; for in any case the motion will be infinite, since the movers are infinite, if indeed it is possible for them to be equal to or greater than one another; for whatever is possible, we shall take as holding. If, then, the thing made up of A, B, C, D is either finite or infinite, and it is moved with the motion EFGH in the time K, and this time is finite, it follows that in a finite time an infinite motion is traversed, whether by the finite thing or by the infinite thing. But both are impossible. So it is necessary for the series to come to a stop, and for there to be some first mover and first thing moved. For it makes no difference that this impossibility results from a hypothesis; for the hypothesis taken was one that is possible, and when what is possible is posited, nothing impossible ought to result from it on that account.
7| The first mover — not in the sense of that for the sake of which, but that from which the origin of the motion comes — is together with the thing moved (by 'together' I mean that there is nothing between them); for this holds in common for every mover and thing moved. Since there are three kinds of motion — that in respect of place, that in respect of quality, and that in respect of quantity — there must also be three kinds of mover: that which carries, that which alters, and that which increases or diminishes. Let us speak first, then, about locomotion; for this is the first of the motions.
8| Now everything that is carried is moved either by itself or by something else. In the case of things moved by themselves, it is clear that the thing moved and the mover are together in them; for the first mover is present within them, so that there is nothing between. But things moved by something else must come about in one of four ways; for there are four kinds of motion by another: pulling, pushing, carrying, and whirling. For all motions in respect of place are reduced to these. Pushing-on is a kind of pushing, when the mover, having set something in motion from itself, follows along and pushes it; pushing-off is when the mover does not follow along after having set it in motion; throwing is when the mover makes the motion away from itself more violent than the thing's natural motion, and the thing is carried just so far as that motion prevails. Again, driving-apart and driving-together are species of pushing-off and pulling: for driving-apart is a pushing-off (pushing-off being either from oneself or from another), while driving-together is a pulling (for pulling too is both toward oneself and toward another). So too are the species of these, such as battening and shuttling: the one is a driving-together, the other a driving-apart. Similarly too the other cases of combination and separation — for all of them will be cases of driving-apart or driving-together — except those that occur in coming-to-be and passing-away.
9| At the same time it is also clear that combination and separation are not some further kind of motion; for all of them are distributed among the ones already mentioned. Further, inhaling is a pulling, exhaling a pushing. Similarly too spitting, and all other motions through the body that are either excretive or receptive; for some of these are pullings, others pushings. And the other motions in respect of place must be reduced in the same way; for all of them fall under these four, and of these, again, carrying and whirling are reduced to pulling and pushing. For carrying occurs in accordance with one of these three ways (for the thing carried is moved accidentally, in that it is in something moving or on something moving, while the thing that carries, carries either while being pulled or being pushed or being whirled, so that carrying is common to all three); while whirling is composed of both pulling and pushing, for what does the whirling must pull one part and push another — for it draws one part away from itself, the other toward itself. So that, if the thing pushing and the thing pulling are together with the thing pushed and the thing pulled, it is clear that between what is moved in place and what moves it there is nothing between.
10| But indeed this is clear also from the definitions: pushing is a motion from oneself or from another toward another, while pulling is a motion from another toward oneself or toward another, when the motion is faster than the one separating continuous things from one another; for in this way the other part is drawn along with it. (Perhaps it might seem that there is also a pulling in another way; for wood draws fire, but not in this way. It makes no difference, though, whether the thing pulling is in motion or at rest when it pulls; for sometimes it pulls from where it is, sometimes from where it was.) But it is impossible to move something from oneself toward another, or from another toward oneself, without touching it; so it is clear that between what is moved in place and what moves it there is nothing between.
11| But surely there is nothing between the thing altered and the thing altering, either. This is clear from induction: in every case it turns out that the last thing altering and the first thing altered are together. For we take it as established that things altered are altered by being affected in respect of what are called affective qualities. For every body differs from every other body in its perceptible qualities, either in having more or fewer of them, or in having the same ones to a greater or lesser degree. But moreover the thing altered is altered by the qualities just mentioned. For these are affections of the underlying quality: we say a thing is altered when it is heated, or sweetened, or condensed, or dried, or whitened, saying this alike of the inanimate and the animate, and again, among animate things, of the parts that have no perception as well as of the perceptions themselves. For the perceptions too are altered in a way: perception in actuality is a motion through the body, the perception being affected in some way. Now whatever the inanimate is altered in respect of, the animate is altered in respect of that too, but not everything the animate is altered in respect of holds also for the inanimate (for it is not altered in respect of the perceptions); and in the one case the being affected escapes notice, in the other it does not. But nothing prevents its escaping notice in the animate as well, whenever the alteration does not occur in respect of the perceptions. If, then, the thing altered is altered by perceptible things, it is evident that in all these cases the last thing altering and the first thing altered are together: for to the one the air is continuous, and to the air the body; and again, color is continuous with light, and light with sight. In the same way too with hearing and smell: the air is the first mover in relation to what is moved. And likewise with taste: the flavor is together with the taste. And the same holds too in the case of inanimate and imperceptive things. So there will be nothing between the thing altered and the thing altering.
12| Nor, again, is there anything between the thing growing and the thing that makes it grow. For the first thing that causes growth causes growth by being added on, so that the whole becomes one. And again, the thing that diminishes diminishes by something belonging to the diminishing thing being taken away. The growing thing and the diminishing thing must therefore be continuous, and of continuous things there is nothing between. It is clear, then, that between the thing moved and the first and last thing that moves it, in relation to the thing moved, there is nothing in between.
13| That everything that is altered is altered by perceptible things, and that alteration belongs only to those things that are said in their own right to be affected by perceptible things, must be studied from the following considerations. For among the other cases, one might suppose above all that alteration is present in shapes and figures, and in states and the acquisitions and losses of these; but it is present in neither. For when a thing being given shape or figure is completed, we do not call it by the material out of which it is—we do not call the statue bronze, or the pyramid wax, or the bed wood—but by a derived name we call the one bronzen, the other waxen, the other wooden. But what has been affected and altered we do call by the material's name: we call the bronze or the wax wet, or hot, or hard (and not only in that way, but we also call the wet thing or the hot thing bronze), calling the matter by the same name as the affection. So if, in respect of shape and figure, what has come to be is not called by the name of that in which the shape resides, but in respect of affections and alterations it is so called, it is clear that comings-to-be could not be alterations. Further, it would seem strange to say, in this way, that a human being, or a house, or anything else that has come to be, has been altered. Rather, presumably each thing must come to be as a result of something being altered—for instance, the matter being condensed, or rarefied, or heated, or cooled—but the things that come to be are not thereby altered, nor is their coming-to-be an alteration.
14| But moreover, neither are the states—whether of the body or of the soul—alterations. For some states are virtues and others are vices; but neither virtue nor vice is an alteration. Rather, virtue is a kind of completion (for when a thing has received its own virtue, then it is said to be complete—for then it is most in accordance with its nature, just as a circle is complete when it has most fully become a circle and is at its best), while vice is a destruction and departure from this. So then, just as we do not call the completion of a house an alteration (it would be absurd if the coping and the tiling were an alteration, or if the house, in being coped and tiled, were altered rather than completed), in the same way it holds for the virtues and vices too, and for those who possess or are acquiring them: some are completions, others departures, and so they are not alterations.
15| Further, we also say that all the virtues consist in being related to something in a certain way. For the virtues of the body, such as health and good condition, we place in a blending and due proportion of hot and cold things, either of the internal elements in relation to one another, or in relation to the surrounding environment; and likewise too beauty and strength and the other virtues and vices. For each of them consists in being related to something in a certain way, and it disposes what possesses it well or badly with respect to that thing's own proper affections—and the proper affections are those by which it is naturally suited to come to be and to be destroyed. Since, then, relative terms are not themselves alterations, and there is neither alteration nor coming-to-be of them, nor any change at all, it is clear that neither the states nor the losses and acquisitions of the states are alterations; but presumably they must come to be and be destroyed as a result of certain things being altered, just as form and shape do too—for instance, of hot and cold things, or of dry and wet things, or of whatever it is in which they happen to reside in the first instance. For it is with respect to these that each vice and virtue is spoken of, the things by which what possesses them is naturally suited to be altered: virtue makes it either unaffected, or affected in this particular way, while vice makes it affected, or, on the contrary, unaffected.
16| The same holds too for the states of the soul: all of these likewise consist in being related to something in a certain way, and the virtues are completions while the vices are departures. Further, virtue disposes one well with respect to the proper affections, vice badly. So these too will not be alterations, nor indeed will the losses and acquisitions of them. But they must come to be as a result of the perceptive part being altered. And it will be altered by perceptible things: for all ethical virtue concerns bodily pleasures and pains, and these occur either in acting, or in remembering, or in hoping. Those that occur in the acting are in accordance with perception, so that they are set in motion by some perceptible object; those in memory and in hope derive from this—for one takes pleasure either in remembering what one has experienced, or in hoping for what is to come. So it is necessary that all pleasure of this kind arise from perceptible things. And since, when pleasure and pain come to be, vice and virtue also come to be (for they are concerned with these), and pleasures and pains are alterations of the perceptive part, it is clear that it is necessary, as a result of something being altered, to both lose and acquire these too. So their coming-to-be involves alteration, but they themselves are not alterations.
17| But surely the states of the intellectual part are not alterations either, nor is there any coming-to-be of them. For it is above all in the case of what is knowing that we speak of being in some condition relative to something. And further it is also evident that there is no coming-to-be of them: for what is potentially knowing does not become knowing by being itself moved, but by something else's coming to be the case. For when the particular instance comes to be, it knows the universal in a certain way through the particular. Again, there is no coming-to-be of the using and the exercising of knowledge, unless someone thinks there is a coming-to-be of the recovery of sight or of touch as well; for using and exercising are like these. But the initial acquiring of knowledge is not a coming-to-be nor an alteration: for it is by the thought's coming to rest and standing still that we are said to know and to be wise, and there is no coming-to-be into a state of rest; for in general there is no coming-to-be of any change at all, as has been said before. Further, just as when someone changes from being drunk, or asleep, or sick, into the opposite states, we do not say he has become knowing again (although he was previously unable to exercise his knowledge), so too it is not the case when he acquires the state from the beginning: for it is by the soul's settling down out of its natural disturbance that something becomes practically wise and knowing. That is why children can neither learn, nor judge by their perceptions as well as older people do; for there is much disturbance and motion in them. And the soul settles down and grows calm — with respect to some things by nature itself, with respect to others by other agencies — while in both cases certain things in the body are being altered, just as in the case of using and exercising knowledge, when a person becomes sober and wakes up. It is evident, then, from what has been said, that being altered and alteration occur both in the objects of perception and in the perceptive part of the soul, and in nothing else except accidentally.
18| One might raise the difficulty whether every motion is comparable with every other or not. If, then, every motion is comparable, and what is equal in speed is what moves an equal distance in an equal time, then some arc will be equal to a straight line, and indeed one greater and one lesser. Further, an alteration and a locomotion will be equal, whenever in an equal time the one thing is altered and the other is carried an equal amount. There will, then, be an affection equal to a length. But that is impossible. But is it rather this: whenever an equal magnitude is traversed in an equal time, then it is equal in speed, while an affection is not equal to a length, so that an alteration is not equal in speed to a locomotion, nor less than it, so that not every motion is comparable? But in the case of the circle
19| and the straight line, how will it turn out? For it is odd if this thing cannot move on the circle in the same way as that thing on the straight line, but must instead necessarily be either faster or slower, as though one were downhill and the other uphill; nor does it make any difference to the argument if someone says it is necessary for it to be simply faster or slower rather than equal. For then the arc will be greater and less than the straight line, and so also equal to it. For if in time A it has traversed distance B, and the other has traversed C, B would be greater than C — for that is what 'faster' meant. So too, if an equal distance is traversed in a lesser time, that is faster; so that there will be some part of A in which something traverses a distance on the circle equal to B, and C in the whole of A. But indeed, if they are comparable, what was just said follows: that a straight line is equal to a circle. But they are not comparable, and so neither are the motions; rather, whatever things are not synonymous are all incomparable. For instance — why is it not comparable which is sharper, the stylus or the wine or the top string? Because they are homonymous, they are not comparable; but the top string is comparable with the string next to it, because 'sharp' signifies the same thing in both. Is it, then, the case that 'fast' is not the same here and there, and still much less so in alteration and locomotion?
20| Or is it, first of all, not true that things are comparable so long as they are not homonymous? For 'much' signifies the same thing in water and in air, and yet they are not comparable. Or if not that example, at least 'double' is the same in different things (for it means two to one), and yet things called double are not comparable. Or does the same account hold in these cases too? For 'much' is also homonymous. But in some cases even the definitions are homonymous — for instance, if someone says that 'much' is 'so much and more,' the 'so much' is different in different cases. And 'equal' is homonymous too, and 'one,' if it comes to that, is straightaway homonymous. And if this is so, so is 'two' — since otherwise why are some things comparable and others not, if there were a single nature in each case? Is it because they are present in a different primary recipient? So a horse and a dog are comparable as to which is whiter — for the primary recipient, the surface, is the same — and likewise as to size; but water and sound are not, for they are in a different recipient. Or is it clear that, on this reasoning, everything will end up made one, while each thing is said to be in a different recipient, and 'equal' and 'sweet' and 'white' will be the same thing, yet different in different things? Further, the recipient is not just any recipient of just anything, but the primary recipient of one thing is one thing.
21| But is it, then, not only
22| necessary that the things being compared not be homonymous, but also that they have no differentia, either in what is compared or in that in which it is present? I mean, for instance, that color admits of division; accordingly it is not comparable in respect of this — that is, which is colored more, not in respect of some particular color, but qua color — but it is comparable in respect of white. So too with motion: equal in speed is defined by moving an equal distance in an equal time. If, then, of a given length one part was altered and another was carried, is this alteration then equal to the locomotion, and equal in speed with it? But that is absurd. The reason is that motion has species, so that if things carried an equal length in an equal time will be equal in speed, then the straight line and the arc are equal. Is the reason, then, that locomotion is a genus, or that the line is a genus? For the time is the same, but if the things involved differ in species, then those motions too differ in species. For indeed locomotion has species, if that over which the motion occurs has species — and sometimes if that by which it occurs does, for instance if by feet, walking, if by wings, flight. Or is that not so, but rather locomotion differs by its shapes? So that things moving through an equal magnitude in an equal time are equal in speed, and what is the same and undifferentiated in species is also undifferentiated in motion; so that this must be investigated: what is the differentia of motion. And this argument shows that the genus is not some single thing, but that many things lie hidden alongside it, and that among homonymies some are far apart, some have a certain similarity, and some are close either in genus or by analogy, which is why they do not seem to be homonymies, though they are. When, then, is the species different — when the same thing is in a different subject, or when a different thing is in a different subject? And what is the criterion? Or shall we judge whether white and sweet are the same or different by this: whether it appears different because it is in a different subject, or because it is simply not the same at all?
23| Now concerning alteration, how will one alteration be equal in speed to another? If, then, being healed is being altered, it is possible for one person to be healed quickly and another slowly, and for some at the same time as each other, so that there will be an alteration equal in speed to another, since it occurred in an equal time. But what was altered? For 'equal' is not properly what is said here; rather, just as there is equality in quantity, here there is likeness. But let it be granted that what changes the same thing in an equal time is equal in speed. Should we, then, compare in respect of that in which the affection occurs, or in respect of the affection itself? Here, at any rate, because the health is the same, we can grasp that it is present neither more nor less, but in like manner. But if the affection is different — as when what is being whitened and what is being made healthy are both being altered — for these there is nothing the same, nor equal, nor alike, inasmuch as these already make different species of alteration, and it is not a single kind, any more than locomotions are. So we must grasp how many species of alteration there are, and how many of locomotion. If, then, the things moved differ in species — the things of which the motions are motions in their own right and not accidentally — the motions too will differ in species; if in genus, in genus; if in number, in number. But then should we look to the affection, asking whether it is the same or alike, to see if the alterations are equal in speed, or to the thing being altered — for instance, whether this much of the one has been whitened, and that much of the other?
24| Or into both, and whether it is the same or different with respect to what is affected — if it is the same or not the same — and equal or unequal, if the other thing is equal or unequal? And the same question must be examined in the case of coming-to-be and passing-away. How is coming-to-be equally fast? If in an equal time the same and indivisible thing comes to be — for example a man, and not merely an animal (for the one is indivisible) — but in cases where, in an equal time, a different thing comes to be (for we do not have any two things in which the difference is of the same kind as dissimilarity), or, if substance is a number, then it is a matter of a greater or smaller number of the same species; but there is no name for what is common to both cases, nor for either one taken alone — just as the greater is called an affection, or rather the exceeding thing is called so more properly, while the quantity is called "larger."
25| Since what moves something always moves it in something and up to some point (I mean by "in something" that it moves it in a time, and by "up to some point" that there is a definite length; for what moves something is always simultaneously moving it and has moved it, so that what has been moved will be some definite quantity, and in some definite time) — suppose, then, that A is what moves, B is what is moved, the length through which it has been moved is Γ, and the time in which it moved it is Δ. Then in an equal time, a force equal to A will move half of B twice the distance of Γ, and will move Γ itself in half of Δ; for that is how the proportion will work out. And if the same force moves the same thing a given distance in a given time, and moves half of it that same distance in half the time, then half the force will move half the thing an equal distance in an equal time. For example, let E be half the force A, and let half of B be taken as well; then they stand in the same ratio, and the force is proportional to the weight, so that they will move an equal distance in an equal time. But if E moves Z a distance Γ in time Δ, it does not follow that, in an equal time, E will move twice Z half the distance of Γ. So if A moves B a distance equal to Γ in Δ, half of A, namely E, will not move B in the time Δ, nor will it move, in any part of Δ, a part of Γ proportional to the whole of Γ as A is to E; for it may well be, quite generally, that it will move nothing at all.
26| For it does not follow that, if the whole force moved something a certain distance, half the force will move it some distance, in some period of time whatsoever; otherwise one man alone could move a ship, provided that the combined force of the ship-haulers is divided according to their number, and so too the distance which all of them together moved it. This is why Zeno's argument is not true, that any part whatever of a bushel of millet makes a sound as it falls; for there is nothing to prevent a given part from failing to move, in any length of time, the amount of air that the whole bushel moved in falling. Nor does it even move as much of the air as it would move of the whole amount, if this part existed by itself; for nothing exists in the whole except potentially. But if there are two things that cause motion, and each of them separately moves such-and-such an amount in such-and-such a time, then the forces, when combined, will move the object composed of the two weights an equal distance and in an equal time; for this holds in proportion.
1| Is it, then, the same way with alteration and with growth? For there is something that causes growth and something that grows, and in some quantity of time a certain quantity causes growth and a certain quantity grows. And likewise with what causes alteration and what is altered — some definite thing has been altered by some definite amount, in respect of more and less, and in some definite time: in double the time, double the alteration, and double the alteration in double the time; half in half the time (or half of the half), or double in an equal time. But if what causes alteration or growth causes so much growth or alteration in so much time, it does not follow that half of it will cause half the growth in half the time, or half in half; rather, it may well cause no alteration or growth at all, just as with weight. Book Eight.
2| Did motion ever come to be, when it did not exist before, and does it in turn pass away again in such a way that nothing is in motion, or did it neither come to be nor does it pass away, but always was and always will be — belonging to the things that are as something deathless and unceasing, a kind of life, as it were, present in everything that is constituted by nature? All those who say anything about nature agree that motion exists, because they construct an ordered world, and their whole inquiry concerns coming-to-be and passing-away, which cannot occur without motion existing. But those who say there are infinitely many worlds, and that some of these worlds come to be while others pass away, say that motion always exists (for the comings-to-be and passings-away of the worlds must occur together with motion); whereas those who hold there is one world, whether it always exists or not, make their assumptions about motion accordingly. If, then, it is possible for nothing to be in motion at some time, this must happen in one of two ways: either as Anaxagoras says (for he says that when all things were together and at rest for infinite time, intellect introduced motion and separated them out), or as Empedocles says, that things are in motion for a period and again at rest — in motion whenever Love makes the one out of the many, or Strife makes many out of the one, and at rest in the times between — speaking as follows: "insofar as the one has learned to grow out of the many,"
3| "and again, when the one grows apart, they come out as more — in this respect they come to be, and their existence is not everlasting; but insofar as these things never cease continually exchanging places, in this respect they are forever unmoved, going around in a circle." We must suppose that by "insofar as these things exchange places" he means from this state to that. We must, then, examine how matters stand concerning these things; for it is worth the effort — not only for the study of nature — to see the truth, but also for the method concerning the first principle.
4| Let us begin, first, from the distinctions we made earlier in our works on nature. We say that motion is the actuality of what is potentially movable, insofar as it is potentially movable. It is necessary, then, that the things capable of being moved exist, for each kind of motion. And even apart from the definition of motion, everyone would agree that it is necessary for what is capable of being moved, with respect to each kind of motion, actually to be moved — for example, that what is alterable is what undergoes alteration, and what is changeable in place is what undergoes locomotion; so that a thing must be combustible before it burns, and capable of burning before it burns anything. Must not these things, too, then, either have come to be at some time when they did not exist, or be eternal? If, then, each of the movable things came to be, it is necessary that, prior to the change in question, another change and motion occurred, by which the thing capable of being moved or of moving came to be. But if they existed always, with motion not existing, this appears unreasonable straightaway to anyone who considers it, and yet, as we press the point further, it turns out to be all the more a necessary consequence. For if, among the things that are movable and the things that are able to move others, at one time there will be some first mover and some thing moved, and at another time there will be nothing, but it is at rest, then this state must have changed beforehand; for there was some cause of the rest — for rest is a privation of motion.
5| So there will be a change prior to the first change. For some things cause motion in only one way, while others cause even contrary motions — for example, fire heats but does not cool, whereas knowledge seems to be one and the same capacity for contraries. Yet even there something of the same kind appears to hold: for what is cold, in a way, heats when it turns about and departs, just as the man who has knowledge errs deliberately, when he applies his knowledge in the opposite way. But in any case, whatever things are capable of acting and being acted on, or of causing motion and being moved, are not capable of this in every circumstance, but only when they are in a certain condition and near one another. So that whenever they come near, the one causes motion and the other is moved, once it comes to be the case, as it was before, that the one is the mover and the other the moved. If, then, a thing was not always in motion, it is clear that they were not previously in the condition in which the one was capable of moving and the other of being moved, but one of the two of them had to change; for this necessarily happens in the case of relative terms — for example, if something that was not double is now double, one of the two, if not both, must have changed. There will, therefore, be some change prior to the first change. And besides this, the earlier—
6| And how, later on, will there be time once time is not? Or how could there be time when there is no motion? If then time is a number of motion, or a kind of motion, then, since time always exists, motion too must necessarily be eternal. But indeed, on the subject of time, everyone appears to be of one mind except for one man: they say it is ungenerated. And it is by this very argument that Democritus shows that it is impossible for everything to have come to be: for time, he says, is ungenerated. Plato alone generates it: for he says it comes to be together with the heaven, and that the heaven has come to be. If, then, it is impossible either for time to exist or to be conceived without the now, and the now is a kind of middle point, holding both a beginning and an end at once — a beginning of the time that is to be, an end of the time that has passed — then time must always exist. For the outer limit of whatever time is taken as the last will fall within one of the nows (for nothing is to be found in time besides the now), so that, since the now is both a beginning and an end, time must always exist on both sides of it. But indeed, if there is time, it is clear that motion too must exist, if time is some affection of motion.
7| The same argument applies also to motion's being indestructible. For just as, in the case of motion's coming to be, it turned out that there must be some change prior to the first, so here too there must be a later change after the last. For a thing does not stop being in motion and being movable at the same time — for example, being burned and being combustible (for it is possible to be combustible without being burned) — nor does it stop being able to move something and actually moving it at the same time. And the destructive thing too will need to be destroyed when it destroys, and what destroys that in turn will need to be destroyed later — for destruction too is a kind of change. If, then, these things are impossible, it is clear that motion is eternal, and not a case of existing at one time and not at another; for indeed to say so seems rather more like a fabrication.
8| Likewise too with saying that this is simply how things are by nature, and that this must be taken to be a principle — which is presumably what Empedocles would say, that Love and Strife prevailing and setting things in motion by turns belongs to things of necessity, while for the time in between they are at rest. And perhaps those too who posit a single principle, as Anaxagoras does, would say something of this sort. But surely nothing among the things that are by nature, and in accordance with nature, is disorderly; for nature is the cause of order for all things. Now the unlimited stands in no ratio to the unlimited; but every order is a ratio. But for a thing to be at rest for an unlimited time and then at some point be set in motion, with no difference in this — that it happens now rather than earlier — and again for it to have no order at all, is no longer the work of nature. For what is by nature either holds simply, and not in one way at one time and another way at another — for example, fire by nature is carried upward, and not at one time and not at another — or else, where it is not simple, there is some ratio governing it. That is why it is better to say, as Empedocles does — and as anyone else who has said things are so — that the whole is at rest in turn and again in motion; for something of this sort already has some order to it. But even this the one who asserts it must not merely state, but must also give its cause, and must not posit anything, nor claim any unreasoned postulate, but must bring forward either an induction or a demonstration.
9| For the things posited are not themselves causes, nor was this what it is to be Love or Strife; rather, the one has as its being the bringing together, the other the separating out. But if the 'in turn' is further specified, one must state the cases in which this holds, as, for example, that there is something that brings human beings together — friendship — and that enemies flee from one another; for this is posited as holding in the whole as well, since it evidently holds so in some particular cases. But that it happens through equal periods of time as well needs some account. And in general, to suppose that it is a sufficient principle that something always either is or comes to be in a certain way is not a correct assumption to make — which is the point to which Democritus reduces the causes concerning nature, saying that the earlier too came about in just this way, while he does not think one should seek a principle for the 'always,' speaking correctly about some cases, but not correctly when he applies it to all cases. For the triangle too always has its angles equal to two right angles, but nevertheless there is some other cause of this eternity; whereas of principles there is no other cause, since they are eternal. Let this much, then, be said to show that there was no time, nor will there be, when there was no motion, or when there will be none.
10| The opposite arguments to these are not hard to resolve. On considering the following points, it might seem, above all, possible for motion at some time not to exist at all — first, because no change is eternal; for change is, by its nature, always from something into something, so that every change must necessarily have as its limit the opposites between which it occurs, and nothing moves into the unlimited. Again, we see that it is possible for a thing to be set in motion without either being in motion or having any motion in itself — as in the case of inanimate things, none of whose parts, nor the whole, is in motion, but which, while at rest, are at some point set in motion; and it would be fitting for it either to be always in motion or never, if — not existing — it does not come to be. This sort of thing is by far most evident in the case of ensouled things; for though no motion is present in us at some times, still, though at rest, we are nevertheless at some point set in motion, and a principle of motion arises in us out of ourselves, even if nothing moves us from outside. For we do not see this happen in the same way with inanimate things; rather, something else external always moves them; but the animal, we say, moves itself. So that if it is ever completely at rest, motion would come to be in something unmoved, out of itself and not from outside. And if this can happen in an animal, what prevents the same thing from happening also in the case of the whole? For if it happens in the small world, it happens too in the great one; and if in the world, then also in the unlimited, if indeed it is possible for the unlimited to be in motion and, as a whole, at rest.
11| Of these points, then, the first one stated — that the motion into opposites is not always one and the same in number — is correctly said. For this is perhaps necessary, if it is not always possible for the motion of one and the same thing to be one and the same; I mean, for example, whether the note of a single string is one and the same, or always different, though the string is in the same condition and moved in the same way. But nevertheless, however this may be, nothing prevents some motion from being the same by virtue of being continuous and eternal; this will become clearer from what follows later. As for a thing's being set in motion without previously being in motion, there is nothing strange in that, if what will move it is at one time present from outside and at another time not. How this could be, however, must be investigated — I mean how the same thing, by the same thing capable of moving it, is at one time moved and at another time not; for the one who raises this difficulty is puzzled by nothing other than why it is not the case that, among the things that are, some are always at rest and others always in motion. But the third point would seem most of all to present a difficulty — that motion, not present before, comes to be, as happens in the case of ensouled things; for a thing at rest before afterward walks, nothing external having moved it, as it seems.
12| But this is false. For we see that something among the connate parts is always in motion within the animal; and of this motion the animal itself is not the cause, but rather, perhaps, its surroundings. And we say that the animal moves itself not with respect to every motion, but with respect to motion in place. Nothing, then, prevents — indeed it is perhaps necessary — that many motions arise in the body owing to its surroundings, and that some of these move the thought or the desire, and that this in turn now moves the whole animal, as happens in the case of sleep; for although no motion connected with perception is present, some motion nevertheless is present, and animals wake up again. But this too will become clear about these matters from what follows.
13| The starting point of the inquiry is the same as for the puzzle already stated: why is it that some existing things are at one time in motion, at another at rest again? Necessarily, either all things are always at rest, or all are always in motion, or some are in motion and others at rest; and again, of these, either the things in motion are always in motion and the things at rest are always at rest, or all are by nature equally capable of both motion and rest, or there is a remaining third possibility besides these. For it is possible that some existing things are always unmoved, others always in motion, and others share in both — and this is what we must state. For this view provides a solution to all the puzzles that have been raised, and it is the end toward which this whole inquiry of ours is directed. Now to say that all things are at rest, and to seek an argument for this while disregarding perception, is a kind of weakness of mind, and a dispute about a whole rather than a part; nor is it a dispute only with the student of nature, but with all the sciences, so to speak, and all opinions, since all of them make use of motion. Further, objections concerning starting points, just as in arguments about mathematics they are nothing to the mathematician — and likewise in the other sciences — so too the objection just raised is nothing to the student of nature; for it is a hypothesis that nature is a principle of motion.
14| And roughly speaking, to say that all things are in motion is also false, though a lesser departure from correct method than the other view. For nature was posited as a principle within things natural, a principle of rest just as much as of motion; motion, all the same, belongs to nature. And some say that of existing things, it is not that some are in motion and others not, but that all are in motion always, only this escapes our perception. Against these people, even though they do not specify what kind of motion they mean, or whether they mean every kind, it is not difficult to reply. For a thing cannot continuously be growing or diminishing — there is also the intermediate stage. The argument is like the one about the drop wearing away the stone, and about plants splitting rocks as they grow: it does not follow that, because the drop pushed out or removed so much, half that amount was removed in half the time before; rather, just as with the hauling of a ship, the drops of such-and-such a number move so much, but a fraction of them does not move that much in any period of time at all. So what is removed is divided into many parts, but none of them was moved separately — they were all moved together. It is clear, then, that it is not necessary that something is always departing just because the wasting-away is divisible into infinitely many parts; rather the whole sometimes departs all at once. And it is the same with any kind of qualitative change: it does not follow that, because the thing altering is divisible into infinitely many parts, the alteration itself is so divided; rather it often happens all at once, as with freezing.
15| Further, when something falls sick, there must be a period of time in which it will be restored to health — the change does not happen at the limit-point of a time. And the change must be into health, and into nothing else. So to say that alteration is continuous is to fly in the face of the plain evidence in an extreme way. For alteration is toward the contrary state; but a stone becomes neither harder nor softer. And as for locomotion, it would be astonishing if it had escaped our notice that a stone is moving downward, or is at rest on the ground. Further, the earth and each of the other elements necessarily remain in their own proper places, and are moved out of them only by force; so if some of them are in fact in their own proper places, it is necessary that not all things are in motion with respect to place. That it is impos-
16| -sible that either all things are always in motion or all things are always at rest, one might be convinced from these considerations and other such ones. But neither, in fact, is it possible that some things are always at rest and others always in motion, with nothing ever at rest at one time and in motion at another. We must say that this is impossible, just as with the views stated earlier, and for the same reasons — we see the changes we described happening in the very same things — and besides this, that whoever disputes it is fighting the plain evidence. For there will be neither growth nor forced motion, unless something previously at rest is moved contrary to nature. So this account does away with coming-to-be and passing-away altogether. And indeed motion is generally thought by everyone to be a coming-to-be and a passing-away of something: for the thing changes into what it comes to be, or comes to be in it, and it passes away out of what it changes from, or passes away there. So it is clear that some things are in motion, and others are at rest, at different times. But to claim that all things are at one time at rest and at another in motion —
17| this must now be joined to the arguments made long ago. We must again make our starting point the same one from which we set out before, taking up what has just been distinguished. For either all things are at rest, or all are in motion, or, of existing things, some are at rest and others in motion. And if some are at rest and others in motion, then necessarily either all things are at one time at rest and at another in motion, or some are always at rest and others always in motion, or of these same things some are always at rest and others always in motion while others still are at one time at rest and at another in motion. That it is not possible for all things to be at rest has already been stated, but let us state it again now. For even if, in point of truth, the case is as some say — that what is is infinite and unmoved — still that is not at all how it appears to perception; many existing things are seen to be in motion. So if there is such a thing as false opinion, or opinion at all, then motion also exists, and equally if there is such a thing as imagination, and equally if a thing sometimes appears one way and sometimes another; for imagination and opinion are themselves generally held to be a kind of motion. But to investigate this question, and to look for an argument for things we are better placed to know than to need an argument for, is to judge badly between what is better and what is worse, between what deserves credence and what does not, and between a starting point and what is not a starting point. Likewise it is impossible for all things to be in motion, or for some to be always in motion and others always at rest. Against all these views a single piece of evidence suffices: we see some things at one time in motion and at another at rest. So it is plain that it is equally impossible for all things to be at rest, or for all to be continuously in motion, as it is for some to be always in motion and others always at rest. It remains, then, to examine whether all things are of such a kind as to be capable of both motion and rest, or whether some are of that kind while others are always at rest and others always in motion; for this is what we must demonstrate.
19| Of things that move and are moved, some move or are moved accidentally, others in their own right. Accidentally, for instance, whatever belongs to things that move or are moved, and also things that move or are moved as a part of something else; in their own right, whatever does not move or is moved through belonging to the mover or the moved thing, nor through some part of it moving or being moved. Of the things that move or are moved in their own right, some do so by themselves and others by something else, and some by nature, others by force and contrary to nature. For a thing that is moved by itself is moved by nature — each of the animals, for example (for the animal is moved by itself); and whatever things have within themselves the principle of their motion, these we say are moved by nature. Hence the animal as a whole moves itself by nature, though its body may be moved either by nature or contrary to nature — for it makes a difference what kind of motion it happens to be moved with, and out of what element it is composed. And of the things moved by something else, some are moved by nature and others contrary to nature: contrary to nature, for instance, earthy things moving upward and fire moving downward; and further, the parts of animals are often moved contrary to nature, contrary to the positions and manners proper to their motion. And it is especially in things moved contrary to nature that the fact that the moved thing is moved by something is plain, because it is evident that it is moved by something else. After the things moved contrary to nature, among things moved according to nature, come those moved by themselves — the animals, for instance; for here it is not unclear that the thing is moved by something, but rather how we should distinguish within it the mover from the moved. For it seems that, just as in ships and other things not naturally constituted, so too in animals the mover and the moved are divided from each other, and it is in this way that the whole thing moves itself.
20| But the remaining part of the division just stated raises the greatest difficulty. For among the things moved by something else, we set down some as moving contrary to nature, and it remains to set against these the ones we say move by nature. These are the ones that would present the difficulty of what moves them — for example light things and heavy things. For these move by force toward the places opposite their own, but toward their own places — the light thing up, the heavy thing down — by nature; but what moves them is no longer clear, as it is when they move contrary to nature. For to say that they move themselves is impossible; for this is characteristic of living things and proper to things that have soul, and they would then be able to stop themselves as well (I mean, for instance, if something is the cause in it of walking, it is also the cause of not walking), so that if moving upward is up to fire itself, clearly moving downward is also up to it. And it is unreasonable, too, that they should be moved by themselves in only one kind of motion, if indeed they move themselves. Further, how can something continuous and naturally unified move itself? For insofar as a thing is one and continuous and not by mere contact, it is unaffected; but insofar as it is divided, in that respect one part is naturally suited to act and the other to be acted on. None of these things, then, moves itself (for they are naturally continuous).
21| Nor does any other continuous thing move itself, but in every case the mover must be divided from the thing moved, as we see with soulless things when one of them moves something that has soul. But it turns out that these too are always moved by something; this would become clear if we divided up the causes. And what has been said can also be grasped in the case of the things that move: for some are movers of a thing contrary to its nature, as a lever is not by nature a mover of the weight, while others are movers by nature, as what is actually hot is a mover of what is potentially hot. And likewise in the other such cases. And in the same way, what is potentially qualified or quantified or somewhere is by nature movable, whenever it has such a principle within itself, and not accidentally (for the same thing could be both qualified and quantified, but the one is accidental to the other and does not belong to it in its own right). Fire and earth, then, are moved by something — by force whenever contrary to nature, but by nature whenever, being potentially so, they move toward their own actualities.
22| But since 'potentially' is said in several ways, this is the reason why it is not clear what moves such things — for instance fire upward and earth downward. For someone learning is potentially knowledgeable in one way, and someone who already has the knowledge but is not exercising it is potentially knowledgeable in another way. And always, whenever the acting factor and the acted-upon factor are together, the potential becomes actual — for instance the learner, from being potential in one way, becomes potential in another (for the one who has the knowledge but is not contemplating it is in a way potentially knowledgeable, but not in the way he was before learning); and when it is in this state, if nothing prevents it, it is active and contemplates, or else it will be in a state of contradiction and ignorance. And the same holds for natural things too: the cold is potentially hot, and when it changes it is now fire, and it burns, unless something prevents and impedes it. And it holds likewise for the heavy and the light: the light comes to be from the heavy, as air comes from water (for this is potential in the first sense), and it is now light, and it will act as such at once, unless something prevents it. And the actuality of the light thing is being somewhere, namely up, and it is prevented when it is in the opposite place. And this holds in the same way for quantity and for quality.
23| And yet this is exactly what is asked: why on earth light things and heavy things move to their own place. The cause is that each is naturally suited to be somewhere, and this is what being light and being heavy consist in, the one determined by the up, the other by the down. And a thing is potentially light or heavy in several ways, as has been said: for when it is water, it is potentially light in one way, and when it is air, it is still potentially light in a sense (for it is possible for it, being impeded, not to be up); but if the impediment is removed, it acts as such and comes to be ever higher. And likewise a quality changes into being so in actuality: for the man of knowledge contemplates at once, unless something prevents it; and a quantity extends itself, unless something prevents it. Now the one who moves what stands underneath and impedes a thing does move it in one sense, but in another sense does not — for example, the one who pulls out the pillar, or the one who removes the stone from the wineskin in the water; for he moves it accidentally, just as the ball that rebounds was not moved by the wall but by the one who threw it. It is clear, then, that none of these things moves itself; but it has a principle of motion — not of moving or of acting, but of being acted on. If, then, everything that is moved is moved either by nature or contrary to nature and by force, and all the things moved by force and contrary to nature are moved by something, and by something other than themselves, and again, of the things moved by nature, both those moved by themselves are moved by something, and also those not moved by themselves, such as light things and heavy things (for they are moved either by what generated them and made them light or heavy, or by what released the things impeding and preventing them) — then everything that is moved would be moved by something.
24| And this in two ways: either the mover does not move through itself, but through another which moves the mover, or it moves through itself, and this either as the first thing next after the last, or through several intermediaries — for example a stick moves a stone and is itself moved by the hand, which is moved by the man, who is no longer moved by being moved by something else. We say, then, that both move — both the last of the movers and the first — but the first more so; for that moves the last, but the last does not move the first, and without the first the last will not move, whereas the first will move without the last — for example the stick will not move unless the man moves it. If, then, it is necessary that everything that is moved be moved by something, and either by something that is itself moved by another or not, and if by another, then there must be some mover which is not itself moved by another as a first mover, but if the first is of this sort, the other alternative is not necessary (for it is impossible for the mover, being itself moved by another, to go on to infinity, since among infinite things there is no first one) — if, then, everything that is moved is moved by something, and the first mover is moved but not by another, it must be moved by itself.
25| Further, this same argument can also be approached in the following way. For everything that moves, moves with something and by means of something. For the mover moves either by itself or by another, for instance a man moves either by himself or by means of a stick, and the wind knocked something down either by itself or by means of the stone it pushed. But it is impossible to move by means of that with which it moves, without the thing itself moving by itself; but if it moves by itself, there is no need for there to be another thing by means of which it moves, whereas if that by means of which it moves is something else, there is something that will move, not by means of something, but by itself, or else it will go on to infinity. If, then, a moved thing moves something, it must come to a stop and not go on to infinity; for if the stick moves by being moved by the hand, the hand moves the stick; and if something else moves this too by means of something, then something else again is what moves this. Whenever, then, one thing always moves another by means of something, there must be, prior to it, something that moves by itself. If, then, this thing is moved, but nothing else moves it, it must move itself; so that by this argument too, either the thing moved is moved directly by what moves itself, or it eventually arrives at such a thing.
26| And in addition to what has been said, for those who look at the matter in this way too, the same things...
27| These results will follow. For if everything that is moved is moved by something that is itself moved, then either this belongs to things accidentally, so that what is moved does move something, but not because of its own being moved, or else it does not belong accidentally but in its own right. First, then, if it is accidental, the mover need not itself be moved. And if this is so, it is clear that it is possible that at some time nothing among the things that are should be in motion; for what is accidental is not necessary but admits of not being the case. If, then, we posit this as possible, nothing impossible will follow from it, though it will perhaps be false. But that there should be no motion is impossible; for it has been shown earlier that motion must always exist. And it is reasonable that this should be so. For there must be three things: the thing moved, the mover, and that by which it moves. Now the thing moved must be moved, but need not move anything; while that by which the mover moves both moves and is moved (for this changes together with, and in the same respect as, the thing moved; this is clear in the case of things that move something in respect of place, for they must touch one another up to a point); but the mover, in the sense in which it is not identical with that by which it moves, is unmoved. Since we observe the last term, which is capable of being moved but has no source of motion in itself, and also that which is moved, not by another, but by itself, it is reasonable, not to say necessary, that there should also be a third thing, that which moves while being itself unmoved. That is why Anaxagoras is right when he says that intellect is unaffected and unmixed, since he makes it the source of motion; for only in this way could it move things while being itself unmoved, and only so could it govern them while being unmixed.
28| But suppose, then, that the mover is moved not accidentally but of necessity, and that if it were not itself moved it would not move anything; then the mover, in being moved, must be moved either in the same species of motion as the motion it produces, or in a different one. I mean, for instance, either that what heats is itself being heated, and what restores to health is itself being restored to health, and what carries is itself being carried, or else that what restores to health is being carried, while what carries is being increased. But it is plain that this is impossible. For one must, pressing the division down to the ultimate kinds, say, for example, that if something teaches geometry, this very thing is being taught that same geometry, or if it throws, it is being thrown in the same manner of throwing; or, if not in that way, then one thing is moved from a different genus of motion, for instance, what carries is being increased, and what increases this is being altered by something else, and what alters this is undergoing yet some other motion. But it must come to a stop; for motions are finite in kind. And to turn back again and say that what alters is being carried is to do the same thing as if one had said outright that what carries is being carried and what teaches is being taught (for it is clear that everything that is moved is moved also by the mover further up the chain, and more so by the earlier of the movers. But this, at any rate, is impossible; for it turns out that what teaches is learning, though of these it is necessary that the one not have the knowledge and the other have it.
29| There is a further absurdity, even worse than these: it follows that everything capable of moving something is itself movable, if indeed everything that is moved is moved by something that is itself moved. For it will be movable, just as if one were to say that everything capable of restoring health must itself be restorable to health, and everything capable of building must itself be buildable, either immediately or through a series of intermediate terms. I mean, for instance, suppose everything capable of moving something is movable by something else, but not movable with the very motion which it produces in the thing next to it, but with a different one, for instance, what is capable of restoring health is capable of learning; still, mounting upward, this will at some point arrive at the same species of motion, as we said before. Now one of these alternatives is impossible, the other is fanciful; for it is absurd that what is capable of altering should of necessity be capable of increasing. It is not, then, necessary that what is moved always be moved by something else which is itself also being moved; there will therefore be a stop. So either the first thing moved will be moved by something at rest, or it will move itself. But indeed, if one had to consider which is the cause and principle of motion, the thing that moves itself, or the thing that is moved by another, everyone would posit the former; for what is a cause in its own right is always prior, as a cause, to what is a cause only in virtue of something else, when that other thing is itself a cause too. So this must be examined, taking a fresh starting point: if something moves itself, how does it move itself, and in what way?
30| Now everything that is moved must be divisible into parts that are always further divisible; for this has been demonstrated earlier, in our general account of nature, that everything moved in its own right is continuous. It is impossible, then, for the thing that moves itself to move itself as a whole in every respect; for if it did, the whole would be carried and would produce the same locomotion, being one and undivided in species, and it would be altered and would produce alteration, so that it would be teaching and learning at the same time, and would be restoring to health and being restored to the same health. Further, it has been determined that what is movable is being moved potentially, not in actuality; and what is potential proceeds toward actuality, and motion is the incomplete actuality of what is movable. But the mover already exists in actuality, for instance, what is hot heats, and in general whatever has the form generates it in another. So the same thing, in the same respect, will be at once hot and not hot. And likewise for each of the other cases in which the mover must bear the same name as what it produces. Therefore, of the thing that moves itself, one part moves and another is moved.
31| That there cannot be a self-mover of such a kind that each of the two parts is moved by the other is clear from the following. For in that case there would be no first mover at all, if indeed each is going to move the other in turn (for what is prior is more responsible for the motion of what comes after it, and will move it more; for to move was said in two ways, one where a thing is itself moved by another, the other where it moves through itself; and what is further from the thing moved is nearer to the starting principle than what is in between). Further, the mover need not be moved unless by itself; so it would be only accidentally that the other member moves it in turn. Let it be granted, then, that it is possible for it not to move the other; then one part will be moved, and the other, the mover, will be unmoved. Further, the mover need not be moved in turn; rather, it is necessary either that something unmoved move something, or that a thing be moved by itself, if indeed motion must always exist. Further, it would be moved by the very motion which it produces, so that what heats would itself be heated.
32| But indeed, not even in the case of the thing that primarily moves itself will either a single part, or several parts, move each other. For if the whole is moved by itself, it will be moved either by some part of itself, or as a whole by the whole. Now if it is by some part of it being moved by itself, this would be the primary self-mover (for once separated, this part will move itself, while the whole no longer will); but if the whole is moved by the whole, these would be moving themselves only accidentally. So, since this is not necessary, let it be assumed that they are not moved by themselves in this way. Of the whole, then, one part will move while being itself unmoved, and the other part will be moved; for only in this way is it possible for something to be self-moved. Further, if indeed the whole moves itself, one part of it will move, and another will be moved. The line AB, then, will be moved both by itself and by the part A. And since what moves is, in one case, moved by another, and in another case unmoved
33| ...being, and one part moves while the other moves nothing, what moves itself must consist of an unmoved mover and, further, of something moved that does not itself move anything — and this of necessity, not merely as it happens to be. For let A be a mover, but itself unmoved; let B be both moved by A and also move that which is C; and let C be moved by B but move nothing at all — for even if the motion should in fact reach C through several intermediate terms, let it be through one only. Then the whole, ABC, moves itself. But if I take away C, AB will still move itself, A being the mover and B being moved, while C will not move itself, nor will it be moved at all. But neither again will BC move itself without A; for B moves by being moved by another, not by being moved by some part of itself. Therefore AB alone moves itself. It is necessary, then, that what moves itself contain a part that moves but is itself unmoved, and a part that is moved but of necessity moves nothing — the two either both touching one another, or one touching the other. Now if the mover is continuous (for what is moved must be continuous), each part will touch the other. It is clear, then, that the whole moves itself not because some part of it is of such a kind as to move itself, but the whole moves itself as a whole, being both moved and mover, because part of it is the mover and part the moved. For it does not move as a whole, nor is it moved as a whole, but A moves, and B alone is moved.
34| There is a difficulty, however, if one takes away a part of A — supposing the mover, though unmoved, to be continuous — or a part of B, the thing moved: will what remains of A still move, or will what remains of B be moved? For if so, AB would not be the primary thing that is moved by itself. For once something has been taken away from AB, what remains of AB will still move it. Or rather: nothing prevents either part — or at least the moved part — from being divisible in potentiality, though undivided in actuality; and if it is divided, it no longer has the same nature; so that nothing prevents it from being present primarily, potentially, in things that are divisible. It is clear, then, from this that the primary mover is unmoved. For whether the moved thing comes immediately to a stop at something moved by something else, tracing back to a first unmoved thing, or whether it comes to a stop at something moved, which moves and stops itself, in either case it follows that what is primarily the mover of all moved things is unmoved.
35| Since motion must always exist and must never fail, there must be something eternal, one or several, that is the first mover; and the first mover is unmoved. Now whether each of the unmoved-but-moving things is itself eternal is not relevant to the present argument; but that there must be something unmoved in its own right, altogether outside change — both without qualification and accidentally — yet capable of moving something else, is clear if we consider it as follows. Let it be granted, if one wishes, that in the case of some things it is possible for them at one time to exist and at another not to exist without coming to be or perishing (for it is perhaps necessary, if something without parts at one time exists and at another does not, that everything of this kind should exist at one time and not at another without undergoing change). And let it also be granted that some of the principles which are themselves unmoved but capable of moving something exist at one time and not at another. But it is not possible that all should be of this kind; for it is clear that there is something that is the cause, for the things that move themselves, of their existing at one time and not existing at another. For everything that moves itself must have magnitude, if nothing without parts is moved; but from what has been said there is no necessity that the mover have magnitude.
36| Now nothing among the unmoved things that do not always exist is the cause of some things coming to be and others perishing, this happening continuously; nor again is any one of them the cause of these particular things, and another of those. For neither each of them singly nor all of them together are the cause of what is eternal and continuous; for that things should hold in this way is itself eternal and necessary, whereas these things are all unlimited in number, and do not all exist together. It is clear, then, that even if, ten thousand times over, some of the things that are unmoved but move something — and many of the things that move themselves — perish, while others come to be in their place, and this unmoved thing moves that thing, and something else moves some other thing, nonetheless there is something that encompasses them all, over and above each one, which is the cause of some things existing and others not, and of the continuous change; and this is a cause of motion for these, and these in turn are causes of motion for the others. If, then, motion is eternal, the first mover too will be eternal, if it is one; and if there are several, there will be several eternal movers. But we must suppose it to be one rather than many, and finite rather than infinite; for when the same consequences follow on either supposition, the finite is to be preferred, since among things that exist by nature, the finite and the better must hold, where possible, rather than the alternative. And one is enough — one which, being first among unmoved things and eternal, will be a principle of motion for the rest.
37| It is clear also from the following that the first mover must be one and eternal. For it has been shown that motion must always exist. And if it always exists, it must be continuous; for what is always is continuous, whereas what is merely successive is not continuous. But surely if it is continuous, it is one. And a motion is one if it comes from one mover and one moved thing; for if different things move it one after another, the motion as a whole is not continuous, but successive.
38| From these considerations, then, one might be persuaded that there is something first that is unmoved — and again by looking back at the starting points. That there are some things among existing things which at one time are in motion and at another are at rest is evident. And through this it has become clear that neither do all things move, nor do all things rest, nor are some always at rest while others are always in motion; for the things that go both ways, having the capacity both to be moved and to be at rest, show this concerning them. Since, then, these facts are evident to everyone, and we wish also to display the nature of each of the two classes — namely that some things are always unmoved and others always in motion — proceeding toward this point and having laid down that everything moved is moved by something, and that this something is either unmoved or moved, and if moved, is moved either by itself or, in every case, by something else — we have gone on to grasp that among moved things the principle is what moves itself, but of all things without qualification it is the unmoved. And we see plainly that there are things of this kind which move themselves, such as the class of ensouled things and of animals; and these gave rise to the opinion that motion might perhaps come to be that did not exist at all before, because we observe this happening in their case (for though at one time unmoved, they move again, as it seems). But this we must grasp: that they produce in themselves a single motion, and that they do not do so in the strict sense —
39| for the cause is not from the animal itself; rather, there are present in animals other natural motions which they do not undergo through themselves — such as growth, decay, and respiration — which each of the animals undergoes while it is at rest, not being in motion with respect to the motion that comes from itself. The cause of this is the surrounding environment and much of what enters the body, as, in some cases, food; for while it is being digested, they sleep, and while it is being separated out, they wake and move themselves, the first principle being from outside — which is why they are not always continuously moved by themselves; for what moves them is something else, itself moved and changing in relation to each of the things that move themselves. In all these cases the primary mover is itself moved, and what is the cause of the animal's moving itself is itself moved by something, though only accidentally; for the body changes place, so that what is in the body, by leverage, also moves itself. From these considerations one may be persuaded that if...
40| belongs to the class of things that are themselves unmoved but move other things while also being moved accidentally, it is impossible for it to cause continuous motion. So if motion must be continuous, there must be some first mover that is unmoved even accidentally, if there is to be, as we said, an unceasing and undying motion among the things that are, and if what is is to remain in itself and in the same condition. For if the principle remains, the whole must also remain, since it is continuous with the principle. But being moved accidentally by itself and being moved accidentally by another are not the same thing: being moved accidentally by another belongs also to some of the principles in the heaven — those that are carried in more than one motion — while the other belongs only to perishable things. But indeed, if there is always something of this sort, moving something while itself unmoved and eternal, then the first thing moved by it must also be eternal. This is clear also from the fact that there could not otherwise be coming-to-be, perishing, and change for other things, unless something itself in motion should set them in motion by its motion. For the unmoved will always move in the same way and produce a single motion, since it itself undergoes no change in its relation to what is moved.
41| But that which is moved by what is itself moved, though ultimately by what is unmoved, will not be the cause of the same motion, because it stands in different relations to things at different times; rather, because it is in opposite places or forms, it will each time present each of the other things as being moved in the opposite way — now at rest, now in motion. So it has become clear from what has been said, including the puzzle we raised at the start: why on earth it is not the case that all things either move or are at rest, or that some are always in motion and others always at rest, but instead some things are in motion at one time and not at another. For the cause of this is now clear: some things are moved by something unmoved and eternal, and are therefore always in motion, while others are moved by something that is itself moved and changing, so that they too must change. But the unmoved, as has been said, since it remains simply, in the same way, and in the same condition, will produce one and simple motion.
42| Nonetheless, if we take up another starting point, this will become clearer still. For we must examine whether it is possible for some motion to be continuous or not, and if it is possible, which motion this is, and which is the first of the motions. For it is clear that if motion must always exist, and this particular motion is first and continuous, it is because the first mover produces this motion, which must be one and the same, continuous, and first. Since there are three kinds of motion — motion in respect of magnitude, motion in respect of affection, and motion in respect of place, which we call locomotion — this last must be the first. For growth cannot occur without alteration having occurred first: what grows, in one sense grows by what is like it, but in another sense by what is unlike it, for nourishment is said to be the contrary added to the contrary. But whatever is added, once assimilated, is added as like to like. So the change into contraries must be alteration. But indeed, if a thing is altered, there must be something that alters it and makes what is potentially hot actually hot. It is clear, then, that the mover does not stand in the same relation throughout, but is now nearer, now farther, from what is being altered. And this cannot occur without locomotion. If, then, motion must always exist, locomotion too must always exist as the first of the motions, and, if of locomotion itself one kind is prior and another posterior, it is the prior kind.
43| Further, condensation and rarefaction are the principle of all the affections. For heavy and light, soft and hard, hot and cold, are all thought to be certain forms of density and rarity. Condensation and rarefaction are combination and separation, in respect of which the coming-to-be and perishing of substances are said to occur. And things that are being combined or separated must change in respect of place. And indeed, in the case of what grows and what diminishes, the magnitude also changes in respect of place. Further, looking at it from this angle too, it will be clear that locomotion is first. For "first," as in other cases, so too in the case of motion, may be said in several senses. A thing is called prior in one sense when, if it does not exist, the others will not exist, while it can exist without the others; and a thing is called prior in time, and a thing is called prior in substance. So then, since motion must exist continuously, and it could exist continuously either by being itself continuous or by being in succession — but rather it exists as continuous, and it is better for it to be continuous than to be in succession, and we always suppose that the better exists in nature, if it is possible, and it is possible for it to be continuous (this will be shown later; for now let this be assumed) — and since this continuous motion cannot be anything other than locomotion, locomotion must be first. For there is no necessity for what is carried in locomotion either to grow or to be altered, nor indeed to come to be or to perish; but none of these other motions is possible unless the continuous motion exists, which the first mover produces.
44| Further, it is first in time; for only eternal things can be moved with this motion. But in the case of any one thing that has coming-to-be, locomotion must be the last of the motions. For after coming-to-be, alteration and growth come first, and locomotion is a motion belonging only to things already completed. But there must be some other thing, prior, moving in locomotion, which will be the cause of coming-to-be for the things that come to be, itself not coming to be — as, for example, what begets is prior to what is begotten. Since coming-to-be might indeed seem to be the first of the motions for this reason, that the thing must come to be first. Now this is indeed how it stands for any one of the things that come to be, but something else must be in motion prior to the things that come to be, itself being and not coming to be, and prior to this again another. But since it is impossible for coming-to-be to be first (for then all things in motion would be perishable), it is clear that none of the motions in the following series is prior either. By "in the following series" I mean growth, then alteration, diminution, and perishing; for all of these are posterior to coming-to-be, so that if coming-to-be is not prior to locomotion, then none of the other changes is prior to it either. And in general, what is coming to be appears incomplete and moving toward a starting point, so that what is later in coming-to-be is prior in nature. And locomotion belongs last of all to everything that is subject to coming-to-be.
45| That is why some living things are wholly unmoved because of a deficiency — for example, plants and many kinds of animals — while it belongs to those that reach completion. So that, if locomotion belongs more to things that have more fully attained their nature, this motion would also be first among the others in respect of substance, both for these reasons and because, of all the motions, it is in being carried in locomotion that what is moved departs least from its substance. For this is the only motion in respect of which nothing changes of what a thing is, just as in alteration the quality changes, and in growth and diminution the quantity. And it is especially clear that what moves itself moves, most properly and in the strictest sense, with this motion — the motion in respect of place. And yet we say that this — what moves itself — is the principle among things moved and moving, and first for the things that are moved. That locomotion, then, is the first of the motions, is clear from these considerations. Which locomotion is first must now be shown. And at the same time, what was assumed both just now and earlier — that it is possible for some motion to be continuous and eternal — will become clear by the same method. That, then, none of the other motions can be continuous is clear from the following. For all motions and changes are from opposites to opposites: for coming-to-be and perishing, being and not-being are the limits; for alteration, the contrary affections; and for growth and diminution, either largeness and smallness, or completeness of magnitude and incompleteness.
46| Motions are contrary when they go to contrary things. And whatever is not always undergoing this particular motion, but existed before it, must have been at rest before it. It is clear, then, that what is changing will be at rest in the contrary state. The same holds for changes generally: for perishing and coming-to-be are opposed, both without qualification and each particular perishing to the corresponding particular coming-to-be. So if it is impossible to undergo opposite changes at the same time, the change will not be continuous, but there will be a time between them. For it makes no difference whether the changes that stand in contradiction are contrary or not, so long as it is impossible for both to belong to the same thing at once (this point is of no use to the argument); nor does it matter whether it is not necessary to rest at the point of contradiction, nor whether change is the contrary of rest (for presumably what does not exist does not rest, and perishing is a change into what does not exist) — the only thing that matters is whether a time comes to be between them; for in that case the change is not continuous. For even in the earlier arguments it was not the contrariety that did the work, but the fact that they cannot belong at the same time.
47| There is no need to be troubled by the fact that the same thing will turn out to be contrary to more than one thing — for instance, motion is contrary both to rest and to motion in the opposite direction — but one should grasp only this: that the contrary motion is opposed in some way both to motion and to rest, just as the equal and the moderate are opposed both to what exceeds and to what is exceeded, and that it is impossible for opposite motions or changes to belong to a thing at the same time. Further, in the case of coming-to-be and perishing, it would seem altogether absurd if what has come to be must at once perish and persist for no time at all. So from these considerations conviction may be gained for the other cases as well; for it is natural that the same should hold alike in all of them.
48| Let us now say that it is possible for there to be a motion that is infinite, one, and continuous, and that this is circular motion. For everything that is carried moves either in a circle, or in a straight line, or in a combination of the two; so that if neither of the first two is continuous, the motion composed of both cannot be continuous either. That what is carried along a finite straight line does not move continuously is clear: for it turns back, and what turns back along the straight line undergoes contrary motions; for up is contrary to down in respect of place, and forward to backward, and left to right — these are the contrarieties of place. What the one and continuous motion is has been determined earlier: it is the motion of one thing, in one time, and undifferentiated in species (for there were three things: the thing moved, for instance a man or a god; and the when, for instance a time; and third, the in-which — and this is place or affection or form or magnitude). But contraries differ in species, and are not one; and the differentiae just named belong to place. A sign that the motion from A to B is contrary to the motion from B to A is that they stop and check each other, if they occur at the same time. And likewise on a circle: the motion from A to B is contrary to the motion from A to C (for they stop each other, even if they are continuous and no turning back occurs, because contraries destroy and impede one another); but the motion to the side is not contrary to the motion upward.
49| It is most of all clear that motion on a straight line cannot be continuous, from the fact that what turns back must come to rest — not only on a straight line, but even if it is being carried in a circle. For being carried in a circle and being carried on a circle are not the same thing: sometimes the moving thing keeps going on continuously, and sometimes, having arrived back at the same point from which it set out, it turns back again. That it must come to rest is confirmed not only by perception but also by argument. Here is the starting point. There being three things — a beginning, a middle, and an end — the middle stands in relation to each of the other two, and is one in number but two in account. Further, the potential and the actual are different things, so that any point whatever among those within the extremities of the straight line is potentially a middle, but is not actually a middle, unless the thing moving divides the line at that point and, having come to a stop, begins to move again; in this way the middle becomes both a beginning and an end — a beginning of the later motion, and an end of the earlier one (I mean, for instance, if the thing A, being carried along, comes to rest at B and is again carried on to C). But when it is carried continuously, A can neither have come to be nor have ceased to be at the point B, but can only be there at the now, and in no time at all, except the time of which the now is the dividing point, within the whole time.
50| (But if someone posits that it has come to be and has ceased to be there, then A, being carried, will always come to a stop; for it is impossible for A both to have come to be at B and to have ceased to be there at the same time — they must therefore occur at different points of time. There will accordingly be a time in between; so A will be at rest at B. And the same holds for the other points as well, for the argument is the same for all of them. So whenever the thing carried, A, treats the point B as a middle that is both an end and a beginning, it must come to a stop, because it makes it two, just as it would if one actually thought of it that way.) But it has ceased to be at the point A, the starting point, and it has come to be at C, when it finishes and comes to rest.
51| So this same point must be made in answer to the puzzle as well; for the puzzle runs as follows. Suppose the line E is equal to the line Z, and A is carried continuously from the extremity toward Γ, and at the same time A is at the point B; and suppose D is carried from the extremity of Z toward H uniformly and at the same speed as A — then D will arrive at H before A arrives at Γ; for what set out earlier and departed earlier must arrive earlier. For A has not come to be at B and departed from it at the same time, and that is why it lags behind. For if it were at the same time, it would not lag behind, but would instead have to come to rest. One must not, then, posit that, at the moment A came to be at B, D was at the same time moving from the extremity (for if A will have come to be at B, then it will also have ceased to be there, and not at the same time — rather, this occurred at a division of time, and not in a time). So here, in the case of continuous motion, it is impossible to speak this way; but in the case of a thing that turns back, one must speak in just this way. For if the thing at H is carried toward D and, having turned back again, is carried downward, it has used the extremity at which D is as both an end and a beginning, treating the one point as two — and that is why it must come to rest;
52| and it has not come to be at D and departed from D at the same time; for in that case it would at once be and not be there at the same now. But then again, the old solution must not be given either; for it is not possible to say that the thing at H is at the point D at a mere division, and has neither come to be there nor ceased to be there. For what is actual, not what is merely potential, must reach an end. Now the points in between exist only potentially, but this point exists actually, and it is an end from below and a beginning from above; and the same accordingly holds for the motions. It is necessary, then, that what turns back on the straight line come to rest. It is not possible, then, for continuous motion on a straight line to be everlasting. And one must answer in the same way those who pose Zeno's argument, that one must always traverse the half, and these halves are infinite, and it is impossible to get through what is infinite — or as some pose this same argument differently, demanding that, along with the motion, one count the half as it comes to be each time, one by one, so that it turns out that the one who has traversed the whole has counted an infinite number; but this is admittedly impossible. Now in the first arguments about motion
53| We used to solve this by saying that time itself contains infinite parts within it; for there is nothing strange in someone's traversing infinite parts in infinite time. And the infinite belongs alike to length and to time. But this solution is adequate against the questioner, since the question asked was whether it is possible to traverse or count infinite things in a finite time; but it is not adequate with respect to the fact and the truth. For if someone, leaving aside length and the question whether it is possible to traverse infinite things in a finite time, raises the same question about time itself, since time too has infinite divisions, this solution will no longer suffice, but we must state the truth, which we stated in the arguments just given. For if someone divides a continuous thing into two halves, he uses the one point as two, since he makes it both a beginning and an end. This is what both the one who counts and the one who divides into halves do. But if it is divided in this way, neither the line nor the motion will remain continuous; for continuous motion is motion of something continuous, and in the continuous there are infinite halves, but not in actuality, only in potentiality.
54| If someone makes them actual, he will not preserve continuity but will bring the thing to a halt, which is plainly what happens in the case of the man counting the halves. For he must count the one point as two, since it will be the end of one half and the beginning of the other, if he does not count the continuous line as one but as two halves. So we must say to the questioner, if it is asked whether it is possible to traverse infinite things either in time or in length, that it is possible in one way and not possible in another. For if they exist actually, it is not possible, but if potentially, it is possible; for the thing moving continuously has traversed infinite things accidentally, but not without qualification; for it is accidental to the line to have infinite halves, but its substance and its being are something different. And it is clear too, unless someone treats the point that divides the earlier and the later of time as always belonging to the later part with respect to the thing itself,
55| that the same thing will at once both exist and not exist, and will not exist at the very moment it has come to be. The point, then, is common to both, to the earlier and the later, and it is the same and one in number, though not the same in account, since of the one part it is the end and of the other the beginning; but with respect to the thing, it always belongs to the affection of the later part. Let time be represented by AΓB, and the thing by D. This thing, during time A, is white, and during B, not white. Then during Γ it is white and not white. For at any point whatever within A it is true to say it is white, if it was white throughout that entire time, and during B, not white; but Γ belongs to both. We must not, then, grant this for every point, but only excepting the final now, that at Γ; and this now already belongs to the later part. And if it was becoming not-white and the white was perishing throughout the whole of A, then it has come to be, or has perished, at Γ. So it is at that point that it is first true to say white or not white; otherwise, it will not be at the moment it has come to be, and it will be at the moment it has perished, or else it will necessarily be at once both white and not white, and, in general, both being and not being.
56| But if whatever previously did not exist must come to be existent, and if at the moment it is coming to be it does not yet exist, then time cannot be divided into indivisible times. For if in time A the thing D was coming to be white, and it has come to be, and exists, in another indivisible time adjacent to it, in B — since if it was coming to be in A, it was not yet white, but in B it is — then there must be some coming-to-be between the two, and therefore also a time in which it was coming to be. For the same account will not hold for those who do not speak of indivisibles as it does for us: rather, in the very time in which it was coming to be, it has come to be and exists at the final point of that time, a point which has nothing next to it and nothing following it in succession; but the indivisible times themselves are in succession to one another. And it is clear that if it was coming to be throughout the whole of time A, there is no more time in which it has come to be and was coming to be than the time in which it was merely coming to be, throughout. These, then, are roughly the arguments one might trust as proper to the subject; but examining the matter dialectically, one might think the same conclusion follows from the considerations below as well. For everything that moves continuously, if it is deflected by nothing, was already moving, before it arrived, toward the very point it arrived at in its locomotion — for instance, if it arrived at B, it was moving toward B from the start, and not only when it was near, but from the very moment it began to move.
57| For why should it be moving toward it more now than earlier? And the same holds in the other cases too. So the thing moving from A, when it arrives at Γ, will again move back toward A, moving continuously. Then, at the very time it is moving from A to Γ, it is at that same time also moving toward A with the motion coming from Γ, so that it will be undergoing the contrary motions at once; for motions along a straight line are contrary to one another. And at the same moment it changes from the one motion into the other, in which there is no interval. If, then, this is impossible, it must come to rest at Γ. The motion, therefore, is not one; for a motion broken by rest is not one motion. Further, this is also clear, and more generally so, from the following considerations about motion as a whole. If everything that moves is moved with one of the kinds of motion mentioned and is at rest with one of the opposed kinds of rest, since there was no other rest besides these, and if that which is not always moving with this particular motion — I mean motions that differ in kind, not merely a part of the same whole motion — must previously have been at rest with the opposed rest, since rest is the privation of motion, then, if motions along a straight line are contrary to one another, and it is not possible to be moved with contrary motions at the same time, the thing moving from A toward Γ could not also be moving at the same time from Γ toward A. But since it is not moving both at once, and yet it is going to be moved with this latter motion, it must first have come to rest at Γ;
58| for this was the rest opposed to the motion from Γ. It is clear, then, from what has been said, that the motion will not be continuous. Further, this argument too is even more proper to the subject than those already given. For the not-white has perished and the white has come to be at the same moment. If, then, the alteration to white and from white is continuous and does not remain in one state for any length of time, then the not-white has perished and the white has come to be, and the not-white has come to be, all at the same moment; for the time will be the same for all three. Further, it is not the case that if time is continuous, motion is continuous too, but only that it is successive. And how could the extreme point be the same for contraries, for instance for whiteness and blackness? But the motion along a circle's circumference will be one and continuous; for nothing
59| impossible follows from it. For the thing moving from A will at the same time be moving toward A, in accordance with the same forward course, since it will arrive there, and it is moving toward that very point; but it will not be moving the contrary or the opposite motions at the same time. For not every motion toward a point is contrary or opposite to the motion away from that point; rather, contrariety belongs to motion along a straight line, since on that line there is a contrary in respect of place, as with things diametrically opposite, for they are the furthest apart from one another, whereas motion over the same stretch of length is the opposite kind of motion. So nothing prevents the thing from moving continuously and leaving no time in between; for circular motion goes from itself back to itself, while motion along a straight line goes from itself to something else, and circular motion is never in the same places twice, whereas motion along a straight line is often in the same places. So a motion that is always coming to be in one place and then another admits of being continuous, but one that is often in the same places does not; for it would have to be moving the opposite motions at the same time. So it is not possible to move continuously either around a semicircle or around any other arc; for necessarily the same path must often be traversed, and the contrary changes must be undergone, since the beginning does not join up with the end. But the beginning and end of the circle do join up, and the circle alone is a complete motion.
60| It is clear from this division that the other kinds of motion also cannot be continuous; for in all of them the same things happen to move repeatedly — for instance, in alteration, the intermediate qualities, and in quantitative change, the magnitudes in between, and likewise in coming-to-be and perishing. For it makes no difference whether one posits few or many things in which the change occurs, nor whether one inserts something in between or removes it; either way the result is that the same things move repeatedly. It is clear from this, then, that the natural philosophers who say that all perceptible things are always in motion are not speaking correctly. For they must be moving with one of these kinds of motion — and above all, on their view, undergoing alteration; for they say that things are always flowing and perishing, and moreover they call coming-to-be and perishing alteration. But our account has now stated, universally, concerning every motion, that with no kind of motion is it possible to move continuously except circular motion — so that this holds neither for alteration nor for increase. Let this much, then, be said by us: that no change is either infinite or continuous except circular locomotion.
61| That among locomotions circular locomotion is primary is clear. For every locomotion, as we said earlier, is either circular or in a straight line or mixed. And these latter must be posterior to the circular, for they are composed out of it and the straight. And circular is prior to straight, for it is simpler and more complete. For it is not possible to move on an infinite straight line — there is no such infinite thing, and even if there were, nothing would be moved on it, since the impossible does not happen, and to traverse the infinite is impossible. And motion on a finite straight line, if it turns back, is composite and is two motions; if it does not turn back, it is incomplete and perishable. And prior, both in nature and in account and in time, is the complete to the incomplete, and the imperishable to the perishable. Further, that motion which admits of being eternal is prior to that which does not: circular motion admits of being eternal, but none of the others does, neither locomotion of another kind nor any other kind of motion at all; for there must come to be a standstill, and if there is a standstill, the motion has perished.
62| It is reasonable that it should turn out that circular motion is one and continuous, and not motion in a straight line. For straight motion has a determinate beginning, end, and middle, and has all of these within itself, so that there is a point from which the moving thing will start and a point at which it will finish (for everything comes to rest at its limits, either the point it moves from or the point it moves to); but of circular motion these are undetermined. For why should any one point on the line be its limit any more than any other? For each point alike is beginning and middle and end, so that the moving thing is always both at a beginning and at an end, and never so. That is why the sphere both moves and is in a way at rest, for it occupies the same place. The cause is that all these belong to the center: it is beginning and middle and end of the magnitude, so that, because this point lies outside the circumference, there is nowhere the moving thing will come to rest as having completed its course (for it is always moving about the middle, not toward an extremity); and because this point stays fixed always, the whole is in a way always at rest and moves continuously. And it works the other way round too: because circular motion is the measure of motions, it must be the first (for all things are measured by the first, and it is because it is first that it is the measure of the others).
63| Further, only circular motion can be uniform. For things moving in a straight line move unevenly from the starting point to the end, since everything, the further it gets from the point of rest, moves faster; but of circular motion alone neither beginning nor end is present in it by nature, but lies outside it. That locomotion is the primary kind of motion is testified to by all who have made mention of motion, for they assign the principles of it to whatever produces this kind of motion. For separation and combination are motions in respect of place, and it is in this way that Love and Strife produce motion: the one separates, the other combines. And Anaxagoras too says that Intellect, the first mover, separates. Likewise also all those who name no such cause but say that motion occurs because of the void — for they too say that nature moves by locomotion (for motion because of the void is locomotion, and is, as it were, motion in place), and hold that none of the other kinds of motion belongs to the primary things but only to what is composed of them; for they say that increase and decrease and alteration occur as the indivisible bodies combine and separate. And in the same way also all those who construct coming-to-be and perishing by means of density and rarity —
64| for they too order these things by combination and separation. And besides these, there are those who make soul the cause of motion; for they say that the thing that moves itself is a principle among moving things, and that the animal, and everything ensouled, moves itself with locomotion. And indeed we say that only what moves in respect of place is moved in the strict sense; for if a thing is at rest in the same place but is increasing or decreasing, or happens to be altering, we say it is moving in a certain respect, but we do not say it is moving without qualification. That there always was and always will be motion for all time, then, and what the principle of eternal motion is, and further what the first motion is, and what motion alone can be eternal, and that the first mover is unmoved — this has now been stated.
65| That this mover must be without parts and have no magnitude, let us now state, first marking out the points prior to it. One of these is that nothing finite can cause motion for an infinite time. For there are three things: the mover, the moved, and the third, time. These are either all infinite, or all finite, or some are, for instance two of them, or one. Let A be the mover, B the moved, and let the time, infinite, be C. Now let D move some part of B, namely the part on which E stands; this will not take a time equal to C, for the greater thing takes more time. So the time, call it Z, will not be infinite. So then, by continuing to add to D, I shall use up A, and by adding to E, I shall use up B; but I shall not use up the time by always subtracting an equal amount from it, for it is infinite. So the whole of A will move the whole of B in a finite time, that of C. It is not possible, then, for anything infinite to be moved, in respect of motion, by anything finite. That it is not possible, then, for
66| the finite to produce motion for an infinite time is clear; and that it is altogether impossible for there to be an infinite power in a finite magnitude is clear from the following. Let it be granted that a power is always greater which produces an equal effect in a shorter time — for example in heating or sweetening or throwing, and in general in causing motion. It is necessary, then, that what is acted upon should be affected in some way by what is finite but has infinite power, and be affected more than by anything else; for the infinite power is the greater. But indeed there cannot be any time in which this happens. For if A is the time in which the infinite power heated or pushed, and in AB a finite power did so, then, always taking a greater finite power in proportion to this one, I shall at some point arrive at having produced the same motion in the time A; for by always adding to a finite quantity I shall exceed any determinate amount, and likewise by subtracting I shall fall short of it. So the finite power will produce motion in a time equal to that of the infinite power. But this is impossible. Therefore nothing finite can have infinite power. Nor, therefore, can anything infinite have finite power.
67| And yet it is possible for there to be more power in a smaller magnitude; but still more so, more power in a greater one. Let AB, then, be infinite. Now BC has a certain power, which in a certain time moved D, in the time EZ. If, then, I take double of BC, it will move D in half the time of EZ (for let this be the ratio), so that it will move it in the time ZH. Now taking a portion in this way, I will never exhaust AB, but I will always take a smaller portion of the given time. The power will therefore be infinite; for it exceeds every finite power, if indeed for every finite power the time it takes to move something must also be finite (for if such-and-such a power moves something in a certain time, a greater power will move it in a shorter but still determinate time, in inverse proportion); and every power that exceeds every determinate power is infinite, just as a multitude or magnitude that exceeds every determinate one is infinite. This can also be shown in the following way: we shall take some power the same in kind as the power in the infinite magnitude, but existing in a finite magnitude, which will measure out the finite power that is in the infinite magnitude.
68| That it is not possible, then, for an infinite power to exist in a finite magnitude, nor a finite power in an infinite magnitude, is clear from these considerations. But concerning things that are carried along in motion, it is well to raise a certain puzzle first. For if everything that is moved is moved by something — as many things, that is, as do not move themselves — how is it that some things are moved continuously when what moved them is no longer in contact with them, for example things that are thrown? But if what moved it also moves something else at the same time — for example the air, which, being moved, moves the projectile in turn — it is equally impossible for the thing to continue being moved once the first mover is not in contact with it and not moving it; rather, all things must be moved together and must have stopped together the moment the first mover stops, even if, like the lodestone, it makes what it moved capable in turn of moving something else. It is necessary, then, to say this: that the first mover makes the air, or the water, or some other such thing that is by nature capable of both moving and being moved, capable of moving something. But it does not cease being a mover and being moved at the same time; rather, the thing stops being moved at the same moment that what was moving it stops moving it, while it is still, for the time being, itself a mover. That is why it in turn moves something else next to it; and the same account applies to this in turn. But it stops when the power of moving that comes to belong to what is next in the series keeps growing continually smaller.
69| And it finally stops when the earlier mover no longer makes it a mover, but leaves it only something moved. And these — the mover and the thing moved — must stop together, and the whole motion with them. This kind of motion, then, occurs among things that admit of being at one time in motion and at another at rest, and it is not continuous, but only appears to be; for it belongs to things that are either successive or in contact, since the mover is not one thing, but a series of things each next to another. That is why motion of this sort occurs in air and water, which some call mutual replacement. It is impossible to resolve the puzzles raised in any other way than the one stated. For mutual replacement makes all the things involved be moved and move at the same time, so that they also stop at the same time; but as it is, some single thing plainly appears to be moved continuously. By what, then, is it moved? For it is not by the same thing throughout.
70| Since among the things that are there must be some continuous motion, and this motion is one, and the one motion must belong to some magnitude (for what has no magnitude is not moved) and must belong to one thing and be caused by one thing (for otherwise it will not be continuous, but one motion will simply be next to another, and divided from it) — if, then, the mover is one, it moves either while itself being moved or while being unmoved. Now if it is moved, it will have to keep pace with and change along with the moved thing, while at the same time being moved by something else; so that the series will come to a stop and arrive at last at something moved by what is unmoved. For this unmoved mover need not change along with anything, but will be able to move the other thing forever (since moving in this way involves no exertion), and this motion is uniform, either alone or most of all; for the mover undergoes no change whatsoever. And the thing moved, too, must undergo no change in its relation to that mover, so that the motion may remain uniform. It must, then, be situated either at the center or on the circumference, for these are the only governing points. But the things nearest the mover are moved fastest. And such is the motion of the circle; the mover, therefore, is there, at the circumference. But there is a puzzle here: whether it is possible for something that is itself moved to move something else continuously, rather than only as what pushes does, again and again, seeming continuous merely because its actions are successive.
71| For either the mover itself must be constantly pushing or pulling, or both, or else one thing must keep taking over from another in succession, as was said earlier concerning things thrown, on the supposition that the air, being divisible, moves the object because one part of it is always being moved by another. But on either account it is not possible for the motion to be one, but only a series of motions each next to the last. The only continuous motion, then, is the one that the unmoved mover produces; for since it is always in the same state, it will stand in the same relation to the thing moved, and continuously so. Now that these points have been settled, it is clear that it is impossible for the first mover, being unmoved, to have any magnitude. For if it has magnitude, it must be either finite or infinite. That there cannot be an infinite magnitude has been shown earlier, in the Physics; and that a finite magnitude cannot have infinite power, and that it is impossible for anything to be moved by a finite magnitude for an infinite time, has now been shown. But the first mover produces a motion that is eternal, and does so for infinite time. It is clear, then, that it is indivisible, has no parts, and has no magnitude at all.
1| On the Heavens, Book 1. The science of nature deals, for the most part, with bodies and magnitudes and their attributes and motions, and also with the principles that belong to substance of this kind. For among the things constituted by nature, some are bodies and magnitudes, some possess body and magnitude, and some are principles of the things that possess these. Now the continuous is that which is divisible into parts that are always further divisible, and body is that which is divisible in every direction. Of magnitude, that which extends in one direction is a line, that which extends in two is a surface, and that which extends in three is body. And beyond these there is no other magnitude, because the three are all, and 'three times' is 'in every way.' For as the Pythagoreans also say, the all and all things are bounded by three: end, middle, and beginning give the number of the whole, and these have the number of the triad. That is why, having taken this over from nature as if it were one of nature's own laws, we also use this number for the ceremonial rites of the gods. And we assign our names in the same way: two things we call 'both,' and two people 'both of them,' but we do not say 'all' of two — it is of three that we first use this word. And in this, as has been said, we are simply following nature's own lead. So then, since 'all things' and 'the whole'
2| and 'the complete' do not differ from one another in kind, but only, if at all, in the matter and the things of which they are said, body alone among magnitudes would be complete: for it alone is bounded by the three, and this is 'all.' And being divisible in three ways, it is divisible in every way, whereas of the others one is divisible in one direction, another in two; for as they stand with respect to number, so they also stand with respect to divisibility and continuity: one is continuous in one direction, another in two, and one in every direction. All magnitudes, then, that are divisible are also continuous. Whether all continuous things are also divisible is not yet clear from what has been said; but this much is clear, that there is no passing over into another genus, as from length to surface, or from surface to body — for then the resulting thing would no longer be a complete magnitude, since the transition would have to come about through some deficiency, and it is not possible for the complete to be deficient, since it extends in every direction. Now each of the bodies that exist in the character of a part is, by definition, of this kind, for it has all the dimensions; but it is bounded in relation to what is next to it by contact, and that is why in a sense each of the bodies is many. But the whole of which these are parts must necessarily be complete, and, as the word signifies, complete in every direction, and not in one respect and not in another.
3| 2 Concerning the nature of the whole — whether it is unlimited in magnitude or its total bulk is bounded — we must consider later; but I now speak of its parts taken according to their species, and I make this my starting point. For we say that all natural bodies and magnitudes are, in their own right, capable of motion with respect to place — for we say that nature is a principle of motion for them. Now every motion that is with respect to place, which we call locomotion, is either straight, or circular, or a mixture of these two — for these are the only two simple kinds. The reason is that these magnitudes too are the only simple ones, the straight and the curved. Circular motion is motion about the center, and straight motion is upward and downward. I call 'upward' motion away from the center, and 'downward' motion toward the center. So all simple locomotion must be either away from the center, or toward the center, or about the center. And this seems to follow, and to accord in reason, with what was said at the start: for body was completed in three, and so was its motion. Since, then, among bodies some are simple and some are composed of these (I call simple those that have a principle of motion by nature, such as fire and earth and their species and things akin to them), motions too must be either simple or in some way mixed — simple for the simple bodies, mixed for the composite ones — and a composite body moves according to whichever simple body predominates in it.
4| If, then, there is a simple motion, and circular motion is simple, and the motion of a simple body is simple while a simple motion belongs to a simple body (for if it belonged to a composite body, it would be so according to whichever component predominates), then there must necessarily be some simple body whose nature it is to move with circular motion in accordance with its own nature. By force it may indeed undergo the motion proper to something else, but by nature this is impossible, if indeed each of the simple bodies has one natural motion. Further, if the motion contrary to nature is the opposite of the motion in accordance with nature, and one thing has one opposite, then, since circular motion is simple, if it is not in accordance with the nature of the moving body, it must be contrary to that body's nature. If, then, it is fire or something else of that kind that moves in a circle, its motion in accordance with nature will be the opposite of circular motion. But one thing has one opposite, and up and down are opposite to each other. And if the body moving in a circle is something else, moving so contrary to its own nature, then it will have some other motion that is in accordance with its nature. But this is impossible: for if that motion is upward, the body will be fire or air, and if downward, water or earth. But moreover, this circular motion must necessarily be primary.
5| For the complete is by nature prior to the incomplete, and the circle is among complete things, while no straight line is: not the unlimited straight line, for it would then have a limit and an end, nor any of the limited ones, for there is always something outside any of them, since it is possible to extend any of them further. So then, if the prior motion belongs to a body prior by nature, and circular motion is prior to straight motion, while motion along a straight line belongs to the simple bodies (for fire moves in a straight line upward and the earthy bodies move downward toward the center), then circular motion too must necessarily belong to some one of the simple bodies — for we said that the motion of composite bodies is determined by whichever of the simple bodies predominates in the mixture. From these considerations, then, it is clear that there naturally exists some substance of body other than the compounds formed here, more divine and prior to all of these; and this becomes even clearer if one further grants that every motion is either in accordance with nature or contrary to nature, and that what is contrary to nature for one thing is in accordance with nature for another, as is the case with upward and downward motion — the one being in accordance with nature for fire and the other for earth, while each is contrary to nature for the other. So it is necessary that circular motion too, since it is contrary to nature for these bodies, be in accordance with nature for some other body.
6| Furthermore, if circular locomotion belongs to something in accordance with nature, then clearly there would be some simple and primary body whose nature it is, just as fire moves upward and earth downward, to move in a circle in accordance with its own nature. But if the things that move in a circle move with this circuit contrary to their own nature, it would be astonishing and altogether unreasonable that this alone among motions should be continuous and everlasting, even though it is contrary to nature — for in all other cases, it is plain that what is contrary to nature perishes most quickly. So if, as some say, it is fire that so moves, this motion is no less contrary to its nature than downward motion is; for we observe the motion of fire to be in a straight line away from the center. For all these reasons, then, one might reasonably become convinced, reasoning from all of them together, that there exists, distinct from the bodies around and about us here, some other body, separate from them, and possessing a nature the more excellent the further removed it is from the things here.
7| 3 Since, of the things stated, some are laid down as hypotheses and some have been demonstrated, it is clear that not every body has either lightness or heaviness. But we must lay down what we mean by "heavy" and "light" — sufficiently for present purposes now, and more precisely again when we examine their substance. Let the heavy, then, be what is naturally borne toward the middle, and the light what is borne away from the middle; let the heaviest be what settles beneath everything that moves downward, and the lightest what rises above everything that moves upward. Now everything that moves, whether downward or upward, must have either lightness or heaviness or both — though not relative to the same thing; for things are heavy and light relative to one another, as air is relative to water, and water relative to earth. The body that moves in a circle, then, cannot have either heaviness or lightness; for it is not possible for it to move toward the middle or away from the middle, either in accordance with nature or contrary to nature. It does not move in accordance with nature by straight-line motion, for each of the simple bodies has one natural motion, so that it would be the same as one of the bodies that move in this way. And if it were carried contrary to nature, then if downward motion were contrary to its nature, upward motion would be in accordance with its nature, and if upward motion were contrary to its nature, downward motion would be in accordance with its nature —
8| for we laid it down that, of two contraries, if one motion is contrary to nature, the other is in accordance with nature. But since the whole and the part are borne to the same place in accordance with nature — for instance all earth and a small clod — it follows, first, that this body has neither any lightness nor any heaviness (for otherwise it could, in accordance with its own nature, be borne either toward the middle or away from the middle), and second, that it is impossible for it to be moved in local motion by being drawn either upward or downward; for it is not possible for it to be moved by any other motion, either in accordance with nature or contrary to nature, neither itself nor any of its parts — for the same account holds of the whole and of the part. And it is likewise reasonable to suppose about it that it is ungenerated and indestructible and unincreasable and unalterable, because everything that comes to be comes to be out of a contrary and some underlying subject, and likewise perishes by means of some underlying subject, by a contrary, and into a contrary, as has been said in our first accounts; and the motions of contraries are themselves contrary. If, then, nothing can be contrary to this body, because there cannot be any motion contrary to circular motion, nature seems to have rightly exempted from the contraries the thing that was going to be ungenerated and indestructible —
9| for coming-to-be and perishing occur among contraries. Moreover, everything that grows grows, and everything that diminishes diminishes, by the addition of something akin to it that is resolved into its matter; but for this body there is nothing out of which it has come to be. And if it is both unincreasable and imperishable, it belongs to the same line of thought to suppose that it is also unalterable. For alteration is motion in respect of quality, and of quality, states and dispositions do not come about without changes in respect of affections — for example, health and disease. And we observe that all the natural bodies that change in respect of affection also have growth and diminution — for instance the bodies of animals and their parts, and those of plants, and likewise those of the elements too; so that if the body that moves in a circle can have neither growth nor diminution, it is reasonable that it should also be unalterable.
10| That the first of bodies, then, is eternal, and has neither growth nor diminution, but is unaging and unalterable and unaffected — if one trusts our hypotheses — is clear from what has been said. And it seems that our account bears witness to the appearances, and the appearances to our account. For all human beings have a conception of gods, and all assign the topmost place to the divine, both barbarians and Greeks, all those who believe that gods exist, evidently because they connect the immortal with the immortal; for it cannot be otherwise. If, then, there is something divine, as indeed there is, what has now been said about the first substance of bodies has been well said. And this is also confirmed sufficiently by perception, as far as human conviction goes; for throughout all past time, according to the record handed down from generation to generation, nothing appears to have changed, either in the whole outermost heaven or in any of its proper parts. It appears, too, that the name has been handed down from the ancients even to the present time, since they understood the matter in the same way that we ourselves state it; for we must suppose that the same beliefs have reached us not once, nor twice, but many times over. This is why, on the supposition that the first body is something other than earth, fire, air, and water, they named the topmost place "aether," giving it this name from the fact that it always runs (thein) for eternal time. Anaxagoras, however, misuses this name; for he calls fire "aether."
11| It is also clear from what has been said why the number of the bodies called simple cannot be more than the ones stated; for the motion of a simple body must itself be simple, and we say there are only these simple motions: the circular and the straight-line, and of the latter two divisions — one away from the middle, the other toward the middle. One should grasp the conviction that there is no motion contrary to circular motion, from several considerations. First, because we hold that the straight is above all opposed to the curved. For the concave and the convex seem to be opposed not only to each other but also to the straight, when they are paired together and combined; so that if there is any contrary at all, it is the straight-line motion that is most necessarily contrary to circular motion. And the straight-line motions are opposed to each other because of their places; for the
12| up and down are a difference and an opposition of place. Next, suppose someone assumes that the same account that holds for the straight line holds also for the curved — namely that the motion from A to B is contrary to the motion from B to A — he means the motion on the straight line; for this is finite, whereas circular lines about the same points would be infinite. The same holds likewise for a single semicircle, for instance the motion from C to D and from D to C; for this is the same as the motion on the diameter, since we always take each point as marked off by the straight line joining them. Similarly, even if someone, having made a circle, were to posit that the motion on one semicircle is contrary to that on the other — for instance, in the whole circle, the motion from S to E on the semicircle H contrary to the motion from Z to E on the semicircle Th — even if these are contrary, still the motions on the whole circle are not on that account contrary to one another. But neither, indeed, is the circular motion from A to B contrary to the motion from A to C;
13| for the motion is from the same point to the same point, whereas a contrary locomotion was defined as being from a contrary point to a contrary point. And if the circular motion were contrary to circular motion, one of the two would exist in vain; for they would arrive at the same place, since a body moving in a circle, whatever point it starts from, must necessarily arrive alike at all the contrary places. Now the oppositions of place are up and down, front and back, and right and left. And the oppositions of locomotion correspond to the oppositions of place; so if the two motions were equal, there would be no motion of the bodies at all, and if one motion prevailed, the other would not exist; so that if both existed, one of the two bodies would exist in vain, not moving with its own proper motion — for we call a shoe "in vain" when there is no foot for it to be put on. But god and nature do nothing in vain. But since these matters are clear, as to the remaining ones —
14| We must examine, first, whether there is some infinite body, as most of the ancient philosophers supposed, or whether this is one of the impossibilities. For being one way rather than the other makes no small difference but a total and complete difference for the study of the truth. For this is nearly the source of all the disagreements among those who have declared something about nature as a whole, both in the past and in what may come, since even a small deviation from the truth, as one moves further from it, becomes a myriad times greater — as, for example, if someone were to say that there is some smallest magnitude. For by introducing the smallest magnitude, this person upsets the greatest things in mathematics. The reason for this is that a starting-point is greater in power than in magnitude, so that what is small at the start becomes enormous at the end. And the infinite has both the power of a starting-point and the greatest power of quantity, so that it is neither strange nor unreasonable that the difference should be remarkable that results from taking it that there is some infinite body. That is why we must speak about it, taking it up from the beginning. Every body, then, must be either simple or composite, so that the infinite too must be either simple or composite. But it is also clear that if the simple bodies are finite, the composite must be finite as well;
15| for what is composed of finite things, both in number and in magnitude, is itself finite both in number and in magnitude — for it is only as great as the things of which it is composed amount to. It remains, then, to see whether it is possible for one of the simple bodies to be infinite in magnitude, or whether this is impossible. Let us take up first the first of the bodies, and consider it in this way, and examine the rest in the same way afterward. That the body carried in a circle must be finite is clear from the following. For if the body carried in a circle were infinite, the lines drawn out from the center would be infinite. But of infinite lines the interval between them is infinite — for by interval I mean, of the lines, that outside of which no magnitude can be taken that touches the lines. This, then, must be infinite; for of finite lines the interval will always be finite. And since it is always possible to take something greater than what is given, so that just as we call a number infinite because there is no greatest number, the same argument applies to the interval as well. If, then, it is impossible to traverse the infinite, and if, the line from the center being infinite, the interval must be infinite, then it would not be possible for the body to move in a circle. But we see the heaven turning in a circle, and we have determined by argument that circular motion belongs to something definite. Further, if from a finite time you subtract a finite time, what remains must also be finite and have a starting-point.
16| And if the time of the walking has a starting-point, there is also a starting-point of the motion, and so too of the magnitude that has been walked. And the same holds likewise in the other cases. So let there be an infinite line, on which is ΑΓΕ, extended in one direction, at Ε; and another, on which is ΒΒ, infinite in both directions. Now if the line ΑΓΕ, drawn as a circle from the center Γ, cuts the line ΒΒ, then the line ΑΓΕ, cutting it, will at some point have been carried around in a circle in a finite time — for the whole time in which the heaven was carried around in a circle is finite. And so too the time subtracted, in which the cutting line was carried, is finite. There will therefore be some first starting-point at which Ε cut ΒΒ. But this is impossible. Therefore it is not possible for the infinite to be turned in a circle; and so neither could the universe, if it were infinite. Further, it is also clear from the following that it is impossible for the infinite to be moved. Let Α be carried alongside Β, a finite line alongside a finite line. Then Α must at the same time be released from Β, and Β from Α; for by as much as the one overlaps the other, by that much the other overlaps it in turn. If, then, both were moved in opposite directions, they would be released more quickly; but if one were carried past the other while it remained at rest, more slowly, given that the one carried past moves at the same speed as before.
17| But this at least is clear, that it is impossible to traverse the infinite in a finite time. It must then be traversed in an infinite time — this has already been shown earlier, in the discussion of motion. And it makes no difference whether the finite is carried past the infinite or the infinite past the finite; for when the one moves past the other, the other likewise moves past the first, whether it is 272b moving or at rest — except that if both are moving, they will be released more quickly. Yet nothing sometimes prevents the moving line from passing the resting one more quickly than one moving against it would, if one makes both of the oppositely-moving lines move slowly, while the one passing the resting line moves much faster than they do. So it is no obstacle to the argument that one line is at rest, since it is possible for Α, while moving, to pass the moving Β more slowly. If, then, the time in which the finite line, while moving, is released is infinite, then the time in which the infinite line moved past the finite one must also be infinite. It is therefore altogether impossible for the infinite to move; for even if it moves the smallest amount, the time that results must be infinite. But the heaven does go around and turn completely in a circle in a finite time, so that it goes around the whole of what is within it, such as the finite line ΑΒ. It is therefore impossible for what moves in a circle to be infinite.
18| Further, just as it is impossible for a line that has a limit to be infinite — but only, if at all, in length — likewise a plane surface too cannot be infinite in the respect in which it has a limit; but when it is nowhere bounded, it may be infinite, as, for instance, no square is infinite, nor a circle, nor a sphere, just as no line a foot long is infinite. If, then, neither a sphere nor a square nor a circle is infinite, and if, there being no circle, there could be no circular motion either, and likewise, there being no infinite, there could be no infinite motion, since not even the circle is infinite, then an infinite body could not move in a circle. Further, if Τ is the center, and ΑΒ is an infinite line, and Ε is a line at right angles to it, infinite, and ΓΔ is moving, it will never be released from Ε but will always reach it, as ΓΕ does; for it cuts it at Ζ. Therefore the infinite does not go around in a circle. Further, if the heaven is infinite and moves in a circle, it will have traversed an infinite distance in a finite time. For let the heaven that stays still be infinite, and let the one moving within it be equal to it. Then, since it has gone around in a circle while being infinite, it has traversed, in a finite 273a time, an infinite distance equal to itself. But this was shown to be impossible. It can also be put the other way around: if the time in which it turned around is finite, then the magnitude it has traversed must also be finite; and it has traversed a distance equal to itself; therefore it too is finite. It is clear, then, that what moves in a circle is not without end nor infinite, but has a limit.
19| 6 But neither will what moves toward the center nor what moves away from the center be infinite; for the motions upward and downward are contrary, and contrary motions are toward contrary places. Now if one of a pair of contraries is bounded, the other must also be bounded. And the center is bounded; for wherever a settling body moves downward from, it cannot go farther than the center. The center, then, being bounded, the upward place must also be bounded. And if the places are bounded and finite, the bodies too will be finite. Further, if up and down are bounded, what lies between them must also be bounded. For if it were not bounded, motion would be infinite — and it has been shown earlier that this is impossible. The middle, then, is bounded, so that the body in this place either actually is there or is capable of coming to be there. But indeed the body that moves up or down can come to be in it; for it is the nature of the one kind to move away from the center, and of the other to move toward the center. These points together show that a body cannot be infinite; and further, if weight is not infinite, none of these bodies could be infinite either;
20| For an infinite body must also have infinite weight. And the same account holds for the light as well: for if there is infinite heaviness, there is also infinite lightness, if what floats to the top is infinite. This is clear from the following. Let it be finite, and let the infinite body be taken as AB, and its weight as Γ. Let a finite magnitude, BΔ, then be taken away from the infinite body; and let its weight be E. Now E will be less than Γ, for the weight of the lesser is less. Let the lesser measure the greater some number of times, and let BΔ be to 273b BZ as the lesser weight is to the greater; for it is possible to take away any amount whatever from the infinite. If, then, the magnitudes are proportional to the weights, and the lesser weight belongs to the lesser magnitude, then the greater weight will belong to the greater magnitude. So the weight of the finite body and the weight of the infinite body will turn out equal. Further, if the greater body has the greater weight, the weight of HB will be greater than that of ZB, so that the weight of the finite body will be greater than that of the infinite.
21| And unequal magnitudes will turn out to have the same weight; for the infinite is unequal to the finite. And it makes no difference whether the weights are commensurable or incommensurable, for even if they are incommensurable the same argument will hold — for example, if E, in measuring the weight Γ, overshoots it at the third measure: for if three whole magnitudes equal to BΔ are taken together, their weight will be greater than that of Γ. So the same impossibility will result. Further, it is also possible to take them as commensurable; for it makes no difference whether one starts from the weight or from the magnitude. For example, let E be taken as a weight commensurable with Γ, and let the body having the weight E, namely BΔ, be taken away from the infinite; then, as weight is to weight, let BΔ be to some other magnitude, say BZ — for since the magnitude is infinite, it is possible to take away any amount whatever from it; for once these are taken, both the magnitudes and the weights will be commensurable with one another. Nor again will it make any difference to the demonstration whether the magnitude is uniform in weight throughout or not uniform; for it will always be possible to take bodies equal in weight to BΔ, by taking away or adding any amount whatever from the infinite.
22| So it is clear from what has been said that the weight of the infinite body cannot be finite. It will therefore be infinite. If, then, this is impossible, it is also impossible for there to be any infinite body. But that it is impossible for weight to be infinite is clear from the following. For if a weight of a given amount moves a given distance in a given time, a weight so much greater will move that same distance in still less time, and the times will stand in the inverse of the ratio the weights have — for instance, if the half weight moves it in this time, the double weight will move it in half of this time. Further, a finite weight traverses any finite distance in some finite time. It follows necessarily from this that, if there is an infinite weight, it must both move a given distance the same as the finite weight does, and also not move it — since it must move in proportion to the excess of weight, while conversely the greater weight must move it in less time. But there is no ratio of the infinite to the finite, whereas there is a ratio of the lesser time to the greater finite time; rather, the time keeps getting less, and there is no least time. Nor would it help even if there were a least time; for another finite weight could be taken standing in the same ratio in which the infinite stands to some other, greater, weight, so that the infinite would move the same distance as the finite body in an equal time.
23| But that is impossible. Yet it is necessary, if the infinite moves in any finite time whatever, that some other finite weight should also move some finite distance in this very same time. It is impossible, therefore, for weight to be infinite, and likewise for lightness. So it is also impossible for there to be bodies having infinite weight or infinite lightness. That there is no infinite body, then, is clear both to those who examine the matter point by point in this way, and to those who consider it generally — not only from the arguments stated in our discussion of first principles (for there too we determined earlier, in general, in what sense the infinite exists and in what sense it does not), but also now in another way. After this we must examine whether, even if the body of the whole universe is not infinite, it may nonetheless be so great that there are several heavens; for someone might well raise this puzzle, that, just as the ordered world about us has been constituted, nothing prevents there being others too, more than one, though not infinitely many. But first let us speak generally about the infinite.
24| 7 Every body, then, must be either infinite or finite; and if infinite, it must be either wholly non-uniform in its parts or uniform throughout; and if non-uniform, it must consist either of a finite number of forms or of an infinite number. That it cannot consist of an infinite number is clear, if one will allow our original hypotheses to stand: for since the primary motions are finite in number, the 274b forms of the simple bodies must also be finite. For the motion of a simple body is simple, and the simple motions are finite in number; and every natural body must always have some motion. Yet if the infinite is to consist of a finite number of forms, each of its parts must also be infinite — I mean, for example, the water or the fire. But this is impossible; for it has been shown that neither weight nor lightness can be infinite. Further, their places too would necessarily be infinite in extent, so that the motions of them all would be infinite as well. But this is impossible, if we lay it down that our original hypotheses are true, and that what moves downward cannot travel to infinity, nor, by the same reasoning, what moves upward. For it is impossible for things to come to be that cannot come to be, and this holds alike for quality, for quantity, and for place. I mean, if it is impossible to become white, or a cubit long, or to be in Egypt, then it is also impossible for anything to come to be any of these. It is impossible, therefore, also to travel to a place which nothing that travels can possibly reach. Further, even if it is scattered apart, the fire made up of all its parts together could nonetheless turn out to be infinite. But body was defined as that which has extension in every direction; so how can there be several unlike bodies, each of them infinite? For each would have to be infinite in every direction. But indeed, nor can the infinite be wholly uniform in its parts either. For, in the first place, there is no motion besides these already named. It will therefore have one of these. And if this is so,
25| it will follow that either its weight or its lightness is infinite. But indeed, nor can the body that moves in a circle be infinite. For it is impossible for the infinite to move in a circle: to say this is no different from saying that the heaven is infinite, and this has been shown to be impossible. But indeed, nor can the infinite move at all, taken generally. For it will move either in accordance with its nature or by force; and if by force, then it also has a motion in accordance with its nature, so that there is also another place proper to it, into which it will be carried. But this is impossible. That it is altogether impossible for the infinite to be affected in any way by the finite, or for it to act upon the finite, is clear from the following. Let the infinite be A, 275a the finite be B, and the time in which the one moved the other, or was moved, be Γ. If, then, A was heated by B, or pushed by it, or affected in some other way by it, or moved in any way whatever, in the time Γ, let Δ be less than B, and let the lesser move a lesser amount in an equal time; and let E be the thing altered by Δ. Then whatever ratio Δ has to B, E will have to some finite thing.
26| Let it be granted that an equal (force) alters an equal (amount) in an equal time, that a lesser (force) alters less in the same time, and a greater (force) alters more — by just so much as is proportional to the ratio of the greater to the lesser. It follows that the infinite cannot be moved by anything finite in any time whatsoever; for something else, smaller, will be moved in the same time by a smaller (force), and there will be some finite thing proportional to that finite force; but the infinite bears no ratio at all to the finite. But equally, the infinite will not move the finite in any time either. For let A be the infinite, B the finite, and C the time in which (A moves B). Then in time C, D will move something less than B; let this be Z. Now let E stand to D in the same ratio that the whole BZ stands to Z. Then E will move BZ in time C. So the finite (force) and the infinite (force) will produce their alteration in an equal time. But that is impossible, since it was assumed that the greater (force) produces its effect in less time. And whatever time is taken will produce the same result, so that there will be no time at all in which (the infinite) will move (the finite). And yet, in an infinite time, it is not possible either to move something or to be moved;
27| for infinite time has no limit, while acting and being acted on do have a limit. Nor, then, is it possible for anything infinite to be acted on by anything infinite. For let A be the infinite, and B likewise infinite, and let CD be the time in which B was acted on by A. Now E, a part of the infinite B, since the whole of B was acted on, will not be acted on to the same effect in an equal time; for it has been assumed that the smaller (part) is moved in a smaller time. Let S have been moved by A in time D. Then as D is to (the time for) S, so E is to some finite part of B. That finite part, then, must necessarily be moved by A in time D; for it was assumed that, by the same agent, the greater and the lesser are acted on in the greater and the lesser time respectively, in whatever cases are divided in proportion to time. So it is not possible, in any finite time, for the infinite to be moved by the infinite; therefore it must happen in an infinite time. But infinite time has no end, while what has been moved (i.e. the completed motion) does have one. If, then, every perceptible body has a power of acting, or of being acted on, or both, it is impossible for an infinite body to be perceptible. And indeed all bodies that are in a place are perceptible.
28| There is, then, no infinite body at all outside the heaven. Nor, again, is there one extending up to some point. There is, then, no body whatsoever outside the heaven. For if it were an object of thought only, it would still be in a place; for 'outside' and 'inside' signify place. So it would be perceptible. But nothing that is not in a place is perceptible. One can also argue more dialectically, as follows. The infinite, since it is uniform in its parts, cannot move in a circle; for there is no center of the infinite, and circular motion is around a center. Nor again can the infinite move in a straight line; for there would have to be another place, equally infinite, into which it would move by nature, and yet another, equally infinite, into which it would move contrary to nature. Further, whether it has by nature a motion in a straight line, or is moved by force, in either case the moving
29| power would have to be infinite; for an infinite (body) requires an infinite power, and an infinite power requires an infinite (body), so that what moves it will also be infinite (it is argued in the treatises on motion that nothing finite has an infinite power, and nothing infinite has a finite power). If, then, motion both natural and unnatural is possible for it, there will be two infinites, both the thing that moves it in this way and the thing moved. Again, what is it that moves the infinite? For if it moves itself, it will be ensouled. But how can an infinite thing possibly be a living creature? And if something else is what moves it, there will be two infinites, the mover and the thing moved, differing in form and in power. And if the whole is not continuous, but, as Democritus and Leucippus say, divided by void, the motion of all (its parts) must necessarily be one. For they are distinguished by their shapes, but their nature, they say, is one, as if each were a separate piece of gold. And of these, as we say, the motion must necessarily be the same; for wherever a single clod of earth moves, the whole of earth moves too, and both the whole of fire and a single spark move to the same place. So that none of the bodies will be light without qualification, if all of them have weight;
30| and if they have lightness, none will be heavy. Further, if it has weight or lightness, there will be either some extremity of the whole, or a center. But this is impossible if (the whole) is infinite. And in general, where there is no center and no extremity, and no up and no down, there will be no place at all for the bodies' motion. And if this does not exist, there will be no motion; for motion must be either natural or unnatural, and these are defined by places that are proper or alien (to each body). Further, the place in which something stays or moves unnaturally must necessarily be, for something else, its natural place (and this is confirmed by induction); so not everything can have either weight or lightness, but some things must, and others not. That, then, the body of the universe is not infinite is clear from these considerations.
31| 8 Let us now say why it is also not possible for there to be more heavens than one. For we said this needed examination, in case someone thinks it has not been shown in general, regarding bodies, that it is impossible for any of them to be outside this world, but that the argument has been stated only for bodies whose kind is left unspecified. For all things both stay at rest and are moved, either by force or by nature; and by nature: the place in which a thing stays without force is also the place to which it moves, and in which, once it moves there, it also stays; and by force: the place in which a thing stays by force is also the place to which it moves by force, and in which, once it moves there by force, it also stays by force. Further, if this motion here is by force, the contrary motion is by nature. So if earth from over there is moved by force to the center here, then earth from here will be moved there by nature. And if the earth from over there stays here without force, then (earth from here) will likewise be moved here by nature. And the natural motion is one. Further, all the worlds must necessarily be made of the same bodies, since they are alike in nature. And indeed each of the bodies must necessarily have the same power — I mean fire and earth and the things between them; for if these things there are called by the same names as ours but not in accordance with the same form, then the whole too would be called 'world' only equivocally.
32| It is clear, then, that one element naturally moves away from the center, and another toward the center, if indeed all fire is of the same kind as fire here, and likewise each of the other elements, just as the parts of fire within this world are of the same kind as one another. And that this must necessarily be so is clear from the assumptions laid down about motions; for the motions are limited in number, and each of the elements is defined by reference to each of the motions. So that, if the motions are indeed the same everywhere, the elements too must necessarily be the same everywhere. The parts of earth in another world, then, will naturally move toward this center here, and the fire there will naturally move toward this extremity here; but this is impossible. For if this were so, it would follow necessarily that earth moves upward in its own world, and fire moves toward the center there, and likewise that the earth from here would move away from the center by nature, moving toward the center over there, because the worlds are situated in that way relative to one another. (Textual note: for δή, Bekker prints δέ, following a single manuscript, at 273b5; ὁμοειδές is read with Simplicius, following Torstrik, against Bekker's ὁμοιοειδές.) For either one must not posit that the simple bodies have the same nature in the several heavens, or (the text breaks off here)
33| ...saying so, the middle must be one, and so must the outermost point; and since this is absurd, it is impossible for there to be more worlds than one. To claim that simple bodies have a different nature depending on whether they are a shorter or longer distance from their proper places is unreasonable — for what difference does it make to say a body is such-and-such a distance away, or such-and-such another distance? It will differ only in degree, the more so the greater the distance, but the form remains the same. But surely there must be some motion belonging to them — that they move is evident. Shall we then say that all of them, even the contrary motions, move by force? But what is not by nature such as to move at all cannot possibly be made to move by force. If, then, there is some motion belonging to them by nature, then for things of the same species — even taken individually — the motion must be toward one and the same place in number, for instance toward this particular middle and toward this particular outermost point. But if the motions are toward the same place in form, though more numerous in number — because the individuals too are more numerous, yet each is undifferentiated in form — then it will not be the case that this holds for some of the parts but not for others; rather it will hold alike for all of them. For all things alike are undifferentiated from one another in form, though each differs in number from every other. I mean this: if the parts here stand to one another just as the parts in another world do, then a part taken from here will differ in no way from the parts in some other world, any more than from the parts in this same world — rather it will be just the same.
34| For they do not differ from one another in form at all. So we must either give up these assumptions, or hold that the middle is one and the outermost point is one. And since this is so, it is necessary too that the heaven be one only, and not more than one, on these same grounds and by these same necessities. That there is some place to which earth and fire naturally move is also clear from other considerations. For in general what is in motion changes from one thing to another, and the terms it moves from and moves to differ in form. Every change is finite — for instance, that which is being restored to health changes from disease to health, and that which is growing changes from smallness to magnitude. And so too with what is carried along — for this too becomes something from somewhere. The point it moves from and the point it is by nature carried to must therefore differ in form, just as with what is being restored to health, and not to just any point whatever it happens to be, nor to whatever point the mover wishes. So fire and earth are not carried to infinity, but toward opposite points. And up is opposite to down in place, so that these will be the limits of locomotion, since even circular motion has, in a way, opposite points along the diameter — though to the circle as a whole there is nothing contrary.
35| So in these cases too, motion is in a sense toward opposite and finite points. There must therefore be some end, and motion is not carried on to infinity. A proof that motion is not to infinity is this: earth moves faster the closer it is to the middle, and fire moves faster the closer it is to the upper region. But if the motion were infinite, the speed too would be infinite, and if the speed, then also the weight and the lightness. For just as a thing would be swift in speed the lower it is, because it is heavier, so, if its increase were infinite, the increase in speed would also be infinite. But then again, neither of them is carried, the one up and the other down, by something else, nor by force, as some say, through compression. For then the greater mass of fire would move more slowly upward, and the greater mass of earth downward; but in fact the opposite is true — a greater mass of fire always moves faster, and a greater mass of earth moves faster toward its own place. Nor would either move faster as it approached its end, if it moved by force and compression — for everything that is forced moves more slowly the farther it gets from what forces it, and it is carried, not by force, toward the very place from which it was forced.
36| So from these considerations one can, on examination, gain sufficient conviction about what has been said. It could also be shown by arguments drawn from first philosophy, and from the circular motion, which must be eternal alike here and in the other worlds. It would also become clear if one considers the matter this way: that the heaven must be one. For since the bodily elements are three, there will also be three places belonging to the elements — one belonging to the settling body, which is around the middle; another belonging to the body carried in a circle, which is the outermost; and a third, between these two, belonging to the middle body. For that which floats up must necessarily be in this middle place; for if it is not in this place, it will be outside. But it is impossible for it to be outside — for the one is without weight, the other has weight, and the place of the body having weight is lower, if indeed the place next to the middle belongs to the heavy. But neither can it be contrary to its nature — for then it would be natural to something else, and there was no other such thing. It must, therefore, be in the middle place.
37| What the differentiae of this middle body itself are, we shall say later. As for the bodily elements, then — what they are and how many, and what the place of each is, and further, how many places there are in all — this is clear to us from what has been said. 9 That there is not only one heaven, but that it is impossible for there to be more than one, and further that it is eternal, being both indestructible and ungenerated, let us now state, first raising the difficulties about it. For on examination in the following way it might seem impossible for it to be one and only one. For in all things composed by nature and all things that come to be by craft alike, the form taken just by itself is one thing, and the form mixed together with matter is another — for instance, the form of a sphere is one thing, and the golden sphere and the bronze sphere are another, and again the form of a circle is one thing, and the bronze circle and the wooden circle are another. For in stating what it is to be a sphere or a circle we will not include gold or bronze in the account, on the ground that these do not belong to the substance; but if we are speaking of the bronze or golden circle, we will include them — and this holds even if we are unable to conceive or grasp anything else beyond the particular. For sometimes nothing prevents this from happening, as when only a single circle is taken — for it will be no less true that being-a-circle is one thing and being this particular circle another, the one being form, the other being form in matter and among particulars.
38| Since, then, the heaven is perceptible, it would belong among the particulars — for everything perceptible exists in matter. But if it belongs among the particulars, then being this particular heaven and being heaven without qualification would be different things. This particular heaven, then, is different from heaven without qualification, the one being as form and shape, the other as mixed with matter. Now of things that have some shape and form, the particulars either already are, or admit of becoming, more than one. For if there are Forms, as some say, this must be the case; and even if none of these is separable, it is no less so — for we see this holding in all cases where the substance is in matter, that the things alike in form are more than one, and indeed indefinitely many. So either there are more heavens than one, or it is possible for there to be more than one. From these considerations, then, one might suppose both that there are, and that there can be, more heavens than one. But we must examine again which of these claims is rightly said and which is not. That the account of the form apart from matter is different from the account of the form in matter is rightly said, and let this stand as true. But it is no less true that there is no necessity, on this account, for there to be more worlds, nor is it possible for there to be more, if this world is made of all the matter there is, as in fact it is.
39| Perhaps what is meant will be clearer put this way. If snub-nosedness is a curvature in a nose or in flesh, and flesh is the matter for the snubness, then if a single piece of flesh were formed out of all flesh whatsoever and the snub belonged to it, nothing else either would be snub or could come to be snub. Likewise, if flesh and bones are the matter of man, and if a man were formed out of all flesh and all bones, these being incapable of being dissolved, it would not be possible for there to be another man. And the same holds for the other cases too: in general, of all things whose substance is in some underlying matter, none of them can come to be unless matter is available. Now the heaven is one of the particulars, one of the things made of matter; but if it is composed not out of a portion of that matter but out of all of it, then, while being heaven in general and being this heaven are different things, there could not be another heaven, nor could more come to be, because this heaven has taken in all the matter there is. It remains, then, to show this: that it is composed out of the whole of natural and perceptible body. Let us first say what we mean by "the heaven," and in how many senses, so that what we are looking into becomes clearer to us.
40| In one sense, then, we call "heaven" the substance of the outermost revolution of the whole, or the natural body that is at the outermost revolution of the whole; for we are accustomed to call "heaven" above all the outermost and uppermost region, in which we say the whole divine is seated. In another sense, again, we call "heaven" the body continuous with the outermost revolution of the whole, in which are the moon and the sun and some of the stars; for we say that these too are in the heaven. And in yet another sense we call "heaven" the body enclosed by the outermost revolution; for we are accustomed to call the whole and the all "heaven." Since "heaven" is said in three ways, the whole enclosed by the outermost revolution must necessarily be composed out of the whole of natural and perceptible body, because there is no body outside the heaven, nor can there come to be one. For if there is a natural body outside the outermost revolution, it must necessarily be either one of the simple bodies or one of the compound ones, and it must have its condition either in accordance with nature or contrary to nature. Now it could not be any of the simple bodies. For it has been shown that what moves in a circle cannot change its own place.
41| But neither, on the other hand, can what moves from the center, nor what settles below, be outside. For they would not be there in accordance with their nature (since their proper places are elsewhere), and if they are there contrary to nature, then the place outside will be in accordance with nature for something else; for what is contrary to nature for this body must necessarily be in accordance with nature for another. But there was no body besides these. It is therefore not possible for any of the simple bodies to be outside the heaven. And if not one of the simple bodies, then not one of the mixed bodies either; for the simple bodies must exist as well, given that the mixed body exists. But nor is it possible for one to come to be; for it would come to be either in accordance with nature or contrary to nature, and either simple or mixed, so that the same argument will come round again.
42| For it makes no difference whether we examine whether it exists or whether it is possible for it to come to be. It is plain, then, from what has been said, that no bulk of body exists outside, nor can one come to be; the whole ordered universe, therefore, is made out of the whole of its proper matter, for its matter was the natural and perceptible body. So there are not now several heavens, nor did several come to be, nor can several come to be; but this heaven is one, alone, and complete. And it is at the same time plain that there is neither place, nor void, nor time outside the heaven. For in every place body can possibly be present; and they say void is that in which body is not present but could possibly come to be present; and time is a number of motion, and there is no motion without a natural body. But it has been shown that outside the heaven there neither is nor can come to be a body. It is plain, then, that there is neither place nor void nor time outside. For that reason, the things there are not by nature situated in a place, nor does time make them grow old, nor is there any change at all in anything set beyond the outermost motion; rather, unalterable and unaffected, possessing the best and most self-sufficient life, they continue through the whole of eternity. And indeed this very name was spoken divinely by the ancients.
43| For the end that encompasses the time of each thing's life, outside of which nothing exists in accordance with nature, has been called that thing's "eternity." By the same reasoning, the end that encompasses the whole of time and infinity belonging to the whole heaven is eternity, taking its name from "always being," immortal and divine. From it, too, being and living are suspended for other things as well, for some more exactly, for others dimly. For indeed, just as in the popular philosophical discussions about divine matters it is often shown by argument that whatever is first and highest must necessarily be unchangeable, this fact bears witness to what has been said. For there is nothing else better that could move it (for that would be more divine still), nor does it have any defect, nor is it lacking in any of its own proper goods. And it is reasonable that it moves with unceasing motion; for all things that move come to a stop when they arrive at their proper place, but for the body that moves in a circle the place from which it starts and the place at which it ends are the same.
44| 10 Having settled these points, let us next say whether the heaven is ungenerated or generated, and imperishable or perishable, going through first the opinions held by others; for the proofs of contrary positions are difficulties concerning the contraries. At the same time, too, what is going to be said will be more credible to those who have first heard the claims of the opposing arguments. For to seem to be condemned in default would apply to us less; and indeed those who are going to judge the truth adequately must be arbiters, not litigants. Everyone, then, says the heaven has come to be, but some say that, having come to be, it is everlasting, others that it is perishable like anything else that is composed, and others again that it alternates, existing now in one condition, now in another, perishing, and going on doing this forever, as Empedocles of Acragas and Heraclitus of Ephesus say. Now to say that it came to be but is nevertheless everlasting is among the impossible things. For it is only reasonable to posit those things that we see holding in many cases or in all, and here the opposite is what happens: everything that comes to be is observed also to perish. Further, a thing that has no starting point for being in this condition, but was incapable of being otherwise throughout all prior time, is incapable of changing as well; for there would have to be some cause, which, had it been present earlier, would have made it possible for what is incapable of being otherwise to be otherwise.
45| And if the world was formerly composed out of things that were in a different condition, then, if those things were always in that condition and incapable of being otherwise, it would not have come to be. But if it has come to be, then clearly those things too must be capable of being otherwise and of not always being in the same condition, so that what is now composed will be dissolved, and what is now dissolved was composed before, and this happened, or was possible, infinitely many times. But if this is so, it would not be imperishable, whether it was once in a different condition or whether it is capable of being in a different condition. The defense that some of those who say it is imperishable but has come to be attempt to bring to their own aid is not true. For they say that they have spoken about its coming to be in the same way as those who draw geometrical diagrams, not implying that it ever actually came to be, but for the sake of teaching, as making it more intelligible, just as one grasps a diagram better by watching it being drawn. But this, as we say, is not the same thing. For in the construction of diagrams, once all the elements have been laid down, the same thing results as existing all at once, whereas in demonstrations about these matters it is not the same. Rather it is impossible; for the things taken as earlier and later are mutually incompatible. For they say that ordered things came to be out of unordered ones, and it is impossible for the same thing to be at once unordered and ordered; there must instead be a coming-to-be, and time, that keeps them apart.
46| But in diagrams nothing is separated by time. That it is therefore impossible for the heaven to be at once eternal and to have come to be is clear. And composing and dissolving it alternately does nothing different from establishing it as eternal but changing in shape, as if someone thought that a boy becoming a man, and a man becoming a boy, was at one time perishing and at another existing; for it is clear that when the elements come together into one another, it is not just any chance ordering and combination that comes about, but the same one, especially according to those who have stated this account, since they hold that each disposition is caused by its contrary. So that if the whole body, being continuous, is at one time disposed and arranged this way, and at another that way, while the combination of the whole is the world-order and the heaven, then it would not be the world-order that comes to be and perishes, but its dispositions. But for what has come to be absolutely to perish and not to reverse is impossible, if it is one thing; for before it came to be, the arrangement prior to it always existed, which we say could not have changed unless it had come to be; but if the things are infinite, this is more possible. But whether this too is impossible or possible will become clear from what follows later.
47| For there are some to whom it seems possible for a thing that is ungenerated to perish, and for a thing that has come to be to continue imperishable, as in the Timaeus. For there he says that the heaven came to be, but nevertheless will exist for all time to come. Against these people it has been stated concerning the heaven alone in a manner proper to natural science, but for those who examine the matter universally concerning everything, it will become clear about this case too. 11 First we must distinguish in how many senses we speak of things as ungenerated and generated, and as perishable and imperishable; for since these are said in many ways, even if it makes no difference to the argument, the mind is bound to be in an indefinite state if one treats what is divisible in many ways as though it were undivided; for it is unclear in respect of which nature the statement holds of it. A thing is called ungenerated in one sense if it is now, though it previously did not exist, without coming to be or change, as some say of touching and being moved: for they say that what touches does not come to be touching, nor does what is moved come to be moving. In another sense, if something capable of coming to be, or of having come to be, is not: for this too is likewise ungenerated, in that it is capable of coming to be. In another sense, if something is wholly incapable of coming to be, so that it exists at one time and not at another. And the impossible is spoken of in two ways: either because it is not true to say that it would come to be, or because it would not come to be easily or quickly or well. In the same way too the generated is spoken of: in one sense, if what previously was not later is, whether it has come to be or without coming to be, being at one time not existing and again existing; in another sense, if it is possible, whether the possible is determined by the true or by the easy.
48| In another sense, if its coming-to-be is out of not-being into being, whether it already exists, having come to be through the process of coming-to-be, or does not yet exist, but is merely possible. And perishable and imperishable are spoken of similarly: for whether something previously existing later either does not exist or is capable of not existing, we say it is perishable, whether it is at some point perishing and changing, or not. And there are times when we call perishable also what is capable of not being through the process of perishing, and again in another sense what perishes easily, which one might call easily-perishable. And the same account holds concerning the imperishable: either what without perishing is at one time existing and at another not, such as instances of touching, because without perishing, though existing before, they later do not exist; or what exists but is capable of not existing, or will not exist at some point though it now exists — for you exist, and the touching exists now; but nevertheless it is perishable, because there will be a time when it will not be true to say that you exist, nor that these things are touching. But what is imperishable in the strictest and most proper sense is what exists but is incapable of perishing in such a way that, being now, it later is not, or is capable of not being — or also what has not yet perished but is not capable of not being later.
49| And what does not perish easily is also called imperishable. If this is how these matters stand, we must examine how we speak of the possible and the impossible. For what is called imperishable in the most proper sense is so called because it is incapable of ever perishing, and incapable of at one time existing and at another not; and the ungenerated too is called impossible in the sense of what is incapable of coming to be in such a way that it previously did not exist and later does exist, as, for example, the diagonal being commensurable. If, then, something is capable of moving a hundred stades or of lifting a weight, we always speak with reference to the maximum, for example lifting a hundred talents or walking a hundred stades (and yet it is also capable of the lesser amounts within that, if indeed it is capable of the excess), on the ground that the capacity ought to be defined by its end-point and its maximum. It is necessary, then, that what is capable with respect to such-and-such an excess is also capable of the amounts within it — for example, if it can lift a hundred talents, it can also lift two, and if it can walk a hundred stades, it can also walk two. But the capacity belongs to the excess; and if something is said to be incapable of such-and-such by way of excess, then it is also incapable of the greater amounts, as, for example, one who is not capable of walking a thousand stades is clearly also incapable of walking a thousand and one. But let none of this trouble us.
50| For let it be determined that what is called the end with reference to the excess is what is capable in the proper sense. For perhaps someone might object that what has been said is not necessary: for one who sees a stade does not thereby also see the magnitudes within it, but rather, on the contrary, one who is capable of seeing a point or of hearing a small sound will also have perception of the greater ones. But this makes no difference to the argument; for let the excess be determined either with respect to the capacity or with respect to the thing. For what is meant is clear: sight is superior with respect to the smaller thing, whereas speed is superior with respect to the greater.
51| 12 Now that these points have been determined, we must state what comes next. If, then, there are some things capable both of being and of not being, there must be some maximum time determined both for their being and for their not being — I mean the time within which the thing is capable of existing, and the time within which it is capable of not existing, under whatever category, for example man, or white, or three cubits long, or anything else of that sort. For if it is not to be some determinate quantity, but always greater than whatever is proposed, and there is none smaller, then the same thing will be capable of existing for an infinite time and of not existing for another infinite time. But this is impossible. Let this be the starting point: for the impossible and the false do not signify the same thing. The impossible and the possible, and the false and the true, are in one sense spoken of hypothetically (I mean, for example, that a triangle's having two right angles is impossible, if such-and-such holds, and that the diagonal is commensurable, if such-and-such holds), while in another sense things are possible and impossible, false and true, without qualification. It is not, then, the same thing to be false without qualification and to be impossible without qualification. For to say of you, when you are not standing, that you are standing, is false, but not impossible. Likewise, to say of one who is playing the lyre but not singing that he is singing is false, but not impossible.
52| But standing and sitting at the same time, and the diagonal being commensurable, are not only false but impossible; so supposing something false is not the same as supposing something impossible. And an impossibility follows from an impossibility. Now a thing has the capacity for sitting and for standing at the same time, in the sense that when it has the one capacity it also has the other; but not so as to sit and stand at the same time — rather, at different times. So if a thing possesses a capacity for more than one thing throughout infinite time, that capacity does not belong to it at different times, but all at once. So if something that exists for infinite time is perishable, it would have the capacity for not existing. Now if it exists for infinite time, then what it is capable of will come to belong to it. So it will both be and not be, in actuality, at the same time. A falsehood, then, would result, because a falsehood was assumed. But if what was assumed were not impossible, what results from it would not be impossible either. Everything, then, that exists always is unqualifiedly imperishable. And likewise ungenerated: for if it were generated, it would be capable of not existing at some time. For perishable is what existed before but now does not, or what admits of not existing at some later time; and generated is what admits of not having existed earlier — but there is no time in which what always exists is capable of this.
53| So it cannot be capable of not existing either for infinite or for finite time; for it is capable of existing for finite time too, if indeed for infinite time. It is not possible, then, for one and the same thing both to be capable of always existing and capable of not existing. Nor, again, is it capable of the negation, I mean of not always existing. It is impossible, then, for a thing both to exist always and to be perishable. And likewise impossible for it to be generated. For given two terms, if it is impossible for the later to hold without the earlier, and the earlier is impossible, then the later is impossible too. So if what always exists cannot at any time not exist, it is also impossible for it to be generated. Now since the negation of what is capable of always existing is what is not capable of always existing, while what is capable of always not existing is the contrary of that, and the negation of this contrary is what is not capable of always not existing, the negations of both must belong to the same thing; and there must be a middle term, between what always exists and what always does not exist, namely what is capable both of existing and of not existing — for the negation of each will hold at some time, if the thing is not always. So what does not always fail to exist will at some time exist and at some time not exist, and clearly the same holds of what is not capable of always existing, but it will exist at some time;
54| so it will also not exist. The same thing, then, will be capable both of existing and of not existing, and this is the middle term between the two. The argument stated generally runs as follows. Let A and B be terms incapable of belonging to the same thing, while to everything belongs either A or C, and either B or D. It is necessary, then, that whatever has neither A nor B has both C and D. Let E, then, be the middle term between A and B, since what is neither of two contraries is a middle term. To this both C and D must necessarily belong. For to everything belongs either A or C, so also to E; since then A is impossible for it, C will belong. And the same argument holds for D. So what always exists is neither generated nor perishable, nor is what always does not exist. And it is clear that if a thing is generated or perishable, it is not eternal. For it would then at the same time be capable of always existing and capable of not always existing; and that this is impossible has been shown earlier. Is it the case, then, that if something is ungenerated, and exists, it must necessarily be eternal? And likewise if it is imperishable, and exists? By ungenerated and imperishable I mean these terms in their strict sense: ungenerated is what exists now, and it was not true earlier to say that it did not exist; imperishable is what exists now, and it will not be true later to say that it does not exist.
55| Now if these follow from each other, the ungenerated being imperishable and the imperishable ungenerated, then eternity must follow from each of them as well: whether a thing is ungenerated, it is eternal, or whether it is imperishable, it is eternal. This is also clear from their definitions. For it is necessary that, if a thing is perishable, it is generated. For it is either ungenerated or generated; and if ungenerated, it is by our assumption imperishable. And if it is generated, it must be perishable; for it is either perishable or imperishable, but if imperishable, it was by our assumption ungenerated. But if the imperishable and the ungenerated do not follow from each other, then neither the ungenerated nor the imperishable need be eternal. That they must follow from each other is clear from the following. For the generated and the perishable follow from each other. This too is clear from what was said before: between what always exists and what always does not exist there is a middle term to which neither of these follows, and this is what is generated and perishable. For each of these is capable both of existing and of not existing for a determinate time; I mean that each of them both exists for some amount of time and does not exist for some amount of time. If, then, there is anything generated or perishable, it must be this middle term. Let A, then, be what always exists, B what always does not exist, C what is generated, and D what is perishable.
56| C, then, must necessarily be intermediate between A and B. For in the case of A and B there is no time at either limit in which A did not exist or B did exist; but the generated thing must, if not in actuality, exist potentially, whereas neither of these holds of A and B. So C will exist for some determinate quantity of time, and again will not exist. And likewise for D, the perishable. So each of them is both generated and perishable. The generated and the perishable, therefore, follow from each other. Now let E stand for the ungenerated, Z for the generated, H for the imperishable, and Θ for the perishable. It has been shown that Z and Θ follow from each other. Now whenever terms are arranged as these are — Z and Θ following each other, while E and Z belong to nothing in common, though one or the other belongs to everything, and likewise H and Θ — then E and H must also follow each other. For suppose E does not follow H. Then Z will follow instead, since to everything belongs either E or Z. But whatever has Z also has Θ.
57| So Θ will follow H. But this was assumed to be impossible. And the same argument shows that H follows E. And this is indeed how the ungenerated, E, stands to the generated, Z, and how the imperishable, H, stands to the perishable, Θ. To say, then, that there is nothing to prevent something that comes to be from being imperishable, or something ungenerated from perishing, generation belonging to the one and destruction to the other just once, is to do away with one of the things granted. For everything is capable of acting or being acted on, or of existing or not existing, either for infinite time or for some determinate amount of time; and it is capable of the infinite time for this reason, that the infinite time is in a sense determinate, in that there is none greater than it. But what is infinite only in a certain respect is neither infinite nor determinate. Again, why should a thing that has always existed have perished at this particular point rather than another, or why, not having existed, should it have come to be after an infinite time? For if there is no more reason for one point than another, and the points are infinite, it is clear that something was, for infinite time, both generable and perishable. It is capable, then, of not existing for infinite time; at the same time
58| for it will have the potentiality both of not being and of being — the former, if it is perishable, the latter, if it is generated. So if we posit that what things are capable of holds, the opposites will hold at the same time. And further, this will hold alike at every point of time, so that for infinite time it will have the potentiality both of not being and of being; but it has been shown that this is impossible. Again, if the potentiality is prior to the actuality, it will hold throughout all time — even for what was ungenerated and non-existent, capable of coming to be for infinite time. At the same moment, then, it both did not exist and had the potentiality of existing, and this for infinite time both then and afterward. It is also evident in another way that it is impossible for something perishable never to perish. For it will always be at once both perishable and imperishable in actuality, so that it will at the same time be possible for it both always to be and not always to be. So the perishable does at some time perish, and if it is generated, it has come to be; for it is possible for it to have come to be, and therefore possible for it not always to be. One can also see it this way: it is impossible either for something that has at some time come to be to go on being imperishable forever, or for something ungenerated, always existing before, to perish. For nothing can be, from mere chance, either imperishable or ungenerated.
59| For the spontaneous and the result of chance occur or come to be apart from what is always or for the most part; but what exists for infinite time — whether without qualification, or from some point of time onward — exists either always or for the most part. It is necessary, then, that such things exist by nature at one time and not at another. And for such things the potentiality for the contradictory pair is the same, and matter is the cause both of their being and of their not being. So it is necessary that opposites hold in actuality at the same time as well. But surely it is not true to say now that it is last year, nor last year that it is now. It is therefore impossible for what did not exist at some time to be everlasting afterward; for it will afterward also have the potentiality of not being — not the potentiality of not being at the time when it is (for it exists in actuality then), but of not being last year and in the time past. Now that of which it has the potentiality will hold in actuality; so it will be true to say now that it is not last year. But this is impossible; for there is no potentiality of having come to be, but only of being or of coming to be. Likewise too if what was previously everlasting later ceases to be; for it will have a potentiality for something that does not exist in actuality.
1| So if we posit what is possible, it will be true to say now that this thing is last year and, generally, in the time that is past. And considering the matter physically too, not just in general terms, it is impossible either for what is everlasting to have perished at an earlier time, or for what did not exist at an earlier time to be everlasting later. For all perishable and generated things are alterable, and things that exist by nature are altered by their contraries and by the things out of which they are constituted, and by these same things they perish. Book Two.
2| 1 That the whole heaven, then, neither has come to be nor admits of perishing, as some say it does, but is one and everlasting, having neither beginning nor end of its whole duration, but having and containing infinite time within itself — this may be taken as established both from what has been said and from the opinion of those who speak otherwise and generate it. For if it is possible for it to be as we say, while it is not possible for it to have come to be in the way those others describe, this fact too would carry great weight toward conviction about its immortality and everlastingness. It is therefore well to persuade oneself of the truth of the ancient accounts, and above all those handed down by our own forebears, that there is something immortal and divine among things that have motion — motion of such a kind that there is no limit to it, but rather it is the limit of the others. For the limit belongs to things that contain, and this circular motion, being complete, contains the incomplete motions and those that have a limit and a stopping-point, itself having neither beginning nor end but being unceasing through infinite time, while of the other motions it is in some cases the cause of their beginning, in others the recipient of their stopping.
3| The ancients assigned the heaven and the region above to the gods, on the ground that it alone is immortal; and our present account bears witness that it is imperishable and ungenerated, and further that it is unaffected by any of the troubles that beset mortal things, and beyond this, free from toil, because it needs no forced compulsion to hold it back and prevent it from being carried in some other direction natural to it. For anything of that sort is toilsome, the more so the more everlasting it is, and has no share in the best condition. This is why we should not suppose the matter to stand as in the myth of the ancients, who say that it needs some Atlas for its preservation; for those who put together that account seem to have held the same supposition as later thinkers, since they too, treating all the bodies above as having weight and being earthy, propounded for it, in mythical form, an animate compelling force. Nor, again, should we suppose that because of its whirling motion it attains a speed greater than its own proper downward tendency, and is thereby preserved for so long a time, as Empedocles says. Nor, again, is it reasonable that it is held everlasting by a soul compelling it to remain so; for it is not possible for such a life of the soul to be free of pain and blessed. For the motion must, if it is compelled — given that the first body is naturally disposed to move otherwise and something else moves it continually — be laborious and stripped of all intelligent ease, seeing that it does not even have, as the soul of mortal animals has, the rest that comes about for the body in sleep, but must instead hold to some portion like that of Ixion, everlasting and unwearied.
4| If, then, as we have said, it is possible for the first motion to be as described, not only is it more fitting to hold this view about its everlastingness, but it is also only in this way that we could declare our account to be in agreement with the divination concerning the god. But let this much be enough for the present on such arguments. 2 Since there are some who say that the heaven has a right and a left, as the so-called Pythagoreans do (for the doctrine belongs to them), we must consider whether the matter stands as they say, or rather otherwise, if indeed these principles must be attached to the body of the universe at all. For in the first place, straight off, if the right and the left belong to it, we must suppose that principles still prior to these belong to it as well. Now this has been determined in the works on the motions of animals, since it is a matter proper to their nature; for it is plainly apparent in animals that some have all such parts — I mean, for example, right and left — while others have only some of them, and plants have only up and down. And if we must attach any such thing to the heaven as well, then, as we have said, it is reasonable that the first of these, as it belongs to animals, should belong to it too; for there are three pairs, each of which is a kind of principle. I mean the three: up and down, front and back, and right and left.
5| It's reasonable that all these dimensions belong to perfect bodies. Now up is the starting point of length, right is the starting point of breadth, and front is the starting point of depth. Again, there is another way of taking them, in terms of motions: I call these starting points the points from which motions first begin in things that have them. Growth proceeds from above, locomotion from the right, and perception from the front — for I call "front" the direction the senses face. This is why we should not look for up and down, right and left, front and back in every body, but only in those that have a starting point of motion within themselves by being ensouled. For among soulless things we see none in which there is a source of motion. Some do not move at all, while others move but not in the same way from every part — fire, for instance, moves only upward, and earth only toward the center. But in these cases we speak of 284a up and down and right and left by referring them back to ourselves: either in accordance with our own right, as diviners do, or by analogy with our own, as with the parts of a statue, or the opposite of our position — calling right what corresponds to our left, and left what corresponds to our right, and back what corresponds to our front — since in the things themselves we see no difference at all.
6| For if the thing is turned around, we call the opposite sides right and left, up and down, front and back. This is why one might be surprised at the Pythagoreans for naming only these two starting points, right and left, while leaving out the other four, which are no less authoritative. For up and down, and front and back, differ in all animals no less than right and left do. Some pairs differ only in power, others also in shape; and up and down belong alike to all ensouled things, both animals and plants, whereas right and left do not belong to plants. Further, just as length is prior to breadth, so, if up is the starting point of length and right the starting point of breadth, and the starting point of what is prior is itself prior, up would be prior to right in order of coming-to-be — since "prior" is said in many ways. Beyond this: if up is that from which motion begins, right is that from which motion begins, and forward is that toward which motion goes, then in this respect too up would have a certain power of a starting point over the other kinds.
7| It is fair to criticize them, then, both for leaving out the more authoritative starting points, and because they supposed these two applied alike to everything. As for us, since it has been established earlier that these powers belong to things that have a starting point of motion, and the heaven is ensouled and has a starting point of motion, it is clear that it has up and down and right and left. For we need not be puzzled, on the ground that the shape of the whole is spherical, how it can have a right and a left when all its parts are alike and are moving for all time; rather we should think of it as we would if someone, in a case where right differs from left even in shape, then wrapped it in a sphere: it will still have the power differing, though it will not appear to, because of the sameness of the shape. The same holds for the starting point of its motion: even if it never began, it must nonetheless have a starting point from which it would have begun, had it begun moving — and even if it should come to rest, it would move again from there. By its length I mean the distance measured along the poles, and of the poles I call one up and the other down; for it is only with respect to these that we see a difference between the hemispheres, since the poles do not move.
8| At the same time we are also accustomed to calling the sides of the universe not up and down but the region along the poles, taking this to be its length; for the sideways direction is what runs alongside up and down. Of the poles, the one that appears above us is the lower part, and the one invisible to us is the upper. For we call "right" of each thing the point from which the starting point of locomotion is; and of the heaven, the starting point of its revolution is the point from which the risings of the stars occur, so that this would be its right, and the point of the settings would be its left. If, then, it begins from the right and revolves toward the right, the up must be the invisible pole; for if the visible pole were up, the motion would be toward the left, which we do not say. It is clear, then, that the invisible pole is the up. And those who live there are in the upper hemisphere and toward the right, while we are in the lower and toward the left — the opposite of what the Pythagoreans say; for they make us the upper ones, in the right-hand part, and put the people there below, in the left-hand part.
9| But the opposite is the case. Yet with respect to the second revolution — that of the planets, for instance — we are among the upper and right-hand parts, and they are among the lower and left-hand ones; for in these the starting point of the motion is reversed, because their movements are opposite, so that it turns out that we are near the starting point and they near the end. Let this much, then, be said about the parts determined by dimension and by position.
10| 3 Since circular motion is not the contrary of circular motion, we must consider why there are several circular movements, even though we are attempting to carry out this inquiry from far off — not so much far off in place, but far more in that we grasp very few of the things that hold true of them. Nevertheless, let us speak. The cause concerning them must be grasped from the following starting point. Each thing whose function it is exists for the sake of that function. And the activity of god is immortality — that is, everlasting life. So the divine must have everlasting motion. Since the heaven is of this kind (for it is a divine body of a sort), it has for this reason the circularly-moving body, which by nature always moves in a circle. Why, then, is not the whole body of the heaven of this kind? Because it is necessary that something of the body carried in a circle remain — namely, what is at the center — and none of this can remain, either as a whole or in its center-part. For its motion in accordance with nature would have been toward the center; but by nature it moves in a circle — for otherwise the motion would not be everlasting, since nothing contrary to nature is everlasting. What is contrary to nature is later than what is in accordance with nature, and what is contrary to nature is a kind of departure, in the process of coming-to-be, from what is in accordance with nature.
11| There must, then, be earth; for this is what is at rest at the center. Let this be assumed for now, and it will be demonstrated later. But if there is earth, there must also be fire; for if one of a pair of contraries exists by nature, the other must also exist by nature, provided it truly is a contrary, and there must be some nature belonging to it — for the matter of contraries is the same. And affirmation is prior to privation (I mean, for example, hot is prior to cold), and rest and heaviness are spoken of as the privation of lightness and motion. But further, if fire and earth exist, the bodies between them must also exist; for each of the elements has a contrariety to each of the others. Let this too be assumed for now, and an attempt will be made to demonstrate it later. Given these things, it is clear that coming-to-be must occur, since none of these can be everlasting; for they are acted on and act upon one another as contraries, and are destructive of one another. Further, it is not reasonable that something movable should be everlasting if the motion that belongs to it by nature cannot be everlasting; and the motion of these bodies is toward one of these places. That coming-to-be must occur is clear, then, from this. And if there is coming-to-be, there must also be another circular motion, either one or several.
12| For according to the arrangement of the whole, the elements of bodies must stand toward one another in the same way. This too will be discussed more clearly in what follows; but for now this much is clear: the reason there are several bodies moving in a circle is that there must be coming-to-be — and there must be, if indeed there is fire; and fire requires the other elements too, if indeed earth exists; and earth requires that something always remain at rest, if indeed something is always in motion.
13| 4 The heaven must have a spherical shape; for this is the shape most proper to its substance, and first by nature. Let us first speak generally about shapes, asking which is first, both among plane figures and among solids. Now every plane figure is either rectilinear or curvilinear. The rectilinear is bounded by more than one line, while the curvilinear is bounded by one. Since in each kind the one is by nature prior to the many, and the simple prior to the composite, the circle would be first among plane figures. Further, if the complete is that outside of which nothing further of it can be taken, as was defined earlier, and if addition is always possible to a straight line but never to that of a circle, it is clear that the line enclosing the circle would be complete; so that if the complete is prior to the incomplete, then for this reason too the circle would be prior among figures. In the same way the sphere is prior among solids; for it alone is enclosed by a single surface, while rectilinear solids are enclosed by several; for as the circle stands among plane figures, so the sphere stands among solids. Further, those who divide bodies into planes and generate them out of planes appear to bear witness to this;
14| for alone among solids they do not divide the sphere, on the ground that it has no more than one surface; for division into planes is not carried out in the way that one cutting the whole into parts would divide it, but rather as into things different in kind. That the sphere, then, is first among solid figures is clear. And it is also most reasonable, on the view of those who assign an order according to number, that the circle corresponds to the one and the triangle to the dyad, since its angles are together equal to two right angles; but if the one were assigned to the triangle, the circle would no longer be a figure at all. And since the first figure belongs to the first body, and the first body is that in the outermost revolution, the body carried with the circular motion would be spherical. And so too would the body continuous with it; for what is continuous with the spherical is spherical. Likewise too the bodies toward the middle of these; for what is enclosed by, and touches, the spherical must be wholly spherical; and the bodies below the sphere of the planets touch the sphere above them. So the whole would be spherical; for all the parts touch and are continuous with the spheres.
15| Further, since it appears, and is assumed, that the whole revolves in a circle, and it has been demonstrated that outside the outermost revolution there is neither void nor place, it is necessary for this reason too that it be spherical. For if it were rectilinear, it would follow that there is place, and body, and void outside it; for a rectilinear figure turning in a circle will never occupy the same region, but where a body was before, there it will not be now, and where it now is not, it will be again, because of the shifting of its angles. Likewise too if it should be some other shape not having equal lines from the middle, such as lens-shaped or egg-shaped; for in all these cases it will follow that there is place and void outside its motion, because the whole does not occupy the same region. Further, if the measure of motions is the revolution of the heaven, because it alone is continuous, uniform, and eternal, and in each kind the measure is the least, and the least motion is the swiftest, it is clear that the motion of the heaven would be the swiftest of all motions. But indeed, of lines running from the same point to the same point, the line of a circle is the least;
16| and motion along the least line is the swiftest; so that if the heaven moves in a circle and moves most swiftly, it must be spherical. One might also derive this conviction from the bodies situated around the middle. For if water lies around the earth, air around the water, fire around the air, and the upper bodies stand in the same relation (they are not continuous with these, but they do touch them), and the surface of water is spherical, and what is continuous with the spherical, or lies around the spherical, must itself be of the same shape, then through this too it would be clear that the heaven is spherical. But that the surface of water is indeed of this kind is clear once one takes as a starting-point that water is naturally disposed always to flow together into the more hollow place; and the more hollow is that which is nearer the center. Let AB and AC, then, be drawn from the center, and let BC be joined. The line drawn to the base, namely AD, is then less than the lines from the center; the place is therefore more hollow. So the water will flow around, until it is made equal.
17| And AE is equal to the lines from the center. So the water must lie at the same distance as the lines from the center; for then it will be at rest. And the line touching the points equidistant from the center is circular; the surface of the water, then, namely BEC, is spherical. That the universe, then, is spherical is clear from these considerations, and that it is turned with such precision that nothing made by hand comes close to it, nor anything else that appears before our eyes among the things around us. For of the things from which its composition is made, nothing is so capable of receiving uniformity and precision as the nature of the encompassing body; for it is clear that the outer bodies stand in an analogous relation, as water does to earth, and likewise the elements that are ever more distant.
18| 5 Since it is possible to move on the circle in two ways — for example from A, one motion toward B and the other toward C — it has already been said that these are not contrary motions. But if nothing that happens as chance would have it, nor from spontaneity, can occur among eternal things, and the heaven is eternal, and so is its circular motion, for what reason does it move in the one direction rather than the other? For this too must either be a principle, or have a principle of its own. Now perhaps to attempt to declare something about a few matters, and about all matters, and to pass over nothing, might seem to be a mark either of great simple-mindedness or of great eagerness. Still, it is not right to censure everyone alike; rather one must see what the reason is for speaking, and further how one stands with respect to conviction — whether in a merely human way or with more fortitude. When, then, one arrives at 288a the more exact necessities, one ought to be grateful to those who discover them; but for now what appears reasonable must be stated. For if nature always does the best of what is possible, and just as, among motions on a straight line, the motion toward the upper place is more honorable (for the upper place is more divine than the lower), in the same way too motion forward is more honorable than motion backward — and this does hold, if indeed right and left also hold, as was said before (and the difficulty just mentioned bears witness that it does hold), namely that there is a before and an after; for this cause resolves the difficulty. For if it holds in the way that is best among what is possible, this would be the cause of what has just been said as well; for it is best to move with a motion that is simple and unceasing, and to move it toward the more honorable direction.
19| 6 About its motion, that it is uniform and not non-uniform, would be the next thing to go through after what has been said. I mean this about the first heaven and about the first motion; for in the bodies below, several motions have already combined into one. For if it moves non-uniformly, clearly there will be intensification and a culmination and a slackening of the motion; for every non-uniform motion has both a slackening and an intensification and a culmination. And the culmination is either the point from which it is carried, or the point to which, or the midpoint — as, presumably, for things moving in accordance with nature it is the point to which they are carried, for things moving contrary to nature it is the point from which, and for things thrown it is the midpoint. But of circular motion there is neither a "from which" nor a "to which" nor a midpoint; for it has neither starting point nor limit nor midpoint at all, since it is eternal in time and, in respect of length, closed up and unbroken. So that if there is no culmination of its motion, there could not be non-uniformity either; for non-uniformity comes about through slackening and intensification. Further, since everything that is moved is moved by something, the non-uniformity of the motion must come about either through the mover, or through the thing moved, or through both.
20| For either the mover does not move with the same power, or the thing moved is altered and does not remain the same, or both change — in any of these cases nothing prevents the thing moved from moving non-uniformly. But none of these can occur in the case of the heaven. For it has been shown that the thing moved is primary and simple and ungenerated and indestructible and altogether unchangeable, and it is far more reasonable that the mover should be of this kind too; for what is primary is what moves what is primary, what is simple moves what is simple, and what is indestructible and ungenerated moves what is indestructible and ungenerated. Since, then, the thing moved, being a body, does not change, neither would the mover change, being bodiless. So that the motion too cannot be non-uniform. And indeed, if it does become non-uniform, either it changes as a whole — becoming at one time faster and again at another slower — or its parts do. Now that the parts are not non-uniform is clear.
21| For otherwise there would already have arisen, in infinite time, a separation among the stars, one moving faster and another slower. But nothing appears to be otherwise with respect to their distances. But indeed neither is it possible for the whole to change; for the slackening of each thing comes about through incapacity, and incapacity is contrary to nature; for indeed the incapacities found in animals are all contrary to nature — for example old age and wasting. For presumably the whole constitution of animals is composed of things that differ in their proper places; for none of the parts has its own place. If, then, in the case of the primary things there is nothing contrary to nature (for they are simple and unmixed and in their own proper place, and nothing is contrary to them), then there could be no incapacity either, so that there would be neither slackening nor intensification; for if there is intensification, there is also slackening. Further, it is also unreasonable that the mover should be incapable for infinite time, and again capable for another infinite time; for nothing appears to be contrary to nature for infinite time (and incapacity is contrary to nature), nor for a time equal to the time it is contrary to nature and in accordance with nature, nor is it possible in any other way for it to be both capable and incapable. And it is necessary, if the motion slackens, that it slacken for infinite time.
22| But indeed it is not possible either for it to intensify forever or, again, to slacken forever; for then the motion would be infinite and indeterminate, and we say every motion is from something to something and determinate. Further, if one should take there to be some minimum time in which it is not possible for the heaven to be moved in less — just as it is not possible to walk or to play the cithara in any time whatever, but for each action there is a determinate minimum time such that it cannot be gone below, so too it is not possible for the heaven to be moved in any time whatever — if this is true, then there could not always be an intensification of the motion, and if not intensification, then not slackening either; for both go together, and likewise either one, since it intensifies by the same speed or a greater one, and for infinite time. It remains, then, to say that the faster and the slower alternate in the motion; but this is utterly unreasonable and like a fabrication. Further, it is also more reasonable that in these matters nothing should escape notice; for things set beside one another are more easily perceived. That there is, then, only one heaven, and that it is ungenerated and eternal, and further that it moves uniformly, let this much be said by us.
23| 7 About the so-called stars it would be next to speak — of what they are composed, and in what shapes, and what their motions are. It is most reasonable, and follows on what has been said, that we should hold each of the stars to be made of that body in which it happens to have its motion, since we said there is something whose nature it is to move in a circle. For just as those who say the stars are fiery say this because they hold the upper body to be fire — thinking it reasonable that each thing should be composed of the things among which it is — so too do we say. The heat and light from them arise because the air is rubbed off by their motion. For motion has by nature the power to kindle even wood and stones and iron; more reasonable, then, is it to kindle what is nearer to fire, and nearer is air — as also in the case of missiles carried in flight; for these very things are kindled to such a degree that leaden bullets melt, and since they themselves are kindled, the air around them must undergo this same thing. Now these are heated up because they are carried through air, which becomes fire through the blow of the motion; but each of the bodies above is carried in its sphere, so that they themselves are not kindled, but since the air lies beneath the sphere of the circularly-moving body, that air must be heated when the sphere is carried around, and most of all in that region in which the sun happens to be set. This is why, as the sun draws near and rises and is above us, the heat comes to be. That they are, then, neither fiery nor carried in fire — let this be said by us about them.
24| 8 Since both the stars and the whole heaven appear to shift their place, it must be that the change comes about either with both at rest, or with both in motion, or with the one at rest and the other in motion. Now for both to be at rest is impossible, at least with the earth at rest; for the appearances would not come about. Let it be assumed that the earth is at rest. It remains, then, either that both are moved, or that the one is moved and the other at rest. If, then, both are to be moved, it is unreasonable that the speeds of the stars and of the circles should be the same; for each star would then be equal in speed to the circle in which it is carried. For they appear, together with the circles, to be re-established again in the same place. It follows, then, that the star has traversed the circle and the circle has been carried through its own motion, having traversed its own circumference, at the same time. But it is not reasonable that the speeds of the stars should stand in the same ratio as the sizes of the circles. For that the circles should have their speeds proportionate to their sizes is nothing strange but even necessary, but that this should hold of each of the stars in them is in no way reasonable; for whether it is of necessity that what moves on the larger circle should be faster, clearly, even if the stars were transposed into one another's circles, one would be faster and the other slower —
25| On this view they would not have a motion of their own, but would be carried along by the circles. But even if this happened by chance, it is not reasonable that in every case alike the circle should be larger and the motion of the star in it faster; for that one or two should be so is nothing strange, but that all should be alike so looks like a fabrication. At the same time, what happens by chance does not occur in the things of nature, nor does what belongs everywhere and to all things come about by chance. But again, on the other hand, if the circles remain still and the stars themselves move, this too will be equally unreasonable; for it will follow that the outer ones move faster, and that the speeds correspond to the sizes of the circles. Since, then, it is not reasonable either that both should move, or that the star alone should move, it remains that the circles move and the stars are at rest and are carried along bound fast to the circles; for only in this way does nothing unreasonable follow. For that the speed should be greater for the larger circle is reasonable when they are bound about the same center (for just as in other cases the larger body is carried faster in its own proper motion, so too in the case of things moving in circles;
26| for the segment cut off by the lines from the center is greater for the larger circle, so that reasonably the larger circle will be carried round in the same time), and it also follows from this — and from the fact that the whole has been shown to be continuous — that the heaven does not tear apart. Further, since the stars are spherical, as others say and as we too may say in agreement, at least they generate their light out of that body, and there are two motions belonging to a sphere in its own right, rolling and spinning: if, then, the stars were moved through themselves, they would move with one or the other of these; but plainly they move with neither. For if they were spinning, they would remain in the same place and would not change their position, and this is both what appears and what everyone says. Further, it is reasonable that all should move with the same motion, but of the stars only the sun seems to do this, in its rising — or rather even this is not due to the sun itself but to the distance of our sight; for sight, stretched out over a long distance, wavers because of its weakness. This is perhaps also the cause of the fixed stars appearing to twinkle, while the planets do not twinkle; for the planets are near, so that our sight, being still strong, reaches them;
27| but toward the fixed stars it wavers because of the distance, being stretched out too far. And the trembling of our sight makes it seem that the star itself is moving; for it makes no difference whether it is the sight that moves or the thing seen. But that the stars do not roll either is plain; for what rolls must turn over, but the so-called face of the moon is always visible. So since, if they moved through themselves, it would be reasonable for them to move with their proper motions, and they plainly do not move with these, it is clear that they would not move through themselves. Besides this, it would be unreasonable for nature to have given them no organ for motion; for nature does nothing at random, and it is not likely that she took thought for animals but overlooked things so honorable — rather she seems, as if on purpose, to have removed everything by which they might have been able to advance on their own, and to have set them as far as possible from those things that have organs for motion. This is why it would reasonably seem that both the whole heaven is spherical and each of the stars is too. For with a view to motion in the same place, the sphere is the most serviceable of the shapes (for in this way it would move most quickly and would most hold to the same place), while for forward motion it is the most useless;
28| for it is least like the things that move themselves forward; for it has nothing detached from it and nothing projecting, as the rectilinear shape does, but is furthest removed in its shape from bodies capable of forward progress. Since, then, the heaven must move with the motion in the same place, while the other stars must not advance through themselves, it would reasonably follow that each is spherical; for in this way each would best do the one thing — move — or the other — remain still. 9 It is clear from these considerations that the claim that a harmony arises from the things carried around, on the ground that the sounds they produce are consonant, though stated cleverly and with unusual ingenuity by those who have said it, is nevertheless not the truth of the matter. For some think it necessary that bodies of such size, moving as they do, should produce a sound, since even bodies among us do so, though they have neither equal bulk nor are carried with such speed; and given the sun and moon, and further given so great a number and size of stars moving with such speed, it is impossible, they think, that a motion of this kind should not produce a sound whose magnitude is inconceivable. Assuming this, and that the speeds, from the distances, have the ratios of the musical concords, they say that the sound given off by the stars as they move in a circle is harmonious. But since it seems unreasonable that we should not hear this sound along with the rest, they say the cause of this is that the sound is present in things from the moment they come to be, so that it is not distinguishable against the silence that would contrast with it; for the recognition of sound and silence comes from setting them against each other, so that just as it seems to make no difference to smiths, through habituation, the same thing happens with human beings. Now these things, as has been said before, are stated elegantly and in a musical spirit, but it is impossible that the matter should be so.
29| For it is not only absurd that we hear nothing — which is the point they try to resolve by their explanation — but also that the bodies here should undergo no effect at all apart from perception. For sounds that exceed a certain measure wear away the very mass of even lifeless bodies — for instance, the sound of thunder splits stones and the hardest of bodies. But given that so many bodies are moving, and that the sound travels in proportion to the size of what moves, it would be necessary that a many-times-greater magnitude should reach us here, and that the force of its violence should be inconceivable. But reasonably we neither hear it, nor do the bodies here appear to undergo any violent effect, because there is in fact no sound. And at the same time the cause of this is clear, and it is also a piece of testimony for the truth of the account we have given; for the very difficulty that led the Pythagoreans to say that a concord arises from the things carried around is itself evidence for us. For whatever moves by itself produces sound and impact; but whatever is bound up or inheres within a moving thing, as the parts do in a ship, cannot produce sound, nor again can the ship itself, if it is being carried along on a river. And yet by the same reasoning one might say it is absurd that the mast and the stern of so great a ship do not produce a loud sound, if they are not themselves separately moving, or again that the ship itself does not, when it is moving.
30| But what moves within something not itself moving produces sound; whereas what is continuous with a moving thing, and does not strike against it, cannot produce sound. So here one must say that if the bodies in question were being carried either through a plenum of air poured through the whole, or through fire, as everyone says, they would necessarily produce a sound of surpassing magnitude, and if this happened, it would reach us here and would wear things away. Since, then, this plainly does not happen, none of them is carried with a motion that is either animate or forced — as if nature had foreseen what was going to happen, and had arranged that, if the motion did not occur in this way, none of the things around this region here would remain in the same condition. That the stars, then, are spherical, and that they do not move through themselves, has been stated.
31| 10 As for their order — the way in which each is placed, some being prior and others posterior, and how they stand to one another in their distances — let this be studied from the works on astronomy; for it is stated there sufficiently. It turns out that the motions of each correspond in ratio to their distances, in that some are faster and some slower; for since it is laid down that the outermost revolution of the heaven is simple and fastest, while the revolutions of the others are slower and more numerous (for each moves in the direction opposite to the heaven, along its own circle), it is reasonable, then, that the one nearest to the simple and first revolution should traverse its own circle in the longest time, and the one farthest away in the least, while among the rest, the nearer one always takes longer, and the farther one less. For the nearest is most mastered by it, and the farthest is least of all mastered, because of its distance; and the ones in between correspond, in due proportion, to their distance, as the mathematicians also show.
32| 11 One might most reasonably suppose that the shape of each of the stars is spherical. For since it has been shown that they are not by nature capable of moving of themselves, and nature does nothing without reason or in vain, it is clear that she has given to these motionless bodies the shape that is least capable of motion. And the sphere is least capable of motion, because it has no organ for motion. So it is clear that their bulk would be spherical. Further, all the stars are alike and of one kind; and the moon is shown, through what concerns sight, to be spherical — for otherwise, as it waxes and wanes, it would not for the most part appear crescent-shaped or gibbous, and only once exactly halved. And again this is shown through astronomical observations, since otherwise the eclipses of the sun would not be crescent-shaped. So if one of them is of this shape, it is clear that the rest would also be spherical.
33| 12 There are two puzzles, about which anyone might reasonably be puzzled, and we must try to state what seems to be the case, holding that eagerness deserves respect rather than boldness, if someone, through thirst for philosophy, is content even with small means of understanding concerning matters about which we have the greatest difficulties. Among the many puzzles of this kind, one of the most remarkable is not least this: for what cause is it not always the case that the bodies farther removed from the first motion move with more motions, but rather the bodies in between move with the most? For it would seem reasonable that, since the first body moves with a single motion, the body nearest to it should move with the fewest motions, say two, and the next with three, or some other such order. But in fact the opposite happens: the sun and moon move with fewer motions than some of the wandering stars, and yet these are farther from the middle and nearer to the first body than the sun and moon are. This has become clear about some of them even to sight: we have seen the moon, when it was halved, pass beneath the star of Ares, and be hidden as it entered the moon's dark part, and emerge again at its bright and shining part. And the Egyptians and Babylonians, who have observed for very many years from ancient times, say the same about the other stars as well, and from them we have many confirmations concerning each of the stars — so one might rightly raise this puzzle too, and also for what cause it is that in the first motion there is such a multitude of stars that the whole array seems innumerable, while of the others each one stands apart by itself, and two or more are never seen bound together in the same motion.
34| Concerning these matters, it is well to inquire and to seek fuller understanding, even though we have scanty resources for it and are at so great a distance from the events themselves; nevertheless, when one views things from such a standpoint, the puzzle now raised would seem in no way unreasonable. But we think about the stars only as bodies, as units having an order but wholly soulless; whereas we ought to suppose that they share in action and in life — for then nothing about what happens will seem unreasonable. For it seems that, for what is in the best condition, well-being belongs without action; for what is nearest to it, through little action and a single one; for things farther off, through more actions — just as with a body: one man is in good condition without even exercising, another after a little walking, another needs running and wrestling and the dust of the wrestling-ground besides, while yet another, however much he labors, could still not attain this good, but only some other good. Now succeeding is difficult either in doing many things or in doing them often — for instance, to throw the Coan cast ten thousand times with astragals is impossible, but one or two is easier. And again, when this must be done for the sake of that, and that for the sake of something else, and this again for yet another thing, it is easy to succeed in one or two steps, but the more steps there are, the harder it becomes.
35| For this reason we must suppose that the action of the stars is also of the same kind as that of animals and plants. For here too the actions of man are the most numerous — since he is able to attain many good things, so that he does many things, and for the sake of other things besides; whereas for what is in the best condition no action at all is needed, since it is itself that for the sake of which, and action always involves two terms, whenever there is both that for the sake of which and that which is for its sake. The actions of the other animals are fewer, and those of plants are perhaps small in number and one only; for either there is some one thing a plant might attain, as with man, or even its many actions are all a road toward the best. So one thing both has and shares in the best; another arrives near it through few steps, another through many; and another does not even attempt it, but is content to come near the last stage — as, for example, if health is the end: one thing is always healthy, another becomes so by reducing, another by running and reducing, another by doing something else for the sake of running, so that its motions are more numerous; while another is unable to arrive at health at all, but only at running, or only at reducing.
36| and one or the other of these is the end for them. For it is best of all for everyone to attain that very end; but failing that, it is always better the nearer one is to the best. And for this reason the earth does not move at all, while the things near it have few motions — for they do not arrive at the furthest stage, but only so far as they can attain a share of the most divine principle. But the first heaven attains its end at once, through a single motion. And the things between the first and the outermost do arrive at their end, but arrive through more motions. Now as to the puzzle, why under the first motion, being single, a great multitude of stars is arranged together, while each of the others has taken its own motions separately, one might first reasonably suppose this to hold for one reason: we must recognize that there is a great superiority of the life and the principle of the first motion over the others, and this would come about reasonably as follows. The first motion, being one, moves many of the divine bodies, while the many motions each move only one; for any single one of the wandering stars is carried through several motions. Nature equalizes things in this way, then, and produces a certain order, assigning many bodies to the one motion, and many motions to the one body;
37| and further, the other motions have one body each for this reason: the spheres before the last — the one carrying a single star — move many bodies; for the last sphere is carried bound within many spheres, and each sphere happens to be some body. The work of that last sphere would therefore be a shared one — for each sphere has its own proper motion by nature, and this last motion is, as it were, added on to them, and the power of every finite body has a finite object. We have now spoken about the stars that move with the circular motion — what sort of things they are as to substance and as to shape, and about their motion and their order.
38| 13 It remains to speak about the earth — where it happens to be situated, and whether it belongs among the things at rest or among the things in motion, and about its shape. Now concerning its position, not everyone holds the same opinion; but while most people, who say that the whole heaven is finite, say that the earth lies at the middle, those in Italy called the Pythagoreans say the opposite. For they say that fire is at the middle, and that the earth, being one of the stars, produces night and day by being carried in a circle about the middle. And further they construct another earth opposite to this one, which they call by the name counter-earth — not seeking their accounts and causes with a view to the observed facts, but rather dragging the observed facts toward certain accounts and opinions of their own, and trying to fit them together. But many others too would agree that one ought not to assign the middle region to the earth, gathering their conviction not from the observed facts but rather from theoretical accounts. For they think that the most honorable place befits the most honorable thing, and that fire is more honorable than earth, and that the limit is more honorable than the things between, while the extreme and the middle are limits;
39| So reasoning from these considerations, they do not think the earth lies at the center of the sphere, but rather fire. Further, the Pythagoreans hold this also because they think the most authoritative part of the whole ought especially to be guarded, and the center is such a thing. What occupies this place they call the "guard-post of Zeus" — the fire — just as "the middle" is spoken of without qualification, and the middle of the magnitude is also the middle of the thing and of its nature. Yet just as in animals the middle of the animal and the middle of the body are not the same, so one should suppose it is rather that way concerning the whole heaven too. For this reason, then, there is no need for them to be troubled about the universe, nor to introduce a guard over that middle; for in the one case the middle is a starting point and something honorable, but the middle of place seems to be more like an end than a starting point. For the middle is what is bounded, and the boundary is what bounds; and what surrounds and bounds is more honorable than what is bounded, since the one is matter, the other the substance of the composition. Concerning the place of the earth, then, some hold this opinion, and likewise concerning its being at rest and in motion.
40| For not all suppose it in the same way; rather, those who say it does not even lie at the center hold that it moves in a circle about the middle — and not only it, but also the counter-earth, as we said before. Some think that several such bodies may move about the middle, invisible to us because the earth blocks the view. This is also why they say the eclipses of the moon are more frequent than those of the sun: each of the moving bodies blocks it in turn, not the earth alone. For since the earth is not at the center, but a whole hemisphere's distance from it, they think nothing prevents the appearances turning out the same for us though we do not dwell at the center, just as would be the case even if the earth were not at the middle; for even as things are, our being a half-diameter's distance away produces no noticeable effect. Others say that the earth, though it does lie at the center, spins and moves about the axis stretched through the whole, as is written in the Timaeus. Similarly there is dispute about its shape too: some think it is spherical, others that it is flat and drum-shaped in form. As evidence they offer the fact that the sun, setting and rising, appears to make its disappearance behind the earth along a straight line rather than a curved one — as it would have to, they say, if the earth were spherical, the cut-off edge becoming curved; they fail to reckon in the distance of the sun from the earth and the great size of the earth's circumference, relative to us —
41| given which, in circles that appear small, a straight line appears from far off. So because of this appearance there is no reason for them to disbelieve that the mass of the earth is spherical in shape. But they add further, and say that because of its being at rest it is necessary that it have this shape. And indeed the accounts given about its motion and its rest happen to be many. Now it is necessary for everyone to run into this puzzle; for it may perhaps belong to a less troubled mind not to wonder how it is that a small part of earth, if raised up and released, moves and is unwilling to remain still, and the more of it there is the faster it moves, yet if someone were to raise up the whole earth and release it, it would not move at all — while as things are, so great a weight remains at rest. But further, if one were to remove the earth from beneath one of its moving parts before it fell, that part will be carried downward, nothing offering resistance. So it is reasonable that puzzling over this became a subject of philosophical inquiry for everyone; but one might be surprised that the solutions given about it do not seem more absurd than the puzzle itself. For some, because of these difficulties, say that the region below the earth is infinite, saying that it is rooted to infinity, as Xenophanes of Colophon did, so that they would not have the trouble of seeking the cause;
42| for which reason Empedocles also rebuked them, saying: "if indeed the depths of the earth are boundless and the ether abundant, as has been poured out vainly from the tongues of many mouths that have seen but little of the whole." Others say it rests upon water. For this is the oldest account we have received, which they say Thales of Miletus stated — that it remains because it is able to float, like a log or something else of that kind (for none of these is naturally suited to remain upon air, but upon water) — as though the same account did not hold concerning the earth as concerning the water that supports the earth; for water too is not naturally suited to remain aloft, but rests upon something. Further, just as air is lighter than water, and water than earth, how then do they suppose that the lighter thing lies beneath what is by nature heavier? Further, if the whole is naturally suited to remain upon water, clearly so is each of its parts; but as things are this evidently does not happen — rather, any given part is carried down to the depths, and the larger part faster. But they seem to inquire only up to a certain point, and not as far as the puzzle can be pushed. For it is customary with all of us not to direct our inquiry toward the matter itself but toward the person who says the opposite;
43| for indeed each person inquires within himself only up to the point where he himself no longer has anything to say against himself. Hence the one who is going to inquire well must be skilled at raising objections through the objections proper to the kind in question, and this comes from having surveyed all the differentiae. Anaximenes and Anaxagoras and Democritus say that its flatness is the cause of its remaining still. For it does not cut the air beneath it but covers it like a lid, which is what bodies having flatness evidently do; for such bodies are hard to move even against winds, because of the resistance they offer. They say the earth does this same thing to the air lying beneath it by its flatness; and the air, not having sufficient room to shift away all at once, remains still underneath, like the water in water-clocks. That the air, when cut off and kept in place, can bear a great weight, they offer many proofs. Now first, if the shape of the earth were not flat, it would not on this account remain at rest. And yet, on the grounds of what they themselves say, it is not flatness that is the cause of its remaining still, but rather size. For it is because of the narrowness of the space that the air, having no passage out, remains still on account of its quantity —
44| and it is great in quantity because it is shut in by so great a magnitude of earth. So this will hold true even if the earth is spherical, provided it is of such a size; for it will remain still according to their own account. In general, as against those who speak this way about motion, the dispute is not about parts but about some whole and total thing. For from the start one must determine whether there is some motion belonging to bodies by nature, or none belongs to them, and whether it does not belong by nature but does belong by force. Since we have already determined earlier, as far as our present capacity allowed, concerning these matters, we must proceed on the assumption that they hold. For if none of their motion is by nature, neither will it be forced; but if it is neither by nature nor by force, nothing at all will be moved; for that this is a necessary consequence has been determined earlier, and in addition to this, that it is not even possible for it to be at rest — for just as motion belongs either by force or by nature, so too does rest. But surely if there is some motion in accordance with nature, the violent motion of translation would not be the only kind, nor would rest be only violent; so that if the earth now remains at rest by force, it also came together at the middle by being carried there through the vortex.
45| Everyone gives this cause, drawing it from what happens in liquids and in the air: in these, the larger and heavier things always move toward the center of the vortex. This is why all those who generate the heavens say that the earth came together at the center; but as to why it stays there, they seek the cause, and some say it is because of its breadth and size, while others, like Empedocles, say that the revolution of the heavens, running around in a circle and moving faster, prevents the motion of the earth—just as the water in a ladle: for this too, when the ladle is carried around in a circle, often ends up beneath the bronze, yet does not move downward though it is by nature disposed to move downward, for the same reason. And yet, if neither the vortex nor the breadth were preventing it, but the air had withdrawn from under it, where would it be carried? Toward the center it moves by force, and it stays there by force; but according to nature there must be some motion belonging to it. Is this motion, then, upward or downward, or where is it? For there must be some motion; and if it is no more downward than upward, while the air above does not prevent the upward motion, then neither would the air beneath the earth prevent the downward motion; for the same things must be causes of the same things.
46| Further, one might say this against Empedocles too: when the elements stood apart under the rule of Strife, what was the cause of the earth's staying still? For surely he will not claim the vortex as the cause then as well. And it is also absurd not to notice that, while earlier the parts of the earth were carried toward the center on account of the vortex's whirling, now, for what cause do all things that have weight move toward it? For the vortex certainly does not come near us. Further, for what cause does fire move upward? Certainly not because of the vortex. But if fire is by nature disposed to move somewhere, clearly the same must be thought true of earth. Moreover, heavy and light are not in fact determined by the vortex; rather, of things already heavy and light beforehand, some go to the center and others rise to the surface on account of the motion. So there was heavy and light even before the vortex came to be—and by what were these determined, and how and where were they by nature disposed to move? For if the universe is infinite, it is impossible for there to be an up or a down, and yet heavy and light are determined by these.
47| Most people, then, spend their time on these causes. But there are some who say the earth stays still because of similarity, as Anaximander among the ancients did: for what is situated at the center and stands in a similar relation to the extremes has no more reason to move up than down or sideways; and it is impossible for it to move in opposite directions at once; so it necessarily stays still. This is stated cleverly, but it is not true. For according to this argument, everything whatsoever that is placed at the center must stay still, so that fire too would come to rest there—but what has been said is not peculiar to earth. Moreover it is not even necessary. For the earth is observed not only to stay at the center, but also to move toward the center. For wherever any part of it moves, the whole must move there too; and where it moves by nature, there it also stays by nature. It is not, then, because it stands in a similar relation to the extremes: for that is common to everything, whereas moving toward the center is peculiar to earth. And it is also absurd
48| to ask why the earth stays at the center, but not to ask why fire stays at the extreme. For if that place too is by nature the extreme's place for fire, clearly there must likewise be some place that belongs by nature to earth; but if it is not by nature this place, but rather it stays there through the necessity of similarity—as in the argument about the hair that, though pulled strongly, is pulled equally in every direction and so will not snap, and about the man who, starving and dying of thirst, is equally and at an equal distance from food and drink on every side (for he too must remain still)—then they need to inquire, on the same grounds, into the staying-put of fire at the extremes. And it is also strange to inquire into staying-still but not to inquire into their motion—for what cause the one moves upward and the other toward the center, when nothing hinders it. But in fact what is said is not even true. It is true only accidentally: that everything for which it is no more fitting to move this way than that way must stay at the center. But by this very argument it will not stay still but will move—not, however, as a whole, but scattered apart.
49| For the same argument will fit the case of fire as well: for it too, once placed there, must stay still in the same way as the earth, since it will stand in a similar relation to any of the extreme points whatsoever. But nevertheless it will move away from the center, just as it is in fact observed to move, if nothing hinders it, toward the extreme—except not as a whole toward one point (for that is the only thing that follows of necessity from the argument about similarity), but rather each proportional part toward the corresponding proportional part of the extreme—I mean, for example, a quarter part toward a quarter part of what surrounds it; for no body is a mere point. And just as a thing might come together, being compressed, from a large space into a smaller place, so too it might, becoming rarer, spread from a smaller space into a larger one; so that even earth might, on the same principle of similarity, be moved away from the center in this manner, unless this place belonged to earth by nature. As for the views held about its shape, about its place and staying still and motion, this is roughly the sum of them.
50| 14 Let us now say first whether it has motion or stays still. For as we said, some make it one of the stars, while others, positing it at the center, say it spins and moves about the middle pole. That this is impossible is clear if one takes as a starting point that, whether it is carried while outside the center or at the center, it must be moved by force with this motion; for this motion does not belong to the earth itself—otherwise each of its parts would have this same motion; but as it is, all parts move in a straight line toward the center. So this motion cannot be eternal, since it is forced and contrary to nature; but the order of the universe is eternal. Further, all things that move with the circular motion are observed to lag behind and to be moved with more than one motion, apart from the first sphere; so that the earth too, whether it moves about the center or lies at the center, must be moved with two motions. But if this were so, there would have to occur shiftings and turnings of the fixed stars. Yet this is not observed to happen; rather, the same stars always rise and set at the same points of the earth.
51| Further, the natural motion of the parts of the earth, and of the whole of it, is toward the center of the universe; this is in fact why it happens to lie now at the center. One might raise a difficulty: since the center of the earth and the center of the universe are the same, toward which of the two do heavy things and the parts of the earth move by nature—is it toward the center because it is the center of the universe, or because it is the center of the earth? It must be toward that of the universe; for light things too, and fire, moving in the opposite direction from heavy things, move toward the extreme of the place that surrounds the center. And it has come about that the center of the earth and of the universe are the same; for a thing does move toward the center of the earth too, but only accidentally, in that the earth has its center within the center of the universe. That it moves toward the center of the earth is shown by the fact that the heavy things that move toward it do not move parallel to each other
52| ...is not carried but toward similar angles, so that it is carried toward one thing, the center — and this is true of earth as well. It is clear, then, that the earth must be at the center and motionless, both for the reasons already stated, and because bodies with weight that are forcibly thrown upward travel back down along a straight line to the same place, even if the force that throws them out is unlimited. That the earth, then, neither moves nor lies outside the center is clear from these considerations; and beyond this the cause of its remaining at rest is plain from what has been said. For if it is by nature such as to be carried from every direction toward the center, as it evidently is, and fire, conversely, from the center toward the extremity, then it is impossible for any part of the earth to be carried away from the center except by force. For there is one motion, and a simple one, for what is one and simple, and not opposite motions; but motion away from the center is the opposite of motion toward the center. If, then, it is impossible for any part of the earth to be carried away from the center, it is clear that it is still more impossible for the whole earth to be; for where a part is naturally disposed to be carried, there too the whole is naturally disposed to be. So that, since it is impossible for it to be moved except by a superior force, it must be necessary for the earth to remain at the center.
53| What the mathematicians say about astronomy bears witness to these points as well; for the appearances that occur as the figures by which the order of the stars is determined change are consistent with the earth's lying at the center. Concerning its place, then, and its remaining at rest and its motion, and how these stand, let this much be said about it. It must necessarily have a spherical shape; for each of its parts has weight until it reaches the center, and the smaller part, being pushed by the larger, cannot heave up in waves, but is rather compressed further and each part yields to the other, until it comes to be at the center. One must understand what is being said as one would understand a coming-to-be occurring in the manner some of the natural philosophers describe. Except that they attribute the downward motion to force; it is better to state the truth, and to say that this happens because whatever has weight is naturally disposed to be carried toward the center. When the mixture, then, existed potentially, the elements being separated out were carried alike from every direction toward the center. Whether, then, the parts, being divided off equally from the extremities, were drawn together toward the center, or whether they stood in some other relation, the result will be the same. That, then, when things are carried alike from every direction, from the extremities, toward one center, the resulting mass must become uniform in every direction, is clear;
54| for when an equal amount is added on every side, the extremity must be equally distant from the center in every direction — and this shape is that of a sphere. Nor will it make any difference to the argument even if its parts did not run together toward the center alike from every side. For the greater part must always push forward the lesser part that lies before it toward the center, since both have their tendency there, and the heavier part, in pushing forward, does so as far as this point, pushing the lesser weight along with it. And whatever difficulty one might raise here has the same solution as these points give. For if, the earth being at the center and spherical, a many-times-greater weight should come to be added to one hemisphere, then the center of the whole and the center proper to the earth will no longer be the same; so that either the earth will not remain at the center, or, if it does remain, it will be at rest even though it does not have the center it is naturally disposed to move toward, as it does now. 297b This, then, is the difficulty; and it is not hard to see the answer if we press the point a little further and distinguish how we hold that any magnitude whatever, having weight, is carried toward the center. For it is clear that its extremity is carried not merely until it touches the center, but the greater part must prevail until it too takes the center as its own center; for up to that point it retains its tendency.
55| It makes no difference, then, whether one states this about a clod of earth or about any chance part, or about the whole earth; for what happens has been stated not on account of smallness or greatness, but holds for anything whatsoever that has a tendency toward the center. So that whether the whole was carried from somewhere, or a part was, it must be carried until it reaches this point, until it takes the center equally from every direction, the smaller portions being made to conform to the larger ones by the forward pressure of their tendency, and this makes no difference. So then, if it came to be, it must have come to be in this manner, so that it is clear that its coming to be was spherical; and if it is ungenerated and always remains, it must be in the same condition it would have been in had it come to be at the first, on this account. On this reasoning, then, its shape must necessarily be spherical, and also because all heavy things are carried toward similar angles, and not alongside one another; and this is characteristic of what is by nature spherical. Either, then, it is spherical, or at least it is spherical by nature. And one must call each thing to be of the character that it wishes by nature to be and that belongs to it, and not what it is by force and contrary to nature. Further, this is shown also through what appears to perception; for otherwise the eclipses of the moon would not have such shapes at their cutoff edges;
56| for as it is, in its monthly configurations it takes on divisions of every kind (for it becomes straight-edged and convex on both sides and concave), but during eclipses it always has a convex line marking it off, so that, since it is eclipsed on account of the earth's screening it, the circumference of the earth, being spherical, would be the cause of this shape. Further, through the appearance presented by the stars, it is clear not only that the earth is round, but also that it is not great in size; for when we shift our position only a little toward the south or the north, the horizon circle becomes noticeably different, so that the stars overhead undergo a great change, and the same stars are not seen as we move toward the north and toward the south. For some stars are seen in Egypt and around Cyprus, but are not seen in the regions toward the north, and stars that are always visible in the regions toward the north set in those southern places. So that it is clear from these facts not only that the shape of the earth is round, but also that it is a sphere not great in size; for otherwise such a small shift in position would not so quickly make the difference apparent. This is why those who suppose that the region around the Pillars of Heracles is joined to the region around India, and that in this way the sea is one, should not be thought to be supposing something too incredible;
1| and they say this, drawing evidence also from the elephants, on the ground that this kind of animal exists around both regions, since they lie at the extremities, on the assumption that they have this in common because the extremities join one another. And of the mathematicians, those who try to calculate the size of the circumference say that it comes to four hundred thousand stades; from which, if one draws the inference, it is necessary not only that the mass of the earth be spherical, but also that it not be great in size compared to the size of the other stars.
2| Concerning the primary heaven, then, and its parts, and further concerning the stars carried within it, of what they are composed and what their nature is, and in addition that they are ungenerated and indestructible, we have already given a full account. But since, among the things called natural, some are substances and others are the workings and affections of these — I mean by substances the simple bodies, such as fire and earth and those in the same series with them, and whatever is composed of these, such as the heaven as a whole and its parts, and again animals and plants and their parts; and by affections and workings I mean the motions of each of these and of the others, of whatever these are the causes according to their own power, and further the alterations and the changes of things into one another — it is clear that most of the inquiry concerning nature turns out to be concerned with bodies. For all natural substances either are bodies or come to be together with bodies and magnitudes. This is clear both from the fact that what things are natural has been determined, and from the examination of particular cases. Concerning the first of the elements, then, it has been stated both what its nature is, and that it is indestructible and ungenerated;
3| It remains to speak about the two. And at the same time it will turn out, in discussing these, that we also examine generation and destruction; for either generation does not exist at all, or it exists only in these elements and in the things composed from them. This very question, then, is perhaps the first thing that must be looked at: whether it exists or does not exist. Now those who philosophized earlier about the truth were divided both against the accounts we are now giving and against one another. For some of them did away with generation and destruction altogether; they say that nothing among the things that are either comes to be or is destroyed, but only seems to us to do so — for instance the followers of Melissus and Parmenides, whom, even if what they say on other points is fine, one must still not think spoke as students of nature; for that certain of the things that are should be ungenerated and altogether unmoved belongs to a different and prior inquiry rather than to the inquiry into nature. Those men, because they supposed there to be nothing else besides the substance of perceptible things, and were the first to conceive of such natures, if indeed there is to be any knowledge or practical wisdom at all, in this way transferred the accounts proper to that other inquiry over onto these things. But certain others held, as if on purpose, the opinion contrary to these.
4| For there are some who say that nothing among things is ungenerated, but that all things come to be, and that of the things that have come to be, some remain indestructible while others in turn are destroyed — most of all the followers of Hesiod, and then, among the others, those who first wrote about nature. Others say that all other things come to be and flow, and that nothing stands fixed, but that one single thing alone persists, out of which all these are by nature transformed — which is what many others, and in particular Heraclitus of Ephesus, seem to want to say. And there are some who make every body generated as well, composing and dissolving it into and out of planes. Now about the others let there be a separate discussion; but as for those who speak in this way and construct all bodies out of planes, the various consequences they are found to assert that run contrary to the mathematical sciences can be seen on the surface (though it would have been right either not to disturb these things or to disturb them with arguments more credible than the hypotheses. Next, it is clear that it belongs to the same account both that solids are composed of planes and that planes are composed of lines, and these of points; and if that is so, it is not necessary that the part of a line be a line — but this has been examined earlier, in the discussions concerning motion, that there are no indivisible lengths).
5| But as for the impossibilities that follow, concerning natural bodies, for those who posit indivisible lines, let us now also give them brief consideration; for whatever impossibilities follow for those thinkers will also follow for students of nature, while not everything that follows for the latter follows for the former, because mathematical objects are spoken of by way of abstraction, while natural objects are spoken of by way of addition. Now there are many things that cannot belong to indivisibles but must necessarily belong to natural bodies — for instance, whether something is divisible; for a divisible cannot belong to an indivisible, and affections are all divisible in two ways: either in respect of form or in respect of accident — in respect of form, for instance, of color, white or black; in respect of accident, whenever the thing to which the affection belongs is divisible. So all the simple affections are divisible in this latter way. Hence one must examine what is impossible among such cases. If, then, it is among the impossibilities that when neither of two parts has any weight the two together should have weight, and perceptible bodies either all, or at least some — for instance earth and water — do have weight, as they themselves would say: then if the point has no weight, it is clear that neither do lines, and if not these, neither do planes.
6| So neither, then, does any body. But it is in fact evident that a point cannot possibly have weight. For everything heavy admits of being both heavier and less heavy, and likewise the light, of being lighter and less light. But what is heavier or lighter is perhaps not necessarily heavy or light, just as what is large is larger, but what is larger is not in every case large; for there are many things which, though small without qualification, are nonetheless larger than certain others. If then whatever, being heavy, is heavier, must necessarily be greater in weight, then everything heavy would be divisible.
7| But the point is posited as indivisible. Further, if the heavy is something dense and the light something rarefied, and the dense differs from the rarefied by containing more matter in an equal bulk, then if there is a point that is heavy and light, it will also be dense and rarefied. But the dense is divisible, and the point is indivisible. And if everything heavy must be either soft or hard, it is easy to draw an impossibility from these premises as well. For the soft is what yields into itself, and the hard is what does not yield; and what yields is divisible. But surely weight will not come to be out of things that have no weight either. For as to how many such things, and of what sort, this will happen, how will they define it without simply making it up? And if every weight is greater than a weight by a weight, it will follow that each of the partless units also has weight; for if the four points have weight, then that which is composed of more points, being heavier than a given heavy thing, and that by which one thing is heavier than a heavy thing must itself be heavy — just as that by which one white thing is whiter than another must itself be white — so that the amount by which the larger exceeds by one point will be heavier once the equal part has been subtracted off.
8| So the single point too will have weight. Further, if planes can be combined only along a line, that is absurd; for just as a line can be combined with a line in both ways, both lengthwise and breadthwise, so a plane too ought to combine with a plane in the same way. Now a line can be combined with a line by being laid upon it along a line, but not by being added on lengthwise. But surely if combination breadthwise is also possible, there will be some body, neither an element nor composed out of elements, arising from planes combined in this way. Further, if bodies are heavier in proportion to the number of their planes, as is laid down in the Timaeus, it is clear that the line and the point will have weight too, for they stand in the same proportion to one another as we have said before. But if it is not in this way that they differ, but rather by earth being heavy and fire light, then among the planes too some will be light and some heavy — and likewise among the lines and the points; for the plane of earth will be heavier than that of fire. And in general it follows either that there is never any magnitude at all, or that it could be done away with, if indeed point stands to line as line stands to plane, and this to body.
9| For all things, resolved one into another, will be resolved into the primary elements; so that it could turn out that there are only points, and no body at all. And in addition to this, if time is similarly constituted, it too could either be done away with at some point or could be capable of being done away with; for the now, being indivisible, is like a point of a line. The same consequence befalls also those who construct the heaven out of numbers; for some construct nature out of numbers, as certain of the Pythagoreans do — for natural bodies plainly have weight and lightness, while units, when combined, cannot possibly make a body, nor can they have weight.
10| 2 That motion of some kind must of necessity belong by nature to all the simple bodies is clear from the following. Since they are observed to move, it is necessary that they move by force if they do not have a motion of their own; and being by force and being contrary to nature are the same thing. But surely if there is some motion contrary to nature, there must also be one in accordance with nature, alongside which this other one is contrary; and if there are many motions contrary to nature, the one in accordance with nature is single; for a thing has its motion according to nature in a single way, but has many motions contrary to nature. It is clear too from rest; for a thing must be at rest either by force or by nature, and by force it remains where it is also carried by force, and by nature where it is by nature. Since, then, something is observed remaining at the middle, if it remains there by nature, it is clear that its motion there too is according to nature for it; but if by force, what is it that prevents it from being carried? If it is something at rest, we shall run into the same argument in a circle; for it is necessary either that the first thing at rest be so by nature, or that this go on to infinity, which is impossible. But if...
11| what is in motion by what prevents it from being carried along — as Empedocles says the earth is kept at rest by the whirl — where would it have been carried, since it is impossible to traverse the infinite? For nothing impossible comes to be, and to traverse the infinite is impossible. So what is being carried must come to rest somewhere, and there it remains not by force but in accordance with nature. But if there is a rest that is in accordance with nature, there is also a motion in accordance with nature, namely the carrying to that place. This is why Leucippus and Democritus too, who say that the primary bodies are always in motion in the void and the infinite, must state what kind of motion this is, and what their natural motion is. For if one element is moved by another by force, still there must be some motion that belongs to each in accordance with nature, alongside which the forced motion occurs; and the first mover must move not by force but in accordance with nature. Otherwise it goes on to infinity, unless there is something that moves first in accordance with nature, and instead the prior thing, itself moved by force, will always be what moves the next. And this same consequence necessarily follows even if, as is written in the Timaeus, before the universe came to be the elements were in disordered motion. For their motion must be either forced or in accordance with nature.
12| But if it was moving in accordance with nature, there must be a universe, as anyone will see who applies his attention to the matter. For the first mover must move itself, being moved in accordance with nature, and the things moved — not by force, but coming to rest in their own proper places — must produce the very order they now have: the things with weight moving toward the middle, the things with lightness moving away from the middle. And this is the arrangement the universe has. Further, one might raise this much of a question: whether it was possible or not possible, given disordered motion, for such mixtures also to be formed by mingling as those out of which the bodies that are naturally constituted are put together — I mean bones and flesh, for instance, as Empedocles says come to be under the rule of Love; for he says that 'many heads sprang up without necks.' But for those who make the things in motion infinite in an infinite space — if the mover is one, the motion must be a single carrying, so that the motion will not be disordered; but if the movers are infinite, then the carryings too must be infinite. For if 301 a they were finite, there would be some order; for disorder does not result from things not being carried to the same place — indeed not even now do all things get carried to the same place, but only things of the same kind.
13| Further, disordered is nothing other than contrary to nature; for the proper order of perceptible things is their nature. But this too is absurd and impossible — that the infinite should have disordered motion; for the nature of things is that which most of them have, and for most of the time. So it turns out, on their view, the opposite: that disorder is in accordance with nature, while order and the universe are contrary to nature — and yet nothing that occurs in accordance with nature occurs at random. Anaxagoras seems to have grasped this very point well; for he begins his account of the making of the universe from things at rest. The others too try, after a fashion, to bring things together and set them moving again, and to separate them out. But it is not reasonable to produce coming-to-be out of things already separated and in motion. This is why Empedocles too omits the phase under Love; for he could not have constructed the heaven by building it up out of things already separated, producing combination by means of Love — since the universe is constituted out of the elements in a state of separation. So it must come to be out of what is one and combined. It is clear, then, from these considerations that there is some natural motion belonging to each of the bodies, with which they are moved neither by force nor contrary to nature. And that some bodies must have an inclination of weight and of lightness is clear from what follows.
14| For we say motion is necessary; but if what is in motion does not by nature have an inclination, it is impossible for it to move either toward the middle or away from the middle. For let A be a body without weight, and B a body having weight, and let the weightless body have traversed the line ΓΔ, while B in an equal time traverses ΓΕ (for the body having weight will be carried a greater distance). Now if the body having weight is divided in the ratio of ΓΕ to ΓΔ (for it is possible for it to stand in this ratio to one of its own parts), then, if the whole body is carried the whole distance ΓΕ, the part must in the same time be carried the distance ΓΔ, so that the weightless body and the body having weight will be carried an equal distance — which is impossible. And the same argument applies to lightness as well. Further, if there is to be some body in motion having neither lightness nor weight, this must be moved by force, and being moved by force it will make the motion infinite. For since the mover is some power, and the smaller and lighter thing will be moved further by the same power, let A, the weightless body, have been moved the distance ΓΕ, and let B, the body having weight, in an equal time have been moved the distance ΓΔ.
15| Now with the body having weight divided in the ratio of ΓΕ to ΓΔ, it will follow that the portion removed from the body having weight is carried the distance ΓΕ in the equal time, since the whole was carried the distance ΓΔ. For the speed of the smaller body will stand to that of the larger as the larger body stands to the smaller. The weightless body, then, will be carried an equal distance to the body having weight in the same time. But this is impossible. So, since the weightless body will always be moved a greater distance than whatever is added, it would be carried an infinite distance. It is clear, then, that every body must have weight or lightness, one or the other, definitely. And since nature is the principle of motion present within the thing itself, while power is that principle present in another thing qua other, and motion is in every case either in accordance with nature or by force, then the power will produce more quickly the motion in accordance with nature — for instance, for the stone, the downward motion — while the motion contrary to nature it produces entirely by itself. Toward both it uses the air as an instrument, so to speak; for air is naturally suited to be both light and heavy. So it will produce the upward carrying insofar as it is light, when it has been pushed and has received its starting point from the power, and again the downward carrying insofar as it is heavy;
16| for the power, as it were, kindles the air and hands it over to each motion in turn. This is why what is moved by force continues to be carried along even when the mover is no longer following alongside it; for if the body did not have some such character, there would be no motion by force. And it likewise assists the motion in accordance with nature belonging to each thing, in the same way. That everything, then, is either light or heavy, and how the motions contrary to nature stand, is clear from this. And that there is neither coming-to-be of all things, nor, without qualification, of none of them, is clear from what has been said. For it is impossible for there to be coming-to-be of every body, unless it is also possible for there to be some void existing separately. For in the place in which what is now coming to be would be, if it were coming to be, there must previously have been void with no body in it. For while it is possible for one body to come to be out of another — fire out of air, for instance — it is altogether impossible for it to come to be out of nothing, out of no magnitude previously existing. For a body might most of all come to be in actuality out of something that is a body in potentiality. But if the body that exists in potentiality is not, prior to this, some other body in actuality, there will be a separately existing void.
17| 3 It remains to say what bodies come to be, and why. Since in all cases knowledge proceeds through first things, and among the things present in a thing the elements are first, we must consider whether there are elements of such bodies, and why there are, and then after this how many there are and of what sort. This will become clear once we lay down what the nature of an element is. Let an element of bodies be that into which the other bodies are divided, being present in them potentially or actually (which of the two, is still disputable), and which is itself indivisible into things differing in form; for something of this sort is what everyone means by "element," and in every case. If, then, what has been said is an element, there must be some such things among bodies. For in flesh and wood and each of such things fire and earth are present potentially; for these are plainly separated out from them. But in fire flesh or wood are not present, neither potentially nor actually; for otherwise they would be separated out. Likewise, not even if there were only one such thing would flesh or bone be present in it either; for it is not the case that, because flesh or bone or anything else will come to be, one must already say it is present potentially — rather, one must further consider what the manner of its coming-to-be is.
18| Anaxagoras speaks about the elements in a manner opposite to Empedocles. For the one says that fire and earth and the things ranked with them are elements of bodies and that all things are composed out of these, while Anaxagoras says the opposite: the homoiomerous things are the elements (I mean, for example, flesh and bone and each such thing), while air and fire are mixtures of these and of all the other seeds; for each of these, he says, consists of all the invisible homoiomerous things gathered together. Hence all things come to be out of these; for he calls fire and aether the same thing. Since every natural body has a motion proper to it, and of motions some are simple and some mixed, and the mixed motions belong to mixed bodies while the simple ones belong to simple bodies, it is clear that there will be some simple bodies. For there are also simple motions. So it is clear both that there are elements and why there are.
19| 4 Next it would follow to examine whether they are finite or infinite, and if finite, how many in number. First, then, we must consider that they are not infinite, as some suppose — first, those who make all the homoiomerous things elements, as Anaxagoras does. For none of those who make this claim grasps the element correctly; for we see many even of the mixed bodies divided into homoiomerous parts — I mean, for example, flesh and bone and wood and stone. So that, if the composite is not an element, not everything homoiomerous will be an element, but only what is indivisible into things differing in form, as was said before. Further, not even on this way of taking the element is it necessary to make them infinite; for everything will be accounted for equally well even if they are finite, should one take them so — the same result will follow even if one takes only two or three such things, as indeed Empedocles attempts. For since even on their view it turns out that not everything is made out of homoiomerous parts (they do not make a face out of faces, nor anything else of the things shaped by nature), it is clear that it is far better to make the principles finite, and indeed as few as possible, provided the same things are going to be demonstrated — just as those in mathematics also hold it right to do;
20| for they always take finite principles, either in form or in quantity. Further, if one body is said to differ from another body according to its own proper differentiae, and the differentiae of bodies are finite (for they differ in respect of perceptible qualities, and these are finite — though this must be demonstrated), it is clear that the elements too must necessarily be finite. But surely not even what certain others say, such as Leucippus and Democritus of Abdera, has reasonable consequences; for they say that the primary magnitudes are infinite in multitude but indivisible in magnitude, and that neither does one thing come to be out of many nor many out of one, but that all things are generated by the interweaving and entanglement of these. For in a way these thinkers too make all beings numbers and out of numbers; for even if they do not state it clearly, still this is what they mean to say. And besides this, since bodies differ in shapes, and the shapes are infinite, they say the simple bodies too are infinite. But what the shape of each of the elements is, and of what kind, they have in no way further determined, except that they assigned the sphere to fire alone; air and water and the rest they distinguished by largeness and smallness, on the view that their nature is, as it were, a mixture of the seeds of all the elements.
21| Now, in the first place, these thinkers too make the same error, in not taking the principles as finite, though they could say everything they say equally well with finite ones. And it is clear that if the differentiae of bodies are not infinite, the elements will not be infinite either. Besides this, those who speak of indivisible bodies are bound to conflict with the mathematical sciences, and to do away with many of the reputable views and the things apparent to perception, about which we have spoken earlier in our discussion of time and motion. At the same time they are also bound to contradict themselves; for if the elements are indivisible, it is impossible for air and earth and water to differ by largeness and smallness — for they could not come to be out of one another in that case, since the largest bodies would always be left over as they are separated out, and yet they say that water and air and earth do come to be out of one another in this way. Further, not even on their own supposition would the elements seem to be infinite, since bodies differ in shapes, and all shapes are composed out of pyramids — the rectilinear ones out of rectilinear pyramids, and the sphere out of eight parts. For there must be certain principles of the shapes. So that, whether there is one, or two, or more, the simple bodies too will be that many in number.
22| Further, if each of the elements has some motion proper to it, and the motion of a simple body is simple, and the simple motions are not infinite, because the simple locomotions are not more than two, nor are the places infinite, then not even on this ground would the elements be infinite. 5 Since the elements must be finite, it remains to consider whether they are several or one. For some suppose only one — some water, some air, some fire, and some something thinner than water but denser than air, which they say surrounds all the heavens, being infinite. Now all those who make this one thing water or air, or something thinner than water but denser than air, and then generate the rest out of it by density and rarity, fail to notice that they are themselves making something else prior to the element; for the coming-to-be out of the elements is, as they say, a combination, and the dissolution into the elements is a separating-out, so that what is finer-parted must necessarily be prior in nature. Since, then, they say that fire is the finest of all bodies, fire would be first in nature (it makes no difference — one of the others must be first, not the middle one). Further, generating the rest by density and rarity is no different from generating them by fineness and coarseness; for they mean the fine to be rare, and the coarse to be dense. Again, differing by fineness and coarseness is the same as differing by largeness and smallness;
23| For what has small parts is fine, and what has large parts is coarse; for what is drawn out over a great extent is fine, and what is composed of small parts is of this kind. So it turns out that these thinkers distinguish the substance of the other bodies by size and smallness. But when things are marked off in this way, it will follow that everything is said relative to something, and there will not be, without qualification, this a fire, that a water, and that an air, but the same thing will be fire relative to one thing and air relative to something else — which is exactly what happens to those who say the elements are more than one, and claim they differ by size and smallness. For since each is marked off by quantity, there will be some ratio of the magnitudes to one another, so that things that have this ratio to one another will of necessity be, one air, one fire, one earth, one water, because the ratios of the smaller are present within the larger. But those who posit fire as the element escape this difficulty, but other, irrational consequences are forced on them instead. For some of them attach a shape to fire, as those do who make it a pyramid — and of these, some put it more simply, saying that of shapes the pyramid is the most cutting, and of bodies fire is the most cutting; while others bring it forward more elaborately by an argument: that all bodies are composed of what has the finest parts, and solid shapes are composed of pyramids, so that since among bodies fire is the finest, and among shapes the pyramid has the smallest parts and is the first, and the first shape belongs to the first body, fire would be a pyramid.
24| Others declare nothing about shape, but only make fire the thing with the finest parts, and then say the other things come to be when this is compounded, as if by a fusing-together of filings. But the same difficulties confront both views. For if they make the first body indivisible, the arguments stated earlier will come back to bear against this hypothesis; and further, it is not possible to say this
25| for those who wish to study nature physically. For if every body is commensurable with every body in respect of quantity, and the magnitudes of the homoeomerous bodies are proportional to one another, and likewise those of the elements (for example, that of all the water to all the air, and of element to element, and similarly for the rest), while air is more than water, and in general the finer-parted is more than the coarser-parted, it is clear that the element of water will also be less than that of air. If, then, the lesser magnitude is present within the greater, the element of air would be divisible. And likewise the element of fire, and in general of the finer-parted bodies. But if it is divisible, then for those who give fire a shape it will follow that the part of fire is not fire, because the pyramid is not composed of pyramids; and further, that not every body is either an element or composed of elements (for the part of fire is neither fire nor any other element); while for those who make the distinction by size, it will follow that there is some element prior to the element, and that this goes on without limit, if indeed every body is divisible and the smallest-parted thing is the element. And further, it turns out for these thinkers too that they must say that the same thing is fire relative to one thing and air relative to another, and again water and earth.
26| A mistake common to all who posit a single element is to make there be only one natural motion, and the same for everything. For we observe that every natural body has a principle of motion. If, then, all bodies are some one thing, there would be one motion for all of them; and this motion, of necessity, the more of the body there comes to be, the more it must move — just as fire, the more of it there comes to be, is carried faster upward, its own proper motion. But in fact many things are carried faster downward the more there is of them. So for these reasons, and further, since it has been determined earlier that the natural motions are more than one, it is clear that it is impossible for the element to be one. And since it is neither infinite nor one, it must of necessity be more than one and limited in number.
27| 6 We must first examine whether the elements are eternal or come to be and perish; for once this has been shown, it will also be clear how many there are and of what kind. Now it is impossible for them to be eternal; for we observe fire, water, and each of the simple bodies being dissolved. The dissolution, then, must of necessity either go on without limit or come to a stop. If it is without limit, then the time of the dissolution will also be infinite, and again that of the composition; for each part is dissolved and composed in a different time. So it will follow that outside the infinite time there is another infinite time, when the time of composition is infinite, and further, prior to this, that of dissolution. So an infinite comes to be outside the infinite — which is impossible. But if the dissolution comes to a stop somewhere, either the body in which it stops will be indivisible, or it will be divisible but never in fact going to be divided, as Empedocles seems to want to say. It will not, then, be indivisible, for the reasons stated earlier; but neither can it be divisible yet never going to be dissolved. For the smaller body is more easily destroyed than the larger; if, then, the bulk too perishes by this kind of destruction, so that it is dissolved into smaller parts, it is reasonable that the smaller should undergo this even more.
28| We observe fire perishing in two ways: it perishes by being extinguished through its opposite, and it also wastes away of itself, by itself. And this the lesser undergoes at the hands of the greater, and the faster, the smaller it is. So the elements of bodies must of necessity be perishable and subject to coming-to-be. And since they come to be, their coming-to-be will be either out of what is bodiless or out of body, and if out of body, either out of some other body or out of one another. Now the account that generates them out of what is bodiless makes what comes to be come to be out of a void. For everything that comes to be, comes to be in something, and that in which the coming-to-be occurs will be either bodiless or will contain a body; and if it will contain a body, there will be two bodies at once in the same place, the thing coming to be and the thing already there; but if it is bodiless, there must of necessity be
29| a void, marked off as such. That this is impossible has also been shown before. But neither is it possible for the elements to come to be out of some body; for it will follow that there is another body prior to the elements. And this, if it has weight or lightness, will be one of the elements; while if it has no inclination at all, it will be unmoved and mathematical — and being such, it will not be in place. For that in which a thing is at rest is also that in which it can be moved; and if by force, contrary to nature, while if not by force, in accordance with nature. If, then, it will be in place, then some one of the elements will also be somewhere; but if it is not in place, nothing will come from it; for what comes to be, and that out of which it comes to be, must of necessity exist together. Since, then, it is not possible for them to come to be either out of what is bodiless or out of some other body, it remains that they come to be out of one another.
30| 7 We must, then, examine again what the manner is of their coming-to-be out of one another — whether it is as Empedocles and Democritus say, or as those who resolve bodies into planes say, or whether there is some other manner besides these. Now Empedocles and Democritus and their followers fail to notice that they are not making a coming-to-be out of one another at all, but only an apparent coming-to-be; for they say that each thing, being already present within, is separated out — as though the coming-to-be were out of a vessel, rather than out of some matter, and as though nothing comes to be by changing. But even so, the consequences are no less irrational. For the same magnitude does not seem to become heavier when compressed; yet this is what those who say water is separated out from air, being present within it, must of necessity say; for when water comes to be from air, it is heavier. Further, when mixed bodies are separated, it is not necessary that whichever part is separated off should always occupy more space; but when air comes to be from water, it occupies more space, and what has the finer parts comes to occupy more space. This much is clear too in the actual transition: for when the liquid is turned to vapor and made into breath, the vessels containing the masses burst because of the lack of room. So if there is no void at all, and bodies do not expand, as those who say this claim, the impossibility is evident;
31| But if there is void and extension, it is unreasonable that what separates off should necessarily always occupy a greater place. But it is also necessary that the generation of things from one another should eventually give out, if infinitely many finite magnitudes cannot be present within a finite magnitude. For whenever water comes to be from earth, something has been taken away from the earth, if generation happens by separating-out; and again, when water comes from what is left of the earth, the same thing happens. If, then, this is to go on forever, it will follow that infinitely many things are present within the finite; but since this is impossible, things could not always come to be from one another in this way. That the change of things into one another does not happen by separating-out, then, has been stated. What remains is that they come to be by changing into one another, and this in two ways: either by reshaping, just as a sphere and a cube might come to be from the same wax, or by dissolution into planes, as some say. Now if it happens by reshaping, it follows necessarily that the bodies must be said to be indivisible; for if they were divisible, a part of fire would not be fire, nor a part of earth earth, because a part of a pyramid is not in every case a pyramid, nor a part of a cube a cube. But if it happens by dissolution of the planes, then, in the first place, it is absurd that not everything should be generated from everything else, which they are forced to say, and do say.
32| For it is neither reasonable that one thing alone should have no share in the change, nor is this what appears to perception; rather, all things alike appear to change into one another. And it turns out that, in speaking about the appearances, they say things that do not agree with the appearances. The cause of this is that they have not correctly grasped the first principles, but wish to refer everything to certain fixed opinions; for presumably the principles of perceptible things ought to be perceptible, of eternal things eternal, of perishable things perishable, and in general of the same kind as the things that underlie them. But out of fondness for these principles they seem to do the same thing as those who defend fixed positions in arguments; for they put up with every consequence, on the assumption that they hold true principles, as though some principles ought not to be judged by their outcomes, and above all by their end. Now the end of productive knowledge is the work produced, while the end of natural science is always, properly speaking, what appears according to perception. And it follows for them, above all, that earth is an element, and the only imperishable one, if what cannot be dissolved is both imperishable and an element; for earth alone is not dissolved into another body. But moreover, even among the bodies that are dissolved, the free floating of the triangles is not reasonable. And this too happens in the change of things into one another, because they are composed of unequal numbers of triangles.
33| Further, those who say these things are forced not to derive generation from body; for when a thing comes to be out of planes, what has come to be will not have come to be out of body. Besides this, they are forced not to say that every body is divisible, but to conflict with the most exact sciences; for the mathematical sciences take even the intelligible object to be divisible, while these thinkers do not concede that even everything perceptible is divisible, because they wish to save their hypothesis. For all who assign a shape to each of the elements, and by this shape mark off their substances, are necessarily bound to make them indivisible; for when a pyramid or a sphere is divided in some way, what is left over will not be a sphere or a pyramid. So either a part of fire is not fire, but there will be something prior to the 306b element, since everything is either an element or composed of elements, or else not every body is divisible.
34| 8 In general, the attempt to give the simple bodies shapes is unreasonable, first because it will follow that the whole of space is not filled up; for among plane figures, three shapes seem to fill up a space completely, the triangle, the square, and the hexagon, while among solid figures only two do, the pyramid and the cube; but they are forced to take more shapes than these, because they posit more elements. Next, all the simple bodies evidently take on the shape of the place that contains them, water and air most of all. So it is impossible for the shape of the element to remain fixed; for then it would not be in contact everywhere with the whole of what contains it. But then again, if it is going to be reshaped, it will no longer be water, if indeed it differed from the others by its shape. So it is clear that its shapes are not fixed. But nature itself seems to be signaling this to us, and it is also in accordance with reason; for just as in other cases, what underlies must be without form and without shape, since it is in this way that it could best be given shape, as is written in the Timaeus concerning the all-receiving substrate. In the same way, we must think of the elements as being like matter for the composite bodies; and this is why they are also able to change into one another, once the differentiae belonging to their affections are stripped away.
35| Besides this, how is it possible for flesh or bone or any other continuous body to come to be? For it cannot come to be from the elements themselves, since a continuous body does not result from their composition, nor from planes put together; for it is the elements that are generated by that composition, and not the bodies composed out of the elements. So if anyone wishes to be exact, and not to accept arguments of this kind in passing, he will see that they do away with the generation of things out of what exists. Moreover, the shapes are also out of accord with the bodies' affections, powers, and motions, the very things they had chiefly in view when they distributed the shapes as they did. For instance, since fire is easily moved, heating, and burning, some made it a sphere, others a pyramid; for these shapes are the most easily moved, because they touch the least and are least firmly planted, and they are the most heating and burning because the one is entirely angle, and the other is the most acute-angled of all, and, as they say, it burns and heats by its angles. Now in the first place, both are mistaken about the motion; for even if these are the most easily moved of the shapes, they are not easily moved with the motion proper to fire; for the motion of fire is upward and in a straight line, while these shapes move easily in a circle, in what is called rolling.
36| Next, if earth is a cube because it is firmly planted and stays at rest, but it stays at rest not everywhere, only in its own place, while it moves, unless prevented, from a place not its own, and fire and the other elements likewise, then it is clear that fire too, and each of the elements, will be a sphere or a pyramid in a place not its own, but a cube in its own place. Further, if fire heats and burns because of its angles, then all the elements will be heating, though perhaps one more than another; for all of them have angles, for instance both the octahedron and the dodecahedron. And for Democritus even the sphere, being a kind of angle, cuts, as being easily moved. So the difference will be one of more and less. But that this is false is evident. At the same time it will follow that the mathematical bodies too burn and heat; for these also have angles, and within them there are indivisible spheres and pyramids, especially if there are indivisible magnitudes, as they say. For if some bodies burn and heat and others do not, the difference must be stated, and one must not simply speak without qualification as they do. Further, if what is burned turns to fire, and fire is a sphere or a pyramid, then what is burned must necessarily become spheres or pyramids.
37| So then, let cutting and dividing be understood as happening in proportion to the shape. But that the pyramid should necessarily make pyramids, or the sphere spheres, is entirely unreasonable, and like someone claiming that a knife should be divided into knives, or a saw into saws. Further, it is absurd to assign the shape to fire only with a view to dividing; for fire seems rather to combine and unite than to separate. For it separates things not of the same kind, and combines things of the same kind; and combination belongs to it in its own right (for uniting and bounding together belong to fire), while separation belongs to it accidentally (for fire, in combining what is of the same kind, thereby expels what is foreign). So they ought to have assigned the shape with a view to both, or rather more with a view to combining. Besides this, since hot and cold are opposite in power, it is impossible to assign any shape to the cold; for what is assigned must be opposite to something, and nothing is opposite to a shape. That is why everyone has left this out — and yet it was fitting either to mark off all the elements by shapes or none. Some, in trying to state its power, contradict themselves. For they say that what is cold is what has large parts, on the ground that it compresses and does not pass through the pores.
1| It is clear, then, that what is hot would be what passes through. And what has fine parts is always of that kind. So it turns out that hot and cold differ by smallness and largeness, but not by shapes. Further, if the pyramids are unequal, the large ones would not be fire, nor would the shape be the cause of burning, but rather the cause of the opposite. That the elements, then, do not differ by their shapes is clear from what has been said. And since the most authoritative differences among bodies are those in their affections, functions, and powers (for we say that each of the things that exist by nature has functions, affections, and powers), it would be right to speak first about these, so that by examining them we may grasp the differences of each thing in relation to each other. Book 4.
2| Chapter 1. Concerning heavy and light, we must examine what each of them is and what their nature is, and for what cause they have these powers. For the inquiry about them belongs together with the accounts of motion; for we call a thing heavy and light by its being able to be moved in a certain natural way. No names are laid down for their actualities, unless one should think that "inclination" is such a name. And because natural philosophy is a study concerned with motion, and these things have in themselves, as it were, certain sparks of motion, 306a everyone makes use of their powers, yet no one has gone through them thoroughly, except a few. Having first looked, then, at what has been said by others, and having worked through the difficulties that must be distinguished for this inquiry, let us then also state what appears to us to be the case about them. Now the heavy and the light are spoken of in one sense without qualification, in another relative to something else; for of two things that have weight, we say one is lighter, the other heavier — for example bronze compared with wood. Concerning the things spoken of without qualification, then, nothing has been said by earlier thinkers, but only concerning things spoken of relatively; for they do not say what the heavy is and what the light is, but what is heavier and what is lighter among things that have weight.
3| What is meant will be clearer put this way. Some things are naturally constituted always to move away from the middle, others always toward the middle. Of these, what moves away from the middle I call moving upward, and what moves toward the middle, downward. For it is absurd not to think that there is an up and a down in the heaven, as some maintain — they say there is no up and no down, on the ground that the heaven is entirely alike in every direction, and that anyone walking around it will everywhere be his own antipode. But we say that the outermost limit of the whole is up, which is also up in position and first by nature; and since the heaven has both an outermost limit and a middle, it is clear that there will be both an up and a down, as indeed most people say, though not adequately. The reason for this is that they think the heaven is not alike in every direction, but that only the hemisphere above us is such — whereas if they went on to suppose that it is so all around in a circle as well, and that the middle stands in the same relation to the whole everywhere, they would call the outer part up and the middle down. Speaking without qualification, then, we call light what moves upward and toward the outer limit, and heavy without qualification what moves downward and toward the middle;
4| but relative to something else, we call a thing light and lighter when, of two things having weight and equal bulk, one is naturally moved downward more slowly than the other. Chapter 2. Of those who have previously come to the examination of these matters, most have spoken only about the heavy and light in this relative sense, in which, of two things both having weight, one is lighter than the other. And having gone through the subject in this way, they think they have also determined the matter of the heavy and light without qualification; but their account does not fit that case. This will become clearer as we proceed. Some say, as happens to be written in the Timaeus, that what is heavier is what is composed of more of the same elements, and what is lighter is what is composed of fewer — just as, of lead, the greater amount of lead is heavier, and of bronze, the greater amount of bronze. And likewise for each of the other things of the same kind: for in an excess of equal parts, each thing is heavier. And in the same way they say lead is heavier than wood; for all bodies, they say, are made of certain identical elements and a single matter, though they do not seem to be. Now on this determination, nothing has been said about the heavy and light without qualification; for as things stand, fire is always light and moves upward, while earth and all earthy things move downward and toward the middle. So it is not on account of a small number of triangles, out of which they say each of these bodies is composed, that fire is naturally moved upward;
5| for what is more would move less, and would be heavier, being composed of more triangles. But as it is, the opposite appears: the more there is of it, the lighter it is, and the faster it moves upward. And of fire moving from above downward, a small amount will move faster, a large amount more slowly. Besides this, since they say that what has fewer of the same-kind particles is lighter, and what has more is heavier, and that air, water, and fire are made of the same triangles, but differ in fewness and multitude — so that one of them is lighter, another heavier — then there will be some amount of air that will be heavier than water. But the very opposite happens: for a greater amount of air always moves upward more, and in general any portion whatever of air moves upward out of water. This, then, is the way in which some have determined the matter of light and heavy; but to others this distinction did not seem adequate, and though they were earlier than the men of the present age, they thought more innovatively about the matters now under discussion. For it appears that some bodies, though smaller in bulk, are heavier. It is clear, then, that it is not adequate to say that things of equal weight are composed of an equal number of primary particles;
6| For they would be equal in bulk. As for the primary and indivisible bodies, it is absurd to say — as some do — that they are planes, out of which the bodies that have weight are composed; but for those who say they are solids, it is more possible to say that the greater among them is the heavier. But as for the compounds, since each does not evidently behave in this way, and we see many things heavier though smaller in bulk — wool compared to bronze, for instance — some suppose and say that the cause is different: they say that void, taken in along with the body, makes bodies light, and sometimes makes the greater bodies the lighter ones, since they have more void. For this reason, they say, the bulk is often greater when the body is composed of an equal or even a smaller number of solid parts, and in general the cause of anything's being lighter is that it has more void within it. This, then, is how they speak; but it is necessary for those who draw the distinction in this way to add not only that the lighter thing has more void, if it is to be lighter, but also that it has less solid; for if it exceeds that proportion, it will not be lighter. And this, they say, is also why fire is lightest of all: because it has the most void. It will follow, then, that a little fire, having more void, will be lighter than a great deal of gold, unless the gold will also have many times more solid —
7| — so this too must be stated. Now some of those who deny that void exists drew no distinction at all about light and heavy — Anaxagoras and Empedocles, for example. Others drew a distinction but, while denying that void exists, said nothing about why some bodies are light without qualification and others heavy, and why some always move upward and others downward. Further, about the fact that some bodies, though greater in bulk, are lighter than smaller bodies, they said nothing at all, nor is it clear how, from what they have said, they will manage to say anything that agrees with the appearances. And it is necessary that those who attribute the lightness of fire to its having much void be caught in almost the same difficulties. For fire will have less solid than other bodies, and more void; but nevertheless there will be some quantity of fire in which the solid and the full exceeds the solid contained in some small quantity of earth. And if they say the void accounts for this too, how will they distinguish what is heavy without qualification? Either by its having more solid, or by its having less void. If then they will say this, there will be some quantity of earth so small that the solid in it 309b is less than the solid in a great quantity of fire.
8| Likewise, if they draw the distinction by means of the void, there will be something lighter than what is light without qualification and always moves upward, and yet this thing itself will always move downward. But this is impossible; for what is light without qualification is always lighter than things that have weight and move downward, whereas what is merely lighter is not always light, because one thing is also said to be lighter than another among things that have weight — earth than water, for instance. But surely it does not suffice, in order to resolve the difficulty now stated, to make the void proportional to the full. For it will turn out that speaking this way too leads to the same impossibility. For in the greater quantity of fire and in the lesser, the solid will bear the same ratio to the void. But the greater quantity of fire moves upward faster than the lesser, and likewise downward again the greater quantity of gold and of lead move faster than the lesser, and similarly each of the other bodies that have weight. But this ought not to happen, if it is by this ratio that heavy and light are distinguished. It is also absurd if bodies move upward because of the void they contain, while the void itself does not move upward. But surely if the void is naturally disposed to move upward and the full downward, and if this is the cause of motion for the other bodies, there was no need to inquire, concerning the compounds, why some bodies are light and others heavy; rather one should have said, concerning the void and the full themselves, why the one is light and the other has weight, and further what the cause is of the full and the void not always being separated from each other.
9| It is also unreasonable to assign a place to the void, as though the void did not itself already occupy some place; for if the void moves, it is necessary that it have some place of its own, out of which it changes and into which it changes. And besides this, what is the cause of its motion? For it is surely not the void itself that causes it; for it is not the void alone that moves, but the solid as well. The same result follows even if someone draws the distinction in some other way — making some things heavier and others lighter than one another by greatness and smallness, or constructing it in whatever other manner — while assigning the same matter to all things, or several matters but only contrary ones. For if the matter is one, there will be nothing heavy or light without qualification, as happens for those who construct bodies out of triangles; and if the matters are contrary, as with those who posit void and full, there will be no accounting for why the things intermediate between what is absolutely heavy and absolutely light are heavier and lighter than one another and than the simple bodies. To distinguish by greatness and smallness seems more contrived than the previous accounts, but because it allows one to make differentiae for each of the four elements, it stands more securely against the earlier difficulties. But for one who makes a single nature underlie the things that differ in magnitude, the same result is necessary as for those who posit a single matter: nothing will be light without qualification or move upward, except by lagging behind or being squeezed out, and many small things will be heavier than a few large ones.
10| And if this is so, it will follow that a great quantity of air and a great quantity of fire are heavier than water and than a small quantity of earth. But this is impossible. These, then, are the views stated by others, and stated in this way. 3 Let us now speak, first drawing a distinction concerning the point about which some are most puzzled: why some bodies always move upward by nature and others downward, while others move both upward and downward; and after this, concerning heavy and light and the affections that occur in connection with them, for what cause each of these comes about. Now concerning each thing's moving to its own place, one must suppose the same as concerning the other comings-to-be and changes. For since there are three kinds of motion — one in respect of magnitude, one in respect of form, one in respect of place — in each of these we see the change occurring from contraries into contraries and into the intermediates, and not being a change from anything whatever into anything whatever; and likewise not anything whatever is capable of moving anything whatever; but just as the alterable and the increasable are different from each other, so too the alterative and the increasative are different from each other. In the same way, then, one must suppose that what is motive and what is movable in respect of place are not anything whatever in relation to anything whatever. If then what is motive toward the upward and the downward is what makes heavy and what makes light, and what is movable is what is potentially heavy and potentially light, then for each thing to move to its own place is for it to move to its own form.
11| And in this way one might rather grasp what the ancients meant when they said that like moves toward like. For this does not hold without qualification in every case; for if one were to transpose the earth to where the moon now is, each of its parts would not move toward the moon, but to where they now move — precisely where they move now. In general, then, this must hold for things that are alike and undifferentiated and subject to the same motion, so that wherever one part is naturally disposed to move, the whole is disposed to move as well. But since place is the boundary of what contains, and what contains everything that moves up and down is both the extremity and the middle, and this is in a way the form of what is contained, to move to one's own place is to move toward what is like; for things that are next to one another in the series are like one another — water to air, for instance, and air to fire. And it is possible to state the likeness in reverse for the things in the middle, though not for the extremes — one can say air is like water, but not that water is like earth; for what is higher always stands to what is beneath it as form stands to matter, and that is how they stand to one another. And to ask why fire moves upward and earth downward is the same as to ask why what is capable of health, when it is moved and changes qua capable of health, arrives at health and not at whiteness.
12| The same holds for all the other things that undergo alteration. But when a thing capable of growth changes qua capable of growth, it does not arrive at health but at an increase in magnitude. Likewise, each of these changes, some in quality, some in quantity, and in place light things move upward, heavy things downward — except that some of these seem to have the principle of their change within themselves (I mean the heavy and the light), while others do not, but from outside, such as what is curable and what is capable of growth. And yet sometimes these too change from within themselves: when a small motion occurs in what is outside, one arrives at health, another at growth; and since what is curable is the same as what is receptive of disease, if it is moved qua curable it moves toward health, but if qua diseased, toward disease. But the heavy and the light appear, more than these, to have their principle within themselves, because their matter is closest to substance. A sign of this is that their motion is the motion of things set free, and it is last in coming to be among the motions, so that in respect of substance this motion would be first. So when air comes to be out of water, and something light out of something heavy, it moves toward what is above.
13| At the same time it is light, and it is no longer coming to be so, but is already there. It is clear, then, that being potentially light, it comes, on its way to actuality, to that place, and to such an amount and such a kind as that of which there is actuality — how much, of what sort, and where. And the same is the cause also of earth and fire, when they already exist as actual, being moved to their own places when nothing obstructs. For nourishment too, when what obstructs it is removed, and what is curable, when what is holding it back is absent, moves at once; and what moves it is both what originally caused it and what removed the obstruction, or that from which it sprang free, as has been said in our earlier discussions, in which we determined that none of these things moves itself. So then, the cause on account of which each of the things that move moves, and what it is for a thing to move to its own place, have been stated.
14| 4. Let us now speak of the differences among these and of what happens in connection with them. First, then, let it be laid down, as it appears to everyone, that what is heavy without qualification is what sinks below everything, and what is light without qualification is what floats on top of everything. And by "without qualification" I mean looking to the genus, and applying it to those things in which both do not belong: for instance, any amount whatever of fire is seen moving upward, unless something else happens to obstruct it, and any amount of earth moves downward — and in the same way, the more there is, the faster it moves. But heavy and light in another sense belong to things in which both are present; for such things float on some things and sink below others, as air and water do. Without qualification, neither of these is light or heavy: both are lighter than earth (for any portion whatever of them floats on it), and heavier than fire (for any portion whatever of them sinks below it); but relative to each other, without qualification, one is heavy and the other light — for air, however much of it there is, floats on water, and water, however much there is, sinks below air. And since, among the other things too, some have weight and some have lightness, it is clear that the cause of all these is the difference among the simple bodies; for according as they partake of those in a greater or lesser degree, bodies will be, some light, some heavy.
15| So it is about those first bodies that we must speak; for the rest follow upon the first, which is exactly what we said those who explain the heavy by the full and the light by the void ought to have done. Now it happens that the same things do not appear heavy and light everywhere, on account of the difference among the first bodies. I mean, for instance, that a talent's weight of wood will be heavier than a mina's weight of lead in air, but lighter in water; and the cause is that everything has weight except fire, and everything has lightness except earth. Earth, then, and whatever has most of earth in it, must have weight everywhere; water everywhere except in earth; and air everywhere except in water and earth — for in its own region everything has weight except fire, and air does too. A sign of this is that an inflated skin pulls down more than an empty one. So if something has more air in it than earth and water, it can be lighter than something else in water, but heavier in air; for it does not float on air, though it does float on water. That there is something light without qualification and something heavy without qualification is clear from the following (by light without qualification I mean what is naturally suited always to move upward, and heavy what is naturally suited always to move downward, when nothing obstructs it —
16| for such things exist, and it is not the case, as some suppose, that everything has weight; for some think that even the things others call light are heavy, and always move toward the middle; and light is similarly disputed) — for we see, as has been said before, that earthy things sink below everything and move toward the middle. But the middle has been determined. If, then, there is something that floats on everything, as fire clearly does, moving upward even within air itself, while the air stays still, it is clear that this moves toward the outermost limit. So it cannot possibly have any weight — for then it would sink below something else; and if it did, there would have to be some other thing again, which moves to the outermost limit, and on which everything that moves would float. But as it is, nothing of the sort appears. Fire, then, has no weight at all, nor does earth have any lightness whatever, given that it sinks below everything and what sinks below moves toward the middle. But that there is indeed a middle, toward which the motion of things having weight goes, and from which the motion of light things goes, is clear from many considerations — first, from the fact that nothing can move to infinity. For just as nothing is impossible, so too nothing of that sort comes to be —
17| and locomotion is a coming-to-be from somewhere to somewhere. Next, fire is clearly seen moving upward, and earth downward, and everything having weight, at similar angles. So it is necessary that they move toward the middle. But whether this happens toward the middle of the earth or toward the middle of the whole — since these are the same — is another discussion. Since what sinks below everything moves toward the middle, it is necessary that what floats on everything move toward the outermost limit of the region in which they carry out their motion; for the middle is opposite to the outermost limit, and what sinks below is always opposite to what floats on top. That is also why it is reasonable that the heavy and the light are two: for the places too are two, the middle and the outermost limit. But there is also something between these, which is called the one or the other relative to each of the two; for if the intermediate is, as it were, outermost relative to one and middle relative to the other, then on this account there is also another sort of heavy and light, such as water and air. And we say that the containing belongs to the form, and the contained belongs to the matter. This distinction holds in all the genera: for in quality too, and in quantity, one thing is more as form, another as matter.
18| And likewise with things classified by place: the up belongs to what is determinate, the down to matter. So too within the very matter of the heavy and the light: insofar as it is potentially of the one sort, it is matter of the heavy, and insofar as it is potentially of the other sort, it is matter of the light. And it is one and the same thing, though its being is not the same — just as with what is prone to disease and what is curable, the being is not the same; that is why to be diseased is not the same as to be healthy. So, then, what has this kind of matter is light and always moves upward, while what has the opposite kind is heavy and always moves downward. But things that have a matter different from these two — though standing to one another in the same relation as fire and earth do — are, without qualification, borne both upward and downward. That is why air and water each have both lightness and heaviness: water sinks below everything except earth, while air rises above everything except fire. Since there is only one thing that rises above everything and one thing that sinks below everything, there must necessarily be two others that both sink below something and rise above something. So the kinds of matter, too, must necessarily be as many as these — four — but four in the sense that there is one
19| common to them all, especially since they come to be out of one another, though their being is different in each case. For nothing prevents there being one or several intermediates between contraries, as with colors; for 'intermediate' and 'mean' are said in many ways. Now in its own place, each of the things that have both heaviness and lightness has heaviness (earth has heaviness in every place), but it does not have lightness except relative to those things above which it rises. That is why, when the body beneath is withdrawn, each is carried down into the place next below: air into the place of water, water into the place of earth. But upward, into the place of fire, when fire is removed, air will not be carried unless by force — just as water too is drawn upward, when the surface becomes one continuous surface and one draws it upward faster than the downward motion by which water naturally moves. Nor is water carried into the place of air, except in the way just described. Earth does not undergo this, because its surface does not become continuous with what draws it. That is why water is drawn up into a heated vessel, but earth is not. And just as earth does not go upward, so fire does not go downward when the air beneath it is taken away.
20| For fire has no heaviness even in its own place, just as earth has no lightness. The two intermediate bodies move downward when what is beneath them is withdrawn, because what is heavy without qualification sinks into the place below everything, while what is heavy only relative to something sinks into its own place, or into the place of the things above which it rises, on account of the likeness of its matter. That it is necessary to make their differentiae equal in number to them is clear. For if there were one matter for all of them — say the void, or the full, or magnitude, or triangles — then either all would be carried upward or all downward, and the opposite motion would no longer exist at all. So either nothing would be light without qualification, if everything tends downward more the larger the bodies it is made of, or the more numerous, or because they are full — but this we do in fact observe, and it has been shown that, alike, always and everywhere, motion occurs both downward and upward. Or, if it is the void, or something of that sort, that always moves upward, there will be nothing that always moves downward. And indeed some of the intermediate bodies will move downward faster than earth, for in a large volume of air there will be more triangles, or more solid particles, or more small ones, than in a small volume of earth. But not even a single portion of air is observed moving downward.
21| The same holds, likewise, for the light, if one makes it exceed the other by its matter. But if there are two kinds of matter, how will the intermediate bodies be able to do what air and water in fact do? Suppose, for example, one were to say there is void and full: fire, then, is void, and that is why it moves upward, while earth is full, and that is why it moves downward; and suppose one says that and suppose one says that air has more of fire in it, and water more of earth. Then there will be some quantity of water that has more fire in it than a small amount of air has, and a large amount of air more earth in it than a small amount of water has, so that a given quantity of air will have to move downward faster than a small amount of water. But this is never observed to happen anywhere. It is necessary, then — just as fire moves upward because it has this something, say the void, and the other bodies do not, and earth moves downward because it has the full — that air too moves to its own place, above water, because it has this particular something, and water moves downward because it has that particular something. But if both were reducible to some one thing, or to two, and both these belonged to each of the two bodies, there would be some quantity of each at which water would exceed a small amount of air in the upward direction, and air would exceed water in the downward direction, as has been said many times. Shapes are not the cause of moving upward or downward without qualification, but of moving faster or slower.
22| It is not hard to see the reasons why. For the puzzle now raised is why flat pieces of iron and lead float on water, while other things smaller and less heavy, if they are round or elongated — a needle, for instance — sink; and why some things float because of their smallness, gold-dust for example, and other earthy and dust-like things, on air. Now concerning all these cases, to hold the cause to be what Democritus supposed is not correct. For he says that the hot particles rising up out of the water hold up the flat bodies that have weight, while the narrow ones fall through, 313 b since there are few particles to strike against them. But this ought to happen even more in air, as he himself objects. But having raised the objection, he resolves it feebly; for he says that the 'thrust' does not move in one direction, calling 'thrust' the motion of bodies carried upward. But since, among continuous bodies, some are easily divided and others less so, and likewise some are divisive of others to a greater degree and some to a lesser, these must be reckoned the causes. Now what is easily bounded is easily divided, and the more easily bounded, the more easily divided; and air is more of this sort than water, and water more than earth.
23| And indeed, within each kind, the smaller quantity is more easily divided and is torn apart more readily. So bodies that have breadth remain on the surface because they enclose a large quantity of the medium, since a large quantity is not easily torn apart; but bodies whose shapes are the opposite sink downward, because they enclose only a small quantity and so divide it easily. And this happens far more in air, to the degree that air is more easily divided than water. Since weight has a certain force by which it is carried downward, and continuous bodies have a certain force for resisting being torn apart, these two must be weighed against each other: for if the force of the weight exceeds the force of resistance in the continuous body against being torn and divided, it will force its way downward faster; but if it is weaker, it will float on the surface. Let this, then, be our determination, in this manner, concerning the heavy and the light and the attributes connected with them.
1| ON GENERATION AND CORRUPTION, Book 1. Concerning the generation and corruption of things that come to be and perish by nature, we must distinguish alike, for every case, the causes and the accounts of them, and further, concerning growth and alteration, what each of these is, and whether we should suppose alteration and generation to be the same nature, or distinct, as they are indeed distinguished by their very names. Now among the ancients, some say that what is called unqualified generation is alteration, while others say alteration and generation are different. For those who say the universe is some one thing, and generate everything from one, are necessarily forced to say that generation is alteration, and that what comes to be in the strict sense is being altered; but those who posit more than one matter, such as Empedocles and Anaxagoras and Leucippus, hold it to be something different. And yet Anaxagoras at least misunderstood his own language; at any rate he says that coming-to-be and perishing are the same thing as being altered. And he speaks of many elements, as the others do too. For Empedocles says the bodily elements are four, but all of them together with the moving causes are six in number, while Anaxagoras and Leucippus and Democritus say they are infinite. For the one posits the homoeomerous things as elements, such as bone and flesh and marrow, and each of the others of which the part has the same name as the whole; but Democritus and Leucippus say that everything else is composed
2| out of indivisible bodies, and that these are infinite both in number and in shapes, and that and that the compounds differ from one another in respect of the constituents out of which they are composed, and by the position and arrangement of these. Anaxagoras and his followers appear to say the opposite of Empedocles and his followers; for the one says fire and water and air and earth are four elements and simple, more so than flesh and bone and such homoeomerous things, while the others say these are simple and are the elements, but that earth and fire and water and air are composite; for these are a seed-mixture of all things. Now for those who construct everything out of one thing, it is necessary to say that generation and corruption are alteration; for the substrate always remains the same and one, and we say that such a thing is being altered; but for those who make the kinds more than one, alteration differs from generation; for generation and corruption occur when things come together and are dissolved. This is why Empedocles too speaks in this way, saying that there is no coming-to-be of anything, but only mixing and interchange of what has been mixed. It is clear, then, that it is appropriate to their hypothesis for them to speak in this way, and that they do speak in this manner; but it is necessary for them too to say that alteration is something distinct from generation, though this is impossible on the basis of what they themselves say.
3| That we are right to say this is easy to see. For just as we observe, while the substance itself remains at rest, a change occurring in it with respect to magnitude — what is called growth and diminution — so too we observe alteration. Yet from what those say who make the principles more than one, alteration turns out to be impossible. For the affections in respect of which we say this happens are the differentiae of the elements — I mean, for example, hot and cold, white and black, dry and wet, soft and hard, and each of the others — just as Empedocles too says: 'the sun, white to see and hot everywhere, but the rain, in all things dark and cold.' And he distinguishes the rest similarly. So that if it is not possible for water to come to be from fire, nor earth from water, then neither will anything black come to be from white, nor anything hard from soft; and the same account holds for the others too. But this was alteration. From which it is also clear that we must always suppose a single matter underlying the contraries, whether the change is with respect to place, or with respect to growth and diminution, or with respect to alteration. Further, it is likewise necessary that this be alteration as well; for if it is alteration, then the substrate is one element, and there is a single matter for all the things that change into one another; and conversely, if the substrate is one, there is alteration.
4| Empedocles, then, seems to say things that conflict both with the appearances and with himself. For at one time he says that none of the elements comes to be from any other, but that all the other things come from these; and at the same time, whenever he draws the whole of nature together into one, apart from Strife, he has each thing coming to be again out of the one. So it is clear that, out of some one thing, by certain differentiae and affections coming apart, water came to be on one side and fire on the other, just as he says the sun is white and hot, and the earth heavy and hard. If, then, these differentiae are taken away (and they can be taken away, since they came to be), it is clear that earth must come to be from water, and water from earth, and likewise each of the others too, not only then but even now, since they change with respect to their affections. And on the terms of his own account, these things are capable of being added and separated off again, especially since Strife and Love are still fighting one another. This is also why they were generated at that time out of one thing; for surely, while fire and earth and water still existed as such, the universe was not yet one. But it is also unclear whether we should posit the one as their principle, or the many — I mean fire and earth and the elements ranked with these.
5| For insofar as it underlies as matter, out of which earth and fire come to be by changing through motion, the one is the element; but insofar as this one comes to be by composition when those elements come together, while those elements come to be by dissolution of the one, those are more elemental, and prior in nature. We must speak, then, in general terms about unqualified generation and corruption — whether it exists or not, and how it exists — and likewise about the other simple motions, such as growth and alteration. Now Plato inquired only into generation and corruption, how these belong to things, and into the generation not of everything but only of the elements; but as to how flesh or bones or any other such thing comes to be, he said nothing at all; nor again about alteration or about growth, in what manner these belong to things. And in general, beyond what lies on the surface, no one has attended closely to any of this, except Democritus. He seems to have given thought to everything, but already differs from the rest precisely in the how. For no one has determined anything about growth, as we say, beyond what even an ordinary person might say — that things grow by the addition of what is like to them (but how this happens, no longer) — nor about mixture, nor, one might almost say, about anything else at all, such as acting and being acted on, in what way the one thing acts and the other undergoes the natural actions. But Democritus and Leucippus, having posited the shapes, construct alteration and generation out of these: generation and corruption by separation and combination, but alteration by arrangement and position.
6| And since they supposed the truth lay in what appears, and the appearances are contrary to one another and infinite, they made the shapes infinite, so that, through the changes of the compound, the same thing seems contrary to one observer and another, and shifts when a small amount is mixed in, and appears altogether different when a single element has shifted; for tragedy and comedy come to be out of the same letters. Now since it seems to almost everyone that generation and alteration are different, and that things come to be and perish by being combined and separated, while they are altered by a change in their affections, we must attend to these questions and examine them. For they involve many reasonable difficulties. For if generation is combination, many impossible consequences follow; yet there are, in turn, other compelling arguments, not easy to resolve, to the effect that it cannot be otherwise. And if generation is not combination, then either there is no generation or alteration at all, or else — difficult though it is to resolve — we must attempt it. The starting point for all these questions is whether existing things come to be and are altered and grow, and undergo the contraries of these, on the supposition that there are certain first, indivisible magnitudes, or whether no magnitude is indivisible; for this makes the greatest difference. And again, if there are such magnitudes, whether, as Democritus and Leucippus hold, these are bodies, or, as in the Timaeus, planes.
7| This point itself, as we have said elsewhere too, is unreasonable — to dissolve bodies down to planes. Hence it is more reasonable that there be indivisible bodies. But these too involve much unreasonableness. Nevertheless it is possible for them to produce alteration and generation, as has been said, by shifting the same material about through turning and through contact, and by the differences of shapes — which is what Democritus does. That is why he says there is no such thing as color; for things get colored by turning. But for those who divide bodies into planes this is no longer possible, since nothing comes to be except solids by combination; they do not even attempt to generate any affection out of these planes. The cause of their being less able to take in the agreed facts together is inexperience. That is why those who have lived more within the study of nature are more able to posit such principles as can hold many things together in a connected account, while those who are unobservant of the facts because of much arguing look at only a few things and pronounce their views more readily. One can see from the following, too, how far apart those who inquire as natural scientists and those who inquire as logicians are: concerning the existence of indivisible magnitudes, some say it must be so because the triangle-itself would otherwise be many, whereas Democritus would appear to have been persuaded by arguments proper to and characteristic of natural science. What we mean will be clear as we go on. For there is a puzzle if one posits that there is some body and magnitude divisible through and through, and that this is possible.
8| For what will there be that escapes the division? For if it is divisible through and through, and this is possible, then this could also actually be the case at once, this body being divided through and through, even if it has not been divided all at once; and if this came about, nothing impossible would result. So too with respect to the middle point, likewise. And in general, if it is by nature divisible through and through, then even if it is actually divided, nothing impossible will have resulted, since not even if it has been divided into ten thousand times ten thousand parts is anything impossible involved — though perhaps no one would actually carry out the division. Since, then, the body is everywhere of this kind, let it be divided. What, then, will be left over? A magnitude? That cannot be, for there would then be something undivided, yet it was divisible through and through. But then, if there will be no body and no magnitude, yet division will still occur, either the body will consist of points, and the things it is composed of will be without magnitude, or there will be nothing at all, so that it would come to be out of nothing and be composed of nothing, and the whole would be nothing but an appearance. Likewise, even if it consists of points, it will not be a quantity. For when the points were in contact and were one magnitude and existed together, they made the whole no greater. For when the whole is divided into two parts or more, it is no less and no greater than it was before, so that even if all the points are put together, they will produce no magnitude.
9| But further, if something comes off the body as it is divided, like a sawn-off chip, and in this way some body departs from the magnitude, the same argument applies: how is that departing piece itself divisible? But if what departs is not a body but some separable form or affection, and the magnitude consists of points or contacts that have undergone this affection, it is absurd that a magnitude should consist of things that have no magnitude. Further, where will the points be, and will they be motionless or in motion? And a contact is always a relation between two things, as though there were something besides the contact and the division and the point. If, then, one posits that any body whatever, of any size whatever, is divisible through and through, all these consequences follow. Further, if I divide a piece of wood, or anything else, and then put it back together, it is again equal and one. So this evidently holds no matter at what point I cut the wood. It has, then, been divided through and through, potentially. What, then, is there besides the division? For even granting there is some affection, still, how does the wood dissolve into these points, and come to be out of them? Or how are these points separated out? So that, since it is impossible for magnitudes to consist of contacts or points, there must be indivisible bodies and magnitudes. And yet even positing these, no fewer impossible consequences follow.
10| These matters have been examined elsewhere. But we must try to resolve them, so let us state the puzzle again from the beginning. That every perceptible body is divisible at any point whatever, and also indivisible, is not at all absurd, for the one holds potentially, the other will hold in actuality. But that it should be divisible through and through at once, in potentiality, would seem to be impossible. For if it is possible, it could also come about — not so that both conditions hold at once in actuality, undivided and divided, but rather divided at every point. Nothing, then, will be left over, and the body will have been dissolved into something incorporeal. And it would come to be again either out of points or out of nothing whatsoever. And how is this possible? But that a body is divided into separable parts, and always into smaller magnitudes, and into parts that stand apart from and separated from one another, is evident. Neither, then, would the crumbling be infinite if one divides part by part, nor is it possible for the body to be divided at every point at once — for that is not possible — but only up to a certain point. There must, therefore, be indivisible magnitudes present within it, invisible ones, especially if there is to be generation and corruption, the one by dissociation, the other by association. This, then, is the argument that seems to compel the existence of indivisible magnitudes.
11| Let us say wherein it goes unnoticed in committing its fallacy, and how it goes unnoticed. For since a point is not next to a point, being divisible through and through belongs to magnitudes in one sense but not in another. It is thought, once this is posited, that there is a point in any place whatever, and at every point, so that the magnitude must be divided into nothing, since there is supposed to be a point everywhere, and so it must consist either of contacts or of points. But the sense in which it holds everywhere is this: that there is one point taken in whatever place we like, and all points are so taken, each in its own place, but they are not more than one at any place, for they do not stand in succession, so that it is not divisible everywhere in that sense — for if it is divisible at the middle point, it will also be divisible at the point next to it, and yet there is no point next to a point, nor contact next to contact. It is in this way that there is division, or rather combination. So there is indeed both dissociation and association, but not into indivisibles and out of indivisibles, for that involves many impossibilities, nor in such a way that division occurs through and through, for that would hold only if there were a point next to a point; rather, division is into small and ever smaller parts, and association is out of smaller parts. But simple and complete generation is not defined by association and dissociation, as some say, whereas the change that occurs within the continuous is rightly called alteration.
12| But this is exactly the point at which everyone goes wrong. For there is simple generation and corruption not by association and dissociation, but when a thing changes as a whole from this into that. But they suppose every such change to be alteration; and in this they are mistaken, for it differs. In the substrate, one aspect belongs to it according to its account, the other according to its matter. When, then, the change occurs in these — in what belongs according to the account — there will be generation or corruption; but when it occurs in the affections, and accidentally, it is alteration. Things that are being dissociated and associated become easily destructible. For if water is divided into smaller portions of water, it turns into air more quickly, but if it is combined together, more slowly. This will become clearer later on. For now let this much be determined: that it is impossible for generation to be association, of the sort some assert it to be.
13| Now that these points have been determined, we must first consider whether there is something that comes to be and perishes without qualification, or whether, properly speaking, nothing does, but there is always something that comes to be, and comes to be something, out of something — I mean, for example, a healthy thing out of a sick one and a sick thing out of a healthy one, or a small thing out of a large one and a large thing out of a small one, and everything else in the same way. For if there is to be generation without qualification, something would come to be without qualification out of what is not, so that it would be true to say that not-being belongs to certain things. For generation of a particular thing is out of what is not that particular thing — for example, out of what is not white, or not fine — but simple generation is out of what simply is not. Now, without qualification signifies either the first thing in respect of each category of being, or else the universal, that which embraces all things. If, then, it means the first, there will be generation of substance out of not-substance. But that to which substance does not belong, nor thisness, clearly none of the other categories belongs to it either,
14| for example, neither of quality nor of quantity nor of place — for then the affections would be separable from substances. But if they were, not-being would be an entirely universal negation of everything, so that what comes to be would necessarily come to be from nothing. Now about these matters there has been discussion and fuller determination elsewhere in our accounts; but briefly, here too, it must be said that in one way a thing comes to be from what is not, without qualification, and in another way always from what is. For what is potentially, but not actually, must pre-exist, spoken of in both senses. But there is a further difficulty here, remarkable even once these points are settled, which we must go back over: how is unqualified coming-to-be possible — whether it proceeds from what is potentially, or in some other way? For one might raise the difficulty whether there is coming-to-be of substance and of a this, but not of a such, a so-much, and a where. The same holds for perishing. For if something comes to be, clearly there will be some substance potentially, but not actually, from which the coming-to-be will proceed and into which what perishes must change. Will, then, anything of the other kinds belong to this actually? I mean, for example, will the thing that is only potentially a this and a being, but without qualification not a this nor a being, be a quantity or a quality or a where?
15| For if nothing is actually but everything is potentially, it follows that what is not in this way is separable, and further, that thing which those who first philosophized were most afraid of all along persists: coming-to-be from nothing pre-existing. But if being a this or a substance will not belong to it, while some one of the other things mentioned will, then, as we said, the affections will be separable from substances. We must, then, treat these matters as far as possible, and also ask what the cause is of coming-to-be always occurring, both unqualified coming-to-be and coming-to-be in part. Since there is one cause, from which we say the principle of motion is, and another, that of matter, it is this latter kind of cause we must speak of; for the former has been discussed earlier, in our accounts of motion — that one thing is unmoved for all time, while another is always in motion. Of these, to distinguish the unmoved principle, the other and prior one, is the work of a different and prior philosophy; but concerning the thing that moves other things because it is itself continuously in motion, we must give an account later, saying what particular thing among things spoken of individually is the cause of this. For now let us state the cause posited as being in the form of matter, on account of which perishing and coming-to-be never fail nature —
16| for perhaps this same inquiry will at once make clear also the point we are now at a loss about, namely how one ought to speak about unqualified perishing and coming-to-be too. There is also sufficient difficulty in what the cause is of coming-to-be being unbroken, if indeed what perishes departs into not-being, and not-being is nothing at all — for not-being is neither a this, nor a quality, nor a quantity, nor a where. If, then, something among the things that are is always departing, why has the universe not long since been used up and gone, given that what each of the things coming to be comes from was finite? For surely it is not because that from which it comes to be is infinite that it does not fail — that is impossible. For nothing is actually infinite, only potentially, by division; so that this would have to be the only account that does not fail, on the ground that what comes to be is always less; but as it is, we do not see this happening. Is it, then, because the perishing of this thing is the coming-to-be of another, and the coming-to-be of this thing is the perishing of another, that change must necessarily be unceasing? As for there being coming-to-be and perishing alike concerning each of the things that are, this must be thought a sufficient cause for all of them.
17| We must consider again why it is that some things are said to come to be and perish without qualification, while others are not said to do so without qualification, given that it is the same change that is the coming-to-be of this thing and the perishing of that, and the perishing of this thing and the coming-to-be of that; for this calls for some account. We say, for example, that this now perishes without qualification, and not merely as this particular thing; and this change is coming-to-be without qualification, while that one is perishing. But this other thing comes to be something, yet does not come to be without qualification — for we say that the person learning comes to be knowing, but does not come to be without qualification. So then, just as we often draw the distinction that some things signify a this and others do not, this is the reason the point in question arises; for it makes a difference into what the changing thing changes. For example, perhaps the road to fire is unqualified coming-to-be, but is the perishing of some particular thing, namely earth, while the coming-to-be of earth is coming-to-be of a particular thing — coming-to-be not without qualification, but perishing without qualification, namely of fire — just as Parmenides says there are two things, being and not-being, calling them fire and earth. Now it makes no difference whether we posit these or other things like them; for we are inquiring into the manner, not the substrate. The road to not-being without qualification, then, is unqualified perishing, and the road to being without qualification is unqualified coming-to-be.
18| Among the things thus distinguished, then, whether fire and earth or certain others, one of them will be being and the other not-being. In one way, then, unqualified coming-to-be and perishing will differ from what is not unqualified by this; in another way, by whatever the matter happens to be. For that matter whose differentiae signify a this more, is more substance, while that whose differentiae signify privation is not-being — for example, the hot is a certain predicate and form, while coldness is privation. Earth and fire also differ by these very differentiae. But most people think they differ rather by the perceptible and the non-perceptible; for they say that when a thing changes into perceptible matter, it comes to be, and when into something not apparent, it perishes — for they distinguish being and not-being by perceiving and not perceiving, just as the knowable is being, and the unknowable is not-being; for perception has the power of knowledge. So then, just as they themselves think they live and are by perceiving, or by being able to, so too they think this of things, in a way pursuing the truth, though what they say is not true. It turns out, then, that coming-to-be and perishing without qualification are different according to opinion and according to truth —
19| for breath and air are, according to perception, less real (which is why people say that things which perish without qualification perish by changing into these, and come to be when they change into what is tangible and into earth), but according to truth these are rather more a this and a form than earth is. As to why unqualified coming-to-be is the perishing of something, while unqualified perishing is the coming-to-be of something, the cause has been stated; for it is because the matter differs, either by being substance
20| or not, or by the one being more so and the other not, or by the matter — that out of which and into which the change occurs — being more perceptible in the one case and less so in the other. As for why some things are said to come to be without qualification, while others are said only to come to be something, not by coming-to-be from one another, in the way we have just now stated — for now this much has been determined: why, though every coming-to-be is the perishing of something else, and every perishing is the coming-to-be of something else, we do not attribute coming-to-be and perishing in the same way to things that change into one another. But the point raised afterward does not concern this difficulty, but rather why it is that the thing learning is not said to come to be without qualification, but to come to be knowing, while the thing growing is said to come to be. These matters are distinguished by the categories: for some things signify a this, others a such, and others a quantity. So whatever does not signify substance is not said to come to be without qualification, but to come to be something. Nonetheless, alike in all cases, coming-to-be is spoken of in accordance with the things in the other column of the table of opposites — for example, in the category of substance, if it becomes fire but not if it becomes earth; and in the category of quality, if it becomes knowing but not when it becomes unknowing.
21| We have then discussed the question why some things come to be without qualification and others do not, and this in general, and also in the case of substances themselves; and why the substrate is, as matter, the continuous cause of there being coming-to-be, namely because it is capable of changing into its contraries, and why, among substances, the coming-to-be of one thing is always the passing-away of another, and the passing-away of one thing is the coming-to-be of another. Moreover, there is no need to raise a puzzle about why things always come to be even while other things are constantly perishing; for just as people say that a thing perishes without qualification when it passes into what is imperceptible and into what is not, so likewise they say that a thing comes to be out of what is not, when it comes from what is imperceptible. So whether or not there is some substrate, it comes to be out of what is not. Hence in the same way a thing both comes to be out of what is not and perishes into what is not. It is reasonable, then, that this process never gives out; for coming-to-be is the passing-away of what is not, and passing-away is the coming-to-be of what is not. But as to this "what is not" without qualification, one might raise the puzzle whether it is the one member of a pair of contraries — for example whether earth and the heavy are what is not, and fire and the light are what is — or whether this is not so, but earth too is what is, while what is not is the matter of earth, and likewise the matter of fire.
22| And is the matter of each different, or would things then not be able to come to be out of one another nor out of contraries? For the contraries belong to these — fire, earth, water, air — 319b. Or is it in one sense the same, in another sense different? For that which underlies, considered as something that at some time is, is the same, but its being is not the same. Let this much, then, be said about these matters.
23| 4 Let us now discuss how coming-to-be and alteration differ; for we say that these are changes distinct from one another. Since, then, there is a substrate, and there is, distinct from it, an affection which by nature is said of the substrate, and there is change of each of these, alteration occurs when the substrate persists, being perceptible, and changes in its own affections — whether these are contraries or intermediates — as for example the body is healthy and again becomes sick while remaining the same, and the bronze is round and at another time angular while remaining the same bronze. But when the whole changes without anything perceptible persisting as the same substrate — as, for instance, all the semen becomes blood, or water becomes air, or all the air becomes water — such a case is already coming-to-be, and for the other thing passing-away, and especially so when the change occurs from what is imperceptible to what is perceptible either by touch or by all the perceptions, as when water comes to be or perishes into air; for air is fairly imperceptible. But in these cases, if some affection belonging to the same contrariety persists the same in both what has come to be and what has perished — for example when water comes from air, if both are transparent or both moist — the affection into which it changes need not belong to this persisting thing. But if it does, it will be alteration — as when the musical man perishes and an unmusical man comes to be, while the man persists as the same. If, then, musicality and unmusicality were not in their own right an affection of this thing, there would be coming-to-be of the one and passing-away of the other; hence these are affections of the man, but there is coming-to-be and
24| passing-away of the musical man and the unmusical man. But as it is, this is an affection of what persists; and that is why such cases are alteration. So then, when the change of the contrariety is in respect of quantity, it is growth and diminution; when in respect of place, locomotion; when in respect of affection and quality, alteration; but when nothing persists of which the one thing is an affection or an accident at all, it is coming-to-be, and for the other thing, passing-away. Matter, in the fullest and most proper sense, is the substrate receptive of coming-to-be and passing-away, but in a certain way it is also the substrate for the other changes, because all substrates are receptive of certain contrarieties. Let coming-to-be and passing-away, then — whether they exist or not, and how they exist — and alteration, be determined in this way.
25| 5 It remains to speak about growth: how it differs from coming-to-be and alteration, and how each of the things that grow grows, and how anything that diminishes diminishes. We must first consider whether their difference from one another lies only in what they are changes about — for example, that the change from this to that, as from substance potentially to substance actually, is coming-to-be, while the change with respect to magnitude is growth and diminution, and the change with respect to affection is alteration — or whether both of these latter are also, like the cases mentioned, a change from what is potentially to what is in actuality, and the manner of the change differs as well; for it is evident that what is altered does not necessarily change in respect of place, nor does what comes to be, but what grows and what diminishes does change in respect of place, though in a manner different from that of what is carried along. For what is carried along changes place as a whole, whereas what grows does so as a thing being hammered out does: for while it as a whole remains, its parts change place, and not as the parts of a sphere do; for the parts of a sphere change within an equal place while the whole remains, but the parts of what grows always move into a greater place, and the parts of what diminishes into a smaller. It is clear, then, that the change differs not only in respect of what it concerns but also in manner, as between what comes to be, what is altered, and what grows.
26| As to what the change of growth and diminution is about (for growing and diminishing seem to concern magnitude), how are we to understand it — whether body and magnitude come to be out of what is potentially magnitude and body but actually incorporeal and without magnitude; and since this can be said in two ways, in which way does growth occur? Is it out of matter that is separated and by itself, or out of matter existing within another body? Or is each of these two ways impossible? For if it is separate, it will either occupy no place at all, or it will be like a point, and it will be a void, and a body that is imperceptible. But of these, the one is not possible, while the other requires it to be in something; for that which comes to be from it will always be somewhere, so that it too will be somewhere, either in its own right or accidentally. But then, if it exists in something, and if it is separated from that thing in such a way that it is not, either in its own right or accidentally, anything belonging to it, many impossibilities will follow. I mean, for example, that if air comes to be out of water, this will not be because the water changes, but because its matter is in the water as though in a vessel. For nothing prevents there being infinitely many matters, such that they also come to be in actuality.
27| Moreover, air does not even appear to come to be out of water in this way, as though it came out of it while the water remained. It is better, then, to hold that matter is inseparable for all these things, being the same and one in number, but not one in account. But indeed neither should points nor lines be taken to be the matter of body, for the same reasons. Rather, that of which these are the limits is matter, and matter can never exist without affection nor without shape. One thing, then, comes to be without qualification out of another, as has also been determined elsewhere, and always by the agency of something that actually is, either of the same form or of the same genus — as fire by fire, or man by man — or by the agency of actuality; for hard does not come to be by the agency of hard. But since there is also matter of corporeal substance, and already matter of a body of this or that kind (for there is no body in general), the same matter belongs to magnitude and to affection, separable in account but not separable in place, unless the affections too are separable. It is clear, then, from the puzzles raised, that
28| Growth is not a change from a magnitude that exists potentially to something having, in actuality, no magnitude at all; for then the void would be separable, and that this is impossible has been stated elsewhere before. Moreover, a change of that kind would not be distinctive of growth but of coming-to-be; for growth is an increase of a magnitude already present, and wasting away is a decrease of it. Hence what grows must already have some magnitude. So growth into the actuality of magnitude must not proceed out of matter that has no magnitude at all; for that would be the coming-to-be of a body rather than growth. We should instead take hold of the inquiry again from the beginning, as it were, and ask what sort of thing growing or wasting away is when we seek its causes. Now it appears that any part whatever of the thing growing has grown, and likewise in wasting away that it has become smaller; further, that a thing grows by something coming to it and wastes away by something leaving it. It is necessary, then, that growth occur either by means of something bodiless or by means of a body. If by something bodiless, the void will be separable; but it is impossible for the matter of magnitude to be separable, as has been said before. But if by a body, there will be two bodies in the same place, the thing that grows and the thing that makes it grow; and this too is impossible. But neither can one say that growth or wasting away comes about in the way that air comes to be from water—
29| for then the bulk has become greater; but this is not growth, but rather the coming-to-be of that into which the thing changed, and the destruction of its contrary; growth belongs to neither of these, but either to nothing, or, if there is something common to both, to the thing that comes to be and the thing destroyed, for instance if it is body. But the water has not grown, nor has the air; rather the one has perished and the other has come to be; but the body, if anything, has grown. But this too is impossible. For we must preserve in our account the features that belong to the thing that grows and wastes away. These are three: one is that any part whatever of the growing magnitude becomes greater, for instance, if it is flesh, greater by flesh; a second, that this happens by something coming to it; and a third, that the thing growing is preserved and persists. For in unqualified coming-to-be or perishing nothing persists, but in being altered, or growing, or wasting away, the very thing that grows or is altered persists as the same; but there, in alteration, it is the affection, and there, in growth, the magnitude, that does not remain the same. If, then, the growth we have described is to occur, it would be possible to grow with nothing at all coming to it and nothing persisting, and to waste away with nothing leaving it, and for the thing that grows not to persist.
30| But this must be preserved, for growth is assumed to be of just this kind. One might also raise the difficulty of what the thing that grows actually is: is it that to which something is added—for instance, if it makes the shin grow, the shin becomes greater—while that by which it grows, namely the nourishment, does not? Why, then, have not both grown? For both the thing that grows and the thing by which it grows become greater, as when you mix wine with water; for each of the two alike becomes more. Is it because in the one case the substance persists, but in the other, as with the nourishment, it does not? Since here too, in a mixture, we speak of whichever ingredient prevails—we say, for example, that it is wine; for the whole mixture performs the function of wine, not that of water. Similarly too in alteration: if a thing remains flesh, and remains what it is, but some affection belonging to it in its own right comes to be in it which did not exist before, then this has been altered; but the thing by which it has been altered has sometimes undergone nothing itself, and sometimes it too has been affected. But the altering agent, and the origin of the motion, is present within the thing growing and the thing being altered; for in these cases the mover is present in the thing itself, since even what has entered may at some point become greater, and so too the body that has drawn benefit from it—for instance, if what entered should turn into breath. But this, once affected in this way, has perished, and the mover is no longer present in it.
31| Since these points have been gone through with sufficient difficulty, we must also try to find a solution to the difficulty, while preserving both that the thing growing persists and grows by something coming to it, and wastes away by something leaving it, and further that any perceptible point whatever has become either greater or smaller, and that the body is not void, nor are there two magnitudes in the same place, nor does anything grow by means of something bodiless. We must grasp the cause by first distinguishing, first, that the non-homogeneous parts grow because the homogeneous parts grow (for each of them is composed out of these); and next, that flesh and bone and each part of that kind is twofold, just like the other things that have form in matter; for both the matter and the form alike are called flesh or bone. That any part whatever grows, and grows by something coming to it, is possible with respect to the form, but not with respect to the matter. One must conceive it as when someone measures out water with the same measure; for what results is always different water each time. In just this way the matter of the flesh grows, and something is not added to absolutely any and every part; rather, part flows out and part comes in; but with respect to the shape and the form, it is added to any part whatever.
32| This is more evident in the case of the non-homogeneous parts, for instance a hand, namely that it has grown in proportion; for there the matter, being distinct, is more evident than the form is in the case of flesh and the other homogeneous parts. That is why, in a corpse, it would seem more true that there is still flesh and bone than that there is still a hand and an arm. So that in one sense any part whatever of the flesh has grown, and in another sense it has not. For with respect to the form, something has come to any part whatever; but with respect to the matter, it has not. The whole, however, has become greater, since something has come to it—what is called nourishment, and is also its contrary—while it changes into the same form, as when something moist comes to something dry, and having come to it, changes and becomes dry itself; for in one sense the like grows by the like, in another sense by the unlike. One might raise the difficulty of what sort the thing must be by which growth occurs. It is clear that it must be that thing potentially—for instance, if it is flesh, potentially flesh. In actuality, then, it is something else; and this, having perished, has become flesh. It is not, then, this thing in its own right; for that would be coming-to-be, not growth; rather, it is by this that the thing growing grows. What, then, does it undergo from this, to be made to grow? It is mixed in, as when someone pours water onto wine, and the mixture is able to make wine.
33| And just as fire, having caught hold of what is combustible, so too in the thing that is growing and is actually flesh, the growth-producing power present in it, when potential flesh comes to it, makes that potential flesh into actual flesh. This happens, then, while the two exist together; for if separately, it would be coming-to-be. For it is possible to make fire in this way too, by putting logs onto a fire that already exists. But done this way it is growth; whereas when the logs themselves catch fire on their own, it is coming-to-be. As for quantity: the universal does not come to be, just as no animal comes to be that is neither man nor one of the particulars; but just as the universal does not come to be there, so quantity as such does not come to be here. What comes to be is flesh, or bone, or a hand, and the homogeneous parts belonging to these. So when something of a given quantity comes to it, it is not quantity that comes to be, but flesh of a given quantity. Insofar, then, as the combination of both—flesh, say, of a given quantity—exists potentially, in this respect the thing produces growth; for what comes to be must become both of that quantity and flesh; but insofar as it is only flesh, it nourishes; for in this respect nourishment and growth differ in their account. Hence a thing is nourished for as long as it is preserved, even while it is wasting away, but it does not always grow. And nourishment and growth are the same thing, though different in being: for insofar as what comes to it is potentially flesh of a given quantity, in this respect it is productive of the growth of flesh; but insofar as it is only potentially flesh, it is nourishment.
34| This form is without matter, being a sort of immaterial potentiality in matter. Now if further matter is added—matter that is itself potentially immaterial, and that likewise has quantity potentially—things thus formed will be greater while remaining immaterial. But if it can no longer act in this way, but—as water mixed in ever-greater quantity with wine eventually makes the wine watery, and finally just water—then there is a diminishing of the quantity, and the form no longer persists. 6 Since we must first speak about matter and the so-called elements—whether they exist or not, and whether each is everlasting or comes to be in some way, and if it comes to be, whether all things come to be from one another in the same way, or whether some one of them is primary—it is necessary first to speak about the matters now discussed without proper definition. For all who generate the elements, and those who generate the things composed of the elements, make use of separating-out and combining, and of acting and being acted on. Now combining is mixing; but how we mean things to be mixed has not been clearly defined. But surely there can be no altering
35| nor separating-out and combining, if nothing acts and nothing is acted on. For even those who posit several elements generate things by their acting on and being acted on by one another, and those who derive all things from one are also bound to speak of production, and Diogenes is right in saying that if all things did not come from one, there could be no acting and being acted on by one another—for instance the hot being cooled and this in turn being heated; for it is not heat and cold that change into one another, but plainly the underlying subject does. So wherever there is acting and being acted on, these must have some one underlying nature in common. Now it is not true to say that all things are of this sort, but only those in which there is acting by one another. But if we must study acting and being acted on and mixing, we must also study contact; for things cannot properly act on and be acted on by one another unless they are capable of touching one another, nor can they be mixed at all in the first place without touching in some way. So we must define these three things: what touching is, what mixing is, and what production is. Let us take this as our starting point: of necessity, whatever things admit of mixing must be capable of touching one another;
36| and if something acts while another is acted on, properly speaking, the same holds for these too. So we must speak first about touch. Now much as each of the other terms is said in many ways—some homonymously, others derived from one another and from a primary sense—so it is with touch as well. All the same, the term used in the strict sense belongs to things that have position. And position belongs to the same things as place; for to mathematical objects too we must assign touch and place in like manner, whether each of them is separated or exists in some other way. If, then, as was defined earlier, touching is having the extremities together, then those things would touch one another that, being determinate magnitudes and having position, have their extremities together at the same time. And since position belongs to whatever also has place, and the primary differentia of place is up and down and the like among
37| the opposites, everything that touches one another must have weight or lightness, or both, or one of the two. Such things are capable of being acted on and of acting; so it is clear that things are naturally suited to touch one another when, their magnitudes being divided, their extremities are together, they being capable of moving and being moved by one another. But since what moves does not move in the same way as what is moved—rather, the one, being itself in motion, must also move something else, while the other is unmoved—clearly we shall say the same about the agent too; for people say that what moves produces something, and what produces moves something. All the same, there is a difference, and we must draw a distinction; for not everything that moves can be said to produce, if we are going to oppose the agent to the patient. This belongs to things whose motion is an affection. An affection occurs only insofar as a thing is altered—for instance white and hot; but moving extends more widely than producing. This much, then, is clear: that in one sense moving things would touch the things moved, but in another sense not. But the definition of touching, taken generally, applies to things that have position, one being capable of moving and the other of being moved, and, with respect to each other, one capable of moving and the other capable of being moved, in cases where acting and being acted on occur. Now for the most part, what touches is touched by what it touches; for nearly all moving things move by moving whatever stands in their way, and in cases where this is necessary it also appears that what touches is touched by what it touches. But in another sense, we sometimes say that the mover touches only what is moved, while what is touched does not touch what touches it; but because things of the same kind move by being moved, it seems necessary that what touches be touched in turn. So if something moves while itself being unmoved, that thing would touch what is movable, but nothing would touch it; for we sometimes say that what causes us pain touches us, but we ourselves do not touch it. Let this, then, be our account of touch as it occurs among natural things.
38| 7 Next we must speak about acting and being acted on. We have inherited from our predecessors accounts opposed to one another. Most of them, at any rate, agree on this: that like is wholly unaffected by like, because neither of two like things is any more capable of acting than of being acted on than the other (for the same properties belong equally to things that are alike), while unlike and different things are naturally suited to act and be acted on by one another. Indeed, when a smaller fire is destroyed by a greater one, they say this happens on account of the opposition between them; for the much, they say, is opposite to the little. Democritus alone spoke differently from the rest; for he says that the agent and the patient are the same and alike; for, he says, it is not possible for things that are other and different to be acted on by one another—rather, even if things that are other do act on one another in some way, it is not insofar as they are other but insofar as some identical thing belongs to them—and this is how it comes about for them. These, then, are the views stated; and those who speak in this way seem to be saying things opposed to one another. The cause of this apparent conflict is that, though one ought to consider the whole matter, each of them happens to be speaking of only a part of it. For it is reasonable that the like, and what is in every way wholly undifferentiated, should not be acted on at all by the like (for why would one of them be any more capable of acting than the other?); and if it is possible for a thing to be acted on by its like, then it is possible for it to be acted on by itself as well; yet if this were so, nothing would be either indestructible or unmoved, given that like, insofar as it is like, is capable of acting—
39| for everything would move itself. And likewise for what is wholly other and in no way the same: nothing would happen to whiteness by a line, or to a line by whiteness, except perhaps incidentally—for instance, if it happens that the line is white or black; for things that are neither contraries nor composed of contraries do not remove one another from their own nature. But since it is not just anything that is naturally suited to be acted on and to act, but only things that either are contraries or contain a contrariety, it is necessary that the agent and the patient be alike and the same in genus, but unlike and contrary in species; for it is natural for body to be acted on by body, flavor by flavor, color by color, and in general the same-in-kind by the same-in-kind. The reason for this is that all contraries belong to the same genus. And contraries act on and are acted on by one another. So it is necessary that the agent and the patient be in one sense the same, and in another sense other and unlike one another. And since the patient and the agent are the same and alike in genus but unlike in species, and contraries are of this sort, it is clear that contraries, and things intermediate between contraries, are capable of acting on and being acted on by one another;
40| For corruption and generation, in a general sense, occur in these very cases. That is why it is reasonable enough that fire heats and the cold cools, and in general that what acts assimilates to itself what is affected: for what acts and what is affected are contraries, and generation is into the contrary, so that what is affected must necessarily change into what acts, since it is only in this way that generation will be into the contrary. And it is reasonable, then, that although they do not say the same thing, both parties nonetheless touch on the nature of the case. For we say that sometimes it is the substrate that is affected—for instance that the person is restored to health, or heated, or cooled, and so on in the same way for the rest—and sometimes that it is the cold that is heated, or the ailing thing that is restored to health; and both statements are true. And it is the same way, too, with what acts: sometimes we say that the person heats, sometimes that the hot thing heats; for in one sense it is the matter that is affected, in another sense the contrary. Those, then, who looked to the one case thought that what acts and what is affected must have something the same, while those who looked to the other cases thought the contrary. But the same account must be supposed to hold concerning acting and being affected as concerning moving and being moved.
41| For what moves is also spoken of in two ways: that in which the principle of motion resides is thought to move (since the principle is the first of the causes), and again so is the last thing, in relation to what is moved and to the coming-to-be. Likewise too with what acts: for we say both that the doctor heals and that the wine heals. Now nothing prevents the first mover from being unmoved in the motion; indeed in some cases this is even necessary; but the last thing always moves by being itself moved. And in the case of acting, the first thing is unaffected, but the last thing is itself affected as well: for whatever does not share the same matter acts without being affected—medicine, for instance, is like this, since medicine itself, in producing health, is in no way affected by the person being restored to health. But the food, in acting, is itself affected in some way too: for it is either heated or cooled or affected in some other way at the same time as it acts. Medicine, then, stands as a kind of principle, while the food is the last thing, the thing in actual contact. So whatever things have their form not in matter are, among things that act, unaffected, while whatever have it in matter are subject to being affected. For we say that the matter is, so to speak, alike the same for either of a pair of opposites, as being a kind of genus, while what is capable of being hot, when what can heat it is present and near, is necessarily heated.
42| That is why, as has been said, some things that act are unaffected and others are subject to being affected. And just as with motion, so it is with things that act: for there too the first mover is unmoved, and among things that act the first thing that acts is unaffected. Now the productive cause is a cause in the sense of that from which the principle of motion comes; but that for the sake of which is not productive. That is why health is not productive, except by a transference of the term: for when the agent is present, something comes to be that is affected, but when the states are already present, nothing further comes to be—it already is; and the forms and the ends are certain states, while matter, as matter, is subject to being affected. Fire, then, has heat in matter; but if there should be something hot that is separable, this could not be affected by anything. Now perhaps it is impossible for this to be separable; but if there are indeed some such things, then what has been said would be true in their case. What acting and being affected are, then, and to what things they belong, and why and how, let this be the way we have determined it.
43| 8 Let us say again in what way this can happen. Some think that each thing is affected by way of certain pores, when what acts, being last and most authoritative, enters in; and they say it is in this way that we see and hear and perceive by all the other senses as well, and further that a thing is seen through air and water and other transparent bodies because these have pores invisible on account of their smallness, but dense and set in rows, and that the more transparent bodies have more of them. Some, then, drew this distinction in certain cases—Empedocles, for instance, who says that not only in the case of things acting and being affected, but that things also mix whenever their pores are commensurate with one another; but it is Leucippus and Democritus who have determined the matter about all things most thoroughly, and in one systematic account, taking as their starting point what is in accordance with nature. For it seemed to some of the ancients that what is must of necessity be one and unmoved: for the void is not a thing that is, and motion would not be possible without a separately existing void; nor again could there be a plurality of things without something to separate them. And it makes no difference, they held, if someone supposes the whole is not continuous but touches itself while being divided, rather than saying there are many things and not one, and a void.
44| For if it is divisible everywhere, nothing is one, so that neither is there a plurality, but the whole is void; while if it is divisible in one part but not another, this looks like something contrived: for up to what point, and why, is one part of the whole in this state and full, while another is divided? And further, it is equally necessary to say that there is no motion. On these grounds, then, going beyond perception and disregarding it, on the ground that one ought to follow the argument instead, they say that the whole is one and unmoved, and some say unlimited as well; for a limit would be a limit against the void. These thinkers, then, declared themselves about the truth in this way and for these reasons; and while these conclusions seem to follow from the arguments, in point of fact to hold such opinions seems close to madness—for none of the mad are so far out of their senses as to think that fire and ice are one; it is only in the case of the fine and what appears so by habituation that some, on account of madness, think there is no difference. But Leucippus thought he had arguments which, being in agreement with perception, would not do away with either generation or corruption or motion or the multiplicity of the things that are.
45| Having conceded this much to appearances, but agreeing with those who establish the One that there could be no motion without void, he says that the void is not a thing that is ⟨he makes the void a non-being⟩, and that of what is, none of it is non-being. For what strictly is, is entirely full; but that what is such is not one, but there are unlimited things in multitude, invisible on account of the smallness of their bulk. These move about in the void (for there is void), and by combining they produce generation, and by separating, corruption. And they act and are affected wherever they happen to touch (for at that point they are not one), and by being put together and interwoven they generate; but from what is truly one, no multitude could come to be, nor from what are truly many could a one come to be, but this is impossible; rather, just as Empedocles and some others say things are affected through pores, so, on this view, every alteration and every case of being affected occurs in this way, dissolution and corruption coming about through the void, and increase likewise, by solid bodies slipping in besides. And Empedocles too is pretty much bound to say the same thing as Leucippus says: for there must be certain solid bodies, indivisible ones, unless the pores are everywhere continuous.
46| But this is impossible: for there will be nothing else solid apart from the pores, but everything will be void. It is necessary, then, that the things that touch be indivisible, and that what lies between them be void — what that man calls pores. This is also how Leucippus speaks about acting and being acted on. The ways, then, by which some things act and others are acted on are pretty much as stated; and about these matters, and how they speak of them, this much is clear, and it appears to follow fairly consistently with the positions they themselves hold. With the others it is less clear — for example, in what way there will be generation, corruption, and alteration for Empedocles is not clear. For the former hold that the primary bodies are indivisible, differing only in shape, and it is out of these primary bodies that things are composed and into these ultimate bodies that they are dissolved. But for Empedocles, it is evident that as regards the other things generation and corruption extend down to the elements; but how the accumulated bulk of these very elements themselves comes to be and perishes is neither clear, nor is it possible for him to say, since he does not even say that fire is an element — and likewise for all the others — as Plato writes in the Timaeus. For it makes this much difference from speaking in the same way as Leucippus: that the one speaks of solids as the indivisibles, the other of planes; and the one holds that each of the indivisible solids is bounded by an unlimited number of shapes, the other by a limited number, since both indeed say that they are indivisible and bounded by shapes.
47| From these principles, then, generations and separations would come about for Leucippus in two ways: through the void and through contact (for by this each thing is divisible), but for Plato only through contact — for he says that void does not exist. Now about the indivisible planes we have spoken in our earlier discussions; but about the indivisible solids, let a more extensive examination of what follows from them be set aside for now. Yet, to say a little by way of digression: it is necessary to say that each of the indivisibles is unaffected (for it cannot be acted on except through the void) and productive of no affection — for it cannot be either cold or hard. And yet this is absurd, to assign heat alone to the spherical shape; for it is necessary that the opposite too, the cold, belong to some other of the shapes. It is also absurd if these do belong — I mean heat and cold — while heaviness and lightness and hardness and softness do not belong; and yet Democritus says that each of the indivisibles is heavier in proportion to its excess, so that clearly it is also hotter. But if they are of this sort, it is impossible that they not be acted on by one another — for example, the mildly hot by the greatly excessive hot.
48| But further, if it is hard, it is also soft. Now the soft is already spoken of in terms of being acted on in some way — for what yields is soft. But it is also absurd if nothing belongs to it except shape alone; and equally absurd if something does belong, but only one thing — say, the one is cold, the other hot — for then their nature would not be a single one. And it is likewise impossible if more than one belongs to a single indivisible; for being indivisible, it will hold its affections in the same subject, so that if it is acted on — supposing it is cooled — it will also, in that very same subject, both do something and be affected in something else. And the same holds for the other affections too; for this follows in the same way both for those who call the indivisibles solids and for those who call them planes. For neither rarer nor denser can come to be, since there is no void within the indivisibles. Further, it is also absurd that small things should be indivisible but large ones not; for as things stand, it is reasonable that the larger break up more than the small — for some things are easily dissolved, such as the large ones, since they collide with many things — but why indivisibility in general should belong more to the small than to the large is unclear. Further, is the nature of all those solids one, or does one kind differ from another — as it would if some were of fire and others of earth in bulk?
49| For if the nature of them all is one, what is it that keeps them separate? Or why, when they touch, do they not become one, as water does when it touches water? For the latter is in no way different from the former. But if they are different, what are these differences? And it is clear that these must be laid down as the principles and causes of what happens, rather than the shapes. Further, being different in nature, they will either act or be acted on when they touch one another. Further, what is it that moves them? For if it is something else, then the moved thing is passive; but if each moves itself, then either it will be divisible — moving in one respect and being moved in another — or contraries will belong to the same thing in the same respect, and the matter will be one not merely in number but also in potentiality. Now as for those who say that affections come about through the boring of pores: if the affections occur even when the pores are completely filled, the pores are superfluous; for if a thing is affected in this way as a whole, it would be affected in the same way even without having pores, being itself continuous. Further, how is it possible for seeing-through to happen as they describe it? For it is not possible for sight to pass through transparent bodies by way of contact, nor through the pores, if each pore is full — for how will that differ from not having pores at all?
50| For everything will alike be full. But further, even if these pores are void, but must contain bodies within themselves, the same thing will result again. And if they are so small in size that no body at all can be received into them, it is absurd to suppose that a small pore is void while a large one is not, however large it may be — or to suppose that void means anything other than the room occupied by a body — so that it is clear that for every body there will be a void equal to it in bulk. In general, positing pores is superfluous; for if a body produces no effect by way of contact, it will not produce one by passing through the pores either; but if it does so by touching, then even with no pores present, some things will be acted on and others will act, among things naturally disposed toward one another in this way. It is clear from this, then, that to speak of pores in the way some suppose is either false or pointless. And since bodies are everywhere divisible, it is absurd to posit pores at all — for insofar as they are divisible, they can be separated.
51| 9 Let us state in what way generating, acting, and being acted upon belong to existing things, taking as our starting point the principle stated many times before. For if one thing is such potentially and another actually, then it is not the nature of the potential to be acted on in one respect and not in another, but wholly, to the extent that it is such — though less or more according as it is more or less such. And it is in this sense that one might rather speak of pores, as in mines, where continuous veins run through the region that is acted upon. Now each thing that is naturally unified and one is unaffected. And likewise things are unaffected when they do not touch either these things or others which they are naturally disposed to act on or be acted on by. I mean, for example, that fire heats not only by touching but even when it is at a distance — for fire heats the air, and the air heats the body, being naturally disposed to act and be acted on. But the view that a thing is acted on in one respect and not in another must be stated only after we have made a distinction at the outset. For if magnitude is not divisible in every respect, but there is some indivisible body or plane, then it would not be capable of being acted on in every respect, nor would anything be continuous at all; but if this is false and every body is divisible, then it makes no difference whether it has been divided but is still in contact, or is merely divisible;
52| For if a thing can be separated out along its seams, as some say, then even if it has not yet been divided, it will still be divided-in-principle; for it is capable of being divided; for nothing impossible results. But in general it is absurd that this should happen in this way only, by bodies being split apart; for this account does away with alteration, whereas we see the same continuous body being at one time fluid and at another solidified, and this is not something it undergoes by division and composition, nor by turning and inter-contact, as Democritus says; for it has not become solid out of fluid by being transposed or rearranged in position while remaining the same in nature. Nor do the hard and solidified bodies contain indivisible masses within them; rather, the whole thing alike is fluid, and at another time it is hard and solidified. Further, growth and diminution could not occur on this view either; for nothing will have come to be larger, if there is to be addition, unless the whole has changed, either by something being mixed in or by the thing changing in its own right. That there is such a thing as generating and producing, and coming-to-be and being-acted-on by one another, and in what way this is possible, and what some say is possible but is not, let this be determined in this way. It remains to consider mixture in the same manner of inquiry; for this was the third of the things proposed at the start.
53| We must examine what mixture is and what the mixed is, and to which existing things it belongs and how, and further whether there is such a thing as mixture at all or whether this is false; for some say it is impossible for one thing to be mixed with another. For, they say, if the things mixed still exist and have not been altered, they are no more mixed now than before, but are in the same condition as before; while if one of them has perished, they are not mixed, but one thing exists and the other does not, whereas mixture requires both to exist alike; and in the same way, even if both of the things combined have perished when they came together, they are not mixed, since things that do not exist at all cannot be said to be mixed. Now this argument seems to seek to distinguish how mixture differs from generation and corruption, and how the mixed differs from what is generated and what is destroyed; for clearly they must differ, if mixture is to exist at all. So once these points are made clear, the difficulties raised would be resolved. But in fact we do not say that the fuel is mixed with the fire, nor that it becomes mixed as it burns, neither with itself in its parts nor with the fire, but rather that the fire comes to be and the fuel is destroyed. In the same way we do not say that food is mixed with the body, nor that shape is mixed with the wax so as to shape the mass.
54| Nor can body and white, nor in general affections and states, be mixed with the things they belong to; for they are seen to be preserved unchanged. But indeed white and knowledge cannot be mixed either, nor can anything else that is not separable. But those who say that all things were once together and mixed do not put this well; for not everything is mixable with everything, but each of the things mixed must exist as something separable, and none of the affections is separable. Now since some existing things are potential and some actual, it is possible for the things mixed to be, in a sense, and also not to be: in actuality, the thing that has come to be out of them is one different thing, while each of the ingredients is still potentially what it was before being mixed, and has not perished; for this is what the argument raised as a difficulty earlier. It is evident that the things being mixed came together earlier out of a separated state and are capable of being separated again. So they neither persist in actuality, as body and white do, nor are they destroyed, neither one of them nor both; for their potentiality is preserved. Let these points, then, be set aside; but the difficulty connected with these must be dealt with in turn, namely whether mixture is something relative to perception. For when the things being mixed have been divided into such small parts, and placed alongside one another in such a way that each is not evident to perception, is the mixture then complete or not, but is it rather the case that any part whatsoever lies beside any other part of the things mixed?
55| Now it is said in that sense, for instance, that barley is mixed with wheat, when any grain of the one is placed beside any grain of the other. But if every body is divisible, then, given that there is such a thing as body being mixed with body with uniform parts throughout, any part whatsoever would have to come to lie beside any part whatsoever. But since it is not possible to divide down to the smallest parts, and composition is not the same thing as mixture but something different, it is clear that we should not say that the things mixed are mixed by being preserved in small pieces side by side. For then it will be composition, and not blending or mixture, and the part will not have the same ratio as the whole. But we say that, if anything is to be mixed, the thing mixed must be uniform throughout, and just as a part of water is water, so too is a part of the blended thing. But if mixture is a composition into small pieces, none of this will hold; instead, things will only be mixed relative to perception — and the same thing will be mixed for one person, if he does not have sharp sight, while for Lynceus nothing will be mixed — nor will it hold by division either, so that any part lies beside any part, for it is impossible to divide in that way. So either there is no such thing as mixture, or we must say how it is possible for it to come about again. There are, as we said, among existing things some that are active and some that are passive under these; now those things reciprocate with one another, whose matter is the same, and they are both active on one another and passive to one another.
56| But things whose matter is not the same act without themselves being acted upon. Of these there is no mixture; hence neither medicine nor health produces health by being mixed with bodies. Of the things that are active and passive, those that are easily divided, when many are combined with few, or great with small, do not produce a mixture but rather the growth of the dominant one; for the one changes over into the dominant thing, as, for instance, a drop of wine is not mixed with ten thousand measures of water, since its form is dissolved and it changes over into the water as a whole. But when they are somehow equal in their powers, then each changes over from its own nature into the dominant one, yet neither becomes the other, but something intermediate and common results. It is clear, then, that those things are mixable which have a contrariety among the things acting; for it is these that are indeed capable of being acted upon by one another. And small parts placed beside small parts are mixed more readily; for they displace one another more easily and quickly, whereas a large quantity acted on by a large quantity does this only over a long time. Hence things that are easily bounded, among things divisible and passive, are mixable — for these are easily divided into small parts, and this is what being easily bounded means — for instance, fluids are the most mixable of bodies; for the fluid is the most easily bounded of divisible things, provided it is not viscous.
57| For viscous things only make the resulting mass more numerous and larger. But when one of the two is passive only, or is so to an extreme degree, while the other is passive very faintly indeed, then the thing mixed from the two is either no greater or only slightly greater — which is what happens with tin and bronze. For some existing things stammer, so to speak, in relation to one another and waver between the two states; for they appear to be mixed only faintly in a way, and as if one were receptive and the other were the form. This is what happens in these cases: the tin, being as it were an affection without matter of the bronze, all but vanishes, and once mixed in, departs, having done nothing but color it. And this same thing happens in other cases too. It is clear, then, from what has been said, both that there is such a thing as mixture, and what it is, and why, and which of the existing things are mixable, since there are some things of such a kind as to be passive to one another and easily bounded and easily divided; for these need not have perished when mixed, nor still be simply the same as before, nor is their mixture a composition, nor a composition relative to perception; rather, the mixable is whatever is easily bounded and is passive and active, and mixable with something of the same kind (for the mixable is relative to something of the same name), and mixture is the unification of the mixables once they have been altered.
1| B. 1 On mixture, then, and contact, and acting and being acted on, we have said how these belong to things that change according to nature; and further, concerning generation and destruction — both unqualified generation and generation of a particular thing (the wording of this clause is disputed among the manuscripts and editors; the variants recorded do not affect the sense) — how these are, and through what cause. Likewise we have also spoken about alteration: what being altered is, and what differentiates it from these other changes. It remains to consider the so-called elements of bodies. For generation and destruction belong to all substances constituted by nature, and not without perceptible bodies; and as for the matter underlying these, some say it is one — positing air, for instance, or fire, or something intermediate between them, being a body and separable — while others say it is more than one in number: some say fire and earth, others these together with air as a third, and others again water as a fourth besides these, as Empedocles does; and they hold that generation and destruction happen to things out of these, as they combine and separate, or are altered.
2| That it is right to call the primary things principles and elements, let this be agreed — those things from whose change, whether by combination and separation or by some other kind of change, generation and destruction come about. But those who posit a single matter besides the things mentioned, and make this matter corporeal and separable, are mistaken. For it is impossible for this body, being perceptible, to exist without contrariety; this unlimited thing which some say is the principle must be either light or heavy, either cold or hot. But as it is written in the Timaeus, no definition is given of it; for he has not said clearly whether the all-receiving thing is separate from the elements. Nor does he make any use of it, even though he says there is something underlying prior to the so-called elements, as gold underlies works made of gold. And yet even this is not well said, put in this way; rather, for things of which there is alteration, it holds in this way, but for things of which there is generation and destruction, it is impossible for that from which they came to be called by the same name. And yet he says it is far truest to call each thing gold. But since the elements are solids, he carries the analysis down only as far as planes; and it is impossible for the nurse and the primary matter to be planes.
3| We, however, say that there is some matter of perceptible bodies, but that this matter is not separable, but is always accompanied by contrariety, and it is out of this that the so-called elements come to be. This has been determined more precisely elsewhere. Nevertheless, since it is in this way that the primary bodies come from matter, we must give a determination about these as well, for those who suppose that the inseparable matter — that which underlies the contraries — is the first and primary principle. For neither is the hot matter for the cold, nor is the cold matter for the hot, but what underlies both of them is. So that, first, the potentially perceptible body is a principle; second, the contrarieties — I mean, for example, heat and cold; and third, already, fire and water and things of that sort. For these change into one another, and not in the way Empedocles and others say (for then there would be no alteration), while the contrarieties themselves do not change. But none the less we must also say, as regards body, of what kind and how many the principles are to be called; for the others assume them and use them, and say nothing about why they are these or why they are this many.
4| 2 Since, then, we are seeking the principles of perceptible body, and this is tangible, and the tangible is that of which the perception is touch, it is clear that not all contrarieties produce forms and principles of body, but only those that go by touch. For things differ by contrariety, and specifically by tangible contrariety. This is why neither whiteness and blackness, nor sweetness and bitterness, nor likewise any of the other perceptible contrarieties, produces an element. And yet sight is prior to touch, so that its underlying subject is prior too. But this is not an affection of tangible body qua tangible, but in some other respect, even if it happens to be prior in nature. We must, then, first divide among the tangible qualities themselves which are the primary differentiae and contrarieties. The contrarieties that go by touch are these: hot–cold, dry–wet, heavy–light, hard–soft, viscous–brittle, rough–smooth, coarse–fine. Of these, heavy and light are neither active nor passive; for they are not so called by acting on something else or by being acted on by something else. But the elements must be active and passive with respect to one another, for they mix and change into one another. Hot and cold and wet and dry, however, are called some of them active and some passive:
5| for hot is that which combines things of the same kind (for the separating that they say fire does is really a combining of things akin to one another; the effect is to remove what is foreign), while cold is that which draws together and combines alike both things akin and things not of the same kind; wet is that which, being unbounded, is easily bounded by an external boundary; dry is that which is easily bounded by its own boundary, but hard to bound by an external one. Fine and coarse, viscous and brittle, hard and soft, and the other differentiae, arise from these. For since what is capable of filling up gaps belongs to the wet, because it is not bounded but is easily bounded and follows whatever touches it, and the fine is capable of filling up gaps (for it consists of fine parts, and what consists of small parts is capable of filling up gaps, since whole touches whole throughout, and the fine is especially of this sort), it is clear that the fine will belong to the wet, and the coarse to the dry. Again, the viscous belongs to the wet (for the viscous is a wet thing that has undergone a certain affection, as oil is), and the brittle belongs to the dry; for the brittle is what is completely dry, so that it has also solidified through lack of moisture. Further, the soft belongs to the wet (for the soft is what yields into itself and does not displace, which is what the wet does;
6| and this is why the wet is not itself soft, but the soft belongs to the wet), while the hard belongs to the dry; for the hard is what has solidified, and what has solidified is dry. But dry and wet are spoken of in more than one way; for opposed to the dry are both the wet and the damp, and again opposed to the wet are both the dry and the solidified; and all of these belong to the dry and the wet in the primary sense already stated. For since the dry is opposed to the damp, and the damp is that which has an alien moisture on its surface, while the drenched is that which has it in depth, and the dry is that which is deprived of this, it is clear that the damp will belong to the wet, while the dry opposed to it belongs to the dry in the primary sense. Again, the wet and the solidified stand in the same way: the wet is that which has moisture of its own, the drenched is that which has an alien moisture in depth, and the solidified is that which is deprived of this. So that of these too, one will belong to the dry, the other to the wet. It is clear, then, that all the other differentiae are reduced to these primary four. And these are no longer reducible to fewer; for the hot is not simply the wet or simply the dry, nor is the wet simply the hot or simply the cold, nor are the cold and the dry either under one another or under the hot and the wet;
7| So there must necessarily be these four. 3 Since there are four elements, and of the four there are six possible pairings, but opposites are not naturally paired together (for it is impossible for the same thing to be both hot and cold, or again both dry and wet), it is clear that there will be four pairings of the elements: hot with dry, hot with wet, cold with wet, and cold with dry. And this follows, in due proportion, upon the simple bodies that appear to our senses, fire, air, water, and earth: for fire is hot and dry, air is hot and wet (since air is, as it were, vapor), water is cold and wet, and earth is cold and dry. So it is reasonable that the differentiae should be distributed among the primary bodies in this way, and that their number should correspond in due proportion. For of all who make the simple bodies elements, some make one, some two, some three, some four. Now those who speak of only one, and then generate the rest by condensation and rarefaction, end up in effect positing two principles, the rare and the dense, or the hot and the cold; for these are what do the working, while the one is set down as their underlying matter. Those who straightaway posit two, as Parmenides posits fire and earth, make the things between them mixtures of these two, namely air and water. And likewise
8| those who speak of three, as Plato does in his divisions: for he makes the middle term a mixture. And those who posit two and those who posit three say more or less the same thing, except that the latter divide the middle term into two, while the former make it only one. Some, however, straightaway speak of four, as Empedocles does; yet even he reduces them to two, since he sets everything else in opposition to fire. But fire and air and each of the things named are not in fact simple, but mixed; the simple bodies are of that character, but are not identical with them — for instance, whatever is like fire is fire-like, not fire, and what is like air is air-like; and similarly with the rest. Fire is an excess of heat, just as ice is an excess of cold; for solidifying and boiling are each a kind of excess, the one of cold, the other of heat. If, then, ice is the solidifying of what is wet and cold, fire will be the boiling of what is dry and hot. That is why nothing comes to be either out of ice or out of fire. Since the simple bodies are four, each of the two pairs belongs to one of the two regions: fire and air belong to what moves toward the boundary, earth and water to what moves toward the center. Fire and earth are the extremes and the most unmixed, while water and air are intermediate and more mixed. And each pair is opposite to the other: water is opposite to fire, and earth to air; for these are constituted out of opposite affections. Nevertheless, taken simply, each of the four is characterized by one quality more than the other: earth is more dry than cold, water is more cold than wet, air is more wet than hot, and fire is more hot than dry.
9| 4 Since it has already been determined that the simple bodies come to be out of one another, and at the same time they are evidently observed by perception to come to be (for otherwise there would be no alteration, since alteration is in respect of the affections of the tangible), we must state the manner of their change into one another, and whether it is possible for everything to come to be from everything, or whether it is possible for some and not for others. That all naturally change into one another is clear: for generation is into opposites and out of opposites, and all the elements have opposition to one another because their differentiae are opposite; for in some pairs both qualities are opposite, as with fire and water (the one being dry and hot, the other wet and cold), while in others only the one quality is opposite, as with air and water (the one being wet and hot, the other wet and cold). So it is clear in general that everything is naturally capable of coming to be out of everything; but it is not hard to see, case by case, how this happens: everything will come to be out of everything, but they will differ in being quicker or slower, and easier or harder.
10| For whatever things share features with one another, the transition between them is quick; whatever do not, is slow, because it is easier for one thing to change than for many. For example, out of fire will come air, when one of the two features changes (fire was hot and dry, air is hot and wet, so that if the dry is overcome by the wet, it will be air); and again out of air comes water, if the hot is overcome by the cold (for air was hot and wet, water is cold and wet, so that when the hot changes, it will be water). In the same way, out of water comes earth, and out of earth, fire; for these too share features with each other in pairs: water is wet and cold, earth is cold and dry, so that when the wet is overcome, it will be earth. And again, since fire is dry and hot, and earth is cold and dry, when the cold is destroyed, fire will come from earth. So it is clear that generation will go round in a circle for the simple bodies, and that this is the easiest manner of change, because shared features exist between things next to each other in the series.
11| But it is also possible for water to come from fire, and earth from air, and again for air and fire to come from water and earth, though this is harder, because the change involves more factors: for necessarily, if fire is to come from water, both the cold and the wet must be destroyed, and again if air is to come from earth, both the cold and the dry must be destroyed. Likewise too, if water and earth are to come from fire and air, both must change. This generation, then, takes longer. But if, of each pair, one quality is destroyed, the change is easier, though it is not a change into one another directly, but rather earth and air will come from fire and water, and fire and water will come from air and earth. For when the cold is destroyed out of water and the dry out of fire, it will be air (for what is left over is the hot from the one and the wet from the other); and when the hot is destroyed out of fire and the wet out of water, it will be earth, because what is left over is the dry from the one and the cold from the other. Likewise too, fire and water come from air and earth: when the hot is destroyed out of air and the dry out of earth, it will be water (for what is left is the wet from the one and the cold from the other); and when the wet is destroyed out of air and the cold out of earth, it will be fire, because what is left over is the hot from the one and the dry from the other, which are exactly what belongs to fire.
12| The generation of fire in this way is also confirmed by perception: for flame is fire above all, and flame is smoke burning, and smoke is composed of air and earth. But among things next to each other in the series it is not possible, when one of the pair of elements is destroyed on each side, for a transition to occur into any of the bodies, because what is left over in both is either the same quality or opposite qualities. And a body cannot come to be out of either of these: for instance, if the dry were destroyed out of fire and the wet out of air, what is left over in both is the hot; and if the hot were destroyed out of each, what is left over are the opposites, dry and wet. The same holds in the other cases too; for in all pairs next to each other, one quality is the same in both and the other is opposite. So it is at once clear that things pass from one into one only. It has now been said that everything comes to be out of everything, and in what manner the change into one another takes place.
13| 5 Nevertheless, let us examine these matters further in this way too. For if there is a matter of the natural bodies, as some think — water and air and the like — these must be either one, or two, or more. Now they cannot all be one — for instance, all air, or all water, or all fire, or all earth — if indeed change is into contraries. For if it were air, then if it persists as air, there will be alteration but not generation. But at the same time it does not even seem to be so, that a thing should be water and air at once, or anything else at all. There will then be some contrariety and differentia of which one part — fire, say — will possess something, for instance heat. But surely fire will not be hot air; for a thing of that kind would be alteration, and it does not appear to be so. Again, at the same time, if air is to come from fire, this will happen by the hot changing into its contrary. This contrary will then belong to air, and air will be something cold. So it is impossible for fire to be hot air; for the same thing would then be at once hot and cold. Both fire and air, then, will be something else, the same thing, and there will be some other, common matter. And the same argument holds concerning all of them: that none of these is the one thing out of which all things come.
14| Nor again is it some other thing besides these — something midway between air and water, say, or between air and fire, thicker than air and fire but thinner than the others; for that thing will be air and fire together with a contrariety, and privation is one member of a pair of contraries, so that thing could never exist by itself alone, as some say of the unlimited and the surrounding body. Likewise, then, it will be one of these, or none of them. If, then, nothing perceptible is prior to these, these would be all there is. It is necessary, then, either that they remain always and are unchangeable into one another, or that they change — and either all of them, or some but not others, as Plato wrote in the Timaeus. That they must change into one another, then, has been shown before. And that one does not come from another equally quickly has also been said before: that things having a common feature come from each other more quickly, and those not having one, more slowly. If, then, there is one contrariety in respect of which they change, they must be two; for the matter, the middle term, being imperceptible
15| and inseparable, does not itself figure as a further member. But since more than two are seen to exist, the fewest there could be is two. And if there are two, there cannot be three, but four, as indeed appears to be the case; for that is the number of the pairings — with six possible, two of the pairings cannot occur, because those two members are contrary to each other. Now this has been said before. But that, since they change into one another, it is impossible for any of them to be a starting principle, whether at an extreme or in the middle, is clear from the following. It will not be at the extremes, because then everything would be fire or earth — and the same argument applies to saying that everything comes from fire or from earth. And that it is not the middle term either is also clear — as some think, that air changes both into fire and into water, and water both into air and into earth, but the extreme terms no longer change into one another. For the series must come to a stop and not proceed to infinity along the line in either direction; otherwise there will be infinite contrarieties on the one continuum. Let G stand for earth, Y for water, A for air, P for fire. If, then, A changes into P and into Y, there will be a contrariety between A and P.
16| Let these be whiteness and blackness. Again, if A changes into Y, there will be another contrariety; for Y and P are not the same. Let this be dryness and wetness — X being dryness, Y being wetness. Now if white persists, water will be wet and white; but if not, water will be black, since change is into contraries. Water, then, must be either white or black. Let it be the former. Likewise, then, X — dryness — will belong to P as well. There will then also be a change for fire into water; for it possesses the contraries — fire was first black, then dry, while water is wet, then white. It is clear, then, that there will be change from each into each of them, and in their case at least, that the remaining qualities will belong there too, and that black and wet are two common features not yet paired together. That it is not possible to proceed to infinity — which was the very point we set out to prove when we arrived at this — is clear from the following. For again, if fire, P, changes into something else and does not turn back, say into Q, there will be some other contrariety between fire and Q, different from those already mentioned;
17| for Q underlies none of the same things as G, Y, A, P. Let K belong to P, and let F belong to Q. K, then, will belong to all of G, Y, A, P, since they change into one another. But let this be granted as not yet demonstrated; still this much is clear, that if Q in turn changes into something else, another contrariety will belong both to Q and to fire, P. And so on always: along with what is added, some contrariety will belong to the earlier terms as well, so that, if the terms are infinite, infinite contrarieties will belong to the one element. And if this is so, it will be impossible either to define anything or for anything to come to be; for it will be necessary, if one thing is to come from another, to run through that many contrarieties, and more besides, so that for some pairs there will never be change at all — if, say, the intermediate terms are infinite, which they must be, if the elements are infinite. Further, there will be no change even from air to fire, if the contrarieties are infinite. And everything becomes one; for it is necessary that all the contrarieties belonging to the terms above P belong also to those below it, and that those belonging to the terms below belong to those above, so that everything will be one.
18| 6 One might well wonder, in the case of those who say the elements of bodies are more than one and so do not change into one another, as Empedocles says, how they can consistently say that the elements are commensurable with one another. And yet he does speak this way: 'for all these are equal.' Now if they are commensurable in respect of quantity, there must be some one and the same thing present in all the commensurable things by which they are measured — for instance, if a pint of water yielded ten pints of air, then in a way both were the same thing, if they are measured by the same unit. But if they are not commensurable in this way in respect of quantity, as quantity measured against quantity, but rather in respect of how much they can do — for instance, if a pint of water can cool as much as ten pints of air — then in this sense they are commensurable not as quantity, but as having a certain power. But it might also be that their powers are compared not by a measure of quantity at all, but by analogy — as, for example, this is to white as that is to hot. And 'as this' signifies, in the case of quality, the similar, and in the case of quantity, the equal. It appears absurd, then, if bodies that are unchangeable are commensurable not by analogy, but by a measure of their powers — by being of equal heat, or of similar heat, so much of fire matching a many-times-greater amount of air —
19| For that same thing, by being of the same kind, will have this account when it is greater. But in fact there could not be growth at all on Empedocles' view, except by addition; for fire grows by fire: "earth increases its own kind, and aether increases aether." But these things are merely added; and the things that grow do not seem to grow in this way. It is much harder to give an account of natural generation. For everything that comes to be by nature comes to be either always or for the most part, while what falls outside the always and the for-the-most-part comes to be from the automatic and from luck. What, then, is the cause of a human coming from a human either always or for the most part, and of wheat coming from wheat but not an olive—or again, of bone being put together in this particular way? For nothing comes to be, as he says, from things simply coming together however it happens, but according to some ratio. What, then, is the cause of these things? For it is certainly not fire or earth. But neither is it Love and Strife; for one of these is the cause only of combination, the other only of separation. This is the substance of each thing, not merely "a mixing and interchange of things mixed," as he says.
20| In these cases it is called chance, not a rational account; for it is possible for things to be mixed however it happens. Now for things that exist by nature, the cause is their being so, and this is the nature of each thing—about which he says nothing. So he says nothing about nature at all. Moreover, this natural constitution is also well and good; but he praises only the mixing. And yet it is not Strife that separates out the elements but Love, elements that are by nature prior to the god; and these too are gods. Further, he speaks of motion without qualification; for it is not enough to say that Love and Strife cause motion, unless it belonged to the being of Love to produce motion of this particular kind, and to Strife of that kind—he ought to have defined it, or laid it down as a hypothesis, or demonstrated it, whether precisely or loosely, or in some way at least. Further, since bodies plainly move both by force and against nature, and also according to nature—for instance fire moving upward is not by force, but downward it is by force, and what is by force is opposed to what is according to nature, and being-by-force does exist—so motion according to nature also exists. Does Love, then, move this? Or not? For on the contrary, it seems that it is Love that moves earth upward and by force, and it is Strife rather than Love that is the cause of motion according to nature.
21| So that, on the whole, Love would rather be the cause of motion against nature. And simply put, if it is not Love or Strife that causes motion, then there is no motion at all in the bodies themselves, nor any rest—but that is absurd. Further, they are plainly in motion: Strife separated things out, and the aether was carried upward not by Strife—rather, at one point he says it happened as if by chance ("for so it chanced to run at that time, though often otherwise"), and at another point he says it is fire's nature to be carried upward, while the aether, he says, "sank down along the earth with long roots." At the same time he also says the world is in the same condition now, under Strife, as it was earlier under Love. What, then, is the first mover and cause of motion? For surely it is not Love and Strife themselves—rather, these are the causes of some particular motion; but if a first mover exists, that is a principle. It is also absurd if the soul is composed of the elements, or is one of them; for how will the alterations of the soul come about—for instance, being musical and then again unmusical, or memory or forgetting? For it is clear that if the soul is fire, it will have all the affections that belong to fire as fire;
22| and if it is a mixture, it will have bodily affections; but none of these alterations of the soul is bodily. But an inquiry into these matters is the work of a different study. As for the elements out of which bodies are composed: for those who hold that there is something common to them, or that they change into one another, it necessarily follows that if one of these claims holds, the other holds as well; but for those who do not make generation occur out of one another, nor treat each element as coming from the others—except in the way bricks come from a wall—it is absurd how flesh and bones and any of the other things will come to be out of them. And what has been said involves a difficulty
23| also for those who generate the elements out of one another: in what way does something other than these come to be from them? I mean, for instance, that water comes from fire and fire from water (for there is something common underlying both), but also flesh and marrow come to be from them—how do these come to be? For those who speak as Empedocles does, what way will there be? For there must necessarily be composition, just as a wall is composed of bricks and stones; and this mixture will consist of the elements preserved intact, but arranged together in small portions next to one another. Thus, then, flesh and each of the other things are composed. Now it follows that fire and water do not come from just any part of flesh whatsoever, in the way that, from wax, a sphere might come from this part and a pyramid from another part—yet it was at least possible for either shape to come from either part of the wax. This, then, is how it happens with flesh: both fire and water come from any part whatsoever. But for those who speak in that other way this is not possible—rather, as with a stone and a brick from a wall, each comes from a different place and part. Similarly, for those who make the matter of the elements a single thing, there is also a certain difficulty: how will something come to be out of both, for instance out of cold and hot, or fire and earth?
24| For if flesh comes from both and is neither of them, nor again a composition in which they are preserved intact, what is left except that what comes from them is matter? For the destruction of one of the two produces either the other or the matter. Is it, then, because there is a more and a less of hot and cold, that when one of them is present in actuality without qualification, the other will be present potentially; but when it is not present completely, but rather it is hot in a way that is cold, and cold in a way that is hot (because in mixing they destroy each other's excesses), then it will be neither the matter nor, without qualification, either of those contraries in actuality, but something in between? And in proportion as it is potentially more hot or cold, or the reverse, on this reckoning it will be, say, twice as hot potentially as cold, or three times as hot, or in some other such ratio. The other things, then, will come to be, when mixed, out of the contraries or out of the elements, and the elements out of these contraries, since they exist in a way potentially—not in the way matter does, but in the manner stated; and in this way it is a mixture, but in the other way what comes to be is matter. And since each also undergoes the action of its contrary, according to the distinction made at the outset: for what is actually hot is potentially cold, and what is actually cold is potentially hot, so that if they are not equal, they change into one another (and likewise with the other contraries too), and it is in this way that the elements first change; and from these, flesh and bones and such things come to be, the hot becoming cold and the cold becoming hot, when it arrives at the mean;
25| for here neither extreme is present, but the middle is broad and not indivisible. And in the same way the dry and the wet and the like produce flesh and bone and the rest by a mean. 8 All the compound bodies that exist around the region of the middle are composed out of all the simple bodies. For earth is present in all of them because each thing is present most of all and in greatest amount in its own proper place; and water is present because the compound must have a boundary, and water alone among the simple bodies is easily bounded, and further because earth by itself cannot hold together without the wet, but it is this that holds it together — for if the wet were removed from it entirely, it would fall apart. Earth, then, and water are present for these causes; air and fire are present because they are contrary to earth and water — for earth is contrary to air, and water to fire, so far as it is possible for one substance to be contrary to another. Since, then, comings-to-be are out of contraries, and one of the extremes of each pair of contraries is present, the other must be present too, so that in every compound all the simple bodies will be present. The nourishment of each kind of thing seems to bear this out too: everything is nourished by the same things it is made of, and everything is nourished by more than one thing. Indeed even what would seem to be nourished by one thing alone — plants, by water — are nourished by more than one; for earth is mixed with the water, which is why farmers try to water their crops with a mixture. Since nourishment belongs to the matter, while what is nourished, taken together with the
26| matter, is shape and form, it is reasonable that among the simple bodies fire alone should be nourished, all the others coming to be out of one another, as the earlier thinkers also say. For fire alone, or fire most of all, belongs to the form, because it is fire's nature to travel toward the boundary. And each thing has a nature to travel to its own region; and the shape and form of all things lie in their boundaries. That all bodies, then, are composed out of all the simple bodies has now been stated.
27| 9 Since some things are subject to coming-to-be and passing away, and coming-to-be occurs in the region around the middle, we must speak, with respect to every coming-to-be alike, of how many and what its principles are; for we shall study particular cases more easily in this way, once we have first grasped the universal account. The principles are equal in number and the same in kind as those in the case of the eternal and primary things; for one is, as it were, matter, and the other, as it were, form. But a third principle must also be present in addition; for the two are not sufficient to produce generation, just as they are not sufficient in the case of the primary things either. As matter, then, the cause for things subject to generation is that which is capable of being and of not being. For some things exist of necessity, as the eternal things do, while other things do not exist of necessity. Of these latter, some cannot possibly not exist, and others cannot possibly exist, because it is not possible for what is necessary to be otherwise. But some things are capable both of being and of not being, and this is precisely what is subject to coming-to-be and passing away; for at one time such a thing exists, and at another it does not exist. So coming-to-be and passing away must concern what is capable of being and of not being.
28| For this reason, as matter, this is the cause for things subject to generation, while as that for the sake of which, it is the shape and the form; and this is the account of the substance of each thing. But a third principle must also be present, which everyone dreams of but no one states, though some have thought the nature of the forms a sufficient cause for coming-to-be, as does the Socrates of the Phaedo — for he too, having found fault with the others for saying nothing, lays it down as a hypothesis that among existing things some are forms and others share in the forms, and that each thing is said to be in virtue of the form, and to come to be in virtue of a taking-on, and to pass away in virtue of a casting-off, so that, if these things are true, he thinks the forms must of necessity be causes both of coming-to-be and of passing away. Others make matter itself the cause, since motion comes from it. But neither party speaks well. For if the forms are the causes, why do they not generate continuously and always, rather than sometimes doing so and sometimes not, given that both the forms and the things sharing in them exist always? Moreover, in some cases we observe that the cause is something else: the doctor produces health, and the man of knowledge produces knowledge, even though health itself and knowledge itself, and the things that share in them, also exist;
29| and likewise in the other cases of things done through a capacity. If someone should say that it is the matter that generates, on account of motion, he would speak more in the manner of a student of nature than those who speak as above; for what alters and what reshapes is more truly a cause than what generates in name only, and in all cases we are accustomed to call this — whatever is capable of causing motion — the agent, alike among things that come to be by nature and among things that come to be by craft. Yet these thinkers too are not right. For it belongs to matter to be acted on and to be moved, while to move and to act belongs to a different capacity. This is clear both in the products of craft and in the products of nature: water does not of itself make an animal out of itself, nor does wood make a bed, but craft does. So these thinkers too are wrong on this account, and because they leave out the more authoritative cause; for they take away the essence and the shape. Further, they assign to bodies, in a very mechanical way, the capacities by which they generate, doing away with the cause that operates according to the form. For since, as they say, it is the nature of the hot to separate out and of the cold to make things cohere, and of each of the other qualities in the same way to act or to be acted on, they say that all the rest come to be and pass away out of these and through these;
30| yet fire itself is observed to be moved and to be acted on. Further, what they do is much like someone attributing to the saw, and to each of the other tools, the cause of the things that come to be by their use; for it is necessary that what is being sawn be divided, and what is being planed be smoothed, and likewise with the rest. So even granting that fire acts and moves as much as possible, they fail to see how it moves — namely, worse than the tools do. We ourselves have spoken earlier, in general terms, about the causes, and now we have given a determinate account concerning both the matter and the form.
31| 10 Further, since it has been shown that motion in respect of locomotion is eternal, it necessarily follows, these things being so, that coming-to-be too is continuous; for the locomotion will produce coming-to-be unceasingly, by bringing the generative body near and taking it away again. At the same time it is clear that what was said earlier was said rightly — that locomotion, and not coming-to-be, is the first of the changes. For it is far more reasonable that what exists should be the cause of coming-to-be for what does not exist, than that what does not exist should be the cause of being for what exists. Now what is being carried along exists, while what is coming to be does not exist; and this is why locomotion is prior to coming-to-be. Since it has been laid down and shown that coming-to-be and passing away are continuous in the world of things, and since we say that locomotion is the cause of coming-to-be, it is clear that, there being only one locomotion, both cannot come to be, because they are contraries; for what is the same and in the same condition is naturally suited always to produce the same effect. So either coming-to-be will always occur, or passing away will. But the motions must be more than one, and contrary to one another, either in their path or in their irregularity; for contrary effects have contrary causes. That is why it is not the primary locomotion that is the cause of coming-to-be and passing away, but the motion along the oblique circle —
32| For in this it is that both continuity holds and there is being-moved by two motions; for necessarily, if generation and corruption are always to be continuous, something must always be in motion, so that these changes may not fail, and by two motions, so that not only one of the two results occurs. Now the cause of the continuity is the motion of the whole, while the cause of its coming near and going away is the inclination; for it happens that the sun is at one time far off and at another near. And since the interval is unequal, the motion will be irregular; so that if by coming near and being close it generates, then by going away and this same motion becoming far off it destroys, and if by approaching many times it generates, then also by departing many times it destroys; for of contraries the causes are contrary. And the corruption and the generation that occur according to nature take place in an equal time. This is why the times and the lives of each thing have a number and are marked off by this; for all things have an order, and every life and time is measured by a period, though not all by the same period, but some by a lesser and some by a greater; for to some a year, to others a longer, to others a shorter period is the measure. And this is seen to agree, according to perception too, with the accounts we have given.
33| For we see that when the sun approaches there is generation, and when it departs there is decay, and each occupies an equal time; for the time of the corruption and of the generation that occur according to nature is equal. But it often happens that things perish in a shorter time because of their mixing with one another; for since the matter is irregular and not everywhere the same, the generations too must necessarily be irregular, some quicker and some slower, so that it happens, because of the generation of these, that corruption comes about for others. And always, as has been said, generation and corruption will be continuous, and will never fail, for the reason we have stated. This has come about reasonably; for since we say that in all things nature always reaches for the better, and being is better than not being (in how many senses we speak of being has been said elsewhere), and since it is impossible for this to hold in all things because of their being far removed from the principle, god filled up the whole in the remaining way, by making generation continuous; for in this way being would best be strung together, because coming-to-be and generation always are nearest to substance. And the cause of this, as
34| has been said many times, is the circular motion; for it alone is continuous. This is why the other things too, all those that change into one another according to their affections and their powers, for example the simple bodies, imitate the circular motion; for when air comes to be out of water, and fire out of air, and again water out of fire, we say that the generation has gone round in a circle, because it turns back again. So that straight motion too, imitating the circular, is continuous. And at the same time it is clear from this what some people are puzzled about, namely why, since each of the bodies is carried to its own proper place, the bodies have not become separated from one another in infinite time. For the cause of this is their passing over into one another; for if each remained in its own place and were not changed by its neighbor, they would already have been separated. Now they change because of the motion's being twofold; and because of this changing it is not possible for any of them to remain in any place assigned to it. So then, that there is generation and corruption, and for what cause, and what the generable and the perishable is, is clear from what has been said. But since it is necessary that there be something that moves, if there is to be motion, as has been said before elsewhere, and if the motion is to be always, that something must always be, and if it is to be continuous, this must be one and the same, and unmoved and ungenerated and unalterable, and if the circular motions are more than one, however many there are, they must all somehow be under a single principle.
35| And since time is continuous, motion too must necessarily be continuous, if indeed it is impossible for time to exist apart from motion; time, then, is the number of something continuous, namely of the circular motion, just as was determined in the accounts at the beginning. And is the motion continuous because the thing moved is continuous, or because that in which it is moved is continuous — I mean, for example, the place, or the affection? It is clear that it is because the thing moved is continuous; for how could the affection be continuous, except because the thing to which it belongs is continuous? And if it is also because of that in which the motion occurs, this belongs only to place; for place has a certain magnitude, and of this only the circular is continuous, so that it is always continuous with itself. This, then, is what makes the motion continuous, namely the body carried in a circle; and the motion measures the time.
36| 11 Since in things that are continuously moved, whether in generation or alteration or change in general, we see the sequence, one thing coming to be after another so that there is no gap, we must examine whether there is something that will necessarily be, or whether nothing is necessary, but everything admits of not coming to be. That some things are necessary is clear, and immediately the difference between "will be" and "is going to be" shows this; for what it is true to say will be, this must at some time be true to say is; but what it is now true to say is going to be, nothing prevents from not coming to be — for someone who is going to walk might not walk. And in general, since some of the things that are admit also of not being, clearly the things that come to be will be in the same condition, and this will not be of necessity. Is it then the case that all things are of this sort, or not, but rather that some things necessarily come to be without qualification, and, just as with being some things are incapable of not being and others are capable, so too is it with coming to be? For example, must solstices necessarily come to be, and is it not possible for this not to happen? If then it is necessary for the earlier thing to come to be, given that the later thing will be — for example, if there is to be a house, a foundation, and if this, then clay —
37| does it then follow that, if a foundation has come to be, a house must necessarily come to be? Or not any longer, unless that too is necessary without qualification; but if it is, then it is also necessary that, once the foundation has come to be, the house come to be; for this was the relation the earlier thing had to the later, such that if the latter is to be, the former is necessarily prior. If, then, the later thing must necessarily come to be, the earlier thing too is necessary; and if the earlier thing is necessary, then the later thing is necessary too, but not on account of that earlier thing, but because it was posited as going to be of necessity. In cases, then, where the later thing must be, in these the relation converts, and always, once the earlier thing has come to be, the later thing must come to be. If, then, it goes on to infinity downward, the later thing, this particular one, will not be necessary without qualification. Nor will it be necessary even on a hypothesis; for there will always necessarily be some other, earlier thing, on account of which that thing must come to be. So that if there is no starting point of the infinite series, there will not be any first thing either, on account of which it will be necessary for the thing to come to be. But then neither in cases that do have a limit will it be possible to say truly that it is necessary without qualification for the thing to come to be, for example a house, once a foundation has come to be; for when it has come to be, if it is not always necessary for this to happen, it will result that what admits of not always being will always be.
38| But there must always be generation of it, if its generation is of necessity; for the necessary and the always go together; for what must be cannot not be; so that if it is of necessity, it is eternal, and if it is eternal, it is of necessity. And so if the generation of a thing is of necessity, the generation of this thing is eternal, and if it is eternal, it is of necessity. If, then, the generation of something is of necessity without qualification, it must revolve in a circle and turn back again. For it is necessary either that the generation have a limit or not, and if not, either that it go in a straight line or in a circle. And of these, if it is to be eternal, it cannot go in a straight line, because there is nowhere a starting point, neither below, as we take it with respect to things that are going to be, nor above, as with respect to things that have come to be; but there must be a starting point, since it is not unlimited, and it must be eternal. This is why it must be in a circle. It is necessary, then, that the relation convert, for example, if this thing is of necessity, then the earlier thing too; but then, if this, the later thing too must come to be. And this holds always, continuously; for it makes no difference whether we speak of it through two things or through many. In circular motion and generation, then, is found what is of necessity without qualification.
39| And if it is in a circle, each thing must both come to be and have come to be, and if it is necessary, then the coming-to-be of these things is in a circle. This is reasonable enough, since it was shown, on other grounds too, that circular motion, and that of the heaven, is eternal, because these things come to be and will be of necessity — as many motions as belong to this motion, and as many as occur because of it. For if what moves in a circle always moves something else, then the motion of these other things too must be in a circle: for example, since the motion of the region above is circular, the sun moves as it does; and since the sun is so, the seasons for this reason come to be in a circle and turn back again; and since these come to be in this way, again the things caused by these do too. Why then is it that some things plainly do this — for instance water and air coming to be in a circle, and if there is to be a cloud, it must rain, and if it is to rain, there must also be a cloud — while human beings and animals do not turn back into themselves so as to become the same one again? For it is not necessary, if the father came to be, that you should come to be; but if you came to be, it is necessary that he did. This coming-to-be seems rather to run in a straight line. The starting point of the inquiry, again, is this: whether all things turn back alike, or not, but some in number and others only in species.
40| Of those things, then, whose moved substance is imperishable, it is clear that they will be the same in number too (for the motion follows upon what is moved); but of those whose substance is not imperishable but perishable, they must turn back in species, though not in number. This is why water out of air and air out of water are the same in species, not in number. And even if these too are the same in number, this is nevertheless not so for those things whose substance comes to be being of such a kind as to admit of not being.
1| Meteorology, Book 1. We have already spoken of the first causes of nature and of all natural motion, and also of the stars ordered in the upward motion, and of the bodily elements — how many and what kind they are, and their change into one another — and of coming-to-be and passing-away in general. What remains is a further part of this inquiry still to be considered, the part which all our predecessors called meteorology. This concerns all that happens by nature, though with less order than belongs to the first of the bodies, and occurs mostly in the region bordering the motion of the stars — for example, the Milky Way, comets, and the fiery and moving apparitions, and whatever we should set down as affections common to air and water, and further the kinds, parts, and affections of the parts of earth, from which we may go on to consider the causes of winds and earthquakes and of everything that happens in virtue of their motions. On some of these we are at a loss, while on others we have some grasp. There remains also the fall of thunderbolts, and typhoons and fiery whirlwinds, and the other recurring phenomena, all the affections that happen to these same bodies through a process of solidification. Once we have gone through these matters, we will consider whether, following the method laid down, we are able to give some account of animals and plants, both in general and in their several kinds. For once these have been discussed, our whole original undertaking will be more or less complete. Let us begin, then, and speak of these matters first.
2| We have already determined that there is one principle of the bodies out of which the nature of the bodies moving in a circle is composed, and four other bodies owing to the four principles, whose motion we say is twofold, one away from the middle, the other toward the middle. These four are fire, air, water, and earth; and of these, fire is the one that rises above all the rest, and earth the one that settles beneath them all; two others stand in analogous relation to these — air is nearest of the rest to fire, water to earth. The whole world about the earth, then, is composed of these bodies, and it is the affections that occur in this world that we say must be grasped. This world is of necessity in some way continuous with the revolutions above, so that its whole power is governed from there; for that from which the principle of motion comes to all things must be reckoned the first cause. Further, the motion of that upper region is eternal and has no end in respect of place, but is always at its end, whereas these bodies here all stand apart from one another in bounded places. Hence, of the things that happen about this lower world, fire and earth and their kindred must be held to be causes in the manner of matter for the things that come to be — for it is in this sense that we speak of what underlies and is acted upon — while that which is a cause in the sense of being the source of the principle of motion must be attributed to the power of the bodies that are always in motion.
3| Taking up again, then, the positions laid down at the start and the distinctions already stated, let us speak of the appearance called the Milky Way, and of comets, and of whatever else happens to be akin to these. We say that fire, air, water, and earth come to be out of one another, and that each is present potentially in each of the others, just as with other things that have some one and the same underlying subject into which they are ultimately resolved. Now first of all one might raise a difficulty about what is called air: what nature must we take it to have within the world that surrounds the earth, and how is it ordered in relation to the other so-called elements of bodies? For how great a mass the earth is in comparison with the surrounding magnitudes is not unclear, since it has already been seen, through the theorems of astronomy, that it is much smaller even than some of the stars. But a nature of water that is constituted and marked off by itself we neither see, nor can it exist separated from the body settled about the earth — as with the visible waters, sea and rivers, and whatever at depth is unclear to us. But as for what lies between the earth and the outermost stars, must we suppose it to be one body in nature, or several? And if several, how many, and up to what point is it marked off by places?
4| We have already spoken of the first element, of what sort its power is, and that the whole world of the upward motions is full of that body. And this opinion is not one we alone happen to hold; it appears to be an ancient supposition, held also by men of former times. For the thing called aether has received this name from of old, a name which Anaxagoras, it seems to me, meant to be the same as fire — for he thought the upper regions full of fire, and supposed that the power there was what aether meant, and in this he thought rightly. For it seems men have supposed that whatever body is always in motion is in its nature something divine, and accordingly they marked it off by the name aether, as being the same as none of the things about us. For we shall not say that the same opinions recur among men once, or twice, or a few times, but infinitely many times. As for those who say that what surrounds us is pure fire, and not merely the bodies that are borne along in it, and that what lies between earth and the stars is air, had they considered what is now shown adequately through the mathematical sciences, they would perhaps have given up this childish opinion. For it is too simple to suppose, because each of the moving bodies appears small to us looking at them from here, that it is therefore small in magnitude.
5| Now this has already been said before, in the discussions on the upper region, but let us state the same argument again now. For if the intervening spaces were full of fire, and the bodies were composed out of fire, each of the other elements would long ago have vanished. But neither, on the other hand, are they full of air alone; for it would far exceed the equality of the common proportion in relation to the bodies of its own rank — and this even if the region between earth and heaven were full of two elements. For the mass of the earth is virtually no part, so to speak, of the surrounding magnitude, even when the whole quantity of water is taken along with it. But we do not observe so great an excess of bulk occurring when air comes to be out of water separated out, or fire out of air. And the ratio that a given small quantity of water bears to the air that comes to be from it must necessarily be the same ratio that the whole of air bears to the whole of water. And it makes no difference even if someone should say that these do not come to be out of one another, but merely have equal power; for in this way too the equality of power must hold for their magnitudes, just as it would if they did come to be out of one another.
6| That, then, neither air nor fire alone has filled up the intervening region is clear. It remains, having gone through the difficulty, to say how the two are ordered in relation to the position of the first body — I mean air and fire — and for what cause the heat from the stars above reaches the regions about the earth. Having spoken first of air, as we proposed, let us in the same way speak again of these matters. If, then, water comes to be out of air and air out of water, for what cause do clouds not form in the upper region? For it would be more fitting the farther off and colder the region is, since it is neither so near the stars, which are hot, nor near the rays reflected from the earth, which prevent condensation from forming near the earth by separating out the condensations through their heat — for the gathering together of clouds occurs where the rays already come to an end, being scattered into the boundless. Either, then, water is not naturally formed out of all air alike, or, if it is formed alike out of all, the region about the earth is not air alone but something like vapor, and this is why it condenses again into water.
7| But surely, if the air, vast as it is, were entirely vapor, the nature of air would seem to far exceed that of water — given that the intervening spaces above are full of some body, and it cannot be fire (since everything else would then have been dried up), so what remains is air, and water surrounding the whole earth; for vapor is a separating-off of water. Let this be the difficulty raised about these matters in this way; but let us now speak, drawing distinctions both with a view to what will be said and with a view to what has just been stated. For we say that the region above, up to the moon, is a body distinct from both fire and air; nevertheless, within it itself, one part is purer and another less unmixed, and it has differences, especially where it terminates toward the air and toward the world around the earth. As the first element and the bodies within it are carried around in a circle, the part of the lower world and body always nearest to it, being separated out by the motion, is kindled into fire and produces heat. We must conceive the matter this way, starting from the following point. The body beneath the upper revolution, being as it were a kind of matter, and potentially hot and cold and dry and wet, and whatever other affections follow upon these, becomes actually such and is such through motion and rest, the cause and principle of which we stated earlier.
8| At the center, then, and around the center, what is heaviest and coldest has been separated off — earth and water; and around these, and next to them, air, and what we call, by custom, fire, though it is not fire; for fire is an excess of heat and a kind of boiling. But we must understand that, of what we call air, the part around the earth is, so to speak, moist and hot, because it contains vapor and holds the exhalation of the earth, while the part above this is by now hot and dry. For the nature of vapor is moist and hot, and that of exhalation is hot and dry; and vapor is potentially, as it were, water, while exhalation is potentially, as it were, fire. This, then, must be supposed to be the reason why clouds do not form in the upper region: that it does not contain air alone, but rather something more like fire. Nothing prevents the circular motion, too, from also being a reason why clouds are hindered from forming in the upper region; for all the air that revolves in a circle must necessarily flow — as much of it, that is, as is not taken up within the circumference that completes the earth's being wholly spherical. For even now the generation of winds is evidently found in the low-lying, stagnant regions of the earth, and the winds are seen not to rise above the highest mountains.
9| It flows in a circle because it is dragged along by the revolution of the whole. For fire is continuous with the upper element, and air is continuous with fire; so that, on account of this motion too, it is prevented from condensing into water, but instead, whatever part of it becomes heavy is always carried downward, while the hot is squeezed out into the upper region, and other parts in turn are carried up together with the fire that rises as exhalation; and in this way one region continuously remains full of air and another full of fire, and each of them is always becoming different from what it was. About why clouds do not form, and there is no condensation into water, and about how we should understand the region between the stars and the earth, and what body it is full of, let this much be said. As for the heat that comes to be, which the sun supplies, it is more proper to speak of it precisely and in its own right in the works on perception (for the hot is a certain affection of perception); but for what cause it comes about, given that those upper bodies are not of that nature, must be stated here too. We observe, then, that motion is able to separate out the air and set it ablaze, so that things carried through it are often seen to melt. So then, the sun's motion by itself is sufficient to produce the warmth and heat that arise —
10| for it must be both swift and not far off. Now the motion of the stars is swift but far off, and that of the moon is near but slow; but the sun's motion has both of these sufficiently. That the heat comes to be especially together with the sun itself is reasonable, if we take the parallel from what happens among us; for here too, of things carried by force, the air nearest to them becomes hottest. And this happens reasonably enough; for it is above all the motion of the solid body that separates it out. For this reason, then, heat reaches this region of ours, and also because the fire surrounding the air is often scattered by the motion and carried down by force. A sufficient sign that the upper region is neither hot nor set ablaze is also the shooting of the stars. For these do not occur there, but lower down; and yet things that move more are kindled more. Besides this, the sun, which seems to be hottest of all, appears white, not fiery in color.
11| Now that these matters have been determined, let us say for what cause burning flames appear in the sky, and shooting stars, and what some call torches and goats; for all these are the same thing and occur through the same cause, differing only in degree. The starting point for these, and for many other things, is the following. For when the earth is heated by the sun, the exhalation that necessarily arises is not single, as some suppose, but double: one more vaporous, the other more windy — the one being the vapor of the moisture in and on the earth, the other a smoky exhalation of the earth itself, which is dry. And of these, the windy exhalation rises to the surface because of its heat, while the moister one settles below because of its weight. And because of this the surrounding region is ordered in the following way: first, immediately beneath the circular motion, is the hot and dry, which we call fire (for there is no name common to the whole of this smoky separation; nevertheless, because such a body is by nature especially disposed to catch fire, we are forced to use these names in this way), and beneath this nature comes air. We must understand that this fire we have just spoken of is stretched around, like fuel, at the outermost part of the sphere surrounding the earth, so that, meeting with only a slight motion, it often catches fire, just like smoke —
12| for flame is the boiling of dry wind. So wherever this kind of composition happens to be most favorably disposed, it catches fire whenever it is somehow set in motion by the revolution. And it differs, from this point on, according to the position or the quantity of the fuel. For if the fuel has both breadth and length, a burning flame is often seen, like stubble burning in a field; but if it has length only, the result is what are called torches and goats and shooting stars. And if the fuel is greater in length than in breadth, then, when it as it were throws off sparks as it burns (this happens because it catches fire further along at the edges, in small amounts, but continuously from the start), it is called a goat; but when it burns without this effect, it is called a torch. But if the lengths of the exhalation are scattered in small portions and in many places, and likewise in breadth and depth, the result is what appear to be shooting stars. So sometimes it is the exhalation, catching fire because of the motion, that produces them; but sometimes the hot is struck out and squeezed out by the air that condenses on account of cooling, which is why their movement resembles a hurling rather than a burning. For one might raise the question whether, just as the vapor placed beneath lamps is ignited by the flame above and lights the lamp below (for the speed of this too is remarkable, and resembles a hurling rather than one fire after another coming to be), so also shooting stars are the hurling of one and the same body.
13| It seems, then, that it comes about through both causes: partly in the way that light comes from a lamp, and partly because some of these bodies are shot out by being squeezed, like the seeds squeezed out from between the fingers, so that they appear to fall both into the sea and onto the land, both at night and by day when the sky is clear. They are shot downward because the condensation that pushes them out inclines downward. This is also why thunderbolts fall downward: for the origin of all these things is not a burning up but a separating out caused by compression, since by nature everything hot naturally tends to travel upward. So whatever forms in the very highest region comes about by the exhalation being set on fire, while whatever forms lower down comes about by separation, because the moister exhalation condenses and cools; for this exhalation, condensing and inclining downward, pushes the hot substance out as it grows denser, and makes its ejection go downward. But because of the position of the exhalation, wherever it happens to lie in breadth and in depth, the hot substance is carried either upward or downward or sideways. Most of the time it goes sideways, because two motions are at work on it: by force, downward, and by nature, upward; for all such bodies travel along the diagonal of these two.
14| This is also why the greatest part of the motion of shooting stars turns out to be slanting. The cause of all these things, as matter, is the exhalation, while as the moving cause it is sometimes the upward motion, sometimes the solidifying of the air as it is compressed together. All these phenomena occur below the moon. A sign of this is that their apparent speed is like that of things thrown by us, which, because they are close to us, seem by their speed to far outstrip the stars, the sun, and the moon.
15| Sometimes many appearances are seen forming in the sky at night when the sky is clear, such as chasms and pits and blood-colored patches. The cause of these too is the same. For since it is evident that the upper air condenses to the point of catching fire, and that this catching fire sometimes happens in such a way that it looks like a burning flame, and sometimes like firebrands and stars being carried along, it is not strange if this same air, as it condenses, takes on colors of every kind; for the air, being seen through as denser and admitting less light, and also receiving reflection, will produce colors of every kind, but especially crimson or purple, because these colors most of all appear when fiery and white are mixed together as bodies come in front of one another—just as stars, when they are rising and setting, appear crimson if there is a heat-haze, and appear crimson when seen through smoke. And it will produce color by reflection too, whenever the mirroring surface is such that it receives not the shape but the color. The reason these appearances do not last long is that the condensation causing them is quick. The chasms come about when the light breaks apart out of a dark-blue and black background, making it seem to have some depth. Often firebrands fall out of such formations, when the material is compressed further together; and as something condenses it looks like a chasm. In general, white set within black produces many variegated effects, just as flame does within smoke. By day the sun prevents these appearances, and by night, apart from the crimson, the other colors do not show because of the sameness of color with the surrounding dark. Concerning shooting stars and bodies catching fire, and further concerning the other such appearances that produce their images swiftly, these are the causes one must suppose.
16| Let us now speak about comets and about what is called the Milky Way, first working through the difficulties raised by what others have said. Anaxagoras and Democritus, then, say that comets are a joint appearance of the wandering stars, occurring when they seem to touch one another because they have come close together. Some of the Italians, the so-called Pythagoreans, say that the comet is one of the wandering stars, but that its appearance occurs only after a long interval of time and its rising above the horizon is slight, which is also what happens with the star of Hermes; for because it rises only a little, it misses being seen on many occasions, so that it appears only after a long time. Hippocrates of Chios and his pupil Aeschylus declared much the same as these. Except that they say it does not have its hair from itself, but that the wandering star sometimes takes it on, depending on its position, when our sight is reflected from the moisture that is drawn up by it toward the sun. And because it falls behind very slowly in time, it appears only after a very long time compared to the other stars, as when it appears from the same point again, having fallen behind through its whole circle; and it falls behind both toward the north and toward the south. Now in the region between the tropics it does not draw the water to itself, because that region has been burned dry by the sun's course;
17| but when it travels toward the south, it has an abundance of such moisture, but because the segment of the circle above the earth is small, and the part below is many times larger, the sight of human beings cannot travel, being bent, all the way to the sun, since the star is neither near the tropic nor is the sun at the summer solstice. This is why in these regions the comet does not even occur; but whenever it happens to fall behind toward the north, it takes on hair, because the arc above the horizon is large there, and the part of the circle below is small; for then the sight of human beings easily reaches all the way to the sun. Now for all these thinkers, some things they say turn out to be impossible in common, and some individually. First, then, against those who say that the comet is one of the wandering stars: all the wandering stars fall behind within the circle of the zodiac, but many comets have been observed outside that circle. Further, more than one comet has often occurred at the same time. Besides this, if they have their hair through reflection, as Aeschylus and Hippocrates say, then this star ought at some time to appear without hair too, since it falls behind into other regions as well, but it does not have hair everywhere.
18| As it is, however, none has been observed apart from the five planets. And these are often seen all together, high above the horizon. And even when all of them are visible, and also when not all are visible but some are near the sun, comets are nonetheless seen occurring quite often. But indeed this is not true either, that a comet occurs only in the northern region, at the same time that the sun is around the summer solstice: for the great comet that occurred at the time of the earthquake in Achaea and the onrush of the wave rose from the direction of the equinoctial setting, and many comets have by now occurred toward the south as well. And when Euclees son of Molon was archon at Athens, a comet star occurred toward the north in the month Gamelion, when the sun was around the winter solstice; and yet they themselves say that so great a bending of the sight is among the impossibilities. Common to these thinkers and to those who speak of a joining together is, first, that some even of the fixed stars take on hair. And this we need not believe only on the authority of the Egyptians, although they too say it, but we ourselves have observed it; for one of the stars in the hip of the Dog had hair, faint indeed; for when people stared straight at it, its light became dim, but when they looked at it more gently out of the corner of the eye, more of it appeared.
19| Besides this, all the stars we have observed vanish without setting, fading away little by little in the region above the horizon, so that no body of a single star, or of several, is left behind. This happened even with the great star we mentioned earlier: it appeared in winter, in a spell of frost and clear skies, in the evening, in the archonship of Asteius. On the first day it was not seen, as it had already set before the sun, but on the following day it was seen; for as little as possible of it was left, and it set at once. Its light stretched out over a third of the sky, like a leap, which is why it was called "the Road." It extended as far as the belt of Orion, and there it dissolved. And yet Democritus has argued vigorously for his own view; for he says that when comets dissolve, certain stars have been seen. But this is not something that ought to happen sometimes and not others—it should happen always. Besides this, the Egyptians too say that conjunctions occur among the planets, both with one another and with the fixed stars, and we ourselves have twice already seen the star of Zeus come together with one of the stars in the Twins and make it disappear, without becoming a comet. And further, this is also plain from reasoning.
20| For the stars, whether they appear larger or smaller, nonetheless seem to be undivided in themselves. Just as, then, if they were actually undivided, their touching would not produce any greater magnitude, so too, since they are not undivided but only appear so, even when they come together they will appear no greater in magnitude than they are. That the explanations commonly given about them happen to be false is, then, sufficiently clear from these considerations, if not from a greater number.
21| Since we think we have given a sufficient account, so far as is possible, of things not accessible to perception, by reasoning them back as far as we can, one might suppose from what now appears that the following is roughly what happens concerning them. We take as established that of the world around the earth, so much of it as lies beneath the circular motion, the first part is a dry and hot exhalation. This exhalation, together with the air continuous with it beneath it, is carried around the earth to a great extent by the circular motion and revolution above; and being carried and moved in this way, wherever it happens to be in a well-tempered state, it often catches fire, which is why we say the shooting of the scattered stars occurs. So whenever a fiery beginning falls, on account of the motion of the bodies above, into such a condensation—one neither so great as to burn quickly and over a great extent, nor so weak as to be extinguished quickly, but more abundant and lasting—and at the same time a well-tempered exhalation happens to be rising up from below, this becomes a comet star, taking whatever shape the rising exhalation happens to have: if it is shaped alike on every side, it is a comet, but if it is drawn out in length, it is called a bearded star. And just as such a motion seems to be the motion of a star, so too a similar remaining-in-place seems to be the remaining-in-place of a star.
22| For what happens is much like what would happen if someone thrust a firebrand, or threw in some small beginning of fire, into a heap and quantity of chaff; for the shooting of the stars appears similar to this—because of the natural suitability of the fuel it spreads out quickly over a length. If, then, this were to persist and not fade away as it passes through, at the point where it most condensed the fuel, the end of the shooting would become the beginning of the further motion. A comet is a star of this kind, being like the shooting of a star, having within itself both an end and a beginning. So whenever the beginning of the formation is in the lower region itself, the comet appears on its own; but whenever the exhalation is formed by the motion of one of the heavenly bodies—either a fixed star or a planet—then one of these becomes a comet. For the hair does not form right at the stars themselves, but just as haloes appear around the sun and moon, following them even though the stars shift position, whenever the air is so condensed that this affection occurs along the sun's path, so too the hair is to the stars like a halo. Except that the halo gets its color in this way through reflection, whereas there the color is apparent in the bodies themselves.
23| So whenever such a combination occurs at a star, the comet must appear to move with the very same motion by which the star is carried; but whenever it forms on its own, then comets appear to lag behind. For such is the motion of the world around the earth. This especially indicates that the comet is not some kind of reflection, as a halo forming in pure fuel-material around the star itself, and not, as the followers of Hippocrates say, around the sun—because a comet often forms on its own, and more often than in connection with any of the fixed stars. About the halo we will state the cause later; but about their being composed of fire, one should take as evidence that most comets, when they occur, are signs of winds and droughts. For it is clear that they occur because such a discharge is great, so that the air must become drier, and the moisture that is being vaporized is separated out and dissolved by the abundance of the hot exhalation, so that it does not readily condense into water. We will speak more clearly about this affection too, when it is the right time to speak about winds. So whenever comets appear dense and numerous, as we say, the years become markedly dry and windy.
24| But when they are rarer and dimmer in magnitude, such a thing does not occur in the same way—though for the most part some excess of wind does occur, either in duration or in magnitude, since even when the stone fell from the air at Aegospotami, it was lifted up by wind and fell in daytime; and it happened that at that time too a comet star had appeared, in the evening. And around the time of the great comet star, the winter was dry and northerly, and the wave-surge occurred because of a clash of winds; for in the gulf the north wind held, while outside a great south wind was blowing. Further, in the archonship of Nicomachus at Athens, a comet appeared for a few days near the equinoctial circle, not making its rising in the evening, and it happened that the wind at Corinth occurred at that same time. The reason there are not many comets, nor frequent ones, and more of them outside the tropics than within them, is the motion of the sun and of the stars, which not only separates out the hot element but also disperses what is being formed. But the chief cause is that most of it collects in the region of the Milky Way.
25| Let us now say how and for what cause it occurs, and what the Milky Way is. Let us first go over what has been said about it by others as well. Some of those called Pythagoreans say that this is the path of one of the stars that fell, in the destruction spoken of in connection with Phaethon; others say that the sun once traveled on this circle, so that this region was, as it were, scorched, or suffered some other such affection because of its passage. But it is absurd not to notice that, if this were the cause, the circle of the zodiac ought to be affected in this way too, and more than the Milky Way; for all the planets travel in it, not the sun alone. And the whole circle is visible to us, for a visible semicircle of it is always present at night. But it appears to have suffered nothing of this kind, except where some part of it joins onto the circle of the Milky Way. Anaxagoras and Democritus and their followers say that the Milky Way is the light of certain stars; for they say that the sun, traveling beneath the earth, does not see some of the stars. Now the light of those stars overlooked by it is not visible (for it is blocked by the rays of the sun).
26| Those who are screened by the earth so that they are not seen by the sun—for these, they say, the Milky Way is their own proper light. It is clear that this too is impossible. For the Milky Way is always the same in relation to the same stars (for it appears to be the greatest circle), but the stars not seen because of the sun are always different ones, because the sun does not remain in the same place. It would have been necessary, then, as the sun shifted, for the Milky Way to shift as well; but in fact this is not seen to happen. Besides this, if things stand as shown in the theorems of astronomy—both that the sun's size is greater than the earth's, and that the distance of the stars from the earth is many times greater than the sun's distance from the earth, just as the sun's distance from the earth is greater than the moon's—then the cone cast from the sun would not bring its rays to a point anywhere near the earth, nor would the earth's shadow, called night, reach as far as the stars. Rather, the sun must necessarily look clean over all the stars, and the earth must screen none of them from it. There is, further, a third opinion held about this.
27| For some say that the Milky Way is a reflection of our sight toward the sun, just as they say of the star called the comet. This too is impossible. For if the one seeing, and the mirror, and the whole object seen were all at rest, the same part of the image would appear at the same point of the mirror; but if the mirror and the object seen were moving, at the same distance from the one seeing, who remains at rest, but not at equal speed relative to each other, nor always at the same interval from each other, it is impossible for the same image to remain at the same part of the mirror. Now the stars carried around in the circle of the Milky Way are in motion, and so is the sun, toward which the reflection is supposed to occur, while we ourselves remain at rest, and they are equally and equally far off from us, but not equally far off from one another; for sometimes the Dolphin rises at midnight, sometimes at dawn, while the same parts of the Milky Way remain fixed in each case. And yet this ought not to happen, if it were a reflected image, unless this affection belonged to those very places themselves. Further, at night, in water and mirrors of that kind, the Milky Way is seen to appear to those who look—but how is it possible for their sight to be reflected toward the sun then?
28| That the Milky Way, then, is neither the path of any of the planets, nor the light of stars not seen, nor a reflection, is clear from these arguments. These are more or less the accounts handed down up to now by others. Let us now state our own view, taking up again the principle laid down for us. For it has been said earlier that the outermost part of what is called air has the power of fire, so that when the air is separated out by motion, there is secreted such a composition as we say the comet stars also are. One must conceive that what happens here is of the same kind as what happens in those cases, when such a separating-out does not occur by itself, but is caused by one of the stars, either the fixed ones or the wandering ones; for then these appear as comets, because such a combination follows upon their motion, just as it follows upon the sun's, from which, on account of reflection, we say the halo appears, whenever the air happens to be mixed in that way. What happens, then, in the case of a single star must be taken to happen concerning the whole heaven and the whole upward motion together; for it stands to reason that, if the motion of one star does this, the motion of all of them together should produce something of the same kind and fan it up. And besides this, this should happen in that region where the stars happen to be most crowded, and most numerous, and largest.
29| Now the circle of the zodiac, because of the motion of the sun and of the planets, breaks up such a composition, which is why most comets occur outside the tropics. Further, a comet's tail occurs neither around the sun nor around the moon; for they disperse the exhalation too quickly for such a combination to form. But this circle, in which the Milky Way appears to those who look, happens to be both the greatest circle and one so positioned that it extends far beyond the tropics. Besides this, the region of the stars there is full both of the largest and brightest stars, and further of those called the scattered stars (this is plain to see even with the eyes), so that on account of all this, this whole combination is continuously and always being collected there. Here is a sign of it: even within the circle itself, the light is greater in the one semicircle that has the fold; for in this semicircle there are more and denser stars than in the other, which shows that the brightness comes to be for no other cause than the motion of the stars. For if it occurs both within this circle, in which most of the stars lie, and, within the circle itself, in that part where the stars appear to be more densely packed, both in size and in number, it is reasonable to suppose that this is the most proper cause of the phenomenon.
30| Let the circle and the stars in it be studied from the diagram. As for the so-called scattered stars, it is not possible to arrange them into the sphere in this way, because none of them has a clearly fixed position all the way through; but to those who look up into the sky it is evident, for only in this circle, of all the circles, are the spaces between the stars filled with such stars, while in the others there are plainly gaps. So if we accept the cause stated for the appearance of comets as reasonably given, we must suppose the Milky Way to be in the same condition; for what there, in a single star, is the affection called a tail, this same thing is found to occur, in the same way, around a whole circle, and the Milky Way is, so to speak, marked out as it were—the tail, due to the separating-out, of the greatest circle. This is why, as we said before, comets are neither many nor frequent, because such a composition is continuously being separated out and continues to be separated out, at each revolution, always into this same region. We have spoken, then, about the things that occur in the region of the world continuous with the motions around the earth—about the running of stars and the blazing flame, and further about comets and the so-called Milky Way.
31| For these are more or less all the phenomena that appear concerning this region. Let us now speak about the region that is second in position after this one, but first around the earth; for this is the region common to water and to air, and to what occurs in their upward generation. Here too we must grasp the principles and causes of everything alike. Now the one that moves things, and rules, and is first among the principles, is the circle in which the sun's motion plainly, by separating and combining through coming nearer or farther off, is the cause of generation and destruction. While the earth remains at rest, the moisture around it, turned to vapor by the sun's rays and by the other heat from above, is carried upward; but when the heat that carries it up fails—part of it being dispersed into the upper region, part being quenched because it rises too far into the air above the earth—the vapor condenses again as it cools, both because the heat has failed it and because of the place it has reached, and it becomes water out of air; and once it has become water, it is carried back again toward the earth. Now the exhalation from water is vapor, and the exhalation from air into water is cloud.
32| Mist is a residue left over from the condensation of cloud into water. That is precisely why it is more a sign of fair weather than of rain: mist is, so to speak, a barren cloud. This cycle occurs in imitation of the sun's cycle: for as the sun shifts sideways, this too shifts up and down. And one must think of it as a river flowing in a circle, up and down, shared between air and water: when the sun is near, the river of vapor flows upward; when the sun withdraws, the river of water flows downward. And this tends to happen continuously, at least as a regular order, so that if the ancients were hinting at this in speaking of Ocean, they would perhaps mean this very river, the one that flows in a circle around the earth. Since the moisture is always being drawn up because of the power of heat, and again carried back down toward the earth because of cooling, names have been assigned appropriately to these processes and to certain differences among them: when it is carried down in small portions, it is called drizzle; when in larger portions, it is called rain.
33| Of the moisture that evaporates daily, whatever is not lifted high because the fire that draws it up is too weak relative to the water being drawn up, and is carried back down again when it is cooled at night, is called dew or frost. It is frost when the vapor freezes before it has condensed again into water (this happens in winter, and more in wintry regions); it is dew when the vapor has condensed into water, and the warmth is not so great as to dry up what has been drawn up, nor the cold so great as to freeze the vapor itself, because the place is warmer or the season is milder. For dew occurs more in fair weather and in the milder regions, while frost, as has been said, occurs in the opposite conditions; for it is clear that vapor is warmer than water, since it still retains the fire that draws it up, so that a greater degree of cold is needed to freeze it. Both occur in clear, windless weather: neither will be drawn up without a clear sky, nor could it condense while wind is blowing. A sign that these arise because the vapor is not lifted far is that frost does not occur on mountains. One cause is this: the vapor is drawn up from hollow, well-watered places, so that the heat drawing it up, carrying more than it can bear on its own, is unable to lift it very high, but lets it go again close by;
34| a second cause is that the air, which flows most strongly at high altitudes, dissolves such a condensation there. Dew occurs everywhere with south winds, not north winds, except in the region of the Black Sea; there it is the opposite, for it occurs with north winds and not with south winds. The cause is similar to the reason dew occurs in fair weather and not in storms: the south wind produces fair weather, the north wind produces storms, since it is cold, and so it quenches the heat of the rising vapor because of its wintry character. But in the region of the Black Sea the south wind does not produce fair weather to the degree needed for vapor to form, while the north wind, by its coldness, forces the heat back on itself and gathers it together, so that more vapor rises. This can often be seen happening in other places as well: wells give off more vapor with north winds than with south winds. But north winds quench the vapor before any quantity of it can gather, whereas with south winds the rising vapor is allowed to accumulate. The water itself does not freeze there, as it does in the region where clouds form.
35| From that region three bodies come down, formed by the cold: water, snow, and hail. Two of these occur analogously and for the same causes as the phenomena below, differing only in degree and in quantity; for snow and frost are the same thing, and so are rain and dew, except that one is abundant and the other slight. Rain comes from a great quantity of vapor being cooled; the cause of this is that the region from which it is gathered, and the time over which it is gathered, are both extensive. Dew is the slight case: its formation is a matter of a single day, and its region is small; this is shown by the fact that its generation is quick and its quantity slight. Frost and snow are alike in the same way: when the cloud freezes, it is snow; when the vapor freezes, it is frost. Hence frost is a sign of a cold season or a cold region, for it would not freeze while there was still much heat present, unless the cold was overpowering it. For in the cloud there is still much of the heat left over from the fire that evaporated the moisture out of the earth. Hail occurs up there, but is lacking in the vapor that rises near the earth; for, as we said, what is snow up there becomes frost down here, and what is rain up there becomes dew down here; but what is hail up there does not have any corresponding counterpart down here. The cause of this will become clear once we have spoken about hail.
36| One must at the same time take in the facts observed about hail's generation, both those that raise no difficulty and those that seem paradoxical. Hail is ice, and water freezes in winter; yet hailstorms occur mostly in spring and autumn, then also in late summer, and rarely in winter, and when they do, it is when the cold is less severe. And in general hail occurs in the milder regions, snow in the colder ones. It is also strange that water should freeze in the upper region at all: for it cannot freeze before it has become water, and water cannot remain suspended aloft for any length of time. And yet it is not the case, as with drizzle, which is carried aloft because of its smallness and lingers in the air (just as on water, earth and gold often float because their particles are small) — it is not the case that water similarly stays up in the air, with many small particles then coming together and falling down as large drops of drizzle; for this cannot happen with hail, since frozen bodies do not fuse together the way liquids do. It is clear, then, that so much water remained up there, for otherwise so much could not have frozen. Some hold that the cause of this affection and of its generation is that the cloud is pushed up into the upper region, which is colder because the reflections of the sun's rays from the earth cease there, and that once it arrives there the water freezes.
37| That is also why, they say, hail occurs more in summer and in warm regions: because the heat pushes the clouds up further from the earth. But it turns out that hail occurs least of all in very high places, though on this account it ought to occur most there, just as we observe that snow occurs most on high ground. Moreover, clouds have often been seen moving with a great noise close to the very ground itself, so that it is frightening to those who hear and see it, as though something greater were about to happen; and sometimes, when such clouds have been seen even without noise, a great deal of hail falls, incredible in size, and not round in shape, because its fall does not take long, given that its freezing happened close to the earth — not as those others claim. But in fact it is necessary, by the very cause most responsible for freezing, that large hailstones be produced; for hail is ice, and this is plain to everyone. The large hailstones are the ones not round in shape. This is a sign that the freezing happened close to the earth; for stones carried from far away, because they travel a long distance, get worn round by collision and end up rounder in shape and smaller in size. It is clear, then, that the freezing does not happen because the cold pushes the cloud up into the upper region.
38| But since we observe that a mutual displacement occurs between the hot and the cold — which is why, in hot weather, the regions below the earth are cold, and in frosts they are warm — we must think that this happens in the upper region too, so that in the warmer seasons the cold, being displaced inward by the heat surrounding it, sometimes quickly makes water out of the cloud, sometimes hail. That is why raindrops become much larger on warm days than in winter, and the rains more violent; for rains are called violent when they fall more concentrated, and concentrated because of the speed of the condensation. This happens in exactly the opposite way to what Anaxagoras says: he says this happens when the cloud returns up into the cold air, but we say it happens when it comes down into the hot air, and most of all when this is most the case. And when the cold is displaced still further inward by the heat outside, having made water it then freezes it, and hail results. This occurs whenever the freezing is faster than the downward motion of the water; for if the water is carried down in such-and-such a time, and the cold, being intense, freezes it in less time than that, nothing prevents it from freezing while still up in the air, provided the freezing takes less time than the downward journey.
39| And the nearer to the ground and the more concentrated the freezing occurs, the more violent the rains become, and the raindrops and hailstones larger, because they travel only a short distance. And for the same reason the large raindrops do not fall thickly. This happens less in summer than in spring and autumn, but more than in winter, because the air is drier in summer; in spring it is still moist, and in autumn it is already growing moist. Hail sometimes occurs even at harvest-time, as has been said, for the same cause. What also contributes to the speed of the freezing is that the water has been heated beforehand, for it cools faster. That is why many people, when they want to cool water quickly, first put it in the sun; and the people around the Black Sea, when they pitch their tents on the ice for fishing (for they hunt by cutting through the ice), pour hot water around their reed poles because it freezes faster — they use the ice as they would lead, so that the reeds stay fixed and still. Water that is condensing quickly becomes warm, both in warm regions and in warm seasons. And in the region of Arabia and Ethiopia the rains occur in summer and not in winter, and these are torrential, and often several times in the same day, for the same cause —
40| for it cools quickly through the mutual displacement, which occurs because the region is intensely hot. Concerning rain, dew, snow, frost, and hail, then — the cause for which they occur and what their nature is — let this much be said.
41| Concerning winds and all currents of air, and further concerning rivers and the sea, let us speak — first raising, for ourselves, difficulties about these matters too; for just as with other subjects, so too concerning these we have received nothing said that even any chance person might not have said. There are some who say that what is called air, when moving and flowing, is wind, and this same thing, when it condenses, is again cloud and water, on the ground that water and wind are of the same nature, and that wind is a motion of air. That is why, among those who wish to speak with wisdom, some say that all the winds are one wind, because it turns out that the air in motion is one and the same throughout, and it only seems to differ — though it does not differ at all — because of the places from which it happens to flow on each occasion; they speak in much the same way as someone would who thought that all rivers were one river. That is why the many, speaking without inquiry, speak better than those who speak this way with inquiry. For if all winds flowed from one source, and the currents of air behaved in the same way there too, then perhaps those who speak this way would be saying something; but if it is the same here and there, clearly this clever claim would be false, since the matter deserves a proper examination in its own right: what wind is, and how it comes about, and what moves it, and where its origin comes from, and whether one must suppose that wind flows out as from a vessel, and continues flowing until the vessel is emptied, as though released from wineskins, or rather, as painters also depict it, as figures releasing the source of the wind from within themselves.
42| Similarly, some think it is with the coming-to-be of rivers too: the water drawn up by the sun, raining down again, collects under the earth and flows out from a great cavity — either all rivers from one cavity, or different rivers from different ones — and no water comes to be at all, but the multitude of the rivers is simply what has been collected from the winter rains into such receptacles. That is why, they say, rivers always flow fuller in winter than in summer, and some are perennial while others are not: for those whose cavity is so large that the water collected in it is abundant, so that it lasts and is not used up before the winter rain comes round again to replenish it, these flow perennially throughout; but those whose receptacles are smaller, these, because of the scantiness of their water, dry up before what comes from the sky arrives, since the vessel has been emptied. And yet it is obvious, if one is willing to construct, as it were, a receptacle before one's eyes for the water that flows continuously day after day, and to grasp its quantity in thought, that it would exceed the mass of the earth in size, or would fall not far short of receiving all the water that flows in the course of a year.
43| But it is clear that many such things do happen in many places on the earth; nonetheless it is absurd if someone should fail to think that water comes to be from air for the same cause both above the earth and within it. So that if there too, through cold, the vaporizing air condenses into water, one must think this same thing happens because of the cold within the earth as well, and that not only does the water already separated out within it come to be and then flow, but that it comes to be continuously. Further, that the source of rivers, for water that is not coming-to-be but already exists day by day, is not of the sort some describe — certain lakes separated off under the earth, as some say — but rather, just as in the region above the earth small drops form and gather, and again these gather into others, until finally the rainwater comes down in quantity, so also in the earth it first trickles together out of small amounts, and it is as though the earth, sweating into one place, forms the sources of rivers. The very facts show this: for those who construct water-conduits gather the water by tunnels and channels, as though the earth were sweating down from the high places. That is why the streams of rivers evidently flow from mountains, and the most numerous and greatest rivers flow from the greatest mountains.
44| Similarly, most springs too lie close to mountains and high places; but on plains, apart from rivers, very few occur at all. For mountainous and elevated regions, like a dense sponge hanging overhead, seep and trickle water together little by little but in many places; for they receive a great quantity of the water descending onto them (for what difference does it make whether the curved surface is hollow and facing up, or projecting and convex? In both cases it will enclose an equal bulk of matter), and they cool the rising vapor and combine it again into water. That is why, as we said, the greatest of the rivers evidently flow from the greatest mountains. This is clear to those who study surveys of the earth; for these have been written down from inquiring of each people in this way, for those places which the writers themselves did not happen to see with their own eyes. In Asia, then, the most numerous and the greatest rivers evidently flow from the mountain called Parnassus, and this is agreed to be the greatest of all mountains toward the winter sunrise; for to one who has crossed it, the outer sea already comes into view, whose limit is not clear to people from here. From this mountain, then, flow other rivers as well as the Bactrus and the Choaspes and the Araxes —
45| A branch of this splits off as the Tanaïs, flowing into Lake Maeotis. The Indus too flows from it — the greatest flow of all rivers. From the Caucasus flow many other rivers as well, surpassing others in both number and size, including the Phasis. The Caucasus is the greatest mountain of those toward the summer sunrise, both in extent and in height. A sign of its height is that it is visible even from what are called "the deeps," the places ships sail into on their way into the lake, and further, its peaks are lit by the sun during a third of the night, both from the east and again from the west. A sign of its extent is that, having many regions in which many peoples dwell, and in which they say there are large lakes as well, they nevertheless say that all these regions are visible right up to its farthest peak. From the Pyrenees (this is a mountain toward the equinoctial west, in Celtica) flow the Ister and the Tartessus. The latter flows outside the Pillars, while the Ister flows through the whole of Europe into the Euxine Sea. Of the other rivers, most flow toward the north, out of the Hercynian mountains —
46| these being greatest in both height and number around this region. Right beneath the Bear itself, beyond the farthest reaches of Scythia, are the mountains called the Rhipaean, about whose size the accounts given are excessively legendary; at any rate most of the largest rivers, after the Ister, flow from there, so they say. Similarly around Libya, some rivers flow from the Ethiopian mountains — the Aegon and the Nysis — while the greatest of those named are the so-called Chremetes, which flows into the outer sea, and the first stream of the Nile, out of the mountain called the Silver Mountain. Of the rivers around the Greek region, the Achelous flows from Pindus, and the Inachus from there too, while the Strymon, the Nestus, and the Hebrus — three rivers — all flow from Scombrus; and many streams come from Rhodope as well. In the same way one could find the other rivers too flowing; but we have mentioned these by way of evidence. For indeed, even the rivers that flow out of marshes — the marshes themselves turn out to lie beneath mountains in almost every case, or beneath high places, fed by a gradual approach. That the origins of rivers, then, must not be thought to come about as if out of bounded cavities, is clear —
47| for the space of the earth would not be sufficient, so to speak, any more than that of the clouds, if what exists had to simply flow away, rather than one part departing while another part comes into being, forever being stored up anew out of what exists. And the fact that the springs lie beneath the mountains testifies to this: that by a slight coming-together, little by little, out of many seepages of moisture, the ground gives off water, and in this way the springs of rivers come into being. All the same, it is not at all strange that there should also be places holding a quantity of water, such as lakes — only not so large that the whole phenomenon could be explained by them, any more than if one supposed the visible springs to be the sources of the rivers; for most rivers flow, one might say, out of springs. So it is just as mistaken to think that the lakes are the entire body of water as to think this of the springs. That there are such chasms and openings in the earth is shown by rivers that get swallowed up. This happens in many places on the earth — in the Peloponnese, for instance, most such cases occur around Arcadia. The cause is that, being mountainous, it has no outlets from its hollows into the sea; for the places fill up, and having no outflow, find their own passage downward into depth, forced by the water pressing in from above.
48| Around Greece, then, such things happen only on a small scale altogether; but the lake below the Caucasus, which the people there call a sea, is a clear case. For this lake, though many great rivers flow into it, has no visible outflow, and discharges underground near the Coraxi, around what are called the "deeps" of the Pontus; these are a depth of sea that is virtually boundless — at any rate no one has ever yet been able, by letting down a line, to find its limit. At this point, then, some three hundred stades out from the land, it sends up drinkable water over a wide area — not continuously, but in three separate places. And around Liguria a river no smaller than the Rhone is swallowed up, and comes up again in another place; the Rhone itself is a river navigable by ships.
49| The same regions of the earth are not always either watered or dry, but they change according to the coming-into-being and the failing of rivers. That is why the arrangement of land and sea changes too, and it is not always the case that the same parts remain land while others remain sea for all time; rather, sea comes to be where there was dry land, and where there is now sea, there again comes to be land in turn. Still, one must think that these things happen according to a certain order and cycle. The origin and cause of this is that the interior of the earth, like the bodies of plants and animals, has a prime and an old age. Except that in plants and animals this does not happen part by part, but the whole must necessarily be at its prime and decline all together; whereas for the earth this happens part by part, on account of cooling and heating. These parts, then, grow and decline because of the sun and its revolution, and because of this the different parts of the earth take on differing power, so that up to a point they are able to remain well-watered, and then they dry out and grow old in turn; while other places come to life and become well-watered part by part in their turn. And it is necessary that, as places become drier, their springs disappear, and as this happens, the rivers first become small instead of great, and then in the end become dry; and as the rivers shift place, disappearing from some places and coming to be correspondingly in others, the sea changes as well —
50| for where the sea, pushed out by the rivers, kept overflowing as it receded, it is necessary that it turns the land dry there, while where it kept being enlarged and swelled by the streams' flow and was silted up and dried out, there again it comes to form a marsh instead. But because the whole of this natural process of change concerning the earth happens by gradual approach and over periods of time immensely long compared to our own lifetime, these changes go unnoticed, and whole peoples perish and are destroyed even before the change from beginning to end has been recorded. The greatest and swiftest destructions occur in wars; others come by diseases, others by failures of crops — and among these, some are great, others gradual, so that even the migrations of such peoples go unnoticed, because some leave their territories while others remain behind, up to the point when the land can no longer support any number of people at all. So it is likely that a long stretch of time passes from the first departure to the last, so that no one remembers it, but even among those who remain and are still preserved, the memory has been lost through the sheer quantity of time elapsed. In the same way one must suppose that it also goes unnoticed when the settlements of each people first began, in places that are changing and becoming dry after having been marshy and well-watered; for there too the change happens little by little over a long time, so that no one remembers who came first, or when, or in what condition the places were when they arrived — as indeed has happened also in the case of Egypt;
51| For this region too always appears to be growing drier, and the whole country is a deposit built up by the river, the Nile. But because as the marshes gradually dried out the people nearby kept settling them, the length of time involved has obscured the beginning of the process. At any rate, all the mouths of the river are plainly artificial and not the river's own, except the one, the Canobic mouth, and Egypt in ancient times was called Thebes. Homer bears this out too, even though he is, so to speak, quite recent relative to changes of this kind: for he makes mention of that place as though Memphis did not yet exist at all, or at least not as a place of such size. And it is reasonable that things happened this way: for the lower regions were settled later than the upper ones, since the places nearer the deposit are necessarily marshy for a longer time, because the water always collects more in the outermost parts. But this condition changes and the land flourishes again in turn: for as places dry out they come into good condition, while places that were formerly well-tempered become worse once they dry out too much. This is exactly what has happened in Greece, in the territory of Argos and Mycenae: at the time of the Trojan War the Argive land, being marshy, could support only a few people, while the Mycenaean land was in good condition (which is why it was held in greater honor), but now the reverse is true, for the reason just stated—
52| for the Mycenaean land has become barren and altogether dry, while the parts of the Argive land that were then unproductive because they lay under water have now become useful. So then, just as this has happened in this region, which is a small one, we must suppose the same thing happens with respect to large regions and whole countries as well. Now people who look only at a small scale think the cause of such conditions is a change in the universe as a whole, on the supposition that the heavens themselves come to be; that is why they say the sea is growing smaller, on the ground that it is drying up, because more places are now observed to have undergone this than before. But of these claims, part is true and part is not true: for it is true that there are more places that were formerly covered with water and are now dry land, but it is also true, on the other hand—for on looking about in many places people will find that the sea has advanced. But the cause of this should not be thought to be the coming-to-be of the universe: for it is absurd to move the whole on account of small and momentary changes, and the mass and size of the earth is surely nothing in comparison to the whole heaven. Rather, the cause of all these things must be supposed to be that they come about during fated periods of time, just as within the yearly seasons there is winter, so too within some great cycle there is a great winter and an excess of rains.
53| This does not always occur in the same places, but rather in the way that the so-called flood in the time of Deucalion did: for this too occurred especially around the Greek region, and of that region, especially around ancient Greece. This is the area around Dodona and the Achelous: for this river has often changed its course; for the Selli lived there, and those who were then called Graeci but are now called Hellenes. Whenever, then, such an excess of rains occurs, one must suppose that it lasts for a long time. And just as now, regarding the fact that some rivers are perennial and others are not, some say the cause is the size of the chasms underground, while we say it is the size of the high places and their density and coldness—for these receive the most water, and hold it, and produce it. but wherever the overhanging masses of the mountains are small, or porous and stony and clayey, we must suppose that those rivers give out sooner in this way—so that in whatever places such a movement of moisture occurs, it makes the wetness of those places more like a perennial supply. But with time these places, as this happens, dry out more, while the other, formerly watery places become fewer, until the onset of the same cycle comes round again.
54| Since it is necessary that some change occur in the universe as a whole, yet not coming-to-be and passing-away, if indeed the whole persists, it is necessary, as we say, that the same places are not always wet with sea and rivers and dry at other times. What actually happens makes this clear: for the Egyptians, whom we say are the most ancient of humans, their whole country plainly has come to be, and is, the work of the river. This is clear to anyone looking at the country itself, and the region around the Red Sea provides sufficient evidence: for one of the kings attempted to dig a canal through it (for it would have brought them no small advantages if the whole area became navigable; it is said that Sesostris was the first of the ancients to attempt it), but he found the sea to be higher than the land. For this reason he first, and Darius later, stopped digging, so that the river's current would not be ruined by the sea mixing into it. It is clear, then, that all these seas were one continuous sea. That is also why the region of Libya around Ammon appears lower and more hollow than the country below it would lead one to expect: for it is clear that once a deposit of silt had formed, marshes and dry land came about, and as time passed, the water that had been left behind and had formed a marsh, once dried out, is now simply gone.
55| Moreover, the region around Lake Maeotis has been so built up by the silting of the rivers that ships of much smaller size now sail in for trade than sixty years ago; so that from this it is easy to infer that this lake too, like most lakes, was originally the work of rivers, and that in the end it must all become dry land. Again, the Bosporus is constantly flowing because it is being silted up, and it is still possible to see with one's own eyes the manner in which this happens: for whenever the current formed a shoal running out from the Asian side, the water behind it would become a small marsh at first, then it dried up, and after this another shoal formed out from that one, and a marsh from that in turn; and this kept happening in the same way each time. And since this happens repeatedly, it is necessary that, as time goes on, this strait too become like a river, and in the end that this too become dry. It is evident, then, since time does not run out and the universe is eternal, that neither the Tanais nor the Nile has always flowed, but that the place from which they flow was once dry: for their work has a limit, but time does not. The same account will fit the other rivers as well.
1| But indeed, if rivers come to be and pass away, and the same regions of the earth are not always covered with water, then the sea too must undergo change in the same way. And since the sea is always leaving some places and advancing upon others, it is clear that of the whole earth the same parts are not always sea and the same parts always land, but everything changes over time. We have now stated why it is that the same parts of the earth are not always dry land or navigable, and for what cause this happens; and likewise why some rivers are perennial and others are not. B.
2| Let us now speak about the sea, both what its nature is, and for what cause so great a quantity of water is salty, and further about its coming-to-be from the beginning. Now the ancients, those occupied with theological accounts, provide it with sources, so that they may have principles and roots for earth and sea alike; for they supposed that what was said in this way would be more grand and more solemn, on the ground that this is a great part of the whole, and that the rest of the heaven was constituted around this place and for its sake, as being the most honored thing and a principle. But those who are wiser in human wisdom give it a coming-to-be: for they say that at first the whole region around the earth was moist, and that as it was dried out by the sun, the part that evaporated they say produces winds and the turnings of the sun and moon, while the part left behind is the sea; that is why they suppose it becomes smaller as it dries out, and that in the end it will all be dry someday. Some of them say that as the earth is heated by the sun, a kind of sweat is produced, and that this is why it is salty—for sweat too is salty. Others say that the earth is the cause of the saltiness: for just as water strained through ash becomes salty, in the same way this water too is salty because such earth has been mixed into it.
3| We must consider, on the basis of what already exists, that it is impossible for the sea to have springs. For of the waters around the earth, some happen to be flowing and some standing. Now all the flowing waters are spring-fed; and we have spoken earlier about springs, that one must think of the origin of a spring not as something stored up as if from a vessel, but as something always coming to be into one place and flowing together, being the first thing to arrive there. Of the standing waters, some are collected pools and settlings, such as marshy waters and all that are lake-like, differing from one another in greater or lesser quantity, and some are spring-fed. But all of these latter are man-made — I mean, for example, the so-called well-waters; for the spring must be higher than the whole course of the flow. Hence spring-waters and river-waters flow of their own accord, while these others require the craft that works them. Such, then, and so many are the differences among waters. Given these distinctions, it is impossible for the sea to have springs; for the sea cannot belong to either of these classes — it is neither something flowing in from elsewhere nor something man-made, and all spring-fed waters have one or the other of these features. And we see no standing water occurring of its own accord in so great a quantity from a spring. Further, since there are several seas that do not mix with one another at any point — of which the Red Sea appears to communicate to some small degree with the sea outside the Pillars, while the Hyrcanian and Caspian seas are both separated from it and inhabited all around — their springs would not have gone unnoticed, if they existed anywhere within them.
4| The sea is seen to flow at the narrows, wherever, because of the land enclosing it, it is drawn together from a great expanse into a small one, on account of its swaying to and fro repeatedly. This is imperceptible where the sea has great extent; but where, because of the narrowness of the land, it occupies a small space, the oscillation that is small in the open sea must appear great there. The whole sea within the Pillars of Heracles flows along the hollow of the land, and so does the mass of the rivers; for the Sea of Azov flows into the Black Sea, and this into the Aegean. All the seas beyond these already do this less conspicuously. This happens to those seas because of the multitude of their rivers (for more rivers flow into the Black Sea and the Sea of Azov than into a region many times its size) and because of the shallowness of their depth; for the sea always appears deeper the farther out one goes: the Black Sea is deeper than the Sea of Azov, the Aegean deeper than the Black Sea, the Sicilian Sea deeper than the Aegean; and the Sardinian and Tyrrhenian seas are the deepest of all. The waters beyond the Pillars are shallow because of the mud, and are windless, since the sea there lies as if in a hollow.
5| Just as, in particular cases, rivers are seen to flow down from high places, so too for the whole earth the greatest part of the flow comes from the higher regions toward the north. Hence the waters produced by this outpouring are not deep, while the seas farther out are deeper. As for the north being the higher part of the earth, one sign of this is that many of the ancient students of the heavens were persuaded that the sun does not travel beneath the earth but around the earth and this region, and that it disappears and produces night because the land toward the north is high. Let this, then, and so much, be said by us about why the sea cannot have springs, and for what cause it appears to flow in this way.
6| We must speak about the sea's coming-to-be itself, whether it has in fact come to be, and about its flavor — what the cause is of its saltiness and bitterness. Now the cause that led earlier thinkers to suppose the sea to be a principle and body of all water is this. It would seem reasonable that, just as each of the other elements has an accumulated mass and is a principle because of its abundance — from which, as it is divided off, it changes and mixes with the others, as fire's abundance lies in the upper regions, air's abundance in the region after that of fire, and earth's body is that around which all these plainly lie — so too, by the same reasoning, one must inquire in the same way about water. But no other such body appears to lie gathered together in a mass, as with the other elements, except the bulk of the sea; for the mass of rivers is neither gathered together nor stationary, but always appears to be coming to be anew, day by day. From this very difficulty, then, it was thought that the sea is the principle of the wet things and of all water. Hence some also say that rivers not only flow into it but also out of it; for, they say, as it is filtered, what is salty becomes drinkable.
7| Opposed to this opinion is another difficulty: why, if the sea is a principle of all water, is this collected water not drinkable but salty? The cause will at the same time be the solution of this difficulty, and it is necessary to grasp correctly the first assumption about the sea. For water is extended around the earth, just as the sphere of air is around this, and around that the so-called sphere of fire (for this is outermost of all, whether as most people say or as we say); and since the sun moves in this manner, and since because of this there is change and coming-to-be and passing-away, the finest and sweetest part is drawn up each day and travels, being separated out and turned to vapor, into the region above, and there, being condensed again through cooling, is carried back down again toward the earth. And nature always wishes to do this in this way, as has been said before. Hence all those among the earlier thinkers who supposed that the sun is nourished by moisture are ridiculous. And because of this some indeed say that the sun also makes its turnings on this account; for, they say, the same places cannot always furnish it with nourishment.
8| It is necessary that this happen to it, or else that it perish; for even visible fire lives only so long as it has fuel, and moisture alone is supposed to be fuel for fire — as though the moisture drawn up actually reaches as far as the sun, or as though its ascent were of the same kind as that of a flame coming into being; and taking the plausibility of this as their guide, they supposed the same about the sun. But the two are not alike; for flame comes to be through a continuous succession of moisture and dryness changing into each other, and is not nourished (for it does not remain the same for any length of time, so to speak), whereas this cannot happen in the case of the sun, since if it were nourished in the very way they describe, then clearly the sun would not merely be, as Heraclitus says, "new upon a day," but continuously new at every moment. Further, the drawing-up of moisture by the sun is like that of waters heated by fire; if, then, the fire that is kindled beneath such waters is not itself nourished by them, it would not be reasonable to suppose this of the sun either, not even if by its heating it should vaporize the water entirely. And it is also absurd to be concerned only about the sun, while overlooking the preservation of the other stars, which are so many in both number and magnitude.
9| The same absurdity results also for those who say that, since the earth was originally wet, and the region around the earth was heated by the sun, air came to be and the whole heaven increased in bulk, and that this heaven both supplies winds and produces its own turnings; for we plainly always see the water that has been drawn up coming down again; and even if it is not given back within a year, and not in the same way in every region, still within certain fixed periods it gives back all that was taken up — as if the regions above were not being nourished by it, and as if it were not the case that some of the air, once it has come to be, remains as it is while some of it comes to be and again perishes back into water, but rather as if all of it alike is dissolved and again constituted into water. Now the drinkable and sweet water is all drawn up because of its lightness, while the salty water stays behind because of its weight, not in a place of its own; for this is the point that ought properly to have been raised as a puzzle (it is absurd if there is no place belonging to water, as there is for the other elements) and this is the solution to it: the place we see the sea occupying is not the place of sea but rather of water. It appears to be the place of sea because the salty part stays behind on account of its weight, while the sweet and drinkable part is drawn up on account of its lightness, just as happens in the bodies of animals.
10| For in animals too, when the nourishment that enters is sweet, the residue of the liquid nourishment — the sediment, that is — turns out to be bitter and salty; for the sweet and drinkable part is drawn by the innate heat into the flesh and the rest of the arrangement of the parts, in whatever way each part is naturally suited to take it up. So then, just as in that case, if someone supposed that the belly was not the place of the drinkable nourishment, because it quickly disappears, but was the place of the residue, because he sees this staying behind, he would not be judging rightly — so too in the present case; for this place, as we say, is the place of water. That is why all the rivers, and all the water that comes to be, flow into it; for the flow is toward the lowest-lying place, and the sea occupies just such a place on the earth. But the one part is quickly carried up entirely because of the sun, while the other remains behind for the reason stated. As for pursuing the old puzzle, why such a quantity of water is nowhere apparent (since, although countless rivers flow every day and are immense in size, the sea never becomes any larger) — it is not strange that some have raised this as a puzzle, yet for one who looks into it, it is not hard to see the answer.
11| For the same quantity of water, when spread out over a breadth and when massed together, does not dry up in an equal time, but the difference is so great that the one would remain a whole day, while the other — as if someone were to pour a cup of water spread over a large table — would vanish, one might say, in the time it takes to think of it. This is exactly what happens with rivers too: since they flow continuously and in a mass, whatever arrives is always drying up quickly and imperceptibly once it reaches a vast and broad place. But what is written in the Phaedo about the rivers and the sea is impossible. For it is said that all waters are bored through into one another under the earth, and that the source and spring of all of them is what is called Tartarus, a certain quantity of water around the middle of the earth, out of which all waters, both those that flow and those that do not, are given off; and that the inflow into each of the streams is produced because the first and originating body of water is always surging — for it has no fixed seat, but is always eddying about the middle; and as it moves up and down it produces the outpouring into the streams. And in many places the water forms standing pools, of the sort that our own sea is said to be, but all of it circles round again back to the source from which it began to flow, in many cases at the very same place, but in others at the point directly opposite in position to the outflow — for example, if the rivers began to flow from below, they enter again from above.
12| And the descent, it is said, goes as far as the middle; for beyond that point the motion for all of them is now uphill. And the rivers get their flavors and colors from whatever kind of earth they happen to flow through. But it follows, on this account, that rivers do not always flow to the same place; for since they flow into the middle from the very point from which they flow out, they will be no more likely to flow from below than from above, but toward whichever side Tartarus happens to surge and tilt. And yet if this were so, there would result what is called "rivers flowing upward" — which is impossible. Further, where will the water that comes to be, and the water that is again drawn up, come from? For this whole amount must be extracted from somewhere, if the same total quantity is always to be preserved; for whatever flows out flows back again to the source. And yet all the rivers, as many as do not flow into one another, plainly end in the sea; and none flows into the earth, but even if a river disappears from view, it reappears again elsewhere. The rivers that grow large are those that flow a long distance through a hollow region; for they take in the streams of many rivers, cutting across their courses by way of the terrain and the length of their path. That is why the Danube and the Nile are the greatest of the rivers that empty into this sea of ours.
13| And about the springs, different people give different causes for each of the rivers, because many rivers flow into the same one. Now it is plain that all this is impossible to happen, especially if the sea has its origin from that source. So then, that this place belongs to water and not to sea, and for what cause the drinkable part is not apparent except as it flows, while the other part stays behind, and why the sea is rather an end-point of water than a source of it — just as the residue in bodies is the end-point of all nourishment, and especially of the liquid kind — let this much be said by us.
14| About the saltiness of the sea itself we must speak, and ask whether it is always the same, or whether it neither was nor will be the same but will diminish and give out — for some think this too. Now on this point all seem to agree, that the sea came to be, if indeed the whole universe did; for they make its coming-to-be simultaneous with that of the universe. So it is clear that if the whole is eternal, then this is how one must think about the sea too. As for the view that the quantity of the sea is becoming less, as Democritus says, and will in the end give out entirely, whoever is persuaded of this seems no different from a believer in Aesop's fables. For Aesop too told a myth, that Charybdis, by sucking up water twice, made first the mountains visible, and second the islands, and that by sucking it up a third and last time she will make everything entirely dry. Now for him, angry as he was at the ferryman, it was fitting to tell such a myth, but it is less fitting for those who are seeking the truth; for whatever the cause was that made the sea remain in the first place, whether it was weight, as some of these thinkers too say (for the cause is easy enough to see in this case), or whether it was something else, it is clear that for this same reason the sea must necessarily remain for the rest of time as well. For either they must say that even the water drawn up by the sun will not come back again, or else, if it is going to come back, it is necessary either that the sea always diminishes, or diminishes only until this point is reached, and that the drinkable water must first be drawn up again before that happens.
15| So it will never dry up completely; for that water which had risen earlier will always come back down again before the water it started is exhausted—it makes no difference whether we say this happens once or many times. If someone stops the sun's motion, what will do the drying? But if he lets its circuit continue, then, as we said, the sun will always draw up the fresh water as it approaches, and release it again as it withdraws. People got this idea about the sea from the fact that many regions appear drier now than before; but we have stated the cause of that, namely that this condition results from excesses of rainfall occurring at a given time, not from the coming-to-be of the universe and its parts; and again the opposite will occur, and when it does, the region will dry up again; and this must always proceed in a cycle in this way, for it is more reasonable to suppose this than that the whole heaven changes on this account. But our discussion has lingered over these matters longer than they deserve. As for the sea's saltiness, it is impossible for those who suppose it was generated once and for all, and who generate it as a whole in this way, to account for its being salty. For whether the sea came to be from the residue left behind when all the moisture around the earth was drawn up by the sun, or whether so great a quantity of that flavor was already present in the abundant, sweet water because some such earth had been mixed into it, none the less, once the evaporated water comes back down again, since the quantity is equal, the sea must have been the same at the first as well—
16| —or else, if it was not salty at first, it should not be salty later either. But if it was salty from the very first, one must state the cause, and at the same time explain why, if it was drawn up then too, it does not undergo the same thing now. But indeed, those who make the earth that is mixed in responsible for the saltiness (for they say the earth contains many flavors, so that being carried down together by the rivers, through this mixture it makes the sea salty) face the absurdity that the rivers themselves are not also salty. For how is it possible for the mixture of such earth to become so noticeable in a great quantity of water, but not in each individual river? For it is clear that the sea simply is all the river water together; for it differed from the rivers in nothing except in being salty, and this saltiness comes upon the rivers' water only when they flow together in a mass into the place into which they all run. Equally ridiculous is anyone who, saying that the sea is the earth's sweat, thinks he has said something clear, as Empedocles does; for said this way, for poetry perhaps he has spoken adequately (for metaphor belongs to poetry), but for understanding the nature of the thing it is not adequate; for here too it is not clear how sweat becomes salty out of a sweet drink—whether only something departs, such as the sweetest part, or whether something is mixed in, as in waters that are filtered through ash.
17| The same cause appears to apply also to the residue that collects in the bladder; for that too becomes bitter and salty even though what is drunk and the moisture in one's food are sweet. If, then, just as water filtered through ash becomes bitter, so too in these cases: in the case of urine, some such power is carried down together with it, of the kind that is even seen settling as a salty deposit in vessels; and in the case of sweat, it is separated out together with the moisture from the flesh, as though the moisture leaving the body were washing this element out of it—then it is clear that in the sea as well, what is mixed in together with the moisture from the earth is the cause of the saltiness. Now in the body this kind of thing comes about as the residue of food, on account of incomplete concoction; but in what way it existed in the earth must be stated. And in general, how can it be possible for so great a quantity of water to be secreted out as the earth dries and is heated? For it would have to be only a very small fraction of what is left in the earth. Again, why does the earth not sweat even now, whenever it happens to be drying, whether more or less? For the moisture, that is the sweat, becomes bitter; for if it happened then, it ought to happen now too. But this is not seen to happen; rather, the earth, when dry, becomes moist, and when moist, undergoes nothing of this kind.
18| But how, then, is it possible that at the first coming-to-be, when the earth was moist, it sweated as it dried? Rather it is more likely, as some say, that when most of the moisture had departed and been raised up by the sun, what was left became the sea; and while the earth was moist it was impossible for it to sweat. So the causes of saltiness that are given seem to elude the argument. Let us instead state our own view, taking as our starting point the same one as before. Since it has been established that exhalation is twofold, one moist and one dry, it is clear that this must be supposed to be the principle of such things. And indeed, concerning the question that had to be raised earlier—whether the sea too always persists as the same parts numerically, or whether its parts are always changing in form and in quantity, as with air, fresh water, and fire. For each of these is always becoming something different in succession, while the form of the total quantity of each remains, as with the stream of flowing water and the stream of flame. This much is clear and plausible—that the same account cannot fail to hold for all these cases, and that they differ only in the speed or slowness of change in each case, and that there is both destruction and coming-to-be, but that this happens to all of them in an orderly way.
19| Given that this is so, we must try to render the cause with respect to saltiness as well. It is clear from many signs that this flavor comes about through some admixture. For in bodies, what is least concocted is salty and bitter, as we said before; for the residue of moist nourishment is the least concocted; and this holds of all sediment, but most of all of that which collects in the bladder. A sign of this is that it is the thinnest; for everything that is concocted is naturally disposed to solidify. Then again, there is sweat, in the cases where the same substance is separated out together with it, which is what produces this flavor. The same holds, too, in things that are burned: wherever the heat fails to master the material, in bodies a residue results, and in things being burned, ash results. This is why some say the sea came to be from earth that had been burned up. To put it that way is absurd, but that it comes from that sort of earth is true; for just as in the cases mentioned, so too in the universe as a whole, we must always think in terms of things that grow and come to be according to nature—that what is left over from things that have been fired is earth of this kind, and in particular that this applies to all the exhalation that occurs in the dry state; for it is this exhalation that supplies this great quantity.
20| Since, as we have said, the vaporous exhalation and the dry exhalation are mixed together, whenever they combine to form clouds and water, some quantity of this power must always be enclosed within them, and must be carried down again together with the water in rains, and this must always happen according to a certain order, insofar as things in this region admit of sharing in order at all. We have now stated the source from which the generation of the saltiness present in water comes. And this is also why southerly rains fall in broader drops, as do the first rains of autumn; for the south wind is the warmest of winds both in its size and in its current, and it blows from dry, hot regions, so that it carries little vapor with it. This is why it is warm; for even if it is not warm in itself, but starts out cold from the place where it begins to blow, none the less, as it proceeds, because it takes up along with it much dry exhalation from the neighboring regions, it becomes warm. The north wind, on the other hand, being vaporous, since it comes from moist regions, is for this reason cold; but because it pushes clouds away, the sky here is clear when it blows, while in the opposite regions it is rainy. Similarly, the south wind is clear-skied for the peoples around Libya. So a large amount of such matter contributes to the water that comes down, and this is why the rains of autumn fall in broad drops; for the heaviest parts must be carried down first.
21| So in whatever contains a quantity of this kind of earthy stuff, that stuff sinks to the bottom fastest of all. And the sea is warm for this same reason: everything that has been fired has heat in it potentially. One can also see this in the case of lye, and ash, and the sediment of animals, both the dry sediment and the wet; and it turns out that the sediment of the animals that are hottest in the belly is the hottest sediment of all. So the sea is always becoming more spread out on account of this cause, and some part of it is always being drawn up together with the sweet water; but it is drawn up in a smaller amount, by just as much as, in the rain that falls, the salty and earthy element is less than the sweet. That is why the sea remains, roughly speaking, at an equal level throughout. And that what rises as vapor becomes drinkable, and that the vaporizing part is not combined again into sea water when it condenses back, we state from experience. The same thing happens with other liquids too: for wine and all the flavored liquids, whichever of them vaporize and then condense again into liquid, become water; for the other properties belong to water because of some admixture, and whatever the thing mixed in is, that is the kind of flavor it produces. But an inquiry into these matters must be carried out on other, more suitable occasions. For now let us say just this much: that since the sea exists, something is always being drawn up from it and becomes drinkable, and from above, in the rain, something else comes down that has come into being, not the very water that was drawn up.
22| And it is because of its weight that it settles beneath the drinkable water. And because of this the sea neither runs short, as rivers do, except in particular places (and this must happen in the same way in both cases), nor do the same parts of it persist forever, whether of the earth or of the sea — only the total bulk remains the same. For one must suppose the same about the earth too: part of it rises up, part sinks down again, and the parts that lie on the surface and the parts that go down exchange places with each other. That the salty element is present as a mixture of something is clear not only from what has been said, but also if one shapes a vessel of wax and sets it in the sea, tying its mouth round with something so that the sea cannot pour in: for the water that comes in through the waxen walls becomes drinkable water; for just as through a strainer, the earthy element is filtered out, along with what produces the saltness through admixture. This same thing is also the cause of the weight of sea water (for salt water draws down more than fresh water) and of its thickness; and indeed the thickness differs so much that ships carrying the same weight of cargo sink almost to the point of going under in rivers, but ride at a moderate depth and sail well in the sea — which is why some of those loading ships in rivers have suffered losses through this very ignorance.
23| A proof that the bulk of what is mixed in is rather thick is this: if one makes water very salty by mixing in salt, eggs float on it even when full; for it becomes almost like mud — so great is the bodily bulk the sea contains. People do this same thing also in salting fish for preserving. And if there really is, as some tell in myth, such a lake in Palestine that if one binds a man or a beast of burden and throws them in, they float and do not sink beneath the water, this would be testimony to what has been said; for they say the lake is so bitter and salty that no fish can live in it, and that clothes, if soaked and shaken about in it, come clean. Signs of this sort are all signs of what has been said, namely that the salty element makes a certain body, and that what is present in it is earthy. For in Chaonia there is a spring of rather thick water, which flows off into a nearby river that is sweet but has no fish in it; for the people there, as they tell in their local myth, chose, when the power was granted them by Heracles when he came driving the cattle from Erytheia, to have salt instead of fish, which are produced for them from the spring: for they boil down a portion of this water and set it aside, and when the moisture evaporates off together with the heat, and the water cools, it becomes salt — not in lumps, but loose and fine, like snow.
24| These salts are weaker in strength than other salts, and more of them must be thrown in to sweeten a dish, and they are not as white in color. Something similar to this also happens among the Umbrians: there is a certain place there where reed and rush grow naturally; they burn these, and throw the ash into water and boil it down; and when they have left only a little of the water, this, once cooled, becomes a quantity of salt. As for the salty streams of rivers or springs, one must suppose that most of them were once hot, and that afterward the source of the fire was extinguished, while the earth through which they are filtered still remains, as it were, lye and ash. And in many places there are also springs and river-streams that have flavors of every kind, the cause of all of which must be assigned to the power of fire present in them, or coming to be in them: for earth that is burned, more or less, takes on shapes and colors of flavor of every kind; for it becomes full of the powers of alum and lye and other such things, through which the waters that are filtered, though sweet to begin with, are changed — some becoming sour, as in the Sicanian region of Sicily; for there a sour brine occurs, and people use it like vinegar for some of their foods. There is also, around Lyncus, a spring of sour water, and around Scythia one that is bitter;
25| and what flows off from it makes the whole river into which it empties bitter. The differences among these are plain from what has been said. What flavors arise from what blendings has been discussed separately elsewhere. Concerning waters and the sea, then — the causes on account of which they exist continuously forever, and how they change, and what their nature is, and further how many properties naturally happen to them, whether as things they do or things done to them — we have now said nearly everything about most of these matters.
26| Let us speak now about winds, taking as our starting point what we have already stated earlier. For there are two forms of exhalation, as we say, the one moist, the other dry. The one is called vapor; the other, taken as a whole, has no name, but since we must use the term for a part of it to name the whole, we call it, generally, smoke. Now neither the moist exists without the dry, nor the dry without the moist, but all these things are named according to which predominates. As the sun moves in its circle, then, whenever it draws near it draws up the moisture by its heat, and when it moves farther off, through the resulting cooling, the vapor that had been drawn up condenses again into water; that is why rain occurs more in winter, and at night rather than during the day — though it does not seem so, because what happens at night escapes notice more than what happens during the day. Now all the water that comes down is distributed into the earth; and there is much fire and much heat present in the earth, and the sun not only draws up the moisture that lies on the earth's surface but also, by heating the earth itself, dries it out. Since the exhalation, as has been said, is of two kinds, the vapor-like and the smoke-like, both kinds must necessarily occur.
27| Of these two, the exhalation that has the greater share of moisture is the principle of the water that falls as rain, as has been said before, while the dry exhalation is the principle and nature of winds generally. That this is necessarily how things turn out is clear also from the facts themselves: for the exhalation must be of different kinds, and it is not merely possible but necessary that the sun and the heat in the earth produce these two kinds. And since the form of each is distinct, it is evident that they differ, and that the nature of wind is not the same as the nature of the water that falls as rain, as some people say — that the very same air, when it is in motion, is wind, and when it condenses again, is water. Now air, as we have said in the discussions before this one, comes to be out of these two exhalations: for vapor is moist and cold (moist because it is easily bounded, cold because, being of water, it is cold by its own nature, like water that has not been heated), while smoke is hot and dry. So that, as if compounded out of a combination of the two, air would be constituted moist and hot. And indeed it would be absurd if the air that lies spread around each of us should become wind simply by being set in motion, and should be wind wherever it happens to be moved from — and not rather (just as we suppose that rivers are not water flowing in any random way, however great its quantity, but must be water flowing from a spring) that the case is the same also with winds:
28| for a great quantity of air might be set in motion by some great collapse, and yet have no principle or spring. What actually happens bears out what has been said: because the exhalation is continuous, but comes to be in greater or lesser amount at different times, clouds and winds are always produced, in each season, in the way that is natural to it; and because sometimes the vapor-like exhalation becomes many times greater, and at other times the dry, smoke-like exhalation does, at some times the years turn out rainy and wet, at other times windy, and there are droughts. Now sometimes it happens that both droughts and heavy rains occur widely and over a continuous region at once, and sometimes only in parts; for often the region all around receives the seasonable rains, or even more, while in some part of it there is drought; and sometimes, on the contrary, while the whole surrounding region has moderate rainfall, or is even rather dry, one particular portion receives an abundant quantity of water. The cause is that, for the most part, it is likely that the same condition extends over a fairly large region, because places close to one another lie in much the same relation to the sun, unless they happen to have some peculiar difference of their own;
29| yet sometimes in one part the dry exhalation came to be the greater, and in another the vapor-like exhalation did, and sometimes the reverse. And the cause of this itself is that each kind changes over into the exhalation belonging to the neighboring region — for instance, the dry exhalation flows off toward its own proper region, while the moist flows toward the region next to it, or is even pushed off by winds to some far-off place; and sometimes this exhalation stays put, while the opposite one does the same thing. And this often happens just as in the body: if the upper cavity is dry, the lower is disposed in the opposite way, and when this is dry, the upper is moist and cold — so also with regions, the exhalations shift about and change places with one another. Further, after rains, wind generally arises in those very places where the rains happened to occur, and the winds cease once the water has come to be. For these things necessarily happen because of the causes stated: for when it has rained, the earth, being dried both by the heat within it and by the heat from above, gives off an exhalation, and this was the body of wind. And whenever there is this sort of separating-off and winds hold sway, then, as they cease because the hot is continually being separated off and carried up into the region above, the vapor condenses as it cools and becomes water;
30| and when the clouds are pushed together into one place and the cold turns back into them all around, water is produced and it cools the dry exhalation. So the coming to be of rain stops the winds, and when the rains stop, wind comes to be again for these same reasons. Further, the same cause explains why winds arise most of all from the region of the north and of the south: for the north and south winds are the most numerous of all winds; for the sun alone does not travel over these regions, but moves toward them and away from them, while it always travels toward the west and toward the east. Hence the clouds gather at the sides, and as the sun approaches, the exhalation of moisture occurs, and as it departs toward the opposite region, water and storms occur. So it is because of this movement toward the solstices and away from the solstices that summer and winter come about, and the water is carried up and comes to be again. And since the greatest amount of water comes down in those regions toward which and from which the sun turns — and these are the region toward the north and toward the south — and since where the earth receives the most water, there the exhalation must necessarily be greatest, much as smoke rises from green wood, and this exhalation is wind, it stands to reason that the most numerous and most dominant of the winds should arise from there.
31| Those that come from the north are called north winds, and those from the south, south winds. Their movement is oblique: for although the exhalation rises straight up, they blow around the earth, because all the air in a circle follows along with the movement. Hence one might also raise the question, from which direction the principle of winds comes, whether from above or from below: for the motion is from above even before the wind blows, while the air makes this evident, even if there is cloud or mist present; for it shows a moving principle of wind before the wind has plainly arrived, as though the winds had their principle from above. But since wind is a certain quantity of the dry exhalation from the earth, moving about the earth, it is clear that the principle of its motion is from above, while the principle of its matter and its coming to be is from below: for insofar as the rising exhalation will flow, the cause of that comes from above, since the movement of the more distant regions governs that of the earth; and at the same time, while it rises straight up from below, and everything is stronger the nearer it is, the principle of its coming to be is plainly from the earth. That it comes from many exhalations gradually coming together, just as the sources of rivers arise as the earth becomes moist, is clear also from what actually happens:
32| for at the very place from which winds blow on each occasion, they are all weakest, while as they advance and get further off, they blow strong and clear. Further, the regions around the north are, in winter, calm and windless in that very place; but the small amount that blows off unnoticed, once it has advanced outward, becomes a strong wind. What, then, is the nature of wind and how it comes to be, and further, concerning droughts and heavy rains, and for what cause they both cease and arise after rains, and why north and south winds are the most numerous of winds, has been stated; and, in addition to this, also concerning their movement.
33| The sun both stops winds and starts them up together with itself. For when the exhalations are weak and few, it withers, by its greater heat, the lesser heat that is in the exhalation, and disperses it. Further, it dries the earth itself before any massed discharge can occur, just as, when a little fuel falls into a great fire, it is often consumed before it can even make smoke. For these reasons, then, the sun both stops winds and prevents them from arising in the first place — stopping them by withering, and preventing their arising by the speed of the drying. This is why calm weather occurs especially around the rising of Orion, and continues up to the etesian winds and their forerunners. In general, calms occur through two causes: either because the exhalation is quenched by cold, as happens when a strong frost sets in, or because it is withered away by stifling heat. But most calms occur in the intervening seasons, either because the exhalation has not yet begun, or because the earlier exhalation has already passed off and another has not yet begun to flow in. Orion is thought to be a hard and stormy sign, both setting and rising, because its setting and its rising occur at a change of season, in summer or in winter, and because, on account of the size of the constellation, a certain number of days is taken up in its rising and setting;
34| and changes of every kind are turbulent, on account of their indeterminacy. The etesian winds blow after the solstice and the rising of the dog star, and neither at the time when the sun is closest, nor when it is farthest off; and they blow by day, but stop at night. The cause is that when the sun is near, it dries things up before the exhalation can arise; but when it has withdrawn a little, the exhalation and the heat now become commensurate, so that the frozen waters melt, and the earth, being dried both by its own heat and by that of the sun, is as it were made to smoke and steam. At night they slacken, because the melting of the frozen matter stops on account of the coldness of the nights. Nothing steams that is either frozen or has no moisture in it at all — only when what is dry has moisture does this, being heated, give off steam. Some raise the difficulty of why continuous north winds occur, which we call etesian winds, after the summer solstice, while south winds do not occur in this way after the winter solstice. And the fact is not without reason. For the so-called white-south-winds do occur in the opposite season, but they do not occur continuously in the same way, and so, passing unnoticed, they lead people to raise the question. The cause is that the north wind blows from the regions beneath the Bear, which are full of much water and snow; and as these are melted by the sun, the etesian winds blow more after the summer solstice than at the solstice itself;
35| for in just this way the stifling heat also occurs, not when the sun is closest to the Bear, but when it has been heating for a longer time, while still being near. Similarly, after the winter solstice the bird-winds blow; for these too are weak etesian winds. They are fewer and blow later than the etesian winds proper — they begin to blow on the seventieth day, because the sun, being far off, has less strength. They do not blow as continuously, because at first it is the things on the surface, weak ones, that are given off, whereas the more solidly frozen matter needs more heat. This is why these winds blow with gaps, until the etesian winds blow again at the next summer solstice, since a wind, once it begins from a given source, wants above all to blow from there continuously. The south wind blows from the summer turning-point, and not from the other Bear. For there being two divisions of the region capable of being inhabited — one toward the pole above us, the other toward the other pole and toward the south — and the earth being shaped, as it were, like a tambourine (for such is the shape that the lines drawn from its center cut out), they make two cones, one having the tropic circle as its base, the other the circle that is always visible, with the apex at the middle of the earth;
36| and in the same way, toward the lower pole, two other cones cut out other segments of the earth. Only these regions are capable of being inhabited, and not the regions beyond the tropics either; for there would be no shadow toward the north — but as it is, those places become uninhabitable through heat before the shadow either disappears or shifts toward the south; while the regions under the Bear are uninhabitable through cold. The Crown, too, moves in this same region; for it appears passing directly overhead for us, when it is on the meridian. This is why people draw maps of the circuits of the earth ridiculously nowadays; for they draw the inhabited world as circular, and this is impossible both according to the observed facts and according to reasoning. For reasoning shows that it is bounded in breadth, while it is possible for it to join up in a circle because of the blending of climate — for the heat and the cold do not exceed the bounds of habitability in length, but in breadth, so that, unless some expanse of sea prevents it, the whole would be passable — and the observed facts about voyages and journeys show the same, for the length differs greatly from the breadth. For the distance from the Pillars of Heracles to India is, compared with that from Ethiopia to Lake Maeotis and the outermost regions of Scythia, more than five to three in magnitude, if one reckons the voyages and the roads, so far as it is possible to obtain accuracy in such matters.
37| And yet in breadth we know the inhabited world only as far as the uninhabited regions — for in one direction people no longer dwell because of the cold, in the other because of the heat. The regions beyond India and beyond the Pillars of Heracles do not appear, because of the sea, to link up so as to make the whole inhabited world continuous. Since it is necessary that some region toward the other pole stand in the same relation to it as the region we inhabit stands to the pole above us, it is clear that the arrangement of the winds too, along with other things, will hold analogously; so that just as here there is a north wind, so for those people too there will be some wind of that kind blowing from the Bear that is there, none of which can possibly reach here — since not even this north wind of ours reaches the whole inhabited world here. For the north wind is, as it were, a local land-wind, extending only so far as this north wind blows into the inhabited world here. But because our habitation lies toward the north, north winds blow most frequently. All the same, even here it falls short and cannot extend far, since around the southern sea beyond Libya, just as here north and south winds blow, so there east and west winds blow continuously in succession one after another. It is clear, then, that the wind blowing from the other pole is not the south wind.
38| Since it is neither that wind nor the one from the winter turning-point — for then there would have to be another wind from the summer turning-point as well, since that is what the analogy would require. But as things are, there is not; for only one wind appears to blow from those regions there. So it is necessary that the wind blowing from the burnt-up region be the south wind. That region, because of its nearness to the sun, has no waters and pasture-lands that, by freezing, would produce etesian winds. But because that region is much larger and open, the south wind is greater and more frequent and warmer than the north wind, and reaches here more than this one reaches there. We have now stated, then, what is the cause of these winds, and how they stand in relation to one another.
39| Now let us speak about the position of the winds — which are opposite to which, which can blow together and which cannot, further how many and what winds there actually happen to be, and besides these about the other conditions not covered in the particular problems already discussed. The account of their position must be studied together with the diagram. It has been drawn, for the sake of clearer presentation, as the circle of the horizon — that is why it is round. One must think of its other segment as the one inhabited by us; for that too can be divided in the same way. Let it first be assumed that things opposite in place are those most distant from one another in place, just as things opposite in form are those most distant in form. Things are most distant in place when they lie against one another along a diameter. Let the point A, then, be the equinoctial west; and let the place opposite to it, B, be the equinoctial east. Let another diameter cut this one at right angles, its point H being the north; opposite to this, directly across, is Th, the south. Let Z be the summer sunrise, E the summer sunset, D the winter sunrise, and G the winter sunset.
40| From Z let a diameter be drawn to G, and from D to E. Since, then, things most distant from one another in place are opposite in place, and things lying along a diameter are most distant, it follows of necessity that those winds too are opposite to one another which lie along a diameter. According to the position of their places the winds are named as follows: Zephyr is the wind from A, for this is the equinoctial west. Opposite to it is Apeliotes from B, for this is the equinoctial east. Boreas, that is Aparctias, is from H, for the north is there. Opposite to this is Notos from Th; for this is the south, from which it blows, and Th is opposite H, since they lie along a diameter. From Z comes Caecias; for this is the summer sunrise. Opposite to it is not the wind blowing from E, but Lips from G; for this blows from the winter sunset, and it is opposite Caecias, since it lies along the diameter. The wind from D is Eurus; for this blows from the winter sunrise, bordering on Notos, which is why they are often said to blow together as Euronotus. Opposite to this is not Lips from G, but the wind from E, which some call Argestes, others Olympias, and others Sciron;
41| for this blows from the summer sunset, and it alone lies opposite Eurus along the diameter. These, then, are the winds positioned along a diameter, together with the winds each is opposite to; but there are others for which there are no opposite winds. From I comes the one they call Thrascias; for this lies between Argestes and Aparctias. From K comes the one they call Meses; for this lies between Caecias and Aparctias. The diameter I-K tends to coincide with the one running through the whole figure, but not exactly. There is no wind opposite to these, neither to Thrascias nor to Meses — for a wind would then have to blow from the point M, since this lies along the diameter — nor to the wind from I, Thrascias; for a wind would then have to blow from N, since this is the point along the diameter — unless indeed some slight wind does blow from that very point, which the people of that region call Phoenicias. These, then, are the principal and clearly distinguished winds, and they are arranged in this manner. The reason there are more winds from the northern regions than from the southern is, first, that our inhabited world lies toward that region, and second, that far more water and snow are driven away into this part, because those other regions lie under the sun and in its path; and since this water and snow, once melted into the earth, are warmed both by the sun and by the earth, the exhalation produced must necessarily be greater and cover a wider region, for this reason.
42| Of the winds named, Boreas is most properly Aparctias, while Thrascias is shared between Argestes and Meses; Caecias is shared between Apeliotes and Boreas; Notos is both the native wind from the south and Lips; Apeliotes is both the wind from the equinoctial east and Eurus; Phoenicias is a shared wind; and Zephyr is both the native wind and the one called Argestes. In general some of these are called northerly, others southerly. The zephyr-type winds are reckoned with Boreas, since they are colder for blowing from the west, while the apeliotes-type winds are reckoned with Notos, since they are warmer for blowing from the east. Since the winds are distinguished by cold, heat, and mildness, they were named in this way accordingly. Winds from the dawn are warmer than those from the sunset, because the winds from the east lie under the sun for a longer time, while those from the west leave it sooner and approach that region later. Since the winds are arranged in this way, it is clear that opposite winds cannot blow at the same time — for they lie along a diameter, so that one of the two will be overpowered and cease — but nothing prevents winds not positioned this way in relation to one another from blowing together, as with Z and D.
43| This is why both sometimes blow favorably at once toward the same point, though not from the same place nor as the same wind. It is in the opposite seasons that opposite winds blow most, for example around the spring equinox Caecias, and in general the winds beyond the summer solstice, while around the autumn equinox it is the Lips-winds; around the summer solstice it is Zephyr, and around the winter solstice Eurus. Aparctias, Thrascias, and Argestes fall upon the other winds most of all and stop them; for because their starting-point is nearest, these blow most often and most strongly. This is also why they are the clearest-weather winds of all; for blowing from nearby, they overpower and stop the other winds, and by blowing apart the clouds that gather they produce clear weather — unless they happen at the same time to be extremely cold. In that case they are not clear-weather winds; for if they are more cold than strong, they freeze the clouds before they can drive them on, or else push them forward instead. Caecias is not a clear-weather wind, because it curves back upon itself; hence the proverb, drawing to himself, as Caecias does a cloud. Their shifts occur as they die down into the winds next to them, following the movement of the sun, since the wind next to the starting-point is the one most set in motion. And the starting-point of the winds moves in this way, just as the sun does.
44| Opposite winds produce either the same effect or the opposite one — for instance Lips and Caecias, which some call Hellespontias, are both moist, as is Eurus, which some call Apeliotes. Argestes and Eurus are dry; Eurus is dry at the start but becomes rainy toward the end. Meses and Aparctias are especially snow-bringing, for these are the coldest. Aparctias, Thrascias, and Argestes are hail-bringing. Notos, Zephyr, and Eurus are scorching. With clouds Caecias thickens the sky very much, Lips with sparser ones; Caecias does so both because it curves back upon itself and because it is shared between Boreas and Eurus, so that, being cold, it freezes and condenses the vaporous air, while, being easterly by its region, it carries abundant material and vapor, which it drives forward. Aparctias, Thrascias, and Argestes are clear-weather winds; the reason has been stated earlier. These, together with Meses, are especially given to lightning; for because they blow from nearby they are cold, and lightning arises from cold, being separated out as the clouds come together. This is also why some of these same winds are hail-bringing, for they freeze quickly. Storm-winds occur mostly in autumn, then in spring, and especially Aparctias, Thrascias, and Argestes.
45| The cause of this is that whirlwinds occur most of all when, as some winds are blowing out, others fall in upon them, and these fall in upon the others most of all when the others are blowing; the cause of this too has been stated earlier. The etesian winds shift, for those who live in the west, from the north wind round to the northwest, the northwest-by-west, and the west winds (for the north wind is a west wind), beginning from the north and ending at the winds farthest from it; for those who live toward the east they shift round as far as the east wind. Concerning the winds, then, their origin and substance from the start, and the affections that occur in common and around each one individually, let so much have been said by us.
46| After this we must speak about earthquake and the motion of the earth; for the cause of this affection belongs to the same class as the one just discussed. The views handed down up to the present time are three, and from three men. Anaxagoras of Clazomenae, and before him Anaximenes of Miletus, declared themselves on it, and later than these, Democritus of Abdera. Anaxagoras, then, says that the aether, being naturally borne upward, falls in beneath the earth and into its hollow places and moves it; for the upper parts, he says, have become compacted together because of the rains, since by nature the whole is equally porous, there being an upper and a lower part of the whole sphere, and the part we happen to inhabit being the upper one, the other the lower. Now against this cause perhaps nothing need be said, as it is stated too simply; for to suppose that up and down are such that the bodies possessing weight are not borne toward the earth from every direction, but the light bodies and fire move upward, is naive, especially when we see that the horizon of the inhabited world, so much of it as we know, is constantly becoming different as we shift our position, which shows that the earth is convex and spherical;
47| and also to say that it rests upon the air because of its size, and then to assert that it is shaken by being struck from below upward over its whole extent. Besides this, he accounts for none of the things that happen in connection with earthquakes; for it is not any chance regions or seasons that share in this affection. Democritus says that the earth, being full of water, and receiving in addition much rain water, is moved by this; for when the water becomes too much for the hollow places to receive, it forces its way through and produces the earthquake by its violence, and again when the earth is drying out and drawing the moisture that is changing from the fuller places into the empty ones, its falling in causes motion. Anaximenes says that the earth, being wetted and dried, breaks apart, and is shaken by the falling in of the hills that break off in this way; that is why earthquakes occur both in droughts and again in excessive rains; for in droughts, as has been said, the earth dries out and breaks apart, and it is broken through by being oversaturated with waters. But if this were what happens, the earth ought to be seen sinking down in many places as a result. Further, for what cause does this affection occur often around certain regions that differ in no such degree from the others? Yet it ought to. And in general, for those who suppose things in this way, it is necessary always to say that earthquakes occur less, and that in the end the earth's shaking will stop at some point;
48| for what is being packed together has this kind of nature. So if this is impossible, it is clear that this cause too is impossible. But since it is evident that exhalation must arise both from what is moist and from what is dry, as we said earlier, it is necessary, given that these exist, that earthquakes occur. For the earth is in itself dry, but because of the rains it has within itself much moisture, so that, being heated both by the sun and by the fire within it, much wind comes to be outside it and much inside it; and this sometimes flows all continuously outward, sometimes all inward, and sometimes it is even divided. If, then, this cannot be otherwise, the next thing to consider would be which of the bodies would be most capable of causing motion; for it is necessary that what is naturally disposed to travel the greatest distance and be most violent should be of this sort. Now the swiftest-moving is necessarily the most violent, for it strikes hardest because of its speed; and what is most capable of passing through everything travels the greatest distance, and this is the finest-textured. So if the nature of wind is of this sort, wind is the most capable of motion among bodies; indeed fire too, when combined with wind, becomes flame and is carried swiftly. Neither water nor earth, then, could be the cause, but wind is the cause of the motion, whenever the exhalation that is being given off outward happens to flow inward instead.
49| That is why most and the greatest earthquakes occur in calm weather; for the exhalation, being continuous, follows for the most part the impulse of its starting point, so that it rushes either all inward at once or all outward. That some occur even when wind is blowing is not at all unreasonable; for we sometimes see several winds blowing at once, and whenever one of these rushes into the earth, the earthquake will occur even though wind is blowing. These are lesser in magnitude because their starting point and cause are divided. And most and the greater earthquakes occur by night, while those of the day occur around midday; for midday is for the most part the calmest time of day (for when the sun has the greatest power, it shuts the exhalation up inside the earth; and it has the greatest power around midday), and the nights are calmer than the days because of the absence of the sun; so that the flow becomes inward again, like an ebb tide, in the opposite direction from the outward flood, and this happens especially toward dawn; for that is when winds too naturally begin to blow. If, then, their starting point happens to change to an inward flow like the Euripus, it makes the earthquake stronger because of the quantity involved.
50| Further, the strongest earthquakes occur around such regions as these, where the sea is subject to currents or the land is porous and full of caverns. That is why they occur around the Hellespont and around Achaea and Sicily, and around those regions of Euboea; for the sea seems to run through channels under the earth there. That is also why the hot springs around Aedepsus have arisen from a cause of this kind. Around the regions mentioned, earthquakes occur most of all because of the narrowness; for the wind, becoming violent because of the quantity of sea being carried against it in large amount, is thrust back again into the earth, at least that part of it which is naturally disposed to blow off from the earth. And those regions that have porous ground beneath them, receiving much wind, are shaken more. And earthquakes occur most in spring and autumn, and in excessive rains and in droughts, for the same cause; for these are the windiest seasons, since summer and winter, the one because of the frost, the other because of the heat, produce a lack of motion; for the one is excessively cold, the other excessively dry. And in droughts the air is windy; for this is exactly what drought is, when the dry exhalation becomes greater than the moist one;
51| while in excessive rains it makes the internal exhalation greater, and, this discharge being cut off within narrower regions and forced into a smaller space, when the hollow places become filled with water, and this begins to prevail because a large quantity is compressed into a small space, the wind, flowing and striking against the earth, moves it violently. For we must understand that, just as in our own body the confined force of wind is the cause both of tremors and of pulsations, so too in the earth wind produces similar effects, and one kind of earthquake is like a tremor, another like a pulsation, and just as it often happens after urination throughout the body (for there occurs a kind of trembling as the wind changes place all at once from outside to inside), such things occur in connection with the earth as well. And how great a power wind has must be observed not only from what happens in the air (for there, because of its size, one might suppose it capable of producing such effects) but also in the bodies of living creatures; for tetanus and convulsions are motions of wind, and they have such strength that many people trying together to overpower them are unable to master the motion of those who are ill.
52| We must think that the same thing happens in the earth too, if we imagine it on a smaller scale relative to a larger one. And signs of this have appeared in many places, within reach of our own perception. For before now, an earthquake occurring in certain places did not stop until the wind that had caused the motion broke out clearly, like a whirlwind, into the region above the earth—as happened recently near Heraclea on the Pontus, and earlier near the Holy Isle, which is one of the islands called the Islands of Aeolus. For on that island part of the earth swelled up, and a mound-like mass rose with a noise; finally, when it burst, a great blast of wind came out, and it threw up cinder and ash, and it covered with ash the whole city of the Liparaeans, which is not far off, and it reached some of the cities in Italy; and even now the place where this eruption occurred is plain to see. Indeed we must suppose this to be the cause of the fire that occurs in the earth as well: it happens when the air, having been broken up into small parts and struck together, first bursts into flame. A proof that winds flow beneath the earth is also found in what happens around these islands: when a south wind is about to blow, it gives a sign of it beforehand—
53| for the places from which the eruptions occur echo, because the sea is already being pushed forward from far off, and the exhalation coming up out of the earth is pushed back inward again by it, wherever the sea is advancing. And it makes a noise without an earthquake, both because of the openness of the places (for the exhalation pours out into what is unbounded outside) and because of the small quantity of air being pushed back. Further, the sun's becoming hazy and dimmer without any cloud, and, before dawn earthquakes, a windlessness and a strong cold that sometimes occur, are signs of the cause we have stated. For the sun must become hazy and dim as the wind—which dissolves and separates the air—begins to retreat into the earth, and toward dawn and around daybreak there must be windlessness and cold. For the windlessness must, as a rule, occur, just as has been said before, since the wind is, so to speak, flowing back inward, and this is truer the more so before the greater earthquakes; for since it is not torn apart, part going out and part staying in, but is carried along as a mass, it must be stronger. And the cold occurs because the exhalation—which is naturally hot in its own right—is turned back inward.
54| Winds do not seem to be hot, because they set in motion air that is full of cold and abundant vapor, just like the breath blown out through the mouth. For this breath too is hot close up, as also when we pant, but because there is so little of it, this is not equally noticeable, while from a distance it is cold, for the same reason as with the winds. So when this kind of power fails to reach the earth, the vaporous outflow, condensing because of its moisture, produces the cold, in whichever places this condition happens to occur. And the same cause also explains the sign that sometimes customarily occurs before earthquakes: either during the day or a little after sunset, in clear weather, a thin cloud appears, stretched out and long, like the length of a line drawn with exact straightness, as the wind withers away because of its shift of direction. And the same thing happens at sea, around the shores: when the sea, being rough, casts up waves, the breakers become very thick and crooked, but when there is calm, because the discharge it makes is small, they run thin and straight. So what the sea does around the land, the wind does around the haze in the air, so that when windlessness sets in, the cloud is left altogether straight and thin, like a breaker made of air.
55| Because of these same causes, it also happens sometimes that an earthquake occurs around eclipses of the moon. For when the obstruction is already near, and the light and the heat from the sun have not yet altogether left the air, but are already withering away, windlessness occurs as the wind shifts back into the earth, and this produces the earthquake before the eclipses. For winds also frequently arise before eclipses—winds at dusk before midnight eclipses, and winds at midnight before dawn eclipses. This happens because the heat from the moon grows dim, when its motion is already near the point at which, once it has reached it, the eclipse will occur. So when the air, which was being held down and kept at rest by this heat, is released, it is set in motion again, and a wind arises earlier than the eclipse. And when an earthquake becomes violent, it does not stop shaking at once, nor all in a single stroke, but at first it often continues for as much as forty days, and later it gives off after-tremors in the same places for one year and even two. The cause of the magnitude is the quantity of the wind and the shapes of the places through which it happens to flow; for wherever it meets resistance and does not pass through easily, there it shakes most, and it is bound to be left trapped in the difficult passages, like water that cannot get through.
56| This is why, just as in the body the pulses do not stop suddenly or quickly, but the affection dies away gradually, by degrees, so too the source from which the exhalation arose and the onrush of the wind clearly does not use up all at once the whole matter out of which it produced the wind we call an earthquake. So as long as what remains of this matter is not used up, the earth must go on shaking, but more gently, and this continues until what is being exhaled becomes too little to be able to cause perceptible motion. The wind also produces the noises that occur under the earth, both those before earthquakes and those that have before now occurred underground even without earthquakes. For just as air struck gives off noises of every kind, so also does air itself striking—it makes no difference, for whatever strikes is at the same time itself struck, in every case. And the noise runs ahead of the motion, because it consists of finer parts and the noise of the wind travels more easily through everything. And when the wind is too weak, because of its fineness, to move the earth, then because it easily filters through it cannot cause motion, but because it strikes solid masses and hollow ones and shapes of every kind, it gives off sounds of every kind, so that sometimes it seems—just as the tellers of marvels say—that the earth is bellowing.
57| Before now, waters have also burst forth when earthquakes occurred; but the water is not for this reason the cause of the motion, but whether the wind forces its way from the surface or from below, that is what is doing the moving—just as with waves, the winds are the cause, not the waves the cause of the winds—since on this reasoning one might just as well blame the earth itself for the affection; for it is overturned when it is shaken, just as water is (for a spilling-out is a kind of overturning). But both of these are causes only as matter (for they are acted upon, but do not act), while the wind is a cause as a principle. Wherever a wave has occurred together with an earthquake, the cause is that the winds are running counter to each other. This happens whenever the wind that is shaking the earth, being driven along by another wind, is not able to push the sea away entirely, but by pushing it forward and compressing it gathers a great mass of it into one place; for then, this wind being overpowered, the mass of sea that is being pushed by the opposing wind must burst out all at once and produce the flood. This also happened around Achaea: for outside there was a south wind, but there, a north wind, and when windlessness set in and the wind flowed inward, the wave and the earthquake occurred together, and all the more because the sea did not allow a vent for the wind that had set out beneath the earth, but blocked it instead—
58| For as they force each other apart, the wind produced the earthquake, and the settling of the wave produced the flood. Earthquakes of the earth occur locally, and often over a small area, but winds do not occur locally. They occur locally whenever the exhalations in that place and in the neighboring one come together into one, just as we said droughts also come about, and local excessive rains. Earthquakes, then, come about in this way, but winds do not: for earthquakes have their starting point in the earth, so that they all rush toward one point; but the sun cannot do this in the same way, but rather has more power over the exhalations that are up in the air, so that they flow, whenever they take their starting point from the sun's motion, toward one point according to the differences of the places. So then, whenever the wind is great, it moves the earth broadly, as a trembling would, but this happens rarely and only in certain places; when it moves up and from below, as a pulse does, and for this reason the earth shakes less often in this way; for it is not easy for so much of a source to come together in this fashion, since the separation lengthwise is many times greater than that from the depth.
59| Wherever such an earthquake occurs, a great number of stones rise to the surface, as when things are tossed up in winnowing-baskets; for it was in this way that an earthquake overturned the region around Sipylus and the so-called Phlegraean Plain and the region around Liguria. But in the islands out at sea earthquakes occur less than in those near the mainland; for the great mass of the sea cools the exhalations and hinders them by its weight and forces them back, and further, the sea flows and is not shaken, being mastered by the winds; and because it occupies so great a place, the exhalations do not go into it but come out of it, and the exhalations from the earth follow after these. But the islands near the mainland are a part of the mainland; for the space between, being small, has no power of its own; but it is not possible to move the islands out at sea without moving the whole sea, by which they happen to be surrounded. Concerning earthquakes, then—both what their nature is, and through what cause they come about, and concerning the other things that happen along with them—we have spoken, roughly, about the most important points.
60| Let us now speak about lightning and thunder, and further about the typhoon and the fiery whirlwind and thunderbolts; for one must suppose the same starting point for all of these. For since the exhalation, as we said, is twofold—one moist, the other dry—and the mixture has both of these potentially and is formed into cloud, as has been said before, and further, since the formation of the clouds becomes denser toward the outer limit (for at the point where the hot is separated off and departs into the region above, at that point the formation must necessarily be denser and colder)—for this reason thunderbolts and squalls of wind and all such things travel downward, even though everything hot is naturally disposed to travel upward; but the expulsion must necessarily happen in the direction opposite to the density, just like fruit-stones that leap out from between the fingers; for these too, though they have weight, often travel upward. So the heat that is separated off scatters into the region above. But as much of the dry exhalation as is enclosed within, during the change as the air is cooled, is squeezed out as the clouds come together, and being carried along by force and striking against the clouds that surround it, it produces a blow, the sound of which is called thunder. And the blow comes about in the same way—to compare a small effect to a greater one—as the sound that occurs in a flame, which some call the laughter of Hephaestus, others the laughter of Hestia, and others still a threat from these gods.
61| It occurs whenever the exhalation, gathered together, is carried into the flame, as the logs crack and dry out; for it is in this same way that, occurring in the clouds, the expulsion of wind, falling upon the density of the clouds, produces thunder. The sounds are of every kind because of the unevenness of the clouds and because of the hollow spaces between them, where the continuity of the density fails. This, then, is what thunder is, and it comes about through this cause; but the wind that is squeezed out is, for the most part, set on fire with a thin and weak burning, and this is what we call lightning, whenever the wind, as it were shooting out, is seen colored. It occurs after the blow and later than the thunder; but it appears earlier because sight outstrips hearing. This is made clear in the rowing of triremes; for the first sound of the rowing reaches one only when the oarsmen are already bringing the oars back up again. And yet some say that fire comes to be within the clouds: Empedocles says this is the sunlight that has been enclosed within, while Anaxagoras says it is fire from the upper aether—what he calls fire—brought down from above to below. They say, then, that lightning is the flashing-through of this fire, and thunder is the sound and hissing of it being extinguished within, so that, just as it appears and comes about, in this way too the lightning is prior to the thunder.
62| But the enclosure of fire is unreasonable, on both accounts, but more so the drawing-down of the aether from above. For one must state the cause of what is naturally disposed to travel upward instead traveling downward, and also why this happens in the sky only when it is cloudy, but not continuously so in that condition; and when the sky is clear, it does not happen. For this seems, in every respect, to have been said carelessly. In the same way, too, it is not persuasive to say that the heat coming from the rays, trapped within the clouds, is the cause of these things; for this account too has been stated far too casually; for the cause must always be something separated off and determinate—of thunder and lightning and the other such things—and must come about in this way. But this differs very greatly; for it would be like supposing that water and snow and hail exist within beforehand and are later separated out, and do not come to be, as though the combination were always producing each of them ready to hand. For in the same way, one must suppose those things to be combinations and these to be separations-out, so that if one of these two does not come to be but exists, the same account will fit both alike. And what would one call the enclosure any different from what happens in denser things?
63| For water too becomes hot from the sun and from fire; but nevertheless, whenever the water comes together again and is cooled as it freezes, no such expulsion as those men speak of results. And yet, in proportion to the size, the wind arising within it from the fire ought to produce a boiling, which it is not possible for it to have existed within beforehand; nor do those men make the sound a boiling, but a hissing; but the hissing too is a slight boiling; for where what falls upon it masters it as it is being extinguished, there it produces the sound by boiling. There are some, such as Cleidemus, who say that lightning does not exist but only appears to, comparing it to the case where someone strikes the sea with a rod; for the water appears to gleam at night; so too, they say, when the moisture in the cloud is struck, the appearance of the brightness is the lightning. These men, then, were not yet familiar with the doctrines about reflection, which seems to be the cause of such an effect; for the water appears to gleam when struck because sight is reflected off it toward one of the bright objects. For this reason this happens more at night; for by day it does not appear, because the greater brightness of the day makes it disappear.
1| These, then, are the accounts others give of thunder and lightning: some say lightning is a reflection, others that lightning is a flashing-through of fire and thunder its quenching, the fire not coming to be at each occurrence but already present within. We, however, say that the same nature is, on the earth, wind, in the earth, earthquake, and in the clouds, thunder. For all these are, in substance, the same thing: a dry exhalation, which, when it flows in one way, is wind, and when it acts in another way, produces earthquakes, and when it changes within the clouds and is expelled, as the clouds come together and are condensed into water, produces thunder and lightning and, besides these, the other phenomena that are of the same nature as these. So much, then, has been said about thunder and lightning. 3.
2| Let us now speak of the remaining effects of this expulsion, describing them in the way already laid out. For this current of air, when it is expelled in small amounts, scattered abroad, occurring often, breathing through, and finer in its parts, produces thunder and lightning; but if it is expelled all at once and denser, and less of it comes out fine, it becomes a squall-wind. That is also why it is violent: for the speed of the expulsion produces the force. Now when a great and continuous expulsion follows along, the same thing happens as when the process again rushes to the opposite; for then there comes rain and an abundance of water. Both of these, then, exist potentially in the matter; and whichever of the two gets the start as an active power, that is what follows, being expelled together out of the matter, whichever kind is present in the greater quantity, and the result is, on the one hand, a rainstorm, and on the other, from the other exhalation, a squall. But when the current of air being expelled within the cloud meets resistance from another current in just the way that wind, forced from a wide space into a narrow one, does at gateways or roadways—for it often happens in such cases that, the first portion of the flowing body being pushed back because it cannot yield, either through narrowness or because of an opposing current, a circle and a whirl of the current of air comes about—
3| for what lies ahead prevents it from advancing, while what is behind pushes it on, so that it is forced to move sideways, where it is not hindered, and so continually what is next to it, until it becomes a single thing, and this is a circle; for that of which the movement follows a single shape must itself be a circle. On the earth, then, whirlwinds come about for these reasons, and likewise in the clouds, as regards their origin, except that, just as when a squall-wind comes about, the cloud is continually being expelled and a continuous wind results, so here too the continuous portion of the cloud continually follows. But because of density, the current of air, unable to be expelled from the cloud, at first turns in a circle for the reason stated, but is carried downward because the clouds are continually being condensed, at the point where the heat falls out. This affection, when it is without color, is called a typhoon, being a wind, as it were an undigested squall. In north winds no typhoon occurs, nor, when there is snow, does a squall-wind occur, because all these are currents of air, and a current of air is a dry and hot exhalation. So frost and cold, because they prevail, quench the beginning of the process as soon as it comes to be.
4| That cold does prevail is clear: for otherwise there would be no snow, nor would north winds bring moisture; for these come about when coldness prevails. A typhoon, then, comes about when what is becoming a squall-wind is unable to be expelled from the cloud. It occurs through the resistance of the whirl, when the coil, being carried onto the earth, drags the cloud down with it, unable to be released from it. In the direction in which it breathes out in a straight line, it moves things by its current, and by its circular motion it turns and lifts up whatever it forcibly strikes upon. When what is drawn down is set ablaze (this happens if the current becomes finer), it is called a prester; for it sets the air ablaze along with itself, coloring it by its burning. But if within the cloud itself a great deal of fine current is squeezed out, this becomes a thunderbolt: if it is very fine, not burning because of its fineness, this is what the poets call the bright bolt; but if less fine, it does burn, and this is what they call the smoky bolt. For the one, because of its fineness, is carried along, and because of its speed passes through before it can set things ablaze, though by lingering it blackens them; the slower one colors but does not burn, but rather it passes through too quickly. That is why some things that offer resistance are affected in some way, while others are not at all—for instance, on a shield, the bronze has already melted while the wood has suffered nothing at all;
5| for because of its porousness the current passed through and got through before it could act. Likewise through garments it does not burn them up but makes them, as it were, into rags; so that it is clear from cases like these too that all these things are currents of air. It is possible sometimes even to see this with one's own eyes, as indeed happened just now in the case of the temple at Ephesus when it was burning; for in many places the flame moved along continuously, then broke off separately. That smoke is a current of air, and that smoke burns, is evident, and has been said before elsewhere; and when it moves along all at once, then it clearly seems to be a current of air. What appears, then, in small fires, was happening then too, but much more powerfully, because a great deal of material was burning. As the timbers split apart, then, from which the current of air originated, a great deal moved along all at once, at the point where it was breathing out, and was carried upward set on fire, so that the flame appeared to be moving and falling upon the houses. For one must always suppose that a current of air accompanies thunderbolts and goes ahead of them; but it is not seen, because it is without color. That is also why, in the place it is about to strike, there is movement before the blow lands, since the beginning of the current of air falls upon it first. And thunder and lightning likewise split things apart, not by the noise, but because the current of air that produces both the blow and the noise is expelled at the same moment;
6| whatever it strikes, it splits apart, but it does not burn it. So much, then, has been said about thunder and lightning and the squall-wind, and further about presters and typhoons and thunderbolts, and that they are all the same thing, and what the difference between them is. Let us now speak about the halo and the rainbow, what each is and through what cause it comes about, and about mock suns and streaks; for all of these come about through the same causes as one another. First we must grasp the affections and what happens in connection with each of them. Of the halo, then, a whole circle is often seen, and it occurs around the sun and moon and the bright stars, and no less by night than by day, and around midday or afternoon; but less often at dawn and around sunset. Of the rainbow, a full circle never occurs, nor a segment greater than a semicircle; and at sunset and sunrise the circle is smallest but the arc greatest, while as the sun rises higher the circle is greater but the arc smaller; and after the autumn equinox, on the shorter days, it occurs at every hour of the day, but in summer it does not occur around midday. Nor do more than two rainbows occur at once. Of these, each has three colors, and the colors are the same and equal in number to one another, but fainter in the outer one, and placed opposite in their position. For the inner one has, as its first and outermost band, the largest, a crimson; the outer one has this same color as its smallest band but nearest to it, and the others correspondingly.
7| These colors are about the only ones that painters cannot produce; for some they can mix themselves, but crimson, green, and purple do not come about by mixing — and the rainbow has just these colors. The color between the crimson and the green often appears yellow. Mock suns and light-shafts always occur to the side, and never overhead, never close to the ground, never directly opposite the sun, and never at night — always around the sun, and further, while it is rising or setting; most often toward the west. When the sun is at mid-heaven it is a rare occurrence — as it once happened at the Bosporus: two mock suns rose with the sun and continued the whole day through until it set. These, then, are the things that happen with respect to each of them, and the cause of all of them is the same: all of these are reflection. They differ in their manner and in what they occur from, and in how the reflection happens to occur toward the sun or toward some other bright body. A rainbow occurs by day; by night, one from the moon, as the ancients thought, did not occur — they were mistaken about this because of its rarity, for it escaped their notice: it does occur, but only rarely.
8| The cause is that colors escape notice in the dark, and many other conditions must coincide as well, and all of these on a single day of the month; for it is necessary that a moon-rainbow, if one is to occur, occur at the full moon, and then only while the moon is rising or setting. That is why in more than fifty years we have come across it only twice. That sight is reflected — just as from water, so too from air and from everything whose surface is smooth — this conviction must be drawn from what is demonstrated in the works on sight, and likewise the fact that in some mirrors shapes as well as colors appear, while in others only colors appear. Mirrors of this latter kind are those that are small and have no perceptible division of parts; for in these it is impossible for a shape to appear (since it would have to appear as divisible, for every shape seems at once to be a shape and to have division), and since something must appear, and this is impossible, it remains that only the color appears. And the color of a bright object sometimes appears bright, and sometimes, either because it mixes with the color of the mirror or because of a weakness of sight, produces the appearance of a different color.
9| Let these matters be taken as already examined by us in the demonstrations in the works on the senses; hence we shall state some points and use others of them as established. Let us speak first about the shape of the halo — why it is a circle, and why it forms around the sun or the moon, and likewise around some of the other stars; for the same account will fit all cases. The reflection of sight occurs when the air and the vapor condense into a cloud, provided the condensation happens to be uniform and made of fine parts. Hence the condensation is a sign of rain, while the breakings-up or the fadings-away — the fadings being signs of fair weather, the breakings-up being signs of wind. For if the halo neither fades away nor breaks up, but is left to receive its own nature, it is reasonably a sign of rain; for it shows that a condensation of just this kind is already occurring, from which, as the thickening continues without interruption, it must necessarily result in rain. That is why these halos, more than the others, become black in color. When it breaks up, it is a sign of wind; for the division comes about through wind that already exists but is not yet present at that spot. A sign of this is that the wind comes from just that quarter from which the main break occurs. A halo fading away is a sign of fair weather; for if the air is not in such a condition as to master the heat trapped within it, nor to come to a watery condensation, it is clear that the vapor has not yet separated out from the dry and fiery exhalation —
10| and this is the cause of fair weather. We have now stated, then, in what condition the air must be for the reflection to occur. Sight is reflected from the mist that forms around the sun or the moon; that is why the halo does not appear opposite the sun, as the rainbow does. Since the reflection happens alike from every side, the result must necessarily be a circle or part of a circle; for from the same point to the same point, equal broken lines will always fall on the line of a circle. For let there be, from the point A to the point B, the broken lines A-C-B and A-Z-B and A-D-B; let AC, AZ, AD be equal to one another, and let the segments to B, namely CB, ZB, DB, also be equal to one another; and let AEB be joined, so that the triangles are equal (since they stand on the equal line AEB); then let perpendiculars be drawn to AEB from the angles — from C the line CE, from Z the line ZE, from D the line DE. These, then, are equal;
11| for they belong to equal triangles, and all lie in one plane; for they are all at right angles to AEB, and they all meet at the one point E. The figure traced out will therefore be a circle, with E as its center. Let B be the sun, A the eye, and the arc around C, Z, A the cloud from which sight is reflected toward the sun. One must think of the mirror-points as continuous; but because of their smallness each one is invisible, while the whole made up of all of them seems to be one, because of their being in unbroken succession. The white appears — the sun — continuously in a circle, appearing in each of the mirror-points and having no perceptible division, and more so near the ground because it is calmer there; for when there is wind, it is evident there is no stillness. Next to this the adjoining arc is black, seeming blacker because of the whiteness of the other. Halos occur more often around the moon, because the sun, being hotter, dissolves the condensations of air more quickly. Around the stars they occur through the same causes, but are not equally significant as signs, because they indicate condensations that are altogether small and not yet productive of anything.
12| That the rainbow is a reflection has been said before; what kind of reflection it is, and how and for what cause each of the things that occur in connection with it comes about, let us now state. Sight, then, when reflected, is found to occur from all smooth things, and among these are both air and water. It occurs from air whenever air happens to be condensing. But because of a weakness of sight, reflection often occurs even without condensation, as once happened as an affection to a certain man who saw only dimly and not sharply; for it always seemed to him, as he walked, that an image went ahead of him, looking toward him from directly opposite. He experienced this because his sight was reflected back to him; for it was so weak and altogether thin because of his infirmity that even the nearby air became a mirror for it, and it could not push through the air the way strong sight pushes through air that is far off and dense. That is why headlands appear lifted up at sea, and why all sizes look greater when east winds are blowing, and why things in mist look greater too — as the sun and stars do when rising and setting, more than when at mid-heaven. Reflection occurs most of all from water, and even more from water just beginning to form than from air; for each of the droplets, out of whose condensing the fine rain is composed, must necessarily be a better mirror than mist is.
13| Since it is both clear, and has already been said, that in mirrors of this sort only color appears and not shape, it is necessary that whenever it begins to rain, and the air in the clouds is already condensing into raindrops but it has not yet rained, if the sun is opposite, or something else so bright that the cloud becomes a mirror, and the reflection occurs toward the bright thing opposite, an appearance of color comes about, not of shape. And since each of the mirrors is small and invisible, but the continuity of magnitude arising from all of them together is visible, a continuous magnitude of the same color necessarily appears; for each of the mirrors renders the same color to what is continuous with it. So since these things can happen whenever the sun and the cloud stand in this relation and we are between them, there will be some appearance because of the reflection. And indeed the rainbow is in fact seen occurring at just such times and not otherwise. That the rainbow, then, is a reflection of sight toward the sun is clear; that is why it always occurs opposite the sun, while the halo occurs around it; and yet both are reflections; but the variety of their colors differs.
14| for the one reflection occurs from water and from something dark, even from far off, the other from nearby and from air that is by nature whiter. The bright thing appears crimson when seen through the dark, or in the dark (it makes no difference which). One can see this in the fire of green wood: its flame appears red because the fire, though bright and white, is mixed with a great deal of smoke. And through mist and smoke the sun appears crimson. This is why in the reflection of the rainbow, the first band appears to have this color (since the reflection comes from small droplets), whereas that of the halo does not. About the other colors we will speak later. Further, around the sun itself no such lingering formation occurs; instead it either rains or the cloud dissolves. But out of opposite conditions, in the interval before the water actually forms, some time elapses; for if this did not happen, the haloes would be colored just like the rainbow. As it is, they do not occur as wholes with such an appearance, nor in a full circle, but small and only in part -- these are called "rods" -- since if such a mist formed as would come from water or some other dark thing, as we were saying, the whole rainbow would appear, just as it does around lamps.
15| For around lamps, since conditions in winter are for the most part moist, a rainbow occurs, and it is most evident to people whose eyes are moist; for their sight, on account of its weakness, is quickly reflected. It comes about both from the moisture of the air and from the soot flowing off from the flame and mixing in; for then it becomes a mirror, and this is also because of the blackness, since soot is smoky. The light of a lamp appears not white but purple in a circle, and rainbow-colored, but not crimson; for the sight that is reflected is small, and the mirror is dark. The rainbow that appears from oars lifted up out of the sea comes about, in its position, in the same way as the one in the sky, but its color is more like the one around lamps; for it appears with a hue that is not crimson but purple. This reflection occurs from droplets that are extremely small but continuous; these are already water fully separated out. It also occurs if someone sprinkles fine droplets onto a place positioned so as to face the sun, where on one side the sun shines and on the other there is shadow;
16| for in such a place, if a person standing outside sprinkles inward, a rainbow appears where the rays overlap and produce the shadow. The manner of it, and the color, are similar, and the cause is the same as with the one from oars; for the person sprinkling uses his hand as an oar. That the color is of this kind, and at the same time the appearance of the other colors, will be clear from the following. For one must, having thought this through as has been said, lay down first that the bright thing in the dark, or seen through the dark, produces a crimson color; second, that sight, when stretched out over a distance, becomes weaker and lesser; and third, that black is like a negation, since a thing appears black through a failure of sight, which is why all distant things appear blacker, because sight does not reach all the way to them. Let these points, then, be examined on the basis of what happens in connection with the senses generally, for the accounts of those matters belong properly to that inquiry; here let us say only as much about them as is necessary. It appears, then, for this reason that distant things are blacker and smaller and smoother, both the things seen in mirrors and clouds -- people see clouds as blacker when looking at them in water than when looking at the clouds themselves.
17| And this is quite evident, for because of the reflection they are viewed with a diminished sight. It makes no difference whether the thing seen changes or the sight does; either way the result will be the same. Besides this, one must not fail to notice the following: it happens that when a cloud is near the sun, a person looking straight at it sees nothing colored, but it is white, while the same person looking at this same cloud in water finds it has some color of the rainbow. It is clear, then, that sight, like black, when broken by weakness, makes things appear blacker, and white less white, and draws it toward black. So the stronger sight changed into a crimson color, the next into green, and the still weaker into violet. Beyond that it no longer appears, but stops within these three, as is also true of most other cases, and here too it reached its limit; the change in the rest is imperceptible. That is why the rainbow appears three-colored, in each band alike, but in reverse order. The first band, then, has crimson on the outside; for from the greatest circumference the most sight strikes the sun, and the outer band is the greatest; the second band, and the third, follow the same proportion.
18| So if what has been said about the appearance of the colors is correct, the rainbow must be three-colored, and colored with only these colors. Yellow appears because of things appearing alongside one another. For the crimson appears white when set beside the green. Here is a sign of this: in the darkest cloud the rainbow becomes purest; and it happens that at that time the crimson seems most yellow. Now yellow is the color in the rainbow that lies between the crimson and the green. Because of the blackness of the cloud all around it, then, the whole of the crimson in it appears white; for it is white relative to those dark surroundings. And again, when the rainbow nearest the sun fades, this happens as the crimson is dissolving; for the cloud, being white, when set beside the green, changes into yellow. The greatest sign of all this is the rainbow from the moon; for it appears entirely white. This happens because it appears both in a cloud that is dark and at night. So just as fire beside fire, black beside black, makes something faintly white appear entirely white, so here; and this white is the crimson. This effect becomes evident also in the case of flowers;
19| For in woven fabrics and embroideries, some colors differ enormously in appearance depending on what is set beside what — for instance purple set among white or black wools, and again in one kind of light or another; this is why embroiderers say they often go wrong when working by lamplight among their patterns, taking one color for another. We have said, then, why the rainbow has three colors, and why it appears to be made up of only these colors. The enclosing rainbow is double and fainter in its colors, and by its position has its colors set in reverse order, for the same cause. For sight, stretching farther, sees the more distant thing as it were less clearly, and here it works in the same way. The reflection from the outer bow is therefore weaker, because the reflection takes place at a greater distance, so that striking the eye less, it makes the colors appear fainter. And they are reversed for the corresponding reason: more light strikes toward the sun from the smaller, inner circumference, since that circumference, being closer to the sight, is reflected from the part of the first rainbow nearest to it. In the outer rainbow the nearest circumference is the smallest, so that this one will have the color red; the next in order, and the third, follow the same proportion.
20| Let the outer rainbow be marked B, the inner one marked A; and of the colors, let the one marked G be red, the one marked D green, the one marked E purple; and yellow appears at the point marked Z. Three rainbows, or more, no longer occur, because the second is already fainter, so that a third reflection becomes altogether weak and is unable to reach the sun.
21| That the rainbow cannot form a full circle, nor a segment greater than a semicircle, and the other facts about it, will be clear to anyone who studies the diagram. For let there be a hemisphere on the circle of the horizon, the circle marked A, with K as its center, and some other point rising, marked H. If the lines falling from K in the shape of a cone form, as it were, an axis along the line HK, and the lines joined from K to M are reflected from the hemisphere to H, then the lines from K will strike the circumference of the circle at the greater angle. And if the reflection occurs when the star is rising or setting, a semicircle will be cut off from the circle by the horizon — namely the part that lies above the earth; but if the star is higher up, the part cut off will always be less than a semicircle. It is smallest when the star is on the meridian. Suppose first that it is at the rising, where H is; let KM be reflected to H, and let the plane in which A lies be produced from the triangle in which HKM lies.
22| The section will then be a circle of the sphere. Let the greatest circle be the one marked A; for it will make no difference through which of the circles on HK the plane through the triangle KMH is produced. Now the lines drawn from H and K will not, by this ratio, be constructed to the semicircle A at one point and then at another; for since the points H and K are given, KH will be given, and so will MH, so that the ratio of MH to MK will also be given. Given this ratio, then, M will touch a determinate circumference. Let this be the circumference on which N and M lie; so the intersection of the circumferences is given. But on any other circumference besides the one through M and N, the same ratio from the same points cannot hold in the same plane. Let some line DB, then, be set out, and let it be cut so that D is to B as MH is to MK. Now MH is greater than MK, since the reflection of the cone occurs at the greater angle; for it subtends the greater angle of the triangle KMH.
23| D, therefore, is also greater than B. Let a length, marked Z, be added to B, so that as D is to B, so BZ is to D. Then let it be arranged that as Z is to KH, so B is to another line, KP; and let MP be joined from P to M. P will then be the pole of the circle on which the lines from K fall; for as Z is to KH, so will B be to KP, and D to PM. For suppose it is not so, but the ratio holds instead to something less than PM or greater than it — it will make no difference. Let it be to PR. HK, KP, and PR will then stand in the same ratio to one another as D, B, Z do. But D, B, Z were proportional, such that as D is to B, so ZB is to D; so that as PH is to PR, so PR is to PK.
24| If, then, HR and KR are joined from H and K to the point R, these joined lines will have the same ratio as PH has to PR; for about the same angle P, the sides of triangle HPR and of triangle KRP are proportional. So PR will also have the same ratio to KR that HP has to PR. And MH has to MK the same ratio that D has to B — both ratios being equal. So the lines from the points H and K, having the same ratio, would be constructed not only at the circumference through M and N, but elsewhere as well; which is impossible. Since, then, D stands in this ratio neither to something less than PM nor to something greater than it (for we shall show this in the same way), it is clear that it must stand in this ratio to PM itself. So it will be that as MP is to PK, so PH is to MP, and, by the remaining term, MH is to MK.
25| If, then, using the point marked P as pole, and the distance MP as radius, a circle is drawn, it will touch all the angles that the lines from H and K make when reflected to the circle through M; but if not, it will be shown in the same way that lines having the same ratio are constructed at one point of the semicircle and then at another, which was impossible. If, then, you rotate the semicircle A about the diameter HKP, the lines from H and K, reflected to the point marked M, will behave in the same way in every plane, and will make the angle KMH equal in each. And the angle that HP and MP make at HP will always be equal. Triangles equal to triangle HMP and triangle KMP are therefore constructed on HP and KP. The perpendiculars of these will fall on the same point of HP, and will be equal. Let them fall on the point O. O, then, is the center of the circle, and the semicircle around MN has been cut off from the horizon; for the sun does not overpower the drops that are above, but does overpower those settled near the earth, and dissolves the moisture in the air.
26| And because of this the circle of the rainbow does not close completely. It occurs at night too, from the moon, though rarely; for the moon is not always full, and it is by nature weaker, so that it cannot master the air. The rainbow stands out most where the sun is most mastered, for there the most moisture remains in it. Again, let the horizon be the line on which A B Γ lies, and let H have risen, and let the axis now be the line on which H Π lies. Now everything else will be shown in the same way as before, but the pole of the circle, the point on which Π lies, will be below the horizon on which AΓ lies, once the point H has been raised. And on the same line, whenever the pole and the center of the circle coincide with the point of the horizon that now marks the rising; for this is the line on which HΠ lies. And since K H lies above the diameter AΓ, the center will be below the horizon AΓ, as before, on the line KΠ, at the point O. So the segment above will be smaller than a semicircle, the one on which Ψ Υ Ω lies;
27| for ΨΥΩ was a semicircle, but now it has been cut off from the horizon AΓ. ΥΩ will be invisible once the sun itself has risen, and least invisible at midday; for the higher H is, the lower both the pole and the center of the circle will be. As for why, during the shorter days after the autumn equinox, a rainbow can always occur, but during the longer days that run from one equinox to the other, a rainbow does not occur around midday, the cause is this: the segments toward the north are all greater than a semicircle, and always tend toward a still greater semicircle, while the invisible part is small; but of the segments on the south side of the equinoctial circle, the part above is small and the part under the earth is great. And the farther out segments are always the greater. So on the days near the summer solstice, because of the size of the segment, before H reaches the middle of the segment and the meridian, Π has already gone completely below, because midday stands far off from the earth on account of the size of the segment. But on the days near the winter solstice, because the segments of the circles do not rise much above the earth, the opposite necessarily happens;
28| for once H has risen only a little, the sun is already at midday. We must suppose the same causes hold for the sun-dog and for the streaks as for the phenomena already discussed. A sun-dog occurs when the sight is reflected toward the sun, while streaks occur because the sight, being of the kind we said always arises when clouds are near the sun, is reflected from some moist surface toward the cloud. For the clouds themselves appear colorless when looked at directly, but in the water the cloud appears full of streaks — except that in that case the color seems to belong to the cloud as seen in the water, whereas in the case of the streaks it seems to belong to the cloud itself. This happens whenever the composition of the cloud is uneven, dense in one part and thin in another, more watery in one part and less in another. For when the sight is reflected toward the sun, the shape of the sun is not seen, because the mirrors are too small, but the color is, because the sun — bright and white — appears in an uneven medium; and depending on which part the sight was reflected toward, one part appears crimson, another green or yellow. For it makes no difference whether one sees through such media or sees a reflection from such media; in both cases the color appears the same, so that if it is crimson seen the one way, it is crimson seen the other way too.
29| So the streaks arise from unevenness in the mirror, not in shape but in color, while the sun-dog occurs when the air is as even as possible and likewise dense throughout — which is why it appears white. For the evenness of the mirror produces a single color in the reflected image, while the reflection of the sight, coming all at once, since it strikes the sun all together from mist that is dense — not yet water, but close to water — makes the color that belongs to the sun appear, just as when sight is bent back from smooth bronze on account of its density. So, since the color of the sun is white, the sun-dog too appears white. And for this same reason the sun-dog is a stronger sign of coming water than the streaks are, for it happens that the air is more favorably disposed toward the generation of water in that case. And a southern sun-dog is a stronger sign than a northern one, because southern air changes into water more than air toward the north does. They occur, as we said, around sunset and around sunrise, and neither from above nor from below, but from the sides — both the streaks and the sun-dogs; and neither too near the sun nor altogether too far. For if it is near, the sun dissolves the cloud's composition, and if it is far, the sight will not be reflected;
30| for sight, stretched far out from a small mirror, becomes weak. That is also why halos do not occur directly opposite the sun. So if the cloud is high up and near, the sun will dissolve it; but if it is far off, the sight, being too weak to produce a reflection, will not strike it. But to the side, below the sun, the mirror can stand at just such a distance that the sun does not dissolve it, yet the sight arrives all at once, because, being carried toward the earth, it does not travel as if through empty space. But directly under the sun it does not occur, because near the earth the cloud would be dissolved by the sun, while up above, with the sun at mid-heaven, the sight is scattered apart. And in general it does not occur to the side either when the sun is at mid-heaven, for the sight is not carried under the earth, so that only a little of it reaches the mirror, and the reflected sight becomes altogether weak. The effects, then, that the exhalation happens to produce in the regions above the earth are, roughly speaking, this many and of this kind. We must now speak of the effects it produces within the earth itself, shut up inside the earth's own parts. For it produces two differentiae of bodies, because it too is by nature twofold, just as it is in the region above;
31| for there are two exhalations, as we say, the vaporous and the smoky, and there are also two kinds of things that arise in the earth: the mined minerals and the worked metals. The dry exhalation, then, is what, by a kind of firing, produces all the minerals — such as the kinds of stone that do not melt, and realgar, and ochre, and red ochre, and sulfur, and other things of that sort. Most minerals are either colored powder, or stone that has come to be from such a composition, as for example cinnabar. From the vaporous exhalation come the things that are mined and are either fusible or malleable, such as iron, copper, gold. The vaporous exhalation, shut up inside — especially within stones — produces all these by being compressed together into one through dryness and congealed, just as dew or frost is congealed when it separates out. But in this case these things are generated before the exhalation separates out. That is why in one sense these are water, and in another sense they are not: their matter was potentially water, but it is no longer so, nor did it come to be from water that had already come to be, through some affection, as the flavors do. For copper does not come to be that way, nor gold; rather, before coming to be, once the exhalation has congealed, each of these already is what it is.
1| That is why they all burn and contain earth; for they contain a dry exhalation. Gold alone does not burn. We have now spoken about all of them in common; but we must examine each kind individually, taking them up one by one. Book 4. Since four causes of the elements have been distinguished, and in accordance with their pairings the elements too turn out to be four — two of them active, the hot and the cold, and two passive, the dry and the wet — the proof of this comes from induction. For it is apparent in all cases that heat and cold bound, combine, and change things of the same kind and things not of the same kind, and make them wet and dry and hard and soft, while the dry and the wet are bounded and undergo the other affections mentioned, both in their own right and in all the bodies composed in common out of both. It is also clear from the accounts by which we define their natures: for we call the hot and the cold active (since what has the power to combine things is in a way something active), while we call the wet and the dry passive (for being easily bounded and being hard to bound are said to belong to their nature through their being acted on in some way). That the one pair is active and the other passive, then, is evident. Now that these have been distinguished, we should take up the workings by which the active elements produce their effects, and the forms of the passive ones. First, then, in general: simple generation and natural change is a work of these powers, and so, oppositely, is destruction in accordance with nature.
2| These, then, belong to plants and animals and their parts. Simple and natural generation is change brought about by these powers, whenever they attain a due proportion out of the matter underlying each nature; and these are the passive powers mentioned. The hot and the cold generate when they master the matter; but when they do not master it, imperfect boiling and lack of concoction occur locally. The thing most generally opposed to simple generation is putrefaction; for every destruction that occurs in accordance with nature is a road toward this, as old age and withering are. The end of everything else is rottenness, unless something composed by nature is destroyed by force; for it is possible to burn up flesh and bone and anything else, but for things whose destruction proceeds according to nature, the end is putrefaction. That is why things that putrefy become wet first and dry at the end; for they came into being out of these, and the dry was bounded by the wet through the working of the active elements. Destruction occurs when what is bounded overpowers what bounds it, on account of what surrounds it. However, putrefaction is spoken of in the strict sense only for things destroyed part by part, when they are separated from their nature. That is why everything else putrefies except fire;
3| for even earth and water and air putrefy, since all of these are matter for fire. Putrefaction is the destruction of the heat proper and natural to each moist thing by an alien heat; and this alien heat belongs to what surrounds it. So then, since the thing suffers through a deficiency of heat, and whatever lacks such a power is entirely cold, both would be causes, and the common affection, putrefaction, is due to both a coldness that is proper and a heat that is alien. This is also why everything that putrefies becomes drier, and ends as earth and dung; for as the proper heat departs it evaporates the natural moisture along with it, and there is no longer anything to draw the moisture in, since it is the proper heat, by its drawing, that brings the moisture in. Things also putrefy less in cold weather than in warm; for in winter there is little heat in the surrounding air and water, so that it has no strength, while in summer there is more. And neither what is frozen putrefies (for it is colder than the air is hot, so it is not overpowered — what moves overpowers) nor what is boiling or hot (for the heat in the air is less than the heat in the thing, so that it does not overpower it and produces no change at all).
4| Likewise, too, what is moving and flowing putrefies less than what is motionless; for the motion produced by the heat in the air becomes weaker than the motion already present in the thing, so that it produces no change. The same cause also explains why a large quantity putrefies less than a small one; for in the greater quantity there is more proper fire and cold than is enough for the powers in what surrounds it to overpower. That is why the sea, when divided up into parts, quickly putrefies, but the whole does not, and other bodies of water are the same way. And animals come to be in things that putrefy, because the heat that has been separated off, being natural, brings together the things that have been separated out. What generation and destruction are, then, has been stated.
5| It remains to speak of the further forms — as many as the powers we have mentioned produce out of the things already composed by nature, taking these as their underlying material. Now heat has concoction, and concoction has ripening, boiling, and further, roasting; cold has lack of concoction, and this has rawness, imperfect boiling, and imperfect roasting. We must understand that these names are not applied to the things in a strict sense — the term is not laid down universally for like cases — so that we must think of the forms mentioned not as being exactly these, but as being of this sort. Let us say what each of them is. Concoction, then, is a perfecting by the natural and proper heat, out of the opposed passive qualities; and these are the matter proper to each thing. For when a thing has been concocted, it has been perfected and has come to be. And the origin of this perfecting comes about through the proper heat, even if it is brought to completion with the help of something external, as when food is concocted with the help of baths and other such things; but the origin, at any rate, is the heat within the thing itself. For some things the end is their nature — nature in the sense we mean when we speak of form and substance; for others, the end of concoction is a certain underlying shape, whenever the moisture becomes of such a quality and such a quantity, whether by being roasted or boiled or putrefied or heated in some other way;
6| for then it is useful, and we say it has been concocted, as with must, and the matter that forms in tumors when it turns to pus, and a tear when it turns to rheum. And likewise with the rest. This happens to all of them whenever the matter and the moisture are overpowered; for this moisture is what is bounded by the heat present in the nature. For as long as the ratio is present within it, this is nature. That is why such things are signs of health — urine and excretions and residues generally. And a thing is said to have been concocted because this shows that the proper heat is overpowering what is indeterminate. Things that are concocted must necessarily be thicker and hotter; for that is what heat produces — something more solid, thicker, and drier. Concoction, then, is this; lack of concoction is incompleteness through a deficiency of the proper heat; and the deficiency of heat is coldness; and the incompleteness belongs to the opposed passive qualities, which is the matter proper to each nature. Let concoction and lack of concoction, then, be distinguished in this way.
7| Ripening is a kind of concoction; for the concoction of the nourishment in fruit-coverings is called ripening. Since concoction is a kind of perfecting, ripening is complete whenever the seeds in the fruit-covering are able to produce another thing such as itself; for in other cases too, this is how we speak of what is complete. This, then, is the ripening of a fruit-covering; but many other concocted things are also called ripe, in the same general sense but by a transfer of the word, because, as has been said before, names are not laid down for each kind of perfecting occurring in the things bounded by natural heat and cold. The ripening of tumors and phlegm and things of that sort is the concoction, by the natural heat present, of the moisture contained in them; for it is impossible to bound something without overpowering it. So then, out of the vaporous elements watery things are formed, and out of these, earthy things, and everything that ripens always becomes thicker out of what was thin. And nature draws some things into itself in this process, and expels others. What ripening is, then, has been stated; rawness is its opposite; and opposed to ripening is the lack of concoction of the nourishment in the fruit-covering; and this is the indeterminate moisture.
8| Rawness, therefore, is either windy or watery, or made up of both. Since ripening is a kind of completion, rawness will be an incompleteness. Incompleteness comes about through a deficiency of natural heat and a disproportion relative to the moisture being ripened. No moist thing ripens by itself, in its own right, without the dry; for water alone among moist things does not thicken. This comes about either because the heat is small or because the matter to be bounded is great; which is why the juices of raw things are thin, and cold rather than hot, and unfit to eat and unfit to drink. Rawness, like ripening, is spoken of in many ways. Hence urine, stools, and catarrhs too are called raw for the same reason: for everything that has not been mastered by heat nor brought to consistency is called raw. Carrying the usage further, unfired pottery is called raw, and milk is called raw, and many other things, whenever things capable of changing and being brought to consistency by heat remain unaffected by it. That is why water is called boiled but not called raw, because it does not thicken. So it has been said what ripening and rawness are, and why each of them occurs. Boiling, taken as a whole, is a concoction by moist heat of the indeterminate matter present in the moisture, but the name is properly applied only to things that are boiled.
9| This indeterminate matter would be, as has been said, windy or watery. Concoction comes about from the fire that is in the moisture; for what is cooked on frying-pans is roasted: it is affected by the heat from outside, and the moisture in which it lies is made drier by it, since it draws that moisture up into itself. But what is boiled does the opposite: its moisture is drawn out of it by the heat in the surrounding liquid. This is why boiled things are drier than roasted things: things being boiled do not draw the moisture up into themselves, for the heat outside masters the heat inside; whereas if the internal heat mastered the outside heat, it would draw the moisture into itself. Not every body is capable of being boiled: not a body in which there is no moisture at all, as in stones, nor one in which moisture is present but cannot be mastered because of density, as in wood; but only those bodies that have a moisture capable of being affected by the fire in the liquid. Gold too is said to be boiled, and wood, and many other things, though not in the same sense — by metaphor; for no names have been established for these differences. And we also say that liquids are boiled, for example milk and new wine, when the juice in the liquid changes into some form under the heating of fire applied round about and from outside, so that in a certain way it produces something close to the boiling just described.
10| The end is not the same for all things, whether boiled or concocted, but for some it is eating, for others sipping, for others some other use, since we also speak of boiling drugs. So all things that can become thicker, or smaller, or heavier, or partly one of these and partly the opposite, because when they are separated out part thickens and part becomes thin — as milk separates into whey and curds — all such things can be boiled. But oil is not boiled by itself, because it undergoes none of these changes. This, then, is what the concoction called boiling is; and it makes no difference whether it occurs in the instruments of craft or of nature, if it occurs, for in every case it will be for the same cause. Parboiling is a lack of concoction opposite to boiling; and this would be the opposite in the sense first mentioned — a lack of concoction of the indeterminate matter in the body, arising through a deficiency of the heat in the surrounding moisture. It has been said that this deficiency goes along with coldness; it arises through a different motion, for the concocting heat is knocked out, and the deficiency comes about either through the abundance of coldness in the liquid, or through the abundance of matter in the thing being boiled;
11| for then it happens that the heat in the liquid is greater than enough not to cause change, but less than enough to make uniform and concoct fully. That is why parboiled things become harder than boiled things, while their liquids are more distinctly separated out. So boiling and parboiling have been discussed, both what each is and why each occurs. Roasting is concoction by heat that is dry and foreign. For this reason, even if someone boiling something causes it to change and be concocted not by the heat of the liquid but by the heat of the fire itself, then when it is finished it becomes roasted and not boiled, and if this goes to excess it is said to be scorched; and it comes about by dry heat whenever the thing, once completed, turns out drier. That is also why the outer parts of roasted things are drier than the inner; with boiled things it is the opposite. And in the case of things worked by hand, roasting is a harder task than boiling, for it is difficult to heat the inner and outer parts uniformly. For what is nearer the fire always dries faster, and so more. So when the outer pores draw together, the moisture present within cannot be expelled, but is shut in, once the pores close up. Roasting and boiling, then, occur through craft, but, as we say, their forms are, taken generally, the same in nature as well;
12| for the affections that come about are similar, though nameless; for craft imitates nature, since the concoction of food in the body is also similar to boiling: it too occurs in something moist and hot, by the heat of the body. And some cases of indigestion are similar to parboiling. And living creatures do not arise in the process of concoction, as some say, but in the excreted matter as it putrefies in the lower belly, and then make their way back up; for concoction occurs in the upper belly, but what is separated off putrefies in the lower; the reason why has been stated elsewhere. Parboiling, then, is the opposite of boiling; and to the concoction called roasting there is likewise something opposed, though it is even more nameless. It would be something similar if, instead of roasting, there occurred a mere drying-out through a deficiency of heat, which could happen either because of the scantiness of the outside fire or because of the abundance of moisture in the thing being roasted; for then the heat is more than enough not to cause change, but less than enough to concoct fully. So it has been stated what concoction and lack of concoction are, and ripening and rawness, and boiling and roasting and their opposites.
13| Of the affective qualities — the moist and the dry — we must now state the forms. The affective principles of bodies are the moist and the dry, and everything else is a mixture of these; and whichever of the two predominates, the thing's nature is more that one — some things being more of the nature of the dry, others more of the moist. And in all of them, some will be in actuality, others in the opposite, potentially; melting stands to the meltable in just this way. Since the moist is easily bounded and the dry is hard to bound, they are affected toward one another somewhat as relish is affected by seasonings: for the moist is the cause of the dry's being bounded, and each becomes, as it were, a glue for the other, just as Empedocles too put it in his work on nature, gluing barley-meal with water. And this is why a bounded body is composed of both. Among the elements, earth is said to be most properly the dry, and water most properly the moist. That is why all bounded bodies here contain earth and water; and whichever of the two is present in greater amount, each thing appears to be characterized by that one's power. And living creatures exist only in earth and water, not in air or fire, because these are the matter of bodies.
14| Among bodily affections, these must belong first to what is determinate: hardness or softness. For what is composed of the dry and the wet must be either hard or soft. Hard is what does not yield into itself along its surface, soft is what yields but without displacing itself in return. For water is not soft: its surface does not yield to pressure in depth, but shifts round instead. So without qualification, a thing is hard or soft when it is so without qualification, and relative to another thing when it is so in relation to that. Relative to one another, then, hard and soft are indeterminate, admitting of more and less; but since we judge all perceptible things relative to perception, clearly we have also determined hard and soft without qualification relative to touch, treating touch as a mean. Hence we say what exceeds it is hard, and what falls short of it is soft.
15| A determinate body must be hard or soft by its own proper definition: for it either yields or it does not; further, it must be solidified, since this is what determines it. So since everything determinate and constituted is either soft or hard, and these consist in solidification, all composite and determinate bodies must exist not without solidification. We must therefore speak about solidification. Now the causes bearing on matter are two, the agent and the affection: the agent as that from which the motion comes, the affection as form. So this holds both of solidification and of dissolution, and of drying and of moistening. The agent acts by two powers, and what is acted on is acted on by two affections, as has been said: it acts by hot and cold, and the affection consists either in the presence or the absence of hot or cold. Since solidifying is in a way a form of drying, let us speak of this first. What is acted on is either wet or dry or composed of these. We take water as the body of the wet, and earth as that of the dry, for these are what are affected as wet and dry respectively. Hence also the cold belongs more among the things affected, for it belongs among these: both earth and water are taken as cold.
16| The cold is an agent as destructive, or accidentally so, as has been said earlier; for sometimes the cold too is said to burn and to heat, not as the hot does, but by drawing together or displacing the hot round about. What dries is whatever is water or a form of water, or contains water, whether introduced or connatural. By introduced I mean, for example, as in wool; by connatural, as in milk. Forms of water are things like these: wine, urine, whey, and in general whatever has no sediment, or only slight sediment, not because of viscosity — for in some things viscosity is the cause of nothing settling out, as in oil or pitch. Everything dries either by being heated or by being cooled, and both by heat, whether the heat is internal or external. For even things that are dried by chilling, like a garment, if the wet in it is separated out on its own, are dried by the internal heat jointly evaporating the wet, provided the wet is small in amount, the heat departing under the pressure of the surrounding cold. So everything dries, as has been said, either by being heated or by being cooled, and all by heat, whether the internal or the external heat jointly evaporates the wet. By external I mean, for example, things that are boiled; by internal, when, once removed from the heat it had, it is used up as it breathes itself away.
17| So much, then, for drying. Moistening is one thing when water comes to be by condensation, another when what has solidified melts. Of these, wind condenses into water when cooled; about melting and solidification together it will become clear. Whatever solidifies does so being either of water, or of earth and water, and this either by hot-and-dry or by cold. Hence, too, things are dissolved by their opposites — of what has been solidified by hot or by cold, whatever is dissolved is dissolved so: what has been solidified by dry heat is dissolved by water, which is wet and cold, while what has been solidified by cold is dissolved by fire, which is hot. Some things might seem to solidify by water, for example boiled honey; but it solidifies not by the water but by the cold within it. So whatever is of water does not solidify by fire. For it is dissolved by fire, and the same thing cannot be, in the same respect, the cause of contrary effects on the same thing. Further, a thing solidifies by the hot departing, so clearly it will be dissolved by the hot entering; so it solidifies through the action of the cold. Hence things that solidify in this way do not thicken; for thickening occurs when the wet departs and the dry condenses,
18| whereas water, among wet things, does not thicken at all. Whatever is common to earth and water solidifies both by fire and by cold, and thickens under both, in one way the same, in another different: by heat drawing out the wet (for as the wet evaporates the dry thickens and condenses), and by cold squeezing out the hot, along with which the wet departs as it evaporates together with it. So things that are soft but not wet do not thicken but solidify as the wet departs, for example baked pottery; but things that are wet among mixed bodies also thicken, for example milk. Many things are also first moistened, whatever previously existed as thick or hard under the action of cold, just as pottery too, when first baked, gives off vapor and becomes softer; hence it also warps in the kilns. So among things common to earth and water that solidify by cold, having more earth in them: those that solidify because the hot has departed are melted by heat, the hot entering again, for example clay when it has set; but those that solidify through chilling, with all the hot having evaporated together with it, are indissoluble except by excessive heat, but are softened, for example iron and horn.
19| Wrought iron too melts, so as to become liquid and solidify again. This is how tempered steel is made: the slag settles and is purged out below; and when it has undergone this repeatedly and become pure, this becomes tempered steel. They do not do it repeatedly, because a great loss occurs and the weight is reduced by the purging. Iron that has less removed by purging is better. Fire-resistant stone also melts, so as to drip and flow; and what solidifies, once it has flowed, becomes hard again. Millstones too melt so as to flow; and what flows, on solidifying, is black in color, and becomes similar to lime. Clay and earth also melt. Of what solidifies by dry heat, some is indissoluble, some is dissolved by wet. Pottery, then, and certain kinds of stone, whatever come to be when earth is fired through by fire, for example millstones, are indissoluble; but soda and salts are dissoluble by wet — not by every wet, however, but by cold wet. Hence they melt in water and forms of water, but do not melt in oil. For the wet-cold is opposite to the dry-hot. So if the one caused solidifying, the other will cause dissolving; for in this way opposites will be causes of opposites.
20| Now things that have more of water than of earth are thickened by fire alone, while things that have more of earth are solidified by it. That is why natron and salts belong more to earth, as do stone and pottery. The nature of olive oil presents the greatest difficulty. For if it has more of water, it ought to be solidified by cold, as ice is; if more of earth, by fire, as pottery is. But as it is, it is solidified by neither, and thickened by both. The cause is that it is full of air. That is also why it floats on water; for air too is carried upward. So cold thickens it by turning the air present within it into water; for whenever water and oil are mixed, the result is always thicker than either alone. By fire and by time it is both thickened and whitened: it is whitened because whatever water was present in it evaporates, and it is thickened because, as the heat dies away, water comes to be out of the air. So in both cases the same affection results, and through the same cause, but not in the same way. It is thickened, then, by both, but dried by neither; for neither the sun nor the cold dries it — not only because it is viscous, but also because it belongs to air.
21| The water in it is not dried out nor boiled off by fire, because it does not evaporate on account of its viscosity. Things that are mixtures of water and earth deserve to be described according to the proportion of each; for a certain kind of wine both solidifies and boils down, for example must. In all such things, when they dry, the water departs from them. A sign that it is water: the vapor condenses into water, if one wants to collect it. So whatever is left behind in these belongs to earth. Some of these, as has been said, are also both thickened and dried by cold; for cold not only solidifies, but dries the water in a thing while it thickens the air by turning it into water. And solidification, as has been said, is a kind of drying. So things that are not thickened by cold but solidified belong more to water — for example wine, urine, vinegar, lye, and whey; things that are thickened by fire without evaporating belong partly to earth, partly are common to water and air — honey belongs to earth, oil to air. Milk and blood too are common to both water and earth, though for the most part more of earth — just as with the fluids from which natron and salts are formed.
22| Stones too are formed from certain such fluids. That is why, if the whey is not separated out, it gets burned away by fire when boiled. The earthy part is also made to congeal by fig-juice, if one boils it in the right way, as physicians do when they curdle with rennet. In this way whey and cheese are separated. Once separated, the whey no longer thickens, but burns away like water. If a milk has no cheese in it, or only a little, it belongs more to water and is not nourishing. Blood is similar: it solidifies by drying as it cools. Blood that does not solidify, such as a deer's, belongs more to water, and such bloods are the coldest. That is also why it has no fibers; for fibers belong to earth and are something solid. Hence even once the fibers are removed, blood does not solidify. This will be because it does not dry out; for what remains is water, just as with milk once the cheese is removed from it. Here is a sign of it: diseased bloods refuse to solidify; for they are serous, and this serous element is phlegm and water, because it is unconcocted and not mastered by nature. Further, some things are dissoluble, such as natron, others indissoluble, such as pottery; and of these, some are softenable, such as horn, others unsoftenable, such as pottery and stone.
23| The cause is that opposites are causes of opposites, so that if a thing is solidified by two agents, cold and dry, it must necessarily be dissolved by hot and moist. Hence by fire and by water (for these are opposites): by water, whatever is solidified by fire alone; by fire, whatever is solidified by cold alone. So if a thing happens to be solidified by both, such things are the most indissoluble of all. Such are the things that, having been heated, are then solidified by cold; for it happens that when the heat departs and dries out the moisture, most of what moisture remains is squeezed together again by the cold, so that it does not even leave a passage through for moisture. And for these reasons heat does not dissolve them either; for heat dissolves only what is solidified by cold alone; nor does water dissolve them; for water does not dissolve what is solidified by cold, but only what is solidified by dry heat alone. Iron, once melted by heat, is solidified by cold, so that its solidification requires both; that is why it is indissoluble. Wood belongs to earth and air; that is why it is combustible and neither meltable nor softenable, and floats on water — except ebony. Ebony does not float: other woods have more of air, but the air has evaporated out of black ebony, and there is more of earth in it. Pottery belongs to earth alone, because it solidifies by drying little by little;
24| for water has no way in, since the only passages are those through which the air went out, and fire has no way in either, since fire is what solidified it in the first place. What solidification and melting are, then, and through how many causes and in how many kinds of things they occur, has been stated. From this it is clear that bodies are composed under the action of hot and cold, and that these do their work by thickening and solidifying. And because bodies are fashioned by these, heat is present in all of them, and in some cold too, to the degree that heat is lacking. So, since hot and cold belong to bodies because of their acting, while moist and dry belong to them because of their being acted on, the things common to all partake of both pairs. So the homogeneous bodies are composed out of water and earth, both in plants and in animals, and the things dug from mines, such as gold and silver and all others of that kind, are composed out of water and earth together with the exhalation of each enclosed within them, as has been said elsewhere. These bodies differ from one another, all of them, both in the properties peculiar to the senses and in what they are capable of producing. For being white and fragrant and capable of making sound and sweet and hot and cold is a matter of being able to produce some effect on perception, and they also differ by other affections more proper to themselves, those spoken of in terms of being acted on — I mean, for instance, being meltable and solidifiable and bendable and all other such things; for all such qualities are affective qualities, like the moist and the dry. It is by these already that bone and flesh and sinew and wood and bark and stone and each of the other homogeneous natural bodies differ from one another.
25| Let us first state their number — the affections spoken of in terms of a capacity and its lack. They are these: solidifiable and unsolidifiable, meltable and unmeltable, softenable and unsoftenable, soakable and unsoakable, bendable and unbendable, breakable and unbreakable, shatterable and unshatterable, crushable and uncrushable, moldable and unmoldable, compressible and incompressible, tractile (able to be drawn out) and non-tractile, malleable (able to be hammered out) and unmalleable, splittable and unsplittable, cuttable and uncuttable, viscous and friable, compactable and uncompactable, combustible and incombustible, fumigable (able to give off vapor when burned) and unfumigable. So most bodies, one might almost say, differ from one another in respect of these affections; let us state what capacity each of these is. Now about the solidifiable and unsolidifiable, and the meltable and unmeltable, we have spoken in general already, but let us return to it now as well. Of bodies that solidify and harden, some undergo this through heat, others through cold — through heat when it dries out the moisture, through cold when it squeezes out the heat. So they undergo this either through absence of moisture or through absence of heat: those that belong to water do so through absence of heat, those that belong to earth through absence of moisture. Now those that solidify through absence of moisture are melted by moisture, unless they have come together in such a way that the pores left are smaller than the particles of water, as with pottery; but whatever is not of this sort is entirely dissolved by moisture, for example natron, salts, and clay-earth.
26| Things that solidify through privation of heat are melted by heat, for example ice, lead, and bronze. What sorts of things, then, are solidifiable and meltable has been stated, and what sorts are unmeltable. Unsolidifiable are things that have no watery moisture and do not belong to water, but have more of heat and earth, for example honey and must (for these are, as it were, in a state of boiling), and also whatever has some water but has more of air, such as oil and molten silver, and anything viscous, such as birdlime.
27| Among solidified things, those are softenable which are not made of water — ice, for instance, is not, since all ice is of water — but rather those made more of earth: bodies in which the moisture has not been entirely drawn off, as it has in soda or salt, and which do not have an irregular structure, as pottery does, but are ductile without being penetrable by moisture, or malleable without being made of water, and are softenable by fire — for example iron, horn, and wood. Now among both meltable and unmeltable things, some are soakable and some are not: bronze, for instance, is not soakable, though it is meltable, while wool and earth are soakable, since they get wet. And bronze is meltable, but not meltable by water. But even among the things meltable by water, some are not soakable — soda and salts, for instance — for there is no other soakable thing that does not become softer when wetted. Some things, though soakable, are not meltable, for instance wool and fruits. Now soakable are those things which, being made of earth, have pores larger than the bulk of the particles of water, while being harder than water; meltable by water are those things that are porous all the way through. Why is it, then, that earth both melts and is soaked by moisture, while soda melts but is not soaked?
28| Because in soda the pores run all the way through, so that its particles are at once divided by the water, whereas in earth the pores are staggered, so that depending on how it receives the water, the effect differs. Among bodies, some are bendable and straightenable, for instance a reed and a willow-withe, while others are unbendable, for instance pottery and stone. Bendable and straightenable are those bodies whose length can change from curvature into straightness and from straightness into curvature, and to be bent and to be straightened is to shift or move into straightness or into curvature; for what curves upward and what curves downward are both instances of bending. Now motion into convexity or concavity, while the length is preserved, is bending; for if it were also motion into straightness, the thing would at once be both bent and straight — which is impossible, for the straight to be bent. And if everything that bends will bend either upward or downward, and of these the one is a transition into the convex and the other into the concave, then bending could not also be a transition into the straight; rather, bending and straightening are one thing and another. And these, then, are the things that are bendable and straightenable, and unbendable and unstraightenable.
29| Some things, again, are breakable and shatterable, either both together or separately: wood, for instance, is breakable but not shatterable; ice and stone are shatterable but not breakable; pottery is both shatterable and breakable. They differ in this: breaking is division and separation into large parts, while shattering is division into random pieces, more than two. So whatever has solidified in such a way as to have many staggered pores is shatterable (for it separates only that far), while whatever has pores extending far is breakable, and whatever has both is both. Some things are also dentable, for instance bronze and wax, others are not, for instance pottery and water. Denting is the partial displacement of a surface into depth, by a push or a blow, whereas displacement of the whole surface happens by mere contact. Such things are further either soft, as with wax, where the rest of the surface stays in place while part of it is displaced, or hard, as with bronze; and there are things that are both undentable and hard, for instance pottery (for its surface does not yield into depth), and liquid, for instance water (for water does yield, but not partially — instead it shifts elsewhere to replace itself). Of dentable things, those that remain dented once dented, and are easily dented by hand, are moldable; but those that are either not easily dented, like stone or wood, or are easily dented but the dent does not remain, like wool or sponge, are not moldable — these are instead compressible.
30| Compressible are those things which, when pushed, can contract into themselves, the surface shifting into depth without being divided, and one part being displaced in place of another — as water does, for water shifts to replace itself. Pushing is motion by the mover that occurs from contact; a blow occurs when it comes from an impetus. A thing is compressed when it has pores empty of a kindred body; and compressible are those things able to contract into their own empty spaces or into their own pores. For sometimes the spaces into which a thing contracts are not empty — as with a soaked sponge, whose pores are full — but rather it contracts into pores that are filled with something softer than the very thing that is naturally contracting into them. Compressible, then, are things like sponge, wax, flesh; incompressible are things not naturally able to contract by pushing into their own pores, either because they have none or because their pores are filled with something harder; for iron is incompressible, and so are stone and water and every liquid. Ductile are those things whose surface can be displaced sideways; for to be drawn is for the surface to shift toward the mover while remaining continuous. Some things are ductile — hair, a strap, sinew, dough, birdlime — others are not, for instance water and stone.
31| Some things, then, are both ductile and compressible at once, for instance wool; others are not both — phlegm, for instance, is not compressible but is ductile, while sponge is compressible but not ductile. There are also things malleable, for instance bronze, and things not malleable, for instance stone and wood. Malleable are those things whose surface can, by the same blow, be partially displaced both in breadth and in depth at once; unmalleable are those for which this is not possible. All malleable things are also dentable, but not all dentable things are malleable — wood, for instance; still, speaking generally, the two convert with each other. Of compressible things, some are malleable and some are not: wax and clay are malleable, wool is not, nor is water. There are also things splittable, for instance wood, and things unsplittable, for instance pottery. Splittable is what can be divided further than the dividing instrument itself divides; for a thing splits when it is divided further than the instrument divides it, and the division runs ahead of the instrument — in cutting this does not happen. Unsplittable are those things that cannot undergo this. Now nothing soft is splittable (I mean among things soft in an unqualified sense, not merely soft relative to one another —
32| for in that relative sense even iron will count as soft), nor are all hard things splittable, but only those that are neither liquid nor dentable nor shatterable. Such are the things whose pores run lengthwise — the very pores by which their parts are joined to one another — rather than crosswise. Of solid things, whether hard or soft, cuttable are those in which the division need not run ahead of the instrument by necessity, and which do not shatter when divided; things that are either liquid or of that other, shattering kind are uncuttable. Some things are both cuttable and splittable at once, for instance wood; but for the most part a thing is splittable lengthwise and cuttable crosswise. For since each thing is divided into many parts, insofar as the one thing becomes many lengths, it is splittable in that respect, and insofar as the one thing becomes many widths, it is cuttable in that respect. A thing is tenacious when it is ductile while being liquid or soft. Bodies become such through interlacing, when they are composed the way chains are; for these can stretch out and contract to a great extent. Whatever is not of this kind is crumbly. Of compressible things, those whose compression is permanent can be felted; those that cannot be felted are either wholly incompressible or have a compression that is not permanent. And some things are combustible, others incombustible: wood is combustible, and so are wool and bone, while stone and ice are incombustible.
33| Combustible things are those that have pores capable of receiving fire, and moisture weaker than the fire in the pores that run straight through. Things that either lack such pores, or have moisture stronger than fire — for instance ice and things that are very green — are incombustible. Among bodies, exhalable are those that have moisture, but have it in such a way that they do not evaporate apart from the body when they are set on fire; for vapor is the exudation, produced by burning heat, of moisture passing right through into air and breath. Exhalable things, by contrast, are given off into air over time, and of these some, as they disappear, become dry, and others become earth. This exudation differs from evaporation in that it neither moistens nor becomes wind. Wind is a continuous flow of air over a length; exhalation is the joint exudation, by burning heat, of dry and moist together, all at once. That is why it does not moisten, but rather colors. Now the exhalation of a woody body is smoke. I mean to include bones and hairs and everything of that kind under the same head; for there is no common name for them, but nonetheless by analogy they are all the same thing, just as Empedocles too says: 'The same things become hairs and leaves and the thick feathers of birds and scales, upon sturdy limbs.'
34| The exhalation of a rich body is soot, and that of an oily one is fatty reek. That is why oil neither boils down nor thickens: it is exhalable but not vaporizable, while water is not exhalable but is vaporizable. Sweet wine does exhale; for it is rich, and does the same thing as oil — it does not solidify from cold, and it burns. It is wine in name, but not in fact, for its flavor is not wine-like, which is also why it does not intoxicate. Ordinary wine has only a slight exhalation, which is why it gives off a flame. Combustible bodies are thought to be those bodies that dissolve into ash. This happens to everything that solidifies either by heat or by both cold and heat together; for such things evidently are mastered by fire. Least combustible of stones is the signet-stone, the one called the carbuncle. Among combustible things, some produce flame and some do not; and some of these are capable of charring. Flame-producing, then, are those that can yield a flame; those that cannot are flameless. Flame-producing are all those things that, without being moist, are exhalable. Pitch, oil, or wax are flame-producing more in combination with other things than by themselves. Most of all flame-producing are those that give off smoke.
35| Capable of charring are those of these things that have more of earth than of smoke. Further, some things, though meltable, are not flame-producing — bronze, for instance — and some are flame-producing but not meltable, for instance wood, while some are both, for instance frankincense. The reason is that wood has its moisture massed together and continuous throughout, so that it burns all the way through, while bronze has its moisture distributed part by part, not continuous, and too little to produce a flame; frankincense stands in one respect like the one, in another like the other. Among exhalable things, those that are not meltable are flame-producing because they are more earthy; for the dry has something in common with fire. So when this dry element becomes hot, it turns into fire. That is why flame is either wind or burning smoke. Now the exhalation of wood is smoke; that of wax and frankincense and things of that kind, and of pitch, and whatever contains pitch or is of that sort, is soot; that of oil and oily things is fatty reek. And whatever burns least by itself, because it has little of the dry in it, needs a passage through another substance to catch fire, though with another substance it burns very quickly. For this is what the rich, dry, oily thing is. So among moist things, those that are exhaled off are more of moisture, as oil and pitch, while those that burn outright are more of the dry.
36| By these affections and these differentiae the uniform bodies, as has been said, differ from one another in respect of touch, and further in smells, flavors, and colors. By uniform I mean both the mined substances, such as gold, bronze, silver, tin, iron, stone, and the other things of that kind, and whatever is produced from these by separating out, and also the parts found in animals and plants — for instance flesh, bones, sinew, skin, viscera, hairs, fibers, veins — out of which the non-uniform parts are already composed, for instance face, hand, foot, and the other things of that kind, and in plants wood, bark, leaf, root, and such things. Now since these latter are composed by a further cause, while the things out of which they are composed have as their matter the dry and the moist, that is, earth and water (for each of these two most plainly has the corresponding power), while what produces them is the hot and the cold (for these compose and solidify bodies out of those materials), let us take up which kinds of the uniform bodies belong to earth, which to water, and which are common to both. Now among composed bodies, some are moist, some soft, some hard; and which of the soft or hard ones are due to solidification has been said earlier.
37| Among moist things, then, whatever evaporates belongs to water; whatever does not, either belongs to earth, or is common to earth and water, as milk, or to earth and air, as wood, or to water and air, as oil. And whatever thickens under heat is common to both. But one might raise a difficulty about wine, among moist things: for this can be evaporated, and it thickens the way new wine does. The reason is that wine is not spoken of as a single kind, and different wines behave differently: new wine has more of earth in it than old wine, which is why it thickens most under heat and solidifies less under cold, for it has both much heat and much earth — just as in Arcadia it is so dried out by smoke in the wineskins that it is scraped off and drunk. And if every wine has sediment, then it belongs to whichever of the two, earth or water, according to how much sediment it has. Whatever thickens under cold belongs to earth; whatever thickens under both belongs jointly to more than one, as oil, honey, and sweet wine. Among solid bodies, whatever has solidified under cold belongs to water, as ice, snow, hail, frost; whatever has solidified under heat belongs to earth, as pottery, cheese, natron, salt;
38| and whatever has solidified under both is of the kind that solidifies by cooling; and these are the things deprived of both, heat and moisture, the moisture going out together with the heat. For salt solidifies by being deprived of moisture alone, as do all things that are purely of earth, while ice solidifies by being deprived of heat alone; but these other things are deprived of both. That is why they solidify under both, and had had both. Now take things whose whole moisture has been drawn off, as pottery or amber — for amber too, and whatever is said to be like tears, comes about by cooling, as myrrh, frankincense, gum. And amber, too, seems to belong to this class, and it solidifies; at any rate creatures are seen enclosed within it. And under the action of the river, the heat going out — as with honey being boiled, when it is put into water — evaporates the moisture. All these belong to earth. And some are unmeltable and unsoftenable, as amber, or certain stones, such as the tufa found in caves; for these too come to be in a way like those, and not as if by fire but as the heat passes out under the action of cold, the moisture going out together with the heat that issues from the body itself; while in the other cases it is by fire from outside. Whatever is not wholly dried out belongs more to earth, but is softenable, as iron and horn.
39| Frankincense and things like it give off vapor in much the same way as wood does. Since, then, we must posit that meltable things — those that melt under fire — are more watery in character, though some are common to both, such as wax; while those that melt under water belong rather to earth; and those that melt under neither belong either to earth or to both. If, then, everything is either liquid or solidified, and among these the things falling under the conditions we have described, with nothing in between, then everything will have been stated by which we can distinguish whether a thing belongs to earth, or to water, or is common to several, and whether it is composed by the action of fire, or of cold, or of both. Gold, then, and silver and bronze and tin and lead and glass and many nameless stones belong to water; for all these melt by heat. Again, some wines, and urine, and vinegar, and lye, and whey, and serum belong to water; for all these solidify by cold. Iron, on the other hand, and horn, and claw, and bone, and sinew, and wood, and hair, and leaves, and bark belong rather to earth. Again, amber, myrrh, frankincense, and all the things called 'tears,' and tufa, and fruits, such as pulse, and grain — these belong to earth, some of them very much so, others less than these, but to earth nonetheless.
40| For some of these can be softened, others can be burned as incense, and have come to be through cooling. Again, soda, salts, and kinds of stone — all those that neither solidify by cold nor melt by heat. Blood and semen are common to earth, water, and air: blood that has fibers belongs rather to earth, and for this reason it solidifies by cold and dissolves by moisture, while blood without fibers belongs to water, and for this reason does not solidify. Semen solidifies by cooling, as the moisture departs together with the heat.
41| Which of the solidified or liquid things are hot and which cold must be pursued from what has been said. Those belonging to water are, for the most part, cold, unless they have some heat foreign to them — for example, lye, urine, wine; those belonging to earth are, for the most part, hot, on account of the working of heat in producing them — for example, lime and ash. And we must grasp that matter itself is a kind of coldness; for since the dry and the moist are matter (for these are the passive qualities), and the bodies that most exhibit these are earth and water, and these are determined by coldness, it is clear that all bodies belonging simply to either element are rather cold, unless they have some foreign heat — for example, boiling water, or water strained through ash, since even this has the heat that comes from the ash; for in everything that has been fired there is heat, whether more or less. This is also why living creatures come to be in rotting things: for there is present a heat that has destroyed the proper heat belonging to each thing. Things that are common to more than one element have heat, since most of them are composed by heat that has concocted them. Some are the product of putrefaction, such as things that melt together. So that, while they retain their nature, they are hot — blood, semen, marrow, sap, and all such things — but once they perish and depart from their nature, they are hot no longer;
42| for what is left is the matter, which is earth or water. This is why some hold both opinions, and some say these things are cold while others say they are hot, observing that, when they are within their nature, they are hot, but that once separated from it, they solidify. This, then, is how matters stand; nevertheless, as has been determined, in those things whose matter is for the most part water, they are cold (for this is most opposed to fire), while in those whose matter is earth or air, they are rather hot. But it sometimes happens that the same things become both coldest and hottest through a foreign heat: for whatever things are most solidified and most solid are coldest of all if deprived of heat, and burn most fiercely if set on fire — for example, stone burns more than water, and water more than smoke.
43| Now that these matters have been determined, let us say, for each case, what flesh is, or bone, or the rest of the uniform parts; for we have, from their coming-to-be, the means to say out of what the nature of the uniform parts is composed — their genera, and to which genus each belongs. For the uniform parts come from the elements, and out of these, as matter, come the whole works of nature. All things exist, as regards their matter, from what has been said; but as regards their substance, they exist by their account. And this is always clearer in the case of the later things, and in general in the case of whatever are, as it were, instruments and exist for the sake of something. For it is clearer that a dead man is a man only in name. So too, then, a hand belonging to someone who has died is a hand only in name, just as stone flutes might be so called; for these too seem to be a kind of instrument only in name. Such things are less clear in the case of flesh and bone. And they are less clear still in the case of fire and water and earth: for that-for-the-sake-of-which is least evident just where matter is most abundant. For, as it were, if one took the two extremes, matter is nothing other than itself, while substance is nothing other than the account, and the things in between are analogous according to how close each one is to either extreme, since even in these cases whatever it may be exists for the sake of something, and does not consist simply of water or fire, any more than flesh or an internal organ does.
44| This holds even more of a face and a hand than of these. And all things are defined by their function: for the things able to perform their own function are truly, each of them, what they are — for example, an eye, if it sees — while what is unable to do so is so only in name, like a dead eye, or one made of stone; for a wooden saw is not a saw either, except as an image of one. So too, then, with flesh: but its function is less clear than that of the tongue. And likewise with fire: but its function, too, is perhaps less clear, physically speaking, than that of flesh. And likewise with the parts in plants, and with inanimate things, such as bronze and silver: for all of them exist by some capacity, either of acting or of being acted on, just as flesh and sinew do; but the accounts of these are not exact. So that it is not easy to discern when the function is present and when it is not, unless it is very far gone and only the shapes are left — as with the bodies of corpses that have grown old, which suddenly turn to ash in their tombs; and fruits too, which appear old only in shape, and do not seem, to perception, to have aged very much; and likewise things that have solidified out of milk. Such parts, then, admit of coming to be through heat and cold and the motions belonging to these, being solidified by the hot and the cold;
45| I mean all the uniform parts, such as flesh, bone, hair, sinews, and the like: for all of these differ by the differentiae stated earlier — by tension, by tractability, by breakability, by hardness, by softness, and by the other such qualities; and these come to be through the mixing together of the cold and the hot and their motions. But no one would think this of the non-uniform parts composed out of these — such as a head, a hand, or a foot; rather, just as the motion of coldness and heat is the cause of bronze or silver coming to be, but is no longer the cause of a saw, or a bowl, or a chest coming to be — here it is craft that is the cause, there it is nature or some other cause. Since, then, we know to which genus each of the uniform parts belongs, we must next take up, for each of them, what it is — for example, what blood is, or flesh, or seed, and each of the others; for this is how we know each thing, both why it is and what it is, if we have grasped its matter or its account, and best of all when we have both — that of its coming-to-be and of its perishing, and from where the origin of the motion comes. Once these have been made clear, we must in the same way examine the non-uniform parts, and finally the things composed out of these, such as man, plant, and the rest of such things.
1| On the Soul, Book 1. Holding knowledge to be among the fine and honorable things, and one kind of knowledge more so than another, either in point of precision or in that it is knowledge of better and more admirable objects, on both these grounds we would reasonably place the inquiry into the soul among the first. Its knowledge also seems to contribute a great deal to truth as a whole, and above all to the study of nature; for the soul is, so to speak, a principle of living things. We seek to study and come to know its nature and its substance, and then whatever attributes belong to it — of which some seem to be affections proper to the soul itself, while others belong to living things as well, but on account of the soul. In every way it is among the most difficult things to arrive at any conviction about it. For since the inquiry is one shared with many other things — I mean the inquiry into substance and into what a thing is — it might perhaps seem to someone that there is a single method applicable to everything of which we wish to know the substance, just just as there is for the demonstration of the derivative properties that belong to things, so that this method would have to be sought out. But if there is no single method common to the question of what a thing is, the undertaking becomes still more difficult; for it will be necessary to grasp, in the case of each thing, what the approach is — and even once that is clear, whether it is some kind of demonstration, or division, or some other method.
2| Further, it involves many puzzles and false starts as to what one ought to start the inquiry from; for different things have different starting points, as with numbers and plane figures. Perhaps the first necessity is to determine under which of the genera the soul falls and what it is — I mean, whether it is a this-something and a substance, or a quality, or a quantity, or some other of the categories that have been distinguished — and further, whether it belongs among things that exist potentially, or is rather a kind of actuality; for this makes no small difference. One must also examine whether it is divisible or without parts, and whether every soul is of one form or not; and if it is not of one form, whether the various souls differ in species or in genus. As things stand, those who speak and inquire about the soul seem to examine only the human soul. One must take care not to overlook whether there is a single account of it, as there is of animal in general, or a different account for each kind, as of horse, dog, human being, god — the universal 'animal' being either nothing at all, or something posterior. Likewise for any other common term that might be predicated of it. Further, if there are not many souls but parts of a soul, one must ask whether it is the whole soul that ought to be investigated first, or its parts. It is difficult, too, to determine among these which are naturally distinct from one another, and whether one ought to investigate the parts first or their functions — for instance, thinking, or the intellect; perceiving, or the faculty of perception —
3| and likewise for the rest. And if the functions are to be investigated first, one might again raise the difficulty whether the objects correlative to them ought to be investigated before the functions themselves — for instance, the object of perception before the faculty of perception, and the object of thought before the faculty of thought. It appears that knowing what a thing is is useful not only for studying the causes of the attributes that belong to substances — as in mathematics, knowing what the straight and the curved are, or what a line and a plane are, is useful for seeing to how many right angles the angles of a triangle are equal — but also, conversely, the attributes contribute a great part toward knowing what the thing is; for when we are able to give an account, in line with how the thing appears to us, of its attributes, either all of them or most, then we shall also be in the best position to speak about its substance. For the starting point of every demonstration is what the thing is, so that in the case of as many definitions as fail to make the attributes known, and from which it is not even easy to conjecture about them, it is clear that all such definitions have been stated merely dialectically and emptily. There is a further difficulty about the affections of the soul: whether all of them are shared also by the body that has the soul, or whether there is something proper to the soul itself. This is a point that must be grasped, but it is not easy.
4| It appears that in most cases the soul undergoes and does nothing apart from the body — for instance, growing angry, being confident, desiring, and perceiving generally. Thinking seems most of all to be something proper to the soul alone; yet if this too is a kind of imagination, or does not occur without imagination, then not even this could exist apart from the body. So if there is some function or affection proper to the soul alone, it could exist separately; but if there is nothing proper to it, it could not be separable, but would be like the straight, which, as straight, has many things belonging to it — for instance, touching a bronze sphere at a point — yet the straight will not touch it if separated from body, since it is inseparable, if indeed it always exists together with some body. So too it seems that all the affections of the soul exist together with the body: anger, gentleness, fear, pity, confidence, and further joy, and loving and hating; for along with these the body undergoes something as well. This is shown by the fact that sometimes, even when strong and vivid affections occur, a person is not provoked to anger or fear, while at other times a person is moved by small and faint occasions, whenever the body is aroused and in the same state as when one is angry. And this is still more evident: people fall into the affections of one who is afraid when nothing fearful is happening at all.
5| If this is so, it is clear that the affections are accounts embodied in matter. So the definitions of them would be of this kind — for instance, that being angry is a certain motion of a body of such-and-such a kind, or of a part or capacity of it, produced by this for the sake of that. And for these reasons the study of the soul, either all of it or this kind of soul, already belongs to the student of nature. A student of nature and a dialectician would define each of these affections differently — for instance, what anger is: the dialectician will say it is a desire for retaliation, or something of that sort; the student of nature, a boiling of the blood and heat around the heart. Of these two, the latter gives the matter, the former the form and the account. For the account is the form of the thing, but it must exist in matter of a certain kind if it is to exist at all — just as the account of a house is of this sort, that it is a shelter preventing destruction by winds and rains and heat; but one person will state the matter — stones, bricks, timber — while another will state the form present in these, namely for the sake of these ends. Which of these, then, is the student of nature? Is it the one concerned with the matter, ignorant of the account, or the one concerned only with the account? Or rather the one who works from both together? Then what is each of the other two? Or is there no one who is concerned with the affections of matter that are not separable, nor even insofar as they are separable, but the student of nature is concerned with everything that is a function and affection of a body and matter of this or that kind —
6| while whatever is not of this kind belongs to someone else, and in some cases to a craftsman, if it should so happen, such as a builder or a doctor; and of things that are not separable, but insofar as they are not the affections of such-and-such a body, taken by abstraction, that belongs to the mathematician; while insofar as they are separated altogether, that belongs to the first philosopher. But we must return to the point from which the discussion began. We were saying that the affections of the soul are inseparable from the natural matter of living things insofar as they belong to them in this way — anger and fear — and not as line and plane are separable.
7| In examining the soul it is necessary, as we proceed, to raise together the difficulties one must resolve, and to bring in as well the opinions of our predecessors, of all who have declared anything about it, so that we may take up what has been well said, and be on guard against whatever has not been said well. The starting point of the inquiry is to set out what seems most of all to belong to it by nature. What is ensouled seems to differ from what is soulless most of all in two respects, motion and perception. And we have received from our predecessors roughly these same two points about the soul; for some say that what moves things is, above all and primarily, soul. Supposing that what is not itself moved cannot move something else, they took the soul to be one of the things that are moved. Hence Democritus says it is a kind of fire and something hot; for since shapes and atoms are unlimited, he says that the spherical ones are fire and soul, like the things called motes in the air, which appear in the sunbeams coming through windows, whose scattered mixture he calls the elements of the whole of nature. Leucippus says the same. Of these, the spherical ones are soul, because such shapes are especially able to penetrate everywhere and to move the rest while being themselves in motion, on the supposition that soul is what provides living things with motion.
8| This is also why breathing has been taken to be the boundary-mark of life: as what surrounds bodies compresses them, and squeezes out those shapes which give living things their motion — since these shapes themselves are never at rest — help comes from outside, from other such shapes entering in during breathing; for these prevent the shapes already present in living things from being expelled, by helping to hold back what compresses and congeals them, and an animal lives for just as long as it is able to do this. What is said by the Pythagoreans seems to carry the same thought: some of them said that soul is the specks of dust in the air, others that it is what moves these. The reason given for this view is that these specks are seen to be continuously in motion, even when there is a complete calm. Those who say that soul is what moves itself tend toward the same position; for all of these thinkers seem to have taken motion to be what is most proper to soul, and to hold that everything else is moved through the agency of soul, while soul is moved by itself, because they see nothing that moves something else without itself being in motion. In the same way Anaxagoras too says that soul is what moves things, as does anyone else who has said that intellect moved the whole — though not in quite the unqualified way that Democritus does.
9| For Democritus simply identifies soul and intellect; for he holds that what appears is true — which is why he approved of Homer's line that Hector 'lay with his wits astray.' He does not, then, treat intellect as some capacity concerned with truth, but says that soul and intellect are the same thing. Anaxagoras is less clear about the two: in many places he speaks of intellect as the cause of what is fine and right, but elsewhere he says this same thing is soul; for he says it is present in all animals, both great and small, both honored and less honored. But intellect in the sense of practical wisdom does not appear to be present alike in all animals, nor even in all human beings. So those who fixed their attention on the fact that ensouled things move took soul to be what is most capable of causing motion; those who fixed their attention on knowing and perceiving what is say that soul is the principles — some making these several, others making this one principle only, as Empedocles makes soul out of all the elements, while also holding that each of these elements is itself a soul, saying it this way: 'for by earth we see earth, by water water, by aether divine aether, but by fire consuming fire, by love love, and strife by baneful strife.'
10| In the same way Plato too, in the Timaeus, constructs soul out of the elements; for like is known by like, he holds, and things are made out of the principles. The same point was made in the discussions on philosophy: the living thing itself is made out of the idea of the one itself together with the primary length, breadth, and depth, and the rest similarly. And there is yet another way of putting it: intellect is the one, knowledge is the two — for it proceeds singly toward one thing — the number of the plane is opinion, and the number of the solid is perception; for the numbers were said to be the forms themselves and the principles, and they are made out of the elements. Things are judged, some by intellect, some by knowledge, some by opinion, some by perception, and these numbers are the forms of the things judged. And since soul was thought to be both capable of causing motion and capable of knowing, some thinkers wove the two together, declaring soul to be a number that moves itself. Thinkers differ over the principles — what they are and how many — and differing from both of these, those who mix the two together and declare the principles to be drawn from both and declare the principles to be drawn from both.
11| They differ also over the number of the principles: some say there is one, others several. And they render their account of soul to match: for they have taken the nature of the primary things to be what is capable of causing motion, and not unreasonably. This is why some have thought soul to be fire; for fire is the finest-parted of the elements and most nearly incorporeal, and moreover it is itself in motion and is what first moves the other elements. Democritus has put the matter rather more elegantly, declaring the reason for each of these two claims: soul, he says, is the same thing as intellect, and this is one of the primary and indivisible bodies, and it is capable of causing motion because of the smallness of its parts and its shape; and of shapes he says the spherical is the most mobile, and such is the shape of both intellect and fire. Anaxagoras, as we said before too, seems to distinguish soul from intellect, but in practice treats the two as a single nature, except that he posits intellect above all else as a principle; at any rate he says that intellect alone, of all things that are, is simple, unmixed, and pure. He assigns both functions to this same principle, both knowing and causing motion, saying that intellect moved the whole. And Thales too, to judge from what is recorded of him, seems to have supposed soul to be something that causes motion, if indeed he said that the stone has a soul because it moves iron.
12| Diogenes, like certain others, thought air to be the finest-parted of all things and a principle, and held that soul knows and causes motion for this reason: that in being the first thing, and everything else coming from it, it knows; and in being the finest-parted, it is capable of causing motion. Heraclitus too says that the principle is soul, if indeed it is the exhalation out of which he composes everything else; and this is the most incorporeal thing and always flowing, and what is in motion is known by what is in motion. He, like most others, held that things that are, are in motion. Alcmaeon seems to have held a view about soul close to these: he says it is immortal because it resembles the immortal beings, and that this belongs to it as something always in motion; for all the divine things too, he says, are in continuous and unceasing motion — the moon, the sun, the stars, and the whole heaven. Among the cruder thinkers, some have declared soul to be water, as Hippo did. They seem to have been persuaded by the case of seed, on the grounds that the seed of all things is moist; and indeed he refutes those who say soul is blood, on the ground that seed is not blood, and that seed is the primary soul. Others say it is blood, as Critias does, taking perceiving to be most proper to soul, and holding that this belongs to soul because of the nature of blood.
13| For every one of the elements has found some champion, except earth; no one has declared for earth alone, except insofar as someone has said that soul is made of all the elements, or is all of them. All thinkers define soul, one might say, by three marks: motion, perception, and the incorporeal; and each of these is traced back to the principles. This is why those who define soul by knowing make it either an element or something made out of the elements, and they speak much alike, except in one point: they say that like is known by like; and since soul knows everything, they compose it out of all the principles. So those who speak of some single cause and a single element also posit soul as one thing, such as fire or air; while those who speak of several principles make soul several as well. Anaxagoras alone says that intellect is unaffected, and has nothing in common with anything else. But being of this kind, how it will know, and for what reason, he has not said, nor is this clear from what has been said. Those who introduce oppositions among the principles compose soul out of the opposites as well; while those who take one member of an opposition, such as hot or cold or some other such thing, likewise posit soul as one of these single things.
14| That is also why they follow the names they use: some say the soul is hot, because life is named after this; others say it is called soul because of breathing and the cooling that comes with it. These, then, are the traditional views about the soul, and the reasons they give for holding them. We must first examine the question of motion. For perhaps it is not only false that the substance of the soul is such as those say who call the soul that which moves itself, or that which is capable of moving; rather, it may be one of the impossible things for motion to belong to it at all. Now that what moves need not itself be moved has been said earlier. Since everything that is moved is moved in two ways (for it is moved either in virtue of something else or in its own right; and we call things moved in virtue of something else which are moved by being in something that is moved, as sailors are — for they are not moved in the same way as the ship: the ship is moved in its own right, while they are moved by being in something that is moved. This is clear in the case of the parts of the body: for walking is the motion proper to feet, and this belongs to human beings too, but it does not belong to sailors when they are being carried along) — since, then, being moved is spoken of in two ways, we are now inquiring about the soul, whether it is moved in its own right and shares in motion. Since there are four kinds of motion — locomotion, alteration, decay, and growth — the soul, if it is moved, would be moved by one of these, or by several, or by all of them. And if it is moved not accidentally, motion would belong to it by nature; and if this is so, place would belong to it too, for all the motions mentioned occur in place.
15| If the substance of the soul is to move itself, then being moved will not belong to it accidentally, as it does to the white or to the three-cubit thing — for these too are moved, but accidentally: for it is the body to which they belong that is moved. That is also why there is no place belonging to them; but there will be a place belonging to the soul, if indeed it shares in motion by nature. Further, if it is moved by nature, it could also be moved by force; and if by force, then also by nature. The same holds for rest as well: to whatever place a thing is moved by nature, in that place it also rests by nature; and likewise, to whatever place a thing is moved by force, in that place it also rests by force. But what forced motions and forced restings would belong to the soul is not easy to render even for those willing to invent them. Further, if it is to be moved upward, it will be fire, and if downward, earth; for these are the motions of these bodies. And the same account holds for the intermediate bodies as well. Further, since the soul evidently moves the body, it is reasonable that it moves the body with the very motions by which it itself is moved. And if this is so, it is also true to say, converting the statement, that whatever motion the body is moved with, the soul is moved with that same motion too. But the body is moved by locomotion;
16| so the soul too would change along with the body, either shifting as a whole or shifting part by part. And if this is possible, it would also be possible for it to go out and come back in again; and from this it would follow that dead animals could rise again. As for motion that is accidental, the soul could also be moved by something else, for an animal could be pushed by force. But a thing to which being moved by itself belongs in its substance ought not to be moved by another, except accidentally — just as what is good in its own right, or for its own sake, ought not to be for the sake of something else, the one being what it is on account of something else, the other for the sake of something else. And one would most plausibly say that the soul is moved by the objects of perception, if indeed it is moved at all. But then again, if it moves itself, it too would be moved, so that if every motion is a displacement of the thing moved in respect of which it is moved, the soul too would be displaced from its substance, unless it moves itself only accidentally. But rather, the motion belongs to its very substance, in its own right. Some also say that the soul moves the body in which it is by moving itself in the same way — Democritus, for instance, speaking much like Philippus the comic playwright. For he says that Daedalus made the wooden statue of Aphrodite move by pouring in molten silver.
17| And Democritus speaks in a similar way: for he says that the indivisible spheres are in motion, because it is their nature never to remain still, and that they drag along and move the whole body with them. But we shall ask whether these same spheres also produce rest. How they will produce it is hard, or even impossible, to say. And in general the soul does not appear to move the animal in this way, but rather through some choice and thinking. Timaeus too gives a similar physical account of how the soul moves the body: because it is itself moved, it also moves the body, on account of being interwoven with it. For having been composed out of the elements, and divided according to the harmonic numbers, so that it might have an innate perception of harmony and the whole might be carried in concordant motions, he bent the straight line round into a circle; and having divided the one circle into two circles joined together at two points, he divided one of these again into seven circles, on the view that the motions of the heavens are the motions of the soul. Now first of all it is not right to say that the soul is a magnitude; for it is clear he means the soul of the whole to be such as what is called intellect is — for surely it is not like the perceptive soul, nor like the appetitive soul;
18| for the motion of these is not circular motion. But intellect is one and continuous, as thinking is; and thinking is thoughts, and these are one by succession, as a number is, not as a magnitude is. That is why intellect too is not continuous in that way, but is either without parts or not continuous as a magnitude is. For how indeed will it think, if it is a magnitude, by means of any one of its own parts? — parts either in the sense of magnitude, or in the sense of a point, if a point too must be called a part. Now if the parts are points, and these are infinite, clearly it will never traverse them all; and if they are parts in the sense of magnitude, it will think the same thing many times, or infinitely many times. But it evidently is possible for it to think a thing even once. And if contact with any one of its parts is sufficient, why need it move in a circle, or indeed have magnitude at all? But if it is necessary for it to think by making contact with the whole circle, what is the contact made with the parts? Further, how will that which has parts think that which has none, and that which has none think that which has parts? It is necessary, on this view, that intellect be this circle: for the motion of intellect is thinking, and the motion of a circle is revolution. If, then, thinking is revolution, the circle whose revolution of this kind is thinking would itself be intellect.
19| But then it will always be thinking something; for it must, if indeed the revolution is eternal. Practical thoughts have limits (for they are all for the sake of something else), but theoretical thoughts are bounded in the same way as the accounts that express them. And every account is either a definition or a demonstration. Now demonstrations proceed from a starting point, and have, in a sense, an end in the syllogism or the conclusion; and even if they are not brought to completion, still they do not bend back again to the starting point, but by continually taking on a middle term and an extreme they proceed in a straight line — whereas revolution bends back again to its starting point. But definitions are all bounded. Further, if the same revolution occurs many times, it will be necessary to think the same thing many times. Further, thinking seems to resemble a kind of rest and a coming to a stand, rather than motion; and the same holds for the syllogism as well. But surely what is not easy but forced is not a state of blessedness either; and if its motion is not its substance, it would be moving contrary to its nature. And it is also burdensome for it to be mixed with the body and unable to be released from it, and moreover something to be fled from, if indeed it is better for intellect to be without the body, as is customarily said and as many agree. But the cause of the heaven's being carried round in a circle is also unclear.
20| For neither is the substance of the soul the cause of its being carried in a circle — rather it is moved in this way only accidentally — nor is the body the cause; rather the soul is the cause for the body. But nor is it said to be because this is better; and yet it ought to be for this reason that god makes the soul move in a circle, because moving is better for it than staying at rest, and moving in this way rather than another. But since an inquiry of this kind belongs more properly to other discussions, let us leave it aside for now. But this absurdity attaches both to this account and to most of the accounts given about the soul: they connect the soul and set it into a body without further determining for what cause and in what condition of the body this happens. And yet this would seem to be necessary; for it is on account of their community that the one acts and the other is acted on, and the one is moved and the other moves, and none of these relations holds between things taken at random. But these thinkers only attempt to say what sort of thing the soul is, and add no further determination about the body that is to receive it — as though it were possible, as in the Pythagorean myths, for any soul at random to put on any body at random; for it seems that each thing has its own proper form and shape.
21| What they say is much like saying that carpentry puts on flutes; for a craft must use its instruments, and the soul must use the body. There is also another opinion handed down about the soul, one that seems plausible to many people no less than any of those mentioned, and one that has, so to speak, given an account of itself even before the discussions carried on in public: they say the soul is a kind of harmony. For harmony, they say, is a blending and composition of opposites, and the body is composed of opposites. And yet harmony is a certain ratio of the things mixed, or a composition of them, while the soul cannot be either of these. Further, causing motion does not belong to harmony, while everyone, so to speak, attributes this above all to the soul. It fits better to speak of harmony in connection with health, and generally with the excellences of the body, than in connection with the soul. This is most evident if one tries to render the affections and functions of the soul in terms of some harmony; for it is difficult to fit them together. Further, if we should speak of harmony with an eye to two things, it applies most properly to magnitudes that have motion and position, to their composition, when they are so fitted together as to admit nothing akin into themselves, and from this usage it is extended to the ratio of things mixed. On neither account, then, is it reasonable; and the composition of the parts of the body is very easy to examine and refute — for the compositions of the parts are many and occur in many ways.
22| Of what, then, or how, should one suppose the intellect to be a composition — or the perceptive part, or the appetitive part? Likewise it is absurd to say that the soul is the ratio of the mixture; for the mixture of the elements does not have the same ratio by which flesh is formed as that by which bone is formed. It will follow, then, that there are many souls, and throughout the whole body, if indeed all parts are mixtures of the elements, and the ratio of the mixture is harmony and soul. One might demand this same account from Empedocles too; for he says that each thing is by a certain ratio. Is the ratio, then, the soul, or is the soul rather something else that comes to be present in the limbs? Further, is love the cause of any mixture at random, or of the mixture according to the ratio? And is this love itself the ratio, or something besides the ratio? These questions, then, involve such difficulties. But if the soul is something other than the mixture, why is it that it is destroyed at the same time as being flesh, and as being the other parts of the animal, is destroyed? Further, if it is not the case that each of the parts has soul — unless the soul is the ratio of the mixture — what is it that perishes when the soul departs?
23| That the soul, then, can be neither a harmony nor something carried around in a circle is clear from what has been said. But that it is moved accidentally, as we said, and can move itself — as, for instance, being moved in that in which it is, and this in turn being moved by the soul — this is possible; but it is not possible for it to be moved locally in any other way. But one might more reasonably raise a difficulty about it as being moved, looking to considerations of the following kind. For we say that the soul feels pain and joy, is confident and afraid, and further feels anger and perceives and thinks discursively; and all of these seem to be motions. Hence one might suppose that it is moved. But this is not necessary; for even granting to the fullest extent that feeling pain, or joy, or discursive thought, are motions, and that each of these is a being-moved, still the being-moved is due to the soul — as, for instance, being angry or afraid is the heart being moved in such-and-such a way, and thinking discursively is perhaps something of this kind, or something else. Of these, some occur by a local motion of certain things, others by alteration — what sort, and how, is another discussion. But to say that the soul is angry is like saying that the soul weaves or builds a house;
24| for it is perhaps better not to say that the soul pities, or learns, or thinks discursively, but that the man does these with his soul — not as though the motion were in the soul, but sometimes as extending up to the soul, sometimes as proceeding from it: for instance, perception proceeds from these particular things, while recollection proceeds from the soul toward the motions or restings that are in the sense organs. But the intellect seems to come to be present as being a certain substance, and not to be destroyed. For it would be destroyed above all by the dimming that comes with old age, but as it is, the same thing happens as happens with the sense organs: if an old man could get an eye of a certain kind, he would see just as a young man does. So old age is not a case of the soul having been affected in some way, but of that in which the soul is — as in cases of drunkenness and disease. And so both understanding and contemplation fade away because something else within is being destroyed, while the intellect itself is unaffected. But discursive thought, and loving or hating, are not affections of that, but of this particular thing that has it, insofar as it has it; and that is why, when this perishes, it neither remembers nor loves; for these did not belong to the intellect, but to the composite, which has perished — while the intellect is perhaps something more divine, and unaffected.
25| That the soul, then, cannot be moved is clear from these considerations; and if it is not moved at all, then plainly it is not moved by itself either. But by far the least reasonable of the views mentioned is the claim that the soul is a number that moves itself; for impossibilities attach to it, first those that follow from being moved at all, and separately those that follow from calling it a number. For how must one conceive of a unit being moved, and by what, and how, given that it is without parts and without differentiation? For if it is both capable of moving and capable of being moved, it must be differentiated. Further, since they say that a moved point makes a line, and a moved line a plane, the motions of the units too will be lines; for the point is a unit having position, and the number of the soul is already somewhere and has position. Further, if one takes away a number or a unit from a number, a different number is left; but plants, and many animals too, when divided, live on, and seem to have the same soul in species. It would seem to make no difference to speak of units or of small bodies; for if points arise from the little spheres of Democritus, and only the quantity remains, there will be within it something that moves and something that is moved, just as in a continuum;
26| For what has just been said does not follow because of a difference in largeness or smallness, but because it is a quantity. Hence there must necessarily be something that moves the units. And if in the animal it is the soul that is the mover, then this holds for the number too, so that the soul is not both mover and moved, but only mover. Now it is somehow possible for this to be a unit; for it must have some differentia relative to the others; but what difference could there be for a unit-point except position? If, then, the units in the body and the points are different from one another, the units will be in the same place; for each unit will occupy the place of a point. Yet what prevents there being an infinite number of them in the same place, if two can be there? For things whose place is indivisible are themselves indivisible too. And if the points in the body are the number that constitutes the soul, or if the number arising from the points in the body is the soul, why do not all bodies have soul? For points seem to be present in everything, and infinitely many of them. Further, how is it possible for souls to be separated and released from bodies, if lines are not divided into points?
27| As we said, it turns out that in one respect this view says the same as those who posit the soul as a body made of fine parts, but in another respect, since it says, as Democritus does, that the body is moved by the soul, it has a peculiarity of its own that is absurd. For if the soul is present throughout the whole perceiving body, then, if the soul is some kind of body, there must be two bodies in the same place; and for those who call the soul a number, it follows that there are many points in a single point, or that every body has soul, unless some distinct number arises that is other than the points already present in the body. It also follows that the animal is moved by the number, in just the way we said Democritus too makes it move; for what difference does it make whether one speaks of small spheres or large units, or simply of units in motion? In either case it is necessary that the animal be moved by the motion of these things. For those, then, who have woven motion and number together into one, these consequences follow, and many others of the same kind. For it is impossible that such a thing be not only a definition of soul, but even an accidental attribute of it. This is clear if one tries to render the affections and functions of the soul from this account — reasonings, perceptions, pleasures, pains, and all the rest of that kind; for, as we said before, it is not even easy to divine these from such principles.
28| Three ways have been handed down by which people define the soul: some have declared it to be the thing most capable of motion, because it moves itself; others have declared it to be the body most fine-parted, or the least corporeal of all bodies. We have gone through fairly fully what difficulties and contradictions these views involve. It remains to examine in what sense the soul is said to be composed of the elements. People say this so that the soul may perceive the things that exist and know each of them; but many impossible consequences necessarily follow for the theory. They posit that like is known by like, as if positing that the soul is the very things it knows. But these elements are not the only things there are — there are also many other things, indeed perhaps infinite in number, namely the things composed out of them. Grant, then, that the soul knows and perceives the elements out of which each of these things is composed; but by what will it know or perceive the composite whole — for instance, what god is, or man, or flesh, or bone? And likewise for any other of the composite things; for none of these consists of the elements taken in just any condition, but in a certain ratio and combination, as Empedocles too says of bone: The gracious earth in its broad-breasted crucibles received two of the eight parts of gleaming Nestis, and four of Hephaestus; and the bones became white.
29| There is, then, no benefit in the elements being present in the soul, unless the ratios and the combination are present in it as well; for like will know each like thing, but it will know neither bone nor man at all, unless these too are present in it. That this is impossible needs no argument; for who would even raise the question whether a stone or a man is present in the soul? And likewise the good, or the not-good. And the same holds concerning everything else as well. Further, since being is spoken of in many ways (for it signifies now a this-something, now a quantity or a quality, or some other of the categories that have been distinguished), will the soul be composed out of all of them, or not? But there do not seem to be elements common to all of them. Is it, then, composed only of the elements of substances? How, then, does it come to know each of the other categories as well? Or will they say that each genus has its own elements and principles, out of which the soul is composed? Then it will be a quantity, a quality, and a substance all at once. But it is impossible for something composed out of the elements of quantity to be a substance and not a quantity. These consequences, then, and others like them, follow for those who say the soul is composed out of all the categories. It is also absurd to say, on the one hand, that like is unaffected by like, and yet, on the other, that like perceives like and knows like by like.
30| But they posit that perceiving is a kind of being affected and being moved; and likewise thinking and knowing. That the claim — made by Empedocles — that each thing is known by the bodily elements and by reference to what is like it involves many difficulties and awkward consequences is confirmed by what has just been said. For whatever is present in the bodies of animals as simply earth — bones, sinews, hairs — seems to perceive nothing, and so not even the things like it, and yet it ought to. Further, each of the principles will have more ignorance in it than understanding; for each will know one thing, but will be ignorant of many things, namely all the rest. It even follows for Empedocles that god is the least intelligent of all beings; for he alone will fail to know one of the elements, strife, whereas mortal things will know all of them, since each of them is composed out of all the elements. And in general, for what reason do not all existing things have soul, since everything is either an element or is composed out of one element, or several, or all of them? For it is necessary that it know one thing, or some things, or all things. One might also raise the question what it is that unifies the elements; for the elements at least resemble matter, and that which holds them together, whatever it is, is the most authoritative factor of all; but it is impossible for there to be anything superior to and ruling over the soul —
31| and still more impossible for there to be anything ruling over the intellect; for it is reasonable that intellect should be the most primary thing and, by nature, in authority, whereas they say the elements are the first of existing things. Both all those who, because the soul knows and perceives the things that exist, say it is composed out of the elements, and those who say it is the thing most capable of motion, are not speaking about soul in general. For not all things that perceive are capable of motion; for some animals evidently remain stationary in place. And yet it is this motion alone — motion in place — that the soul is thought to produce in the animal. And likewise for all those who make intellect and the perceptive faculty out of the elements; for plants evidently live without sharing in locomotion or in perception, and many animals do not have thought. But even if one were to concede these points, and posit that intellect is some part of the soul, and likewise the perceptive faculty, they still would not, on this view, be speaking universally about soul as such, nor about any soul as a whole, nor about any single soul. This same difficulty besets also the account given in the so-called Orphic verses; for it says that the soul enters in from the whole universe as animals breathe, being carried by the winds. But this cannot happen to plants, nor to some animals, since not all of them breathe.
32| This has escaped the notice of those who hold this view. If the soul must be made out of the elements, there is no need for it to be made out of all of them; one member of each pair of contraries is enough, since it can discriminate both itself and its opposite. For it is by the straight that we know both the straight itself and the curved (the ruler is the judge of both), whereas the curved is a judge neither of itself nor of the straight. And some say that soul is mixed in the whole universe, which is perhaps why Thales thought that all things are full of gods. But this has certain difficulties. For what reason does soul, when it is in air or in fire, not make an animal, while in mixed bodies it does, and this even though it is thought to be better in the former? One might also ask for what reason the soul in air is better and more immortal than the soul in animals. Either way the result is absurd and unreasonable: to call fire or air an animal is among the more unreasonable things to say, and yet to refuse to call them animals when soul is present in them is also absurd. They seem to have supposed that soul is present in these because the whole is uniform in kind with its parts. So they are forced to say that the soul too is uniform in kind with its parts, if it is by the cutting-off of some portion of the surrounding medium that the animals in living things become ensouled.
33| But if air when split apart is uniform in kind, while soul is non-uniform in its parts, then clearly some part of it will be present and some part will not. It is necessary, then, that soul either be uniform in its parts or else not be present in just any part whatever of the universe. It is plain, then, from what has been said, that knowing does not belong to soul because it is made of the elements, and that it is neither well said nor truly said that soul moves itself. But since knowing belongs to soul, and so do perceiving and forming opinion, and further desiring and wishing and the appetitions generally, and since motion from place to place also comes to belong to animals through soul, and further growth and prime and decay, the question is whether each of these belongs to the whole soul, and whether it is with the whole of it that we think and perceive and do and undergo each of the other things, or whether different things belong to different parts. And is living, then, situated in some one of these, or in several, or in all, or does it have some other cause? Now some say that soul is divisible, and that with one part it thinks and with another it desires. What then, if it is by nature divisible, holds the soul together?
34| For it is certainly not the body; on the contrary, it seems rather that the soul holds the body together, since at any rate when the soul departs the body breathes out and decays. If, then, something else makes the soul one, that above all would be soul. But then again one will have to ask about that thing too, whether it is one or has many parts. For if it is one, why should not soul immediately also be one? But if it is divisible, the argument will again ask what it is that holds that together, and so the process will go on to infinity. One might also raise a difficulty about the parts of the soul, as to what power each has in the body. For if the whole soul holds the whole body together, it would be fitting that each of the parts too should hold together some part of the body. But this seems impossible; it is hard even to imagine what part, or how, intellect could hold together. Plants too, and certain of the insects among animals, are observed to live when divided, as though each of the divided parts had the same soul in species, if not in number; at any rate each of the parts has perception and moves from place to place for some time. And if they do not continue to do so, there is nothing strange in that, since they do not have organs to preserve their nature.
1| But none the less, in each of the two parts all the parts of the soul are present, and they are uniform in kind with one another and with the whole—with one another as not being separable, and with the whole soul as the whole being divisible. And the principle found in plants also seems to be a kind of soul, for this is the only one that animals and plants share; and this is separable from the perceptual principle, whereas nothing has perception without this. B.
2| Let what has been handed down by our predecessors about soul be stated in this way; and let us now go back again, as it were from the beginning, and try to determine what soul is and what would be the most general account of it. We say, then, that one genus of things that are is substance, and of substance one part is as matter, which in its own right is not a this-something, another is shape and form, in respect of which it is already called a this-something, and a third is what is composed of these. And matter is potentiality, while form is actuality, and this in two ways, one as knowledge, the other as the act of contemplating. Bodies seem to be substances most of all, and among these the natural bodies, for these are the principles of the others. And of natural bodies, some have life and some do not; and by life we mean self-nourishment and growth and decay through itself. So every natural body that shares in life would be a substance, and a substance in the sense of a composite. Since, then, it is a body of a certain kind—namely, one having life—the body cannot be the soul; for the body is not something said of a subject, but rather is as a subject and matter.
3| It is necessary, then, that soul be a substance as the form of a natural body that has life in potentiality. But substance is actuality. Soul, then, is the actuality of a body of this kind. And actuality is spoken of in two ways, one as knowledge, the other as the act of contemplating. It is clear, then, that it is actuality in the sense of knowledge; for both sleep and waking depend on the presence of the soul, and waking is analogous to contemplating, while sleep is analogous to having knowledge without exercising it. And in the same subject, knowledge is prior in coming-to-be. Hence soul is the first actuality of a natural body that has life in potentiality. And such a body is one that is equipped with organs. The parts of plants too are organs, though altogether simple ones—for example the leaf is a covering for the pericarp, and the pericarp is a covering for the fruit. And the roots are analogous to the mouth, for both draw in nourishment. If, then, one must state something common to every soul, it would be the first actuality of a natural body equipped with organs. Hence one need not ask whether the soul and the body are one, any more than whether the wax and the shape are one, or in general whether the matter of each thing and that of which it is the matter are one; for while unity and being are spoken of in many ways, that which is so in the strict sense is the actuality.
4| We have, then, stated in general terms what the soul is: it is substance in accordance with the account or essence. And this is the essence of a body of this kind, just as if one of the tools were a natural body—an axe, for instance; for its being an axe would be its substance, and this would be its soul; and if this were separated from it, it would no longer be an axe, except homonymously. As it is, however, it is an axe; for the essence and the account that is soul does not belong to a body of that sort, but to a natural body of a certain kind, one having within itself a principle of motion and rest. What has been said must also be examined in the case of the parts. For if the eye were an animal, sight would be its soul; for this is the substance of the eye in accordance with the account. And the eye is the matter of sight, and when sight is lacking it is no longer an eye, except homonymously, like an eye made of stone or a painted one. Now what holds for the part must be applied to the whole living body; for as part stands to part, so proportionately the whole of perception stands to the whole perceptive body, as such. And it is not that which has lost the soul that is the thing potentially such as to live, but that which has it.
5| The seed and the fruit are what is potentially a body of this sort. Now just as cutting and seeing are actualities, so too is waking an actuality, while as sight and the capacity of the organ are, so is the soul; and the body is what is potentially ensouled. But just as the eye is the pupil and the sight together, so there the soul and the body are the animal. That the soul is not separable from the body, then, or that certain parts of it are not, if it is naturally divisible into parts, is not unclear; for of some parts the actuality is of the parts themselves. Still, nothing prevents some parts from being separable, because they are the actuality of no body at all. Further, it is unclear whether the soul is an actuality of the body in the way a sailor is of a ship. Let this stand, in outline, as our determination and sketch concerning the soul.
6| Since what is clear and more knowable in point of definition comes to be out of what is unclear but more evident, we must try again to go over the subject in this way; for the definitional account ought not merely to make clear the fact, as most definitions state it, but the cause too should be present in it and made evident. As things stand, the accounts given in definitions are like conclusions. For example: what is squaring? Making an equilateral right-angled figure equal in area to an oblong. Such a definition is an account of the conclusion. But the one who says that squaring is the finding of a mean proportional states the cause of the thing. Taking, then, as our starting point for inquiry, we say that the ensouled is marked off from the unsouled by living. But since living is spoken of in several ways, we say a thing lives even if only one of these belongs to it: intellect, perception, motion and rest with respect to place, and further the motion involved in nutrition, and decay and growth. Hence all growing things too are held to live; for they evidently have in themselves a power and a principle of this kind, through which they undergo growth and decay in contrary directions; for they do not grow upward only and not downward, but alike in both directions and every way, and they are nourished and continue to live throughout, as long as they are able to take in nourishment.
7| This power can be separated from the others, but the others cannot be separated from it in mortal things. This is evident in the case of growing things; for no other power of soul belongs to them. Living, then, belongs to living things because of this principle, but being an animal belongs to them primarily because of perception; for even things that do not move or change place, but have perception, we call animals and not merely living. And of perception, touch is present first in all of them. Just as the nutritive power can be separated from touch and from every perception, so touch can be separated from the other perceptions. We call nutritive that part of the soul in which plants too share; but all animals evidently have the perception of touch. For what cause each of these facts holds we will say later. For now let this much only be said: that the soul is the principle of the things we have mentioned, and is marked off by these: the nutritive, the perceptive, the intellective, and motion. Whether each of these is a soul or a part of a soul, and if a part, whether separable only in account or also in place, is on some points not hard to see, but on others it presents difficulty.
8| For just as in the case of plants some are seen to live and to be separated from one another when divided, on the ground that the soul in them is in actuality one in each plant but in potentiality many, so too we see this happening with respect to another difference of soul in the case of insects, in those that are cut in two; for each of the parts has perception and motion with respect to place, and if perception, also imagination and desire; for where there is perception there is also pain and pleasure, and where these are, desire follows of necessity. But concerning intellect and the power of contemplation nothing is yet clear, though it seems to be a different kind of soul, and this alone admits of being separated, as the eternal is separated from the perishable. But it is clear from these considerations that the remaining parts of the soul are not separable, as some say; that they are different in account is clear, for being perceptive and being given to opinion are different, if indeed perceiving is different from forming an opinion. And likewise for each of the other capacities mentioned. Further, in some animals all of these are present, in some only certain of them, and in others only one. This is what makes the difference among animals;
9| the cause of this we must examine later. Something similar holds with respect to the perceptions too; for some animals have all of them, some have certain of them, and some have only the most necessary one, touch. Since that by which we live and perceive is spoken of in two ways, just as that by which we know is—we call the one knowledge, the other soul; for we say we know by each of these—and likewise that by which we are healthy, the one being health, the other some part of the body, or even the whole of it. Of these, knowledge and health are a shape and a certain form and account, and as it were an activity of what is receptive—the one of what is capable of knowing, the other of what is capable of being made healthy (for the activity of the productive factors is held to belong to what is acted on and disposed); but the soul is that by which we live and perceive and think, primarily, so that it would be a kind of account and form, and not matter and the substrate. For substance is spoken of in three ways, as we said: one is form, one is matter, and one is what is composed of both; and of these, matter is potentiality, and form is actuality; and since what is composed of both is the ensouled thing, the body is not the actuality of the soul, but soul is the actuality of a certain body.
10| And for this reason those judge well who hold that the soul neither exists without a body nor is itself a body; for it is not a body, but belongs to a body, and for this reason it is present in a body, and in a body of a certain sort—and not, as those before us did, fitting it into a body without further determining in what and of what sort, even though it is evident that not just anything receives just anything. This is also how it turns out to be in accordance with reason; for the actuality of each thing naturally comes to be present in what is potentially that thing, and in its own proper matter. That the soul, then, is a certain actuality and account of what has the capacity to be of this sort is clear from these considerations.
11| Of the powers of the soul just mentioned, all belong to some things, as we said, while to others only some of them belong, and to some only one. The powers we spoke of are the nutritive, the desiderative, the perceptive, the locomotive, and the intellective. To plants only the nutritive belongs; to others this and also the perceptive. And if the perceptive, then also the desiderative; for desire is appetite, spirit, and wish, and all animals have at least one of the perceptions, namely touch; and whatever has perception has pleasure and pain, and the pleasant and the painful, and whatever has these has also appetite; for appetite is desire for what is pleasant. Further, animals have perception of their food; for touch is the perception of food; for all animals are nourished by what is dry and moist and hot and cold, and the perception of these is touch, while of the other perceptibles they have perception only incidentally; for neither sound nor color nor smell contributes anything to nourishment. Flavor is one of the tangible qualities. Hunger and thirst are appetite—hunger for what is dry and hot, thirst for what is cold and moist; and flavor is, as it were, a kind of seasoning of these.
12| We must make these points clear later, but for now let it be said this much: that appetite belongs to those animals that have touch. About imagination it is unclear, and it must be examined later. In addition to these, some animals also have the capacity for motion from place to place, and others also have the capacity for thought and intellect — for example, human beings, and any other such being there may be, or one even more honorable. It is clear, then, that in the same way there would be one account of soul as there is of figure. For in the case of figure there is no figure over and above the triangle and those that follow it in order, nor in this case is there any soul over and above the ones mentioned. There could indeed be, in the case of figures too, a common account, one that will fit all of them but will be the proper account of none of them. And likewise with the souls just mentioned. That is why it is absurd, both here and elsewhere, to look for a common account that will be the proper account of none of the things there are, nor correspond to the peculiar and indivisible species, while setting aside the proper account of each. What holds for figures holds in much the same way for the parts of the soul. For always, in the case of both figures and ensouled things, the prior member is present potentially in the one that follows in the series — for example, the triangle is present in the square, and the nutritive capacity is present in the perceptive.
13| So one must inquire in each case what the soul of each thing is — for example, what the soul of a plant is, and what the soul of a human being or of an animal is. And we must consider for what cause they stand in this order, one after another. For without the nutritive capacity there is no perceptive capacity; but the nutritive is separated from the perceptive in plants. Again, without the capacity for touch none of the other senses is present, but touch is present without the others; for many animals have neither sight nor hearing, nor any perception of smell at all. And among things that have perception, some have the capacity for motion from place to place, and others do not have it. Last, and belonging to the fewest, is reasoning and thought. For those perishable things to which reasoning belongs, all the rest belong as well; but not all things to which each of those other capacities belongs have reasoning — indeed some of them do not even have imagination, and others live by that alone. As for the theoretical intellect, that is a different discussion. It is clear, then, that this account of each of these capacities is the one most proper to them, and likewise concerning the soul.
14| Anyone who intends to conduct an inquiry into these matters must grasp what each of them is, and only then go on to investigate what is connected with them, or the other matters as well. And if we must state what each of them is — for example, what the intellective capacity is, or the perceptive, or the nutritive — we must first state, still earlier, what thinking is and what perceiving is; for the activities and actions are prior in account to the capacities. And if that is so, and prior even to these one must have studied their objects, then for the same reason it would be necessary to determine those first — for example, nourishment, the perceptible, and the intelligible. So we must speak first about nourishment and generation; for the nutritive soul belongs to the other kinds as well, and it is the first and most common capacity of soul, the one in virtue of which living belongs to all of them. Its functions are to generate and to make use of nourishment. For the most natural of the functions belonging to living things — those that are complete and not maimed, or that do not have spontaneous generation — is to make another thing like itself, an animal producing an animal, a plant producing a plant, so that they may share, so far as they are able, in the everlasting and the divine. For all things desire that, and it is for the sake of that that they do whatever they do by nature.
15| That for the sake of which is twofold: the thing for the sake of which, and the being for whose sake. Since, then, a thing is unable to share continuously in the everlasting and the divine — because nothing among perishable things admits of remaining the same and one in number — each thing shares in that in the way it is able to, some more, some less; and what persists is not the thing itself but something like itself, one not in number but one in species. Now the soul is the cause and principle of the living body. These terms are used in many ways. And likewise the soul is a cause in the three ways that have been distinguished: for it is a cause both as that from which motion comes, and as that for the sake of which, and as the substance of ensouled bodies. That it is a cause as substance is clear: for substance is the cause of being for all things, and for living things, being is living, and the cause and principle of this is the soul. Further, the actuality of what exists potentially is its account. And it is evident that the soul is also a cause as that for the sake of which; for just as intellect acts for the sake of something, in the same way nature does too, and this is its end. Such is soul in animals, in accordance with nature also;
16| for all natural bodies are instruments of the soul, and just as it is with the bodies of animals, so too with those of plants, since they exist for the sake of the soul. That for the sake of which is twofold: the thing for the sake of which, and the being for whose sake. But further, that from which motion in place first proceeds is also the soul; not all living things, however, possess this capacity. Alteration and growth too occur in accordance with soul; for perception seems to be a kind of alteration, and nothing perceives that does not have soul. And the same holds concerning growth and decay; for nothing decays or grows naturally unless it is nourished, and nothing is nourished that does not share in life. Empedocles did not speak well on this point, when he added that growth occurs in plants — downward, because their roots grow together with the earth on account of the earth's being carried that way by nature, and upward on account of fire behaving in the same way. For he does not take up-and-down correctly: for up and down are not the same for all things and for the universe, but rather, as the head is for animals, so the roots are for plants — if indeed the organs are to be called different and the same according to their functions. Besides this, what is it that holds together fire and earth, which are carried toward opposite places?
17| For they will be torn apart, unless there is something to prevent it; and if there is, this is the soul, and the cause of growing and being nourished. Some think that the nature of fire is, simply and without qualification, the cause of nourishment and growth; for fire alone, among bodies or elements, appears to be nourished and to grow. That is why one might suppose that this is what is doing the work both in plants and in animals. But fire is in a way a joint cause, yet not the cause without qualification — rather the soul is more so. For the growth of fire goes on without limit, so long as there is fuel to burn, but of all things constituted by nature there is a limit and a ratio of both magnitude and growth; and these belong to soul, not to fire, and to the account rather than to the matter. Since the same capacity of the soul is nutritive and generative, we must first determine the matter of nourishment; for it is by this function that the nutritive capacity is marked off from the other capacities. Nourishment seems to be the contrary by the contrary — not every contrary by every contrary, but only those contraries that have not only generation from one another but also growth from one another; for many things come to be from one another, but not all of them in a quantitative way — as, for example, a healthy thing from a sick one.
18| It appears that not even those things are food for one another in the same way; rather, water is food for fire, but fire does not nourish water. So among the simple bodies, it seems that this relation holds most of all — one being food, the other being nourished. But there is a difficulty here: some say that like is nourished by like, just as it also grows by like, while others hold the opposite, as we said — that the contrary is nourished by the contrary — on the ground that the like is unaffected by the like, whereas food changes and is concocted; and change, for everything, is into its opposite or into an intermediate. Further, the food is acted on in some way by what is nourished, but the latter is not acted on by the food — just as the carpenter is not acted on by his material, but the material by him; the carpenter only changes from inactivity into activity. Whether the food is what is added last or what is added first makes a difference. But if it is both — one unconcocted, the other concocted — then it would be possible to speak of food in both ways: insofar as it is unconcocted, the contrary is nourished by the contrary; insofar as it is concocted, the like by the like. So it is clear that both sides speak in a way that is both right and not right.
19| Since nothing is nourished that does not partake of life, what is nourished would be the ensouled body, insofar as it is ensouled; so that food too is relative to the ensouled, and not accidentally so. But being food and being productive of growth are different: insofar as the ensouled thing is a certain quantity, food is productive of growth; but insofar as it is a this and a substance, it is food — for food preserves the substance, and the thing exists just so long as it is nourished; and food is productive of generation, not of the thing that is nourished, but of something like the thing that is nourished — for the substance already exists, and nothing generates itself, but only preserves itself. So this principle of soul is a capacity of such a kind as to preserve what possesses it, insofar as it is such a thing, while food equips it to be active. That is why, deprived of food, it cannot exist. Since there are three things — what is nourished, that by which it is nourished, and what nourishes — what nourishes is the primary soul, what is nourished is the body that possesses it, and that by which it is nourished is the food. And since it is right to name everything from its end, and the end is to generate another thing like itself, the primary soul would be generative of another thing like itself. And that by which a thing is nourished is twofold, just as that by which one steers is twofold — the hand and the rudder — the one both moving and moved, the other only moving.
20| All food must be capable of being concocted, and heat produces the concoction; that is why every ensouled thing has heat. So in outline it has been said what food is; it must be made clear later, in the discussions proper to it. Now that these matters have been distinguished, let us speak generally about perception as a whole. Perception occurs in being moved and being acted on, as has been said; for it seems to be a kind of alteration. Some say that like is acted on by like. How this is possible or impossible we have stated in the general discussions about acting and being acted on. There is a difficulty as to why there is no perception of the senses themselves, and why, without external objects, they do not produce perception, though fire and earth and the other elements are present in them, of which — or of whose accidents — perception is. It is clear, then, that the faculty of perception is not in actuality but only in potentiality. That is why, just as the combustible does not burn by itself apart from what is capable of burning it — for otherwise it would burn itself, and would have no need of a fire actually existing — so too with perceiving. And since we speak of perceiving in two ways (for we say that what is capable of hearing and seeing hears and sees, even if it happens to be asleep, and also that what is already actively doing so hears and sees), perception too would be spoken of in two ways, the one as potentiality, the other as actuality. Likewise also perceiving, both what exists potentially and what exists actually.
21| First, then, let us speak as though being acted on, being moved, and being active were the same thing; for motion is indeed a kind of actuality, though an incomplete one, as has been said elsewhere. Now everything is acted on and moved by what is productive and exists in actuality. That is why in one sense it is acted on by the like, and in another sense by the unlike, as we said; for what is unlike is acted on, but having been acted on it is made like, and is such as the other. We must also draw a distinction concerning potentiality and actuality — for so far we have been speaking of them simply. In one sense something is a knower in the way we would call a man knowing, because man is one of those who know and possess knowledge; in another sense we call knowing the one who already possesses grammar. Each of these two is capable in a different way — the one because his kind and matter are of such a sort, the other because, if he wishes, he is capable of contemplating, provided nothing external prevents it; while the one who is already contemplating is in actuality and, strictly speaking, knows this particular A. Now both of the first two are knowers in virtue of potentiality, but the one has been altered through learning, changing often from a contrary state, while the other, from possessing perception or grammar, has done so without being active — moves into activity in another way.
22| Being acted on, too, is not simple; rather, in one sense it is a kind of destruction by the contrary, and in another sense it is rather the preservation of what exists potentially by what exists in actuality and is like it, standing to it as potentiality stands to actuality. For what possesses knowledge becomes one who is contemplating — which is either not a case of being altered at all (since the advance is into itself and into actuality) or is a different kind of alteration. That is why it is not right to say that what is thinking, when it thinks, is being altered — any more than the builder is altered when he builds. So the process that leads from what exists potentially into actuality, in respect of intellect and thought, deserves not the name "being taught" but some other name; while for the one who, starting from what exists potentially, learns and acquires knowledge from what exists actually and is capable of teaching, we must either say — as has been said — that he is not even acted on, or else that there are two kinds of alteration: the change into privative dispositions, and the change into states and into nature. In the case of the faculty of perception, the first change comes about through the parent; and once the thing is generated, it already possesses perceiving in the way it possesses knowledge. And "in actuality" is spoken of in a like way to "contemplating"; but it differs in that the objects productive of the activity are external — the visible and the audible — and likewise the rest of the perceptibles.
23| The reason is that perception in actuality is of particulars, while knowledge is of universals; and these are in a way within the soul itself. That is why it is up to oneself to think, whenever one wishes, but it is not up to oneself to perceive — for the perceptible object must be present. It is the same way, too, in the case of the branches of knowledge that deal with perceptible things, and for the same reason — that perceptible things are particulars and external things. But it would be an opportunity to clarify these matters on another occasion as well. For now let this much be determined: that what is called potential is not simple, but just as we might say that a child is capable of commanding an army, and also one who has reached the proper age, so it stands with the faculty of perception. And since the differentia between them has no name, though it has been determined that they are different, and how they are different, we must use "being acted on" and "being altered" as the proper terms; and the faculty of perception is potentially such as the perceptible object already is in actuality, as has been said. So it is acted on while not being like, but having been acted on it has been made like and is such as that object.
24| We must speak of each perception in turn, and first about the objects of perception. The perceptible is spoken of in three ways: of these, two we say we perceive in their own right, and one accidentally. Of the two, one is peculiar to each perception, the other common to all. By peculiar I mean what cannot be perceived by another perception, and about which the perception cannot be deceived — as sight is of color, hearing of sound, taste of flavor. Touch has more differentiae; but each of these still discriminates about its objects, and is not deceived that there is color or that there is sound, but only about what the colored thing is or where it is, or what the sounding thing is or where it is. Such things, then, are called peculiar to each sense, while the common objects are motion, rest, number, shape, magnitude; for such things are peculiar to no one sense, but common to all — for motion, for instance, is perceptible both by touch and by sight. A thing is called perceptible accidentally when, for example, the white thing happens to be the son of Diares: for one perceives this accidentally, since this — the thing perceived — is an accidental attribute of the white thing. And that is why the perceiver is in no way affected by the perceptible object insofar as it is such a thing. Of the things perceptible in their own right, the peculiar objects are the perceptible objects in the strict sense, and it is to these that the substance of each perception is naturally directed.
25| What sight is of, that is the visible. And the visible is color, and also something that can be stated in an account but happens to have no name; this will become clearer as we go on. For the visible is color. And this is what belongs to what is visible in its own right — in its own right not by the account given of it, but because it has in itself the cause of being visible. Every color is capable of setting in motion what is transparent in actuality, and this is its nature. That is why it is not visible without light, but the color of each thing is visible only in light. Hence we must first say what light is. There is, then, something transparent. And by transparent I mean what is visible, yet not visible in its own right, simply speaking, but through the color belonging to something else. Air and water are of this kind, and many solid bodies too; for it is not qua water or qua air that they are transparent, but because there is a nature present in both of these, and also in the eternal body above, which is the same in all of them. Light is the actuality of this transparent thing qua transparent. And where this is present only potentially, there is darkness.
26| Light is, as it were, the color of the transparent, whenever the transparent is transparent in full actuality through the agency of fire or something of the kind, such as the body above; for one and the same thing belongs to that body too. What the transparent is, then, and what light is, has been stated: light is neither fire, nor body generally, nor an effluence from any body (for it would then itself be a kind of body), but the presence of fire or something of that kind in the transparent; for it is not possible for two bodies to be in the same place at once. Light seems to be the opposite of darkness; and darkness is the privation of this kind of state in the transparent, so that clearly the presence of that state is what light is. And Empedocles was not right, nor was anyone else who has said as much, in holding that light travels and at a given moment comes to be between the earth and what surrounds it, without our noticing it; for this runs counter both to the truth as reasoned out and to the observed facts. Over a small distance it might escape notice, but that it should escape notice from sunrise to sunset is too great a claim to ask us to accept. What is receptive of color is what is colorless, and what is receptive of sound is what is soundless.
27| Colorless is the transparent, and also the invisible, or what is barely visible, as the dark seems to be. Of this latter kind is the transparent, but not when it is transparent in full actuality — rather when it is so potentially; for the same nature is at one time darkness and at another light. Not everything visible is visible in light, but only each thing's own proper color; for some things are not seen in light, yet produce a perception in darkness — for instance things that appear fiery and gleaming (these have no single name), such as fungus, horn, the heads, scales, and eyes of fish; yet in none of these is the thing's own proper color seen. For what reason these things are seen is another discussion; for the present it is clear only this much, that what is seen in light is color. That is also why it is not seen without light; for this was what being color meant for it — being capable of setting in motion what is transparent in actuality; and the actuality of the transparent is light. Here is a clear sign of this: if one places the colored thing directly on the eye itself, it will not be seen; rather color sets the transparent — the air, for instance — in motion, and by this, being continuous, the sense organ is set in motion.
28| Democritus is wrong in this, in thinking that if the space between were to become a void, one would see with perfect precision — even an ant in the sky; for this is impossible. For seeing occurs because the sense organ is in some way affected; and this cannot happen through the agency of the very color seen itself, so it remains that it happens through the medium between; hence there must necessarily be something between. And if it becomes a void, not merely will nothing be seen with precision, but nothing will be seen at all. The reason, then, why color must necessarily be seen in light has been stated. Fire, however, is seen in both conditions, both in darkness and in light, and this of necessity; for it is by fire that the transparent becomes transparent. The same account holds also for sound and smell; for none of these produces perception by touching the sense organ itself, but the medium is set in motion by the smell and the sound, and by this medium each of the two sense organs is set in motion in turn; and whenever one places the sounding or smelling thing directly on the sense organ itself, it will produce no perception at all. With touch and taste the case is the same in fact, though it does not appear so; the reason for this will become clear later. The medium of sounds is air, that of smell has no name.
29| For there is some affection common to air and water alike — just as the transparent is common to color, so there is something present in both of these that belongs to what has smell; for the aquatic animals too are plainly seen to have a perception of smell. But man, and such land animals as breathe, are unable to smell without breathing. The reason for this too will be stated later. For now let us first give an account of sound and hearing. Sound is spoken of in two ways: one is an actuality, the other a potentiality; for we say some things do not have sound, for instance a sponge or wool, and others do, for instance bronze and whatever is solid and smooth, because they are capable of sounding. This capacity is to produce actual sound between the sounding body and the hearing. Sound in actuality always occurs as of something against something and in something; for it is a blow that produces it. Hence it is also impossible for sound to arise from one thing alone; for the thing striking and the thing struck are different, so that what sounds, sounds against something. And a blow does not occur without locomotion. As we said, sound does not come from a chance blow; for wool, if struck, produces no sound at all, but bronze does, and whatever is smooth and hollow — bronze because it is smooth; hollow things, because by reflection they produce many blows after the first one, since what has been set in motion is unable to escape. Further, sound is heard in air and in water, though less distinctly. Neither air nor water is what governs sound; rather there must occur a collision of solid bodies against one another and against the air.
30| This happens when the air, having been struck, holds its ground and is not dispersed. Hence if it is struck quickly and forcefully, it makes a sound; for the motion of the thing striking it must outrun the crumbling of the air, just as if someone were to strike a heap or a string of sand while it is moving fast. Echo occurs when, after the air has become a single mass because of the container that has bounded it and prevented it from crumbling, the air is pushed back again, like a ball. Echo seems always to occur, but not distinctly, since what happens with sound is just as with light; for light too is always reflected (otherwise there would not be light everywhere, but darkness outside the sunlit spot), but it is not reflected in the way it is from water or bronze or some other smooth thing, so as to produce a shadow, by which we mark off light. The void is rightly said to be decisive for hearing. For air seems to be what is meant by the void, and it is this that causes hearing, when it is moved as a continuous single mass. But because it is friable, it does not resound clearly unless what is struck is smooth. In that case it becomes one all at once, because of the flat surface; for the surface of a smooth thing is one.
31| That which is capable of moving a single mass of air continuously as far as the organ of hearing is capable of producing sound, and hearing is naturally joined to air. And because the organ is in air, when the air outside is moved, the air inside is moved. That is why an animal does not hear in every part, nor does the air pass through everywhere; for not every part that can be moved and is ensouled contains air. In itself, then, air is soundless because it crumbles easily; but when it is prevented from crumbling, its motion is sound. The air in the ears has been built in so as to be immovable, so that it may perceive accurately all the differences of the motion. And this is also why we hear in water too, because the water does not get in to the air that is naturally joined to us; nor does it get into the ear, because of its coils. But when this does happen, one does not hear; nor does one hear if the membrane is damaged, just as one does not see when the skin over the pupil is damaged. And a sign of whether one is hearing or not is that the ear always rings, like a horn; for the air in the ears is always moved with a motion of its own; but the sound one hears is foreign to it and not its own. And this is why they say we hear by means of what is void and resounding, because we hear by means of what has air bounded within it. Does what is struck make the sound, or what strikes?
32| Or both, but in different ways? For sound is the motion of what is capable of being moved in the way that things rebound from smooth surfaces, when someone strikes them. Not everything, as has been said, makes a sound when struck and striking, for instance if a needle strikes a needle; but what is struck must be even, so that the air rebounds and is shaken as a mass. The differences among things that produce sound are made evident in the actual sound; for just as colors are not seen without light, so too the high-pitched and the low-pitched are not perceived without sound. These terms are used metaphorically, taken from the objects of touch; for the high-pitched moves perception a great deal in a short time, while the low-pitched moves it a little in a long time. So the high-pitched is not itself fast, nor the low-pitched slow, but the motion of the one comes to be of that character because of speed, and of the other because of slowness. And it seems to be analogous to the sharp and the blunt in the sphere of touch; for the sharp, as it were, pricks, while the blunt, as it were, pushes, because of the way each moves something, the one in a little space, the other in much, so that it turns out that one is fast and the other slow.
33| Let sound, then, be defined in this way. Voice is a certain sound of an ensouled being; for none of the soulless things has a voice, but they are said to have a voice only by resemblance, for instance the pipe and the lyre and all the other soulless things that have range and melody and articulation; for it seems that voice too has these features, but many animals do not have voice, for instance the bloodless animals, and among the blooded, fish. And this is reasonable, if indeed sound is a certain motion of air. But the fish said to have a voice, for instance those in the Achelous, make sound with their gills or with some other such part. Voice is the sound of an animal, and not made with any random part. But since everything makes a sound when something strikes something in something, and this medium is air, it is reasonable that only those things that take in air should have voice. For nature already puts what is breathed to use for two functions, just as it does the tongue for both taste and speech, of which taste is necessary (and that is why it belongs to more animals), while expression is for the sake of well-being; so too with breath, for the internal heat, as something necessary (the cause of which will be stated elsewhere), and for voice, so that well-being may obtain.
34| The organ of breathing is the windpipe; and the part for the sake of which this windpipe exists is the lung; for it is by means of this part that land animals have more heat than the others. And the region around the heart is the first to need breathing. Hence it is necessary, when breathing occurs, for the air to go in inside. So voice is the striking of the breathed-in air, by the soul residing in these parts, against what is called the windpipe. For not every sound made by an animal is voice, as we said (for it is possible to make a sound with the tongue too, and as those coughing do), but what strikes must be ensouled and act with some imagination; for voice is indeed a sound with meaning, and not simply a sound of the breathed air, as coughing is; but with this air it strikes the air in the windpipe against the windpipe itself. A sign of this is that one cannot produce voice while breathing in, nor while breathing out, but only while holding the breath; for the one holding the breath moves it in this way. It is also clear why fish are voiceless; for they do not have a windpipe. And they do not have this part because they do not take in air nor breathe. The reason why, however, is a matter for a different discussion.
35| Concerning smell and the object of smell, it is less easy to give a clear account than of what has been discussed; for it is not clear what sort of thing smell is, in the way sound or color is. The reason is that we do not have this perception in a precise form, but worse than many animals have it; for a human being smells poorly, and perceives none of the objects of smell apart from what is painful or pleasant, as if the sense organ were not precise. And it is reasonable that hard-eyed animals also perceive colors in this way, and that the differences among colors are not distinct to them except in terms of the frightening and the unfrightening. And the human race is in the same condition with respect to smells; for smell seems to stand in analogy to taste, and the species of flavors correspond to those of smell, but we have a more precise sense of taste, because it is a kind of touch, and this is the sense that the human being has most precisely; for in the other senses he falls far short of other animals, but in respect of touch he is distinctively more precise than many of the others. That is why he is also the most intelligent of animals. A sign of this is that even within the human race, people are well-endowed or poorly-endowed by nature according to this sense organ, and by no other;
36| For those with hard flesh are ill-endowed in intellect, while those with soft flesh are well-endowed. And just as flavor is, in one case sweet and in another bitter, so too are odors. But some things have odor and flavor in proportion to each other — I mean, for example, a sweet odor along with a sweet flavor — while others have the opposite. Likewise there is a pungent, an astringent, a sharp, and an oily odor. But, as we said, because odors are not as sharply distinguishable as flavors are, they have taken their names from these by resemblance of the things involved: the sweet odor from saffron and honey, the pungent from thyme and things of that sort; and the same way for the others. And smell is like hearing and each of the other senses: as hearing is of the audible and the inaudible, and sight of the visible and the invisible, so smell is of the smellable and the unsmellable. A thing is unsmellable either because it is wholly incapable of having odor, or because it has only a small and poor odor. The same is said of the tasteless. And smelling, too, occurs through a medium, such as air or water; for aquatic animals too are held to perceive odor.
37| The same holds both for animals with blood and for those without, just as for those in the air; for even among these, some meet their food from a distance because they get wind of it. Hence it appears puzzling: if all creatures smell in the same way, how is it that a human being, while breathing in, does smell, but while not breathing in — either breathing out or holding the breath — does not smell, whether near or far, not even if the object is placed right inside the nostril? Now that a thing placed directly on the sense organ itself is imperceptible is common to all the senses; but failing to perceive without breathing is peculiar to human beings — and this is clear if one tries it. So bloodless animals, since they do not breathe, would have to possess some other sense distinct from the ones named. But that is impossible, if indeed they perceive odor; for the perception of the smellable, whether foul-smelling or sweet-smelling, is smelling. Moreover, they are evidently harmed by the same strong odors that harm a human being, such as bitumen and sulfur and things of that kind. It is necessary, then, that they smell, but not by breathing. It seems that in human beings this sense organ differs from that of other animals, the way human eyes differ from those of hard-eyed creatures: human eyes have a barrier and, as it were, a covering in the eyelids, which one does not see without moving or lifting;
38| whereas hard-eyed creatures have nothing of the kind, but see at once whatever occurs in the transparent medium. So too, then, the organ of smell is in some creatures uncovered, like the eye of the hard-eyed animals, while in those that take in air it has a covering, which is uncovered when they breathe in, as the little veins and passages are widened. And this is why creatures that breathe do not smell in a liquid medium; for smelling necessarily requires having breathed in, and this is impossible to do in a liquid. Odor belongs to the dry, just as flavor belongs to the moist; and the organ of smell is potentially of that same character.
39| What is tastable is a kind of tangible object; and this is the reason it is not perceptible through a medium that is a body other than the organ itself — for neither is touch. And the body in which the flavor resides, the tastable thing, is in moisture as its matter; and this moisture is itself something tangible. Hence, even if we were in water, we would perceive something sweet thrown in, but our perception of it would not come through a medium, but rather by the sweet thing's mixing with the moisture, as happens with a drink. Color, by contrast, is not seen this way, by mixing, nor by effluences. So in the sense that there is a medium, there is none here; but as color is the visible object, so flavor is the tastable object. Now nothing produces perception of flavor without moisture, but it has moisture either in actuality or in potentiality, as with what is salty; for salt is itself easily dissolved and dissolves the tongue along with it. And just as sight is of both the visible and the invisible (for darkness is invisible, and sight judges this too), and also of the excessively bright (for this too is invisible, though in a different way from darkness), so likewise hearing is of both sound and silence, of which the one is audible and the other not, and also of loud sound, just as sight is of the bright;
40| for just as a small sound is in a sense inaudible, so too is a loud and violent one; and something is called invisible either in the unqualified sense, as with what is impossible in other cases too, or in the sense that, though naturally fit to have it, it lacks it or has it poorly, as with the footless or the stoneless. So too taste is of both the tastable and the tasteless; and this latter is what has a small or poor flavor, or one destructive of taste. It seems that the drinkable and undrinkable are a starting point here; for both are a kind of taste, but the one is poor and destructive of the taste, the other in accordance with nature. What is common to touch and taste is the drinkable. Since what is tastable is moist, its sense organ too must necessarily be neither actually moist nor incapable of being moistened; for taste is in some way affected by the tastable object, insofar as it is tastable. It is necessary, then, that the organ of taste be moistened — being capable of being moistened while remaining preserved, yet not itself moist. A sign of this is that the tongue perceives neither when it is completely dry nor when it is excessively moist; for in the latter case there occurs contact with the primary moisture already present, as when someone tastes another flavor after having first tasted a strong one; and it is like the case of the sick, to whom everything appears bitter, because they perceive with a tongue full of that kind of moisture.
41| The kinds of flavors, as with colors, are, in their simple form, the opposites — the sweet and the bitter — and, closely allied to these, the oily to the one and the salty to the other; and between these come the pungent, the astringent, the harsh, and the sharp; for these pretty much appear to be the differentiae of flavors. So the faculty of taste is that which is potentially of this character, while the tastable is what actually produces it.
42| Concerning the tangible and touch, the same account applies. For if touch is not a single sense but several, then the tangible objects of perception must also be several. There is a puzzle here as to whether they are several or one, and what the sense organ is that is capable of touch: whether it is the flesh — and in other animals whatever is analogous to it — or not, but this is rather the medium, while the primary sense organ is something else, internal. For every sense is held to be of a single pair of contraries — for example, sight of white and black, hearing of high-pitched and low-pitched, taste of bitter and sweet — whereas in the case of the tangible there are present many contrarieties: hot and cold, dry and moist, hard and soft, and other such pairs. There is, however, some solution available at least to this puzzle: that in the other senses too there are several contrarieties — for example, in sound not only high pitch and low pitch, but also loudness and softness, and smoothness and roughness of sound, and other such qualities. And there are similar further differentiae in the case of color as well. But what the single underlying thing is that stands to touch as sound stands to hearing is not evident.
43| Is the organ of touch internal, or is it not, but flesh itself immediately the organ? It seems to be no sign either way that perception occurs the moment things are touched. For even now, if one were to stretch something around the flesh, making it like a membrane, we would signal perception in the same way, immediately upon contact; and yet it is clear that the organ of perception is not in this membrane. And if the membrane grew naturally attached, perception would get through even faster still. This is why this part of the body seems to be in the same condition as it would be if air had grown around us in a circle: we would then seem to perceive sound and color and smell by one single thing, and sight, hearing, and smell would seem to be one single perception. But as things stand, because the medium through which the movements occur is distinct in each case, the perceptual organs mentioned are plainly different from one another. In the case of touch, though, this is at present unclear: for it is impossible for the ensouled body to be composed out of air or water alone, since it must have something solid in it. What is left, then, is that it be a mixture of earth and these, of the sort that flesh and its analogue tend to be; so that the body must necessarily be something situated between the tangible object and what is naturally attached, through which the perceptions—being more than one—occur. That they are more than one is shown by the sense of touch on the tongue:
44| for it perceives all tangible qualities and also flavor by the same part. If the rest of the flesh likewise perceived flavor, taste and touch would seem to be the same, single perception; but as it stands they are two, because they do not convert into one another. One might raise a difficulty here: every body has depth, and this is the third dimension; and where there is some body between two bodies, it is not possible for those two to touch one another. Now the wet cannot exist apart from body, nor can the moist, but there must necessarily be water, or something that has water in it. And things that touch one another in water, if their extremities are not dry, must necessarily have water between them, with which their outer surfaces are soaked through. And if this is true, it is impossible for one thing to touch another in water. The same holds in air as well: for air stands to things in it the same way water stands to things in water. But this escapes our notice more, just as it escapes the notice of water-animals, whether one moist thing touches another moist thing. So then, is perception the same in all cases, or is it different in different cases, as it now seems: taste and touch by actual contact, the other senses from a distance?
45| That is not so; rather, we perceive hard and soft too through something else in between, just as we perceive the audible, the visible, and the smellable—only in these latter cases the medium acts from far off, and in the former from close by. That is why it escapes notice, since in fact we perceive everything through a medium; but in these cases it escapes notice. And yet, as we said before too, even if we perceived all tangible things through a membrane without noticing that it was separating us from them, we would be in the same condition as we now are in water and in air—for we seem to touch these things directly and think there is nothing between. But the tangible differs from the visible and the audible in this: we perceive those by the medium's doing something to us, while we perceive tangible things not by the medium's agency but together with the medium, the way a man struck through his shield is struck—for it is not the shield, once struck, that struck him, but both happened to be struck at once. In general, it seems that flesh and tongue stand to the organ of touch just as air and water stand to sight, hearing, and smell, each of the media standing to its own sense. If the organ of perception itself is touched, no perception would occur in that case or in the other—as if someone were to place a white body right on the surface of the eye.
46| This also makes it clear that the organ that perceives the tangible is internal. For then the very thing that happens with the other senses would happen here too: when objects are placed on the organ of perception itself, no perception occurs, but when they are placed on the flesh, perception does occur; so that flesh is the medium of the tactile power. The tangible qualities, then, are the differentiae of body as body; I mean the differentiae that mark off the elements—hot, cold, dry, wet—about which we have spoken earlier in our treatise on the elements. The organ that perceives them is the organ of touch, and the part in which what is called touch first resides is the part that is such potentially: for to perceive is to be acted on in some way. So that whatever acts, being such actually, makes the part such which is such potentially. This is why we do not perceive what is equally hot or cold as ourselves, or equally hard or soft, but only the extremes, on the ground that perception is a kind of mean state relative to the opposition present in perceptible qualities. And this is why it discriminates the perceptible qualities. For the mean is what does the discriminating: it becomes, relative to each of the two extremes, the other extreme; and just as what is going to perceive white and black must be neither of the two actually, though both potentially, so too in the other cases, and in touch it must be neither hot nor cold.
47| Further, just as sight was in a way of both the visible and the invisible, and likewise the other senses of their opposed pairs, so too touch is of the tangible and the untouchable; and untouchable is what has only a very slight differentia among tangible qualities, such as is the condition of air, and also the extremes of tangible qualities, such as things that are destructive. So then, concerning each of the senses, the account has been given in outline.
48| But concerning every sense in general, one must grasp that sense is what is receptive of perceptible forms without the matter, as wax receives the imprint of the ring without the iron or the gold, and takes the imprint that is gold or bronze, but not insofar as it is gold or bronze; and likewise sense is acted on in each case by what has color, or flavor, or sound, but not insofar as each of those things is called what it is, but insofar as it is of such-and-such a quality, and according to its ratio. The primary organ of sense is that in which such a power resides. The organ and the power are the same thing, but their being is different: for what perceives would be some magnitude, yet its being what is capable of perceiving is not a magnitude, nor is perception itself a magnitude, but rather a certain ratio and power of that thing. And from this it is also clear why excesses of the perceptible qualities destroy the sense organs: for if the movement is too strong for the organ, the ratio is dissolved—and this ratio was what perception was—just as both the concord and the pitch are dissolved when the strings are struck too hard. And it is also clear why plants do not perceive, even though they have some part that belongs to soul and are affected by tangible qualities:
49| for indeed they are cooled and heated. The cause is that they do not have a mean state, nor a principle of the sort that is able to receive the forms of perceptible objects, but are acted on together with the matter. One might raise the difficulty whether something incapable of smelling could be affected by an odor, or something unable to see by a color, and likewise in the other cases. If the smellable is odor, then if odor produces anything, it produces smelling. So none of the things incapable of smelling could be affected at all by odor; and the same account holds in the other cases too—nor indeed can things capable of perceiving be affected by it except insofar as each is capable of perceiving. And this is also clear in the following way. Neither light and darkness, nor sound, nor odor do anything at all to bodies, but rather the things in which they occur do—for instance, the air that accompanies thunder splits wood apart. But tangible qualities and flavors do act: for if not, by what would lifeless things be affected and altered? Will odor and sound, then, act on those things too? Or is it rather that not every body is capable of being affected by odor and sound; and the things that are affected by them are indeterminate and do not stay fixed, like air—for it comes to smell, as though it had been affected in some way. What, then, is smelling, over and above being affected in some way?
1| Or rather, smelling is perceiving, and the air, once affected, quickly becomes perceptible. That there is no perception other than the five (I mean these: sight, hearing, smell, taste, touch) one might be persuaded of from the following. For if touch is the perception of everything of which there is perception, and we now have perception (for all the affections of the tangible qua tangible are perceptible to us by touch), then it is necessary, if any perception is lacking to us, that some sense-organ be lacking to us as well. And whatever things we perceive by touching them ourselves are perceptible by touch, which we happen to have; but whatever things we perceive through intermediaries, and not by touching the things themselves, we perceive by the simple bodies, I mean for example air and water. And the situation is this: if a number of perceptibles that differ in kind from one another are perceived through one and the same medium, then whoever has that sense-organ must be capable of perceiving both; for example, if the sense-organ is made of air, and air is a medium of both sound and color. But if several media serve the same perceptible, for instance color has both air and water as media (for both are transparent), then whoever has only one of these will still perceive both. Now of the simple bodies, there are sense-organs from only two of these, from air and from water; for the pupil is of water, hearing is of air, and smell is of one or the other of these.
2| Fire either belongs to none of the senses or is common to all of them, for nothing is capable of perceiving without heat. Earth either belongs to none, or is mixed in a particular way most of all in touch. Hence it would remain that there is no sense-organ apart from water and air. And some animals now have just these. Therefore all the senses belong to animals that are not incomplete or maimed; for even the mole is seen to have eyes under its skin. So that, unless there is some other body, and some affection belonging to none of the bodies here, no sense could be lacking. But moreover, there cannot be any special sense-organ for the common perceptibles, the things we perceive incidentally by way of each sense — for example motion, rest, shape, magnitude, number, unity. For we perceive all of these by motion; for example, we perceive magnitude by motion. Hence also shape, for shape is a kind of magnitude. And what is at rest we perceive by its not moving; and number by the negation of the continuous, and by the special perceptibles, for each sense perceives one thing. So it is clear that it is impossible for there to be a special sense for any of these, for example for motion; for then it would be as it now is when we perceive sweetness by sight. And this is because we happen to have perception of both qualities, by which we also recognize them when they coincide.
3| whereas otherwise we could not perceive them at all except incidentally, as we perceive the son of Cleon not because he is the son of Cleon but because he is white, and it is incidental to this white thing that it is the son of Cleon. But of the common perceptibles we already have a common perception, and not incidentally; so it is not a special perception. For otherwise we could perceive them in no other way than the way stated, by which we see the son of Cleon. But the senses perceive one another's special objects incidentally, not insofar as they are the same senses, but insofar as they form a unity, whenever the perception occurs at the same time upon the same object — for example, that bile is bitter and yellow; for it is surely not the business of a different sense to say that the two are one; hence too one is deceived, and if a thing is yellow, one supposes it to be bile. One might inquire for what purpose we have several senses and not one alone. Is it so that the accompanying and common attributes — such as motion, magnitude, and number — are less likely to escape notice? For if sight alone existed, and it were a sight only of white, these attributes would escape notice more, and everything would seem to be the same, on account of color and magnitude always accompanying one another. But as it is, since the common attributes also occur in a different perceptible, this makes it clear that each of them is something distinct.
4| Since we perceive that we see and hear, it is necessary either that we perceive that we see by sight, or by some other sense. But then the same sense will be of sight and of the underlying color. So that either there will be two senses of the same thing, or the same sense will be of itself. Further, if the sense of sight itself were different from sight, either it will go on to infinity or some sense will be of itself. So this must be granted in the case of the first sense. But there is a difficulty here: if perceiving by sight is seeing, and what is seen is color or that which has color, then if one is to see the thing that sees, the thing that sees will itself have color to begin with. It is clear, then, that perceiving by sight is not a single thing; for even when we are not seeing, we discriminate darkness and light by sight, though not in the same way. Further, even the thing that sees is in a way colored; for the sense-organ is receptive of the perceptible object without its matter, in each case. Hence even when the perceptible objects have departed, perceptions and images remain present in the sense-organs. And the actuality of the perceptible object and that of the perception are one and the same, though their being is not the same for both; I mean, for example, sound in actuality and hearing in actuality.
5| for it is possible to have hearing and not be hearing, and what has sound is not always sounding. But whenever what is capable of hearing is in actuality exercising it, and what is capable of sounding is sounding, then hearing in actuality and sound in actuality occur together, of which one might call the one hearing-in-act and the other sounding. If motion, acting, and being affected are all in the thing acted upon, then it is necessary that both sound and hearing in actuality be in that which has them in potentiality; for the actuality of the agent and mover comes to be in the thing affected. Hence it is not necessary that the mover itself be moved. Now the actuality of what is capable of producing sound is sound or sounding, and the actuality of what is capable of hearing is hearing or audition; for hearing is twofold, and sound is twofold. The same account holds for the other senses and perceptibles as well. For just as acting and being acted upon are in the thing acted upon and not in the agent, so too the actuality of the perceptible and that of the perceptive faculty are in the perceptive faculty. But in some cases both have been given names, such as sounding and hearing, while in others one of the two is nameless;
6| for the actuality of sight is called seeing, but that of color has no name, and the actuality of what tastes is called tasting, but that of flavor has no name. And since the actuality of the perceptible and that of the perceptive faculty are one, though their being is different, it is necessary that hearing and sound, spoken of in this way, perish and are preserved together, and likewise flavor and taste, and the others in the same way; but this is not necessary for what is spoken of in terms of potentiality. The earlier natural philosophers did not put this well, thinking that nothing is white or black without sight, nor is there any flavor without taste. For in one sense they spoke correctly, but in another sense not correctly; for since both perception and the perceptible are spoken of in two ways, some in terms of potentiality and others in terms of actuality, what they said holds true of the latter, but does not hold of the former. But they spoke without qualification about things that are not said without qualification. And if a concord is a kind of sound, and voice and hearing are in a way one and the same and in a way not the same, and a concord is a ratio, then hearing too must be some sort of ratio. And this is why anything excessive destroys hearing, both the high-pitched and the low-pitched;
7| Similarly too, taste suffers from excess in flavors, and sight in colors by what is exceedingly bright or dark, and smell by a strong odor, whether sweet or bitter — since perception is a kind of ratio. That is why things are pleasant when they are brought into the ratio pure and unmixed — for example the sharp, the sweet, or the salty; for then they are pleasant. But in general the mixed is more a concord than the sharp or the low note. In touch, it is the heating or the cooling; the perception is the ratio; and when these are in excess they cause pain or destroy the sense. Each sense, then, is of its underlying perceptible object, existing in the sense organ insofar as it is a sense organ, and it discriminates the differentiae of its underlying perceptible object — sight for example discriminates white and black, taste sweet and bitter. And the same holds for the other senses. But since we also discriminate white and sweet and each of the perceptible objects in relation to one another, we perceive by something that they differ. This must be by perception, then, since they are perceptible objects. This also makes clear that the flesh is not the ultimate sense organ; for what discriminates would necessarily have to discriminate by being in direct contact with the object. Nor can separate faculties discriminate that the sweet is different from the white; rather, both must be evident to one and the same thing.
8| For in this way, even if I perceived the one and you the other, it would be clear only that they are different from each other, not that one thing discriminates the difference. It must be one thing that says they are different; for the sweet is different from the white. So it is the same thing that says this. Hence as it says, so it also thinks and perceives. That it is not possible for separate things to discriminate what is separate, then, is clear; and that it cannot happen in separate time either is clear from the following. For just as it is the same thing that says the good and the bad are different, so too, when it says that one of the two is different, it also says the other is different, and does so at the same time — and this "when" is not incidental. I mean, for example: when I say now that they are different, I do not merely mean that they are different now. Rather it says this in this way: both now, and that it is now; so it is at once. Hence it acts undivided, and in undivided time. But is it not impossible for the same thing to be moved by contrary motions at once, insofar as it is undivided and in undivided time? For if the sweet moves perception or thought in one way, and the bitter in the contrary way, and the white in yet another way — is the discriminating {faculty}, then, at once undivided and inseparable in number, but separate in being? In one way it is as the divisible that perceives things that have been divided, and in another way it is insofar as it is undivided —
9| for in being it is divisible, but in place and in number it is undivided. Or is this not possible? In potentiality, one undivided thing can hold both contraries at once; not so in actuality, where, once actualized, it splits, and nothing can be black and white together. So it does not undergo the contrary forms themselves either, if perception and thought are of this kind; rather, just as what some call a point is, in one respect, one, and in another, two, so too it is divisible in this same respect. Insofar, then, as it is undivided, the discriminating {faculty} is one and acts at once; but insofar as it is divisible, it uses the same point twice at once. Insofar, then, as it uses {the point} as two, it discriminates two things with the limit, treating them as separate as though they belonged to separate things; but insofar as it is one, it discriminates with one thing and at once. Concerning the principle, then, by which we say the animal is capable of perception, let this determination stand. Since it is chiefly by two differentiae that people define the soul — by motion in respect of place, and by thinking, discriminating, and perceiving — and since thinking and being practically wise are also thought to be a kind of perceiving (for in both of these the soul discriminates something and comes to know one of the things that are), the ancients indeed say that being practically wise and perceiving are the same, as Empedocles too has said: "for wisdom grows in men in accordance with what is present before them," and elsewhere
10| "from which it is that thinking is always presented to them as something different." And Homer's line means the same thing: "for such is the mind of men." For all these thinkers suppose that thinking is bodily, like perceiving, and that both perceiving and being practically wise occur by like knowing like, as we determined in our opening discussions. And yet they ought to have spoken at the same time about being deceived as well; for this is more proper to animals, and the soul spends more of its time in this condition. So it is necessary either, as some say, that all appearances are true, or that error is contact with the unlike; for this is the contrary of like being known by like. But error and knowledge of contraries are also thought to be the same. That perceiving and being practically wise are not the same, then, is clear; for all animals share in the one, but few in the other. Nor is thinking either the same as perceiving — thinking, in which there is the correct and the incorrect, the correct being practical wisdom, knowledge, and true opinion, and the incorrect being the contraries of these; this too is not the same as perceiving. For perception of the proper objects of each sense is always true, and belongs to all animals, whereas it is possible to think falsely too, and thinking belongs to nothing that does not also have reason.
11| For imagination is different both from perception and from thought; it does not occur without perception, and without it there is no supposition. That thinking and supposition are not the same is clear. For this affection of imagining is up to us, whenever we wish — it is possible to set something before our eyes, as those do who arrange things in mnemonic systems and construct images — but forming opinion is not up to us, since we must either be in error or speak truly. Further, whenever we form the opinion that something is terrible or frightening, we are immediately affected accordingly, and likewise if it is something reassuring; but with imagination we are in the same condition as those who look at terrible or reassuring things in a painting. And there are also differentiae within supposition itself — knowledge, opinion, practical wisdom, and their contraries — but discussion of their difference belongs elsewhere. As for thinking, since it is different from perceiving, and of thinking one part seems to be imagination and the other supposition, we must first determine the nature of imagination, and speak of the other in the same way afterward. If, then, imagination is that in virtue of which we say some appearance occurs in us — and not what we say by way of metaphor — is it one of those capacities or states by which we discriminate and are either right or in error?
12| Such are perception, opinion, knowledge, and intellect. That it is not perception is clear from the following. For perception is either a capacity or an activity — for example sight as a capacity and seeing as an activity — but something appears to us even when neither of these is present, as in dreams. Again, perception is always present, but imagination is not. And if it were the same as the activity of perceiving, it would be possible for imagination to belong to all beasts; but this does not seem to be so — for example, in the ant, the bee, or the grub. Again, perceptions are always true, while imaginings are, for the most part, false. Further, when we are exercising perception accurately with regard to the perceptible object, we do not say that this appears to us to be a man; rather, it is when we do not perceive clearly that what appears is either true or false. And, as we said before, visions appear even to those whose eyes are shut. But neither, on the other hand, will it be any of those states that are always true, such as knowledge or intellect; for imagination can also be false. It remains, then, to see whether it is opinion; for opinion can be both true and false. But conviction follows upon opinion (for it is not possible for one who holds an opinion not to believe what he opines), whereas none of the beasts has conviction, though many have imagination. Further, conviction follows every opinion, being persuaded follows conviction, and being persuaded requires reason —
13| Some beasts have imagination but not reason. It is clear, then, both for this reason and because it is evident that opinion is not of some other object than the one perception is also of, that imagination could not be opinion together with perception, nor opinion through perception, nor a combination of opinion and perception. I mean: on that view, imagination would be a combination formed out of the opinion of white and the perception of white; for it is surely not formed out of the opinion of the good and the perception of white. Appearing, then, would be holding the very opinion that one perceives, and not accidentally. But false appearances also occur, concerning things about which one holds a true belief at the very same time — for example, the sun appears a foot across, but it is believed to be larger than the inhabited world. It follows, then, either that one has cast off one's own true opinion, the one held, although the fact remains unchanged, without having forgotten it or been persuaded otherwise, or, if one still holds it, the same opinion must be both true and false. But it would only become false when the fact changed and one failed to notice. Imagination, then, is neither any single one of these nor composed out of them. But since, when a given thing is moved, something else is moved by it, and imagination seems to be a kind of motion and not to occur without perception, but only for beings that perceive and about things of which there is perception; and since it is possible for a motion to arise from the actuality of perception, and this motion must be similar to the perception — this motion would be one that neither can occur without perception nor can belong to beings that do not perceive, and the thing that has it can, in virtue of it, both do and undergo many things, and can be both true and false.
14| This happens for the following reasons. Perception of the special objects is true, or has the least amount of falsehood in it. Second is perception of the fact that these are accidental attributes of something; and here it is already possible to be deceived: for it is not mistaken that a thing is white, but whether this white thing is this thing or another, there it is mistaken. Third is perception of the common attributes and of what follows upon the accidents to which the special objects belong; I mean, for example, motion and magnitude, which are accidental to perceptible things, and concerning which it is now above all possible to be deceived by perception. The motion produced by the actuality of perception will differ according to which of these three kinds of perception it comes from. The first is true while the perception is present; the other two may be false whether the perception is present or absent, and especially when the perceptible object is far away. If, then, what has been said belongs to nothing but imagination, and this is what has just been described, imagination would be a motion produced by perception when perception is in actuality. And since sight is perception most of all, imagination has taken its name from light, because without light it is impossible to see. And because images persist and resemble perceptions, animals do many things in accordance with them — some because they lack intellect, as the beasts do, others because their intellect is sometimes clouded over by emotion, or by illness, or by sleep, as with human beings.
15| Concerning imagination, then — what it is and why it exists — let this much be said. Concerning the part of the soul by which the soul knows and thinks, whether it is separable or not separable in magnitude but only in account, we must examine what differentia it has, and how thinking ever comes about. If, then, thinking is like perceiving, it would be either a kind of being-acted-on by the object of thought, or something else of that sort. It must, then, be unaffected, yet receptive of the form, and potentially such as the form is, though not actually that form, and it must stand to the objects of thought as the perceptive part stands to the objects of perception. It must, therefore, since it thinks all things, be unmixed, as Anaxagoras says, so that it may rule — that is, so that it may know. For anything foreign appearing alongside it would hinder and obstruct it, so that it has no nature of its own at all, except this one: that it is potential. The part of the soul called intellect, then (I mean the intellect by which the soul reasons discursively and forms judgments), is actually none of the things that are, before it thinks. For this reason it is not reasonable that it should be mixed with the body either; for then it would become qualified in some way, cold or hot, or would even have some organ, as the perceptive part does; but as it is, it is nothing of the kind.
16| And those who say the soul is the place of forms speak well, except that it is not the whole soul but only the intellective part, and the forms are present in it not in realization but in potentiality. That the impassivity of the perceptive part and that of the intellective part are not alike is clear from the sense organs and from perception. For perception is unable to perceive after being affected by an intensely perceptible object — for instance, sound after very loud sounds — nor, after strong colors or odors, is it able either to see or to smell. But the intellect, when it has thought something highly intelligible, thinks the lesser things no less well — indeed, even better. For the perceptive part does not exist apart from the body, whereas the intellect is separable. But when the intellect has become each of its objects in the way that a person is said to be knowledgeable in actuality (which happens when he is able to exercise this knowledge on his own), it is then too, in a way, still in potentiality, though not in the same way as before he learned or discovered it; and then it is also able to think itself. Now, since magnitude and being-a-magnitude are different, and water and being-water are different — and so too in many other cases, though not in all, for in some cases being-flesh and flesh are the same —
17| one judges being-flesh and flesh either by something different, or by something differently disposed; for flesh does not exist apart from matter, but is like the snub, a this in a this. With the perceptive part, then, one judges the hot and the cold, and the things of which flesh is a certain ratio; but with something else — either separate, or related to the perceptive part as a bent line is to itself when it has been straightened out — one judges being-flesh. Again, among things that exist by abstraction, the straight is like the snub, for it exists together with something continuous; but its essence — if being-straight and the straight-in-something-else are different — is judged by something else; let this be twoness. One judges, then, by something different, or by something differently disposed. And so, in general, as things are separable from matter, so too are the corresponding operations of the intellect. One might raise the difficulty: if the intellect is simple and unaffected and has nothing in common with anything, as Anaxagoras says, how will it think, if thinking is a kind of being-acted-on? For it is insofar as something is common to both that the one seems to act and the other to be acted on. Again, there is the question whether it is itself an object of thought. For either intellect will belong to other things too, if it is not itself thinkable in virtue of something else, while the intelligible is one in form, or else it will have something mixed into it, which makes it, like other things, an object of thought.
18| Or rather, being-acted-on in virtue of something common has already been distinguished earlier: that the intellect is, in a way, potentially the objects of thought, but actually none of them, before it thinks. It must be as with a writing tablet on which nothing actually written yet exists — which is exactly what happens in the case of the intellect. And it is itself an object of thought, just as its objects are. For in the case of things without matter, that which thinks and that which is thought are the same; for theoretical knowledge and its object, known in this way, are the same — but the cause of its not always thinking must be examined. But in things that have matter, each of the objects of thought is present only potentially. So intellect will not belong to them (for the intellect is the potentiality of such things apart from their matter), but the intelligible will belong to intellect.
19| Since, just as in all of nature there is something that is matter for each kind (and this is what is potentially all the things of that kind), and something else that is the cause and is productive, by producing all of them, in the way that craft is related to its matter, these same differentiae must also be present in the soul. And there is an intellect of this sort by becoming all things, and another by producing all things, as a kind of state, like light; for in a way light too makes colors that are potentially colors into colors in actuality. And this intellect is separable, unaffected, and unmixed, being in its substance an actuality. For the agent is always more honorable than the patient, and the principle more honorable than the matter. Actual knowledge is the same as its object; but potential knowledge is prior in time in the individual, though not at all prior in time taken generally; but it is not the case that it thinks at one time and does not think at another. Once separated it is only just what it is, and this alone is immortal and eternal. We do not remember, because this part is unaffected, while the passive intellect is perishable, and without this nothing thinks.
20| The thinking of indivisibles, then, occurs among things about which there is no falsehood; but among things where there is also falsehood and truth, there is already a certain combination of thoughts as though they were one, the way Empedocles said that where many necks sprang up without heads, and then these were combined by love. So too these separated things are combined, for instance the incommensurable and the diagonal. But if the thinking concerns things coming to be or things that will be, it thinks by additionally thinking the time and combining it in. For falsehood is always in a combination; for even if one says the white is not white, one has combined not-white with it. It is also possible to call all of these a division. But at any rate there is not only falsehood or truth in saying that Cleon is white, but also in saying that he was or will be. And that which makes a unity of this — this is the intellect in each case. And since the indivisible is spoken of in two ways, either potentially or actually, nothing prevents the mind from thinking the indivisible when it thinks a length; for it is indivisible in actuality, and in an indivisible time; for time is divisible and indivisible in the same way as length is. It is not possible, then, to say what the mind is thinking in each half; for it is not there, unless it has been divided, but only potentially. But thinking each of the halves separately, it divides the time as well, at the same time —
21| — and then they are as it were two lengths. But if it thinks them as arising out of both together, it thinks also in the time covering both. And whatever is indivisible not in quantity but in form, the mind thinks in an indivisible time and with an indivisible part of the soul; but this is accidental, and not insofar as those things are divisible by which it thinks and in which time it thinks, but insofar as they are indivisible; for even in these there is something indivisible, though perhaps not separable, which makes the time and the length one. And this holds alike in everything continuous, both time and length. The point, and every division, and whatever is indivisible in this way, is made evident the way a privation is. And the argument is similar for the other cases too, for instance how one comes to know evil, or black; for one knows it in a way by means of its contrary. And that which knows must be potentially the contrary and must have it present within itself. But if for something among the causes there is no contrary, it knows itself, and is in actuality and separable. And an assertion is something said of something, as an affirmation is, and every affirmation is true or false; but intellect is not so in every case — the intellect that grasps what a thing is, in respect of its essence, is true, and it is not something said of something —
22| — but rather, just as sight is true of its proper object, while whether the white thing is a man or not is not always true, so it is with things that exist without matter. Actual knowledge is the same as its object. Potential knowledge is prior in time in the individual, but taken generally it is not prior in time at all; for everything that comes to be comes from something that already exists in full actuality. It is evident that the perceptible object, out of what is perceptive existing potentially, produces it as actual; for the perceptive faculty is not acted upon nor altered. Hence this is a different kind of motion; for motion was the actuality of what is incomplete, while actuality without qualification — that of what has been completed — is a different thing. Perceiving, then, is like bare asserting and thinking; and when the object is pleasant or painful, the soul, as it were affirming or denying, pursues or avoids it; and to feel pleasure or pain is to be active with the perceptive mean toward the good or the bad, as such. And avoidance and desire, when actual, are this very activity, and the faculty of desire and the faculty of avoidance are not different — not from each other, nor from the perceptive faculty; but their being is different. For the thinking soul, images serve the function that perceptions do. And when it affirms or denies something as good or bad, it avoids or pursues it. Hence the soul never thinks without an image, just as the air affects the pupil in one way, and the pupil itself is affected differently, and hearing likewise —
23| — but the last organ is one, and there is a single mean for it, though its being is manifold. By what faculty it discriminates how sweet and hot differ has been stated before, but it should be stated here too. For there is some one thing, and it functions as a boundary. And these are one by analogy, and by the ratio each has to the other, as those qualities have to one another; for what difference is there between asking how it discriminates things of the same kind and how it discriminates opposites, for instance white and black? Let A, the white, be to B, the black, as C is to D, so that they also alternate. If then C and D belong to one thing, that thing will be in the same condition as A and B — the same and one, though their being is not the same, and likewise for the other pair. And the same argument holds if A were the sweet and B the white. The intellective faculty, then, thinks the forms in images, and just as in those images what is to be pursued and avoided is marked out for it, so also, outside of perception, when it is occupied with images, it is moved — for example, perceiving by the common sense that the beacon-fire is fire, it recognizes, on seeing it move, that it signals an enemy.
24| At times, by means of the images or thoughts within the soul, as though seeing them, it calculates and deliberates about future things in relation to present ones; and when it says that the pleasant or painful is there, then here it avoids or pursues it, and in general acts. And even apart from action, the true and the false are in the same genus as the good and the bad; but they differ in that the one is unqualified and the other is qualified by relation to something. It thinks the things spoken of by abstraction the way one would think the snub: as snub, it is not thought apart, but as concave, if someone were thinking it in actuality, he would think it apart from the flesh in which the concavity lies. So too it thinks mathematical objects, which are not separate, as separate, whenever it thinks them. And in general, intellect in actuality is the things it thinks. But whether it is possible for it, while itself not separate from magnitude, to think any of the things that are separate, or not, must be examined later.
25| Now that we have summed up what has been said about the soul, let us say again that the soul is, in a way, all the things that are. For the things that are, are either perceptible or intelligible, and knowledge is, in a way, the things known, while perception is the things perceived; in what way this is so, we must inquire. Knowledge and perception, then, are divided to match the things: the potential kind of knowledge and perception to the potential things, the actual kind to the actual things. The perceptive and the knowing part of the soul are potentially these things: the one the knowable, the other the perceptible. And they must be either the things themselves or their forms. They are not the things themselves, of course, for it is not the stone that is in the soul, but its form; so that the soul is like the hand. For the hand too is a tool of tools, and intellect is a form of forms, and perception a form of perceptible things. And since no thing exists, so it seems, separately apart from the magnitudes that are perceptible, it is in the perceptible forms that the intelligible objects exist — both the things spoken of by abstraction, and whatever states and affections belong to perceptible things. And this is why someone who perceives nothing could learn or understand nothing; and whenever one is contemplating, one must at the same time be contemplating some image, for images are like perceptions, except without matter. And imagination is different from affirmation and denial; for truth and falsehood are a combination of thoughts. But how will the first thoughts differ from being images? Or rather, the other thoughts too are not images, but not without images.
26| Now since the soul of animals is marked off by two capacities — by the discriminative capacity, which is the work of thought and of perception, and further by the capacity to produce motion in respect of place — let this much stand as our determination about perception and intellect, and let us consider, concerning the moving element, whatever it may be of the soul, whether it is some one part of it, separate either in magnitude or in account, or the whole soul, and, if it is some part, whether it is something peculiar besides those usually spoken of and already mentioned, or one of these. There is an immediate difficulty as to how we ought to speak of parts of the soul, and how many there are. For in a way they appear infinite, and not only those which some mark off in distinguishing them — the calculative, the spirited, and the appetitive, or, as others put it, the rational and the irrational; for according to the differentiae by which they separate these off, other parts too will appear, having a greater distinction than these — the parts about which indeed something has just now been said: the nutritive, which belongs also to plants and to all animals, and the perceptive, which one could not easily class either as irrational or as possessing reason. Further there is the imaginative, which, while being in its being different from all of these, is, in relation to some one of them, the same or different — and this presents much difficulty, if one is to posit separated parts of the soul.
27| And besides these there is the desiderative, which would seem to be different from all the others both in account and in capacity. And it is indeed absurd to tear this apart from the others; for wish arises in the calculative part, and appetite and spirit in the irrational part; and if the soul is threefold, there will be desire in each of the three. And so, concerning the very matter our discussion is now engaged with — what is it that moves the animal in respect of place? For the motion in respect of growth and decay, which belongs to all things, would seem to be moved by that which is present in all — the generative and nutritive capacity; concerning breathing in and breathing out, and sleep and waking, we must inquire later, for these too present much difficulty. But concerning motion in respect of place, we must consider what it is that moves the animal in its progressive motion. That it is not the nutritive capacity, then, is clear; for this motion is always for the sake of something, and it involves either imagination or desire, for nothing moves that does not either desire or avoid something, except by force. Further, even plants would have been capable of motion, and would have had some organic part for this motion, if this capacity sufficed. And likewise it is not the perceptive capacity either; for there are many animals which have perception but are stationary and motionless through their whole existence.
28| If, then, nature does nothing in vain, and leaves out nothing that is necessary, except in the case of the maimed and the incomplete — and such animals as these are complete and not maimed, a sign of which is that they are capable of generation, and have a prime of life and a decline — then they would also have had the organic parts for progressive motion, had this capacity sufficed to produce it. But surely it is not the calculative faculty either, nor what is called intellect, that is the mover; for the theoretical intellect thinks nothing that is practical, and says nothing about what is to be avoided or pursued, whereas motion belongs to something that is avoiding or pursuing something. But not even when the intellect is contemplating something of this sort does it thereby command us to avoid or pursue it — for instance, one often has in mind something fearful or pleasant, without its commanding one to be afraid; instead the heart is moved, or, if the thing is pleasant, some other part. Further, even when the intellect gives an order, and thought bids us avoid or pursue something, we are not moved, but act according to appetite — as does the person lacking self-control. And in general we observe that a person who possesses the medical art does not thereby heal, as though there were something else in control of acting in accordance with the knowledge, and not the knowledge itself. But surely desire, too, is not in control of this motion;
29| for the self-controlled, though they have desire and appetite, do not do the things for which they have the desire, but follow the intellect. There appear, at any rate, to be these two things that produce motion: either desire or intellect, if one is to posit imagination as a kind of thinking; for people follow their imaginations in many cases contrary to knowledge, and in the other animals there is neither thought nor calculation, but imagination. Both of these, then, are productive of motion in respect of place: intellect and desire. And the intellect in question is the one that calculates for the sake of something, that is, the practical intellect; it differs from the theoretical intellect in its end. And desire too is always for the sake of something; for that which is the object of desire is the starting point of the practical intellect, and the last term is the starting point of action. So it is reasonable that these two should appear as the movers, desire and practical thought; for the object of desire moves, and it is on this account that thought moves — because the object of desire is its starting point. And imagination too, when it produces motion, does not produce motion without desire. There is, then, some one thing that moves, the object of desire. For if two things moved, intellect and desire, they would move in virtue of some common form. But as it is, intellect plainly does not move without desire — for wish is a form of desire; and whenever one is moved according to calculation, one is also moved according to wish. But desire moves also contrary to calculation;
30| for appetite too is a kind of desire. Now intellect is always right; but desire, and imagination too, may be either right or not right. This is why it is always the object of desire that moves, but this object is either the good or the apparent good — not every good, but the practical good. And the practical good is that which admits of being otherwise. That it is this capacity of the soul, then, that moves, the one called desire, is evident. But for those who divide the parts of the soul, if they divide and separate them according to their capacities, a very great number of parts result — nutritive, perceptive, thinking, deliberative, and further desiderative; for these differ from one another more than the appetitive and the spirited do. But since desires arise contrary to one another, and this occurs when reason and appetite are contrary, which happens in creatures that have a perception of time (for intellect, on account of the future, bids us pull against appetite, while appetite bids us follow on account of the present; for what is present appears pleasant both without qualification and good without qualification, because one does not see the future) — in form, then, that which moves, the desiderative, in so far as it is desiderative, would be one, and first of all is the object of desire (for this moves without being moved, by being thought or imagined), but in number the movers are more than one.
31| Since there are three things, one the mover, second that by which it moves, third the thing moved; and the mover is twofold, on the one hand the unmoved, on the other that which both moves and is moved; and the unmoved is the practical good, while that which both moves and is moved is the desiring part (for what is moved is moved insofar as it desires, and desire, insofar as it is actual, is a kind of motion), and the thing moved is the animal; and the organ by which desire moves is already something bodily, so that it must be studied among the functions common to body and soul. For now, to speak in summary, that which moves organically is where starting point and end point are the same, as with a hinge-joint; for there the convex and the concave, the one is end point, the other starting point, and so the one is at rest and the other moves, being different in account but inseparable in magnitude, for all things move by pushing and pulling. So there must be something that stays still, as at the center of a circle, and it is from there that the motion begins. In general, then, as has been said, insofar as the animal is a thing capable of desire, in that respect it is capable of moving itself; and it is not capable of desire without imagination, and every imagination is either calculative or perceptual. In this latter kind the other animals too share.
32| We must also consider, concerning the incomplete animals, those which have only touch as a sense, what the mover is in them, whether it is possible for imagination to be present in them, or not, and appetite. For pain and pleasure evidently are present in them. And if these are present, then appetite too must be present of necessity. But how could imagination be present? Well, just as these animals also move indeterminately, so too these are present in them, but present indeterminately. Now perceptual imagination, as has been said, is present in the other animals as well, but deliberative imagination is present only in the calculative animals; for whether one shall do this or that is already the work of calculation, and one must measure by a single standard, for one pursues the greater good. So it is possible to make one image out of several images. And this is the reason why such animals are thought not to have opinion, because they do not have the imagination that comes from reasoning, whereas this deliberative kind does have that other kind within it. That is why desire, taken alone, does not have the deliberative faculty. And sometimes desire prevails and moves the wish, and sometimes the wish moves desire, like one ball striking another, desire moving desire, when there is lack of self-control. But by nature the higher is always more sovereign and does the moving, so that already three kinds of motion are moving. And the part concerned with knowledge does not move, but stays at rest. Since the one supposition and account is universal, while the other concerns the particular case (for the one says that a person of such a kind ought to do such a thing, while the other says that this particular thing here now is of such a kind, and I am a person of such a kind), it is already this latter opinion that moves, not the universal one. Or rather both move, but the one does so while remaining more at rest, the other not.
33| It is necessary, then, that everything which lives and has soul, from birth to destruction, possess the nutritive soul; for what has come into being must have growth, a prime, and decline, and these are impossible without nourishment; so the nutritive capacity must necessarily be present in all things that grow and decline. But perception need not be present in all living things; for it is not possible for those whose body is simple to have touch, and yet it is not possible for anything to be an animal without touch, nor for anything not receptive of forms apart from matter. And the animal must necessarily have perception, if nature does nothing in vain. For all things that exist by nature exist for the sake of something, or else they will be by-products of things that exist for the sake of something. If, then, any body capable of forward motion did not have perception, it would perish and would not arrive at its end, which is the work of nature; for how will it be nourished? For stationary things have the source from which they naturally grow already at hand; but it is not possible for a body to have soul and a discriminating intellect and yet not have perception, if it is not stationary but comes into being. But neither is it possible for it to be ungenerated; for why would it have this? Either it would be better for the soul or for the body.
34| But as things stand, it is better for neither: the soul will not think any the more for it, and the body will be no better off on that account. So nothing that has soul and is not stationary is without perception. But then, if it has perception, its body must necessarily be either simple or mixed. But it cannot be simple, for it will not have touch, and it is necessary for it to have this. This is clear from the following. Since the animal is an ensouled body, and every body is tangible, and the tangible is what is perceptible by touch, the animal's body must necessarily be capable of touch too, if the animal is to survive. For the other senses perceive through other media, for example smell, sight, hearing; but a thing that touches, if it does not have this sense, will not be able to avoid some things and grasp others. And if this is so, it will be impossible for the animal to survive. That is why taste too is a kind of touch; for it is a sense of food, and food is the tangible body. But sound and color and smell do not nourish, nor do they produce either growth or decline. So taste too must necessarily be a kind of touch, because it is a perception of what is tangible and nourishing. These senses, then, are necessary for the animal, and it is plain that it is not possible for an animal to exist without touch.
35| The other senses exist for the sake of well-being, and belong already not to any chance kind of animal but to certain kinds, for example they must be present in the kind capable of forward motion; for if it is to survive, it must perceive not only by touching but also from a distance. And this would come about if it were capable of perceiving through an intervening medium, in that the medium is affected and moved by the perceptible object, and the animal itself is affected by the medium. For just as that which causes motion in respect of place produces its effect up to the point of causing change, and what has pushed makes something else push in turn, and the motion occurs through an intermediate, and indeed the first mover pushes without being pushed, while the last thing is only pushed and does not push, and the middle thing does both, and there are many middle things, so it is too in the case of alteration, except that the thing alters while remaining in the same place, as if one were to dip something into wax: the motion goes only as far as the point where the dipping occurred; a stone is affected not at all, but water is affected to a considerable distance. Air is affected over the greatest distance, and both acts and is acted upon, provided it remains still and is one continuous mass. That is why, regarding reflection too, it is better to say not that the sight goes out and is bent back, but that the air is affected by the shape and color, for as far as it remains one continuous mass.
36| And on a smooth surface it is one continuous mass; that is why this in turn moves the sight, just as if the mark made in the wax were transmitted all the way to the boundary. That it is not possible for the animal's body to be simple is clear, I mean, for example, made of fire or of air. For without touch it is not possible to have any other sense; for every ensouled body is capable of touch, as has been said. As for the other elements apart from earth, they might become organs of sense, but all of them produce perception by perceiving through something else and through media. But touch consists in the animal's own parts touching the object itself, which is why it has this very name. And yet the other sense organs too perceive by a kind of touch, but through something else, whereas this one alone seems to perceive through itself. So none of the other elements of that kind could be the animal's body. Nor indeed could it be earthy. For touch is, as it were, a mean among all tangible things, and the sense organ is receptive not only of the differentiae of earth, but also of hot and cold and all the other tangible qualities. And this is why we do not perceive with our bones and hair and parts of that sort, because they are of earth. And plants, for this same reason, have no perception at all, because they are of earth; and without touch it is not possible for any other sense to be present, and this sense organ is neither of earth nor of any other single one of the elements.
37| It is clear, then, that animals necessarily die when they are deprived of this sense alone, touch; for it is not possible for a non-animal to have this sense, nor is it necessary for an animal, once it is an animal, to have any sense besides this one. And for this reason the other objects of sense do not, by their excesses, destroy the animal — for example color, sound, and smell — but only the sense-organs, unless accidentally, as when a push and a blow occur together with the sound, or when other things are set in motion by sights and smells and these destroy by way of touch. And flavor too, insofar as it happens at the same time to be tangible, destroys in that respect. But the excess of tangible qualities — of hot and cold and hard, for example — destroys the animal; for the excess of any object of sense destroys the sense-organ, so that the tangible destroys touch as well, and living is defined by this; for it has been shown that it is impossible for an animal to exist without touch. That is why the excess of tangible qualities destroys not only the sense-organ but the animal too, because touch is the only sense it necessarily has. The other senses the animal has, as has been said, not for the sake of being but for the sake of being well: sight, for instance, since it lives in air or water, so that it may see, and in general since it lives in something transparent; and taste, on account of the pleasant and the painful, so that it may perceive what is in its food, and desire it, and be moved; and hearing, so that something may be signified to it; and the tongue, so that it may signify something to another.
1| ON SENSE AND SENSIBLE OBJECTS. [section 1] Since the soul has been marked off in its own right, and the capacities of each of its parts have been discussed, the next task is to undertake an inquiry about animals and all things that have life, as to what activities are peculiar to them and what activities are common to them. Let what has been said about the soul be taken as established, and let us speak of what remains, and first of the first things. [section 2] Now the greatest and most common as well as the most peculiar features of animals appear to belong in common to soul and body—for example perception and memory and spirit and appetite and desire generally, and besides these, pleasure and pain; for these belong, one may say, to practically all animals. [section 3] Beyond these, some things are common to everything that shares in life, while others belong only to some animals. The greatest of these happen to fall into four pairs in number, namely waking and sleeping, youth and old age, inhaling and exhaling, and life and death; about these we must examine what each of them is, and through what causes it comes about. [section 4] It belongs to the student of nature to observe the first principles of health and disease as well; for neither health nor disease can occur in things deprived of life. That is why nearly all students of nature, and those doctors who pursue their craft in a more philosophical way, the former end up dealing with matters of medicine, while the latter begin from matters of nature in their treatment of medicine.
2| [section 5] That the things mentioned belong in common to soul and body is not unclear. For all of them either occur along with perception or occur through perception; and some of them happen to be affections of it, others states, others safeguards and preservations of it, and others destructions and privations of it. That perception comes to the soul through the body is clear both by argument and apart from argument. [section 6] But about perception and perceiving, what it is and why this affection occurs in animals, this has been said before in the works on the soul. For animals, insofar as each is an animal, it is necessary that perception belong to it; for it is by this that we mark off being an animal from not being an animal. [section 7] But taking each sense separately now: touch and taste follow of necessity in all animals—touch on account of the cause stated in the works on the soul, and taste on account of nourishment; for taste discriminates the pleasant and the painful in nourishment, so that the animal avoids the one and pursues the other, and in general flavor is an affection of the nutritive part.
3| [section 8] The senses that operate through external objects, in animals capable of locomotion—such as smell and hearing and sight—belong to all that possess them for the sake of preservation, so that by perceiving in advance they may pursue their nourishment and avoid what is bad and destructive; but in those animals that also attain practical wisdom, these senses serve the good life as well; for they report many differences, out of which arises both the practical wisdom concerned with objects of thought and that concerned with things to be done. [section 9] Of these senses themselves, sight is superior for necessities, and superior in its own right, while hearing is superior with a view to intellect, though only accidentally. [section 10] For the power of sight reports many differences of every kind, because all bodies share in color, so that it is especially through sight that we perceive the common sensibles as well (I mean by common sensibles shape, size, motion, number); whereas hearing reports only differences of sound, and in few animals also differences of voice. [section 11] But accidentally, hearing contributes the greatest part toward practical wisdom. For speech, being audible, is a cause of learning—not in its own right, but accidentally; for speech is composed of names, and each of the names is a symbol.
4| [section 12] That is why those blind from birth are more practically wise than the deaf and dumb, who are deprived of the other of the two senses. Now concerning the power that each of the senses has, this has been discussed earlier. [section 1] As to the parts of the body in which the sense organs naturally arise, some inquirers look to the elements of bodies; and finding it difficult to bring the sense organs, which are five, into correspondence with the four elements, they reach eagerly for a fifth. [section 2] All make sight to be of fire, because they do not know the cause of a certain affection; for when the eye is pressed and moved, fire appears to flash out from it; and this naturally happens in darkness, or when the eyelids are closed—for darkness occurs then too. This raises another difficulty as well. [section 3] For if it is impossible for one who perceives and sees to escape notice of some object seen, then it must follow that the eye sees itself. Why then does this not happen when the eye is at rest? [section 4] The causes of this—both of the difficulty and of the appearance that sight is fire—must be grasped from the following. Smooth things naturally shine in the dark, though they do not produce light; and the part of the eye called the black, the middle part, appears smooth. This appearance occurs when the eye is moved, because it happens that the one thing seems, as it were, to become two. This is caused by the speed of the motion, so that the seeing part and the part seen seem to be different.
5| [section 5] That is why this does not occur unless it happens quickly and in the dark; for the smooth naturally shines in the dark, as do the heads of certain fish and the ink of the cuttlefish; and when the eye changes slowly, it does not happen that the seeing part and the part seen seem to be at once one and two. [section 6] In that other way the eye sees itself, just as in reflection—since if sight really were fire, as Empedocles says and as is written in the Timaeus, and seeing came about by light going out as if from a lantern, why would sight not also see in the dark? [section 7] But to say that the light is quenched as it goes out into the dark, as Timaeus says, is utterly empty; for what is a quenching of light? What is hot and dry is quenched by what is moist or cold, as seems to be the case with the fire in glowing coals and with flame, and neither of these appears to belong to light. [section 8] But if it does belong, and only escapes our notice because it is gentle, then light ought to be quenched by day as well and in water, and darkness ought to occur more in frost—since flame and things set on fire do undergo this; but as it is, nothing
6| of the kind occurs. [section 9] Empedocles seems to think that we see at one time by light going out, as has been said before; at any rate he speaks as follows: As when someone planning a journey fits out a lantern, a gleam of blazing fire through a wintry night, fastening lamp-guards against all sorts of winds, which scatter the breath of the blowing winds, and the light, springing out—as much of it as is finer—shines across the threshold with unyielding rays; so then the primeval fire, confined within the membranes and fine tissues, lay in wait for the round-eyed maiden; and these held back the deep of the surrounding water, but the fire sprang forth outside, as much of it as was finer. [section 10] So at one time he says we see in this way, and at another time by effluences coming from the things seen. Democritus says correctly that sight is water, but not correctly that seeing consists in the reflected image; for this occurs because the eyeball is smooth, and the image is not in the eye but in the one who sees—for the affection is reflection. [section 11] But about reflected images and reflection in general, nothing had yet, it seems, been made clear. It is also strange that it did not occur to him to ask why the eye alone sees, and none of the other things in which images are reflected. Now it is true that sight is of water, but seeing does not occur to it insofar as it is water but insofar as it is transparent—which is also common to air.
7| [section 12] But water is easier to keep pure and easier to freeze than air; and this is why the pupil and the eye are made of water. This is clear also from the facts themselves: for what flows out when eyes decay appears as water, and in embryos altogether this is exceedingly cold and bright. [section 13] And the white of the eye in blooded animals is fat and oily; and this is for the sake of keeping the fluid from congealing. And this is why the eye is the least liable to chill of all parts of the body: for no one has ever felt the inside of the eyelids go numb with cold. In bloodless animals the eyes are hard-skinned, and this provides the protection instead. [section 14] It is altogether unreasonable to suppose that sight sees by something going out from the eye and stretching as far as the stars, or that it goes out to some point and there fuses with the object, as some say. For it would be better than this for the fusion to occur at the very start, in the eye itself. But even this is silly: for what would it mean for light to fuse with light? Or how could this even happen? For not anything fuses with anything at random. [section 15] And how does what is inside the eye fuse with what is outside? For the membrane lies between. Now the question why nothing is seen without light has been discussed elsewhere; but whether what lies between the object seen and the eye is light or air, it is the motion through this that produces seeing. And reasonably the inside is made
8| of water; for water is transparent. [section 16] But just as seeing outside does not happen without light, so too seeing inside: the inside must be transparent, then. And it must be water, since it is not air. For the soul, or the perceptual organ of the soul, is not situated at the outer surface of the eye, but clearly inside; and so the inside of the eye must be transparent and receptive of light. [section 17] And this is clear also from what actually happens: for before now men have been struck in war near the temple in such a way that the passages of the eye were cut through, and it seemed to them that darkness fell as if a lamp had been put out, because the transparent part, the so-called pupil, had been cut off like a kind of lantern. [section 18] So if any of these things happens as we say, it is clear that each of the sense organs must be accounted for and attached in this way to one of the elements. The visual part of the eye should be supposed to be of water, the part perceptive of sounds of air, and smell of fire. [section 19] For what smell is in actuality, the organ of smell is in potentiality: for the object of perception makes the perception actual, so that the perception must exist beforehand in potentiality. And odor is a kind of smoky exhalation, and the smoky exhalation comes from fire.
9| [section 20] This is also why the organ of smell is located in the region around the brain: for the matter of what is cold is hot in potentiality. And the formation of the eye follows the same pattern: for it is formed from the brain, since the brain is the moistest and coldest of the parts in the body. [section 21] And the organ of touch is of earth. Taste is a kind of form of touch. And this is why their organ, that of taste and of touch, is near the heart: for the heart is opposite to the brain, and is the hottest of the parts. Let this, then, be our account of the perceptive parts of the body. [section 1] Concerning the objects perceived by each sense organ - I mean color and sound and smell and flavor and touch - it has been said in general in the work On the Soul what their function is and what it is for each sense organ to be active; but what one ought to say each of them actually is - for instance what color is, or what sound is, or what smell or flavor is, and likewise concerning touch - must now be examined, and first concerning color. [section 2]
10| Each of these is spoken of in two ways, the one in actuality, the other in potentiality. Now how actual color and actual sound are the same as, or different from, the perceptions that correspond to their actuality, such as sight and hearing, has been said in the work On the Soul; what each of them is in itself that produces the perception and its actuality, let us now say. [section 3] As has been said there concerning light, that it is the color of the transparent, accidentally: for whenever something fiery is present in the transparent, its presence is light, and its privation is darkness. [section 4] What we call transparent is not a property peculiar to air or water or any of the other bodies so called, but is a certain common nature and power, which is not separable but exists in these, and is present in the other bodies too, more in some, less in others. Just as there must be some outer limit of bodies, so too there must be one of this transparent nature. [section 5] Now the nature of light exists in the transparent when the latter is indeterminate; but as for the limit of the transparent that is in bodies - that this is something is clear; that this is color is evident from the facts. For color is either in the limit or is a limit; and this is why the Pythagoreans called the surface color.
11| [section 6] For color is in the limit of the body, but it is not the limit of the body; rather one must suppose that the same nature which is colored on the outside is also colored on the inside. And both air and water appear to be colored; for the beam of light too is of this kind. [section 7] But there, because the transparent is indeterminate, air and sea do not have the same color when approached from close up and from far off; whereas in bodies, unless the surrounding medium causes the change, the appearance of the color is fixed. It is clear, then, that the same thing is receptive of color both there and here. [section 8] The transparent, then, insofar as it is present in bodies - and it is present, more or less, in all of them - makes them share in color. And since color is in a limit, color would be in the limit of this transparent. So color would be the limit of the transparent in a bounded body. [section 9] And in the transparent things themselves - water, for instance, and anything else of this kind - and in all things that appear to have a color of their own at their outer surface, color belongs to them all in the same way. Now it is possible for that which produces light in air to be present in the transparent, or not to be present but instead to be lacking; so, just as there in air there is on the one hand light, on the other darkness, so in bodies white and black come to be.
12| [section 10] Concerning the other colors, we must now distinguish and state in how many ways they can come to be. For it is possible for white and black to be placed side by side, so that each is invisible because of its smallness, while what results from both becomes visible in this way. [section 11] For this can appear neither white nor black; and since it must have some color, and neither of these two is possible, it must be a mixture, a different species of color. [section 12] It is possible, then, to suppose in this way that there are more colors than white and black, and many according to ratio: for three to two, and three to four, and according to other numbers, colors can be juxtaposed, while others are altogether in no ratio, but in some incommensurate excess and deficiency; and colors stand in the same relation as musical consonances do: for the colors in well-proportioned numbers, just as with the consonances there, are thought to be the most pleasant of colors - for instance purple and crimson, and a few others of this kind - for the same reason that the consonances too are few - while the other colors are not in proportional numbers; or else all colors are in numbers, some ordered, some disordered, and these latter, whenever they are not pure, become so because they are of this kind through not being in proportional numbers.
13| [section 13] This, then, is one way colors come to be; another is their appearing through one another, as sometimes painters do it — laying a more vivid color over another, as when they want to make something appear as if in water or in air; and as the sun itself, seen directly, appears white, but through mist and smoke appears crimson. [section 14] And in this way too there will be many colors, by the same manner as was said before; for there would be a certain ratio of the surface colors to the ones underneath, though in some cases there is no ratio at all. [section 15] Now to say, as the ancients did, that colors are effluences and are seen because of a cause of that kind is absurd; for on their view perception must in every case occur through touch, so that it is far better to say straightaway that perception occurs by the medium between the sense and the sensible object being moved, by contact, and not by effluences. [section 16] In the case of things lying side by side, it is necessary to take, just as an invisible magnitude, so too an imperceptible time, so that the motions arrive unnoticed and seem to be one because they appear together. But here there is no such necessity; rather the surface color, being unmoved yet moved by what underlies it, will not produce a motion like that one. That is why it appears different, and neither white nor black.
14| [section 17] So if it is not possible for any magnitude to be invisible, but everything is visible from some distance, then this too would be a certain mixture of colors. And in that way nothing prevents some common color from appearing to things seen from far off; for whether there is no invisible magnitude at all must be examined later. [section 18] But there is a mixture of bodies not only in the way some people suppose — the smallest parts being placed side by side, imperceptible to us because of our perception — but also, wholly and in every way, as has been said generally about all mixture in the treatise on mixture. [section 19] For on that first view, only those things mix which admit of being divided into smallest parts, as men, horses, or seeds; for of men the smallest is a man, of horses a horse; so that by the juxtaposition of these the multitude of both together is called a mixture — but we do not say one man has been mixed with one horse. [section 20] But things that are not divided into a smallest part cannot come to be mixed in this way, but only by being mixed through and through — which is in fact the way things are most naturally mixed. How this is possible has been stated earlier in the treatise on mixture.
15| [section 21] But that when things are mixed the colors too must be mixed is clear, and that this cause is the decisive one for there being many colors, and not the superposition nor the side-by-side placing; for it is not the case that from far off one color of the mixed things appears but from near it does not — rather it appears one from every distance. [section 22] There will be many colors because the things that mix can mix with one another in many ratios, some in numerical ratios and some only by way of excess. [section 23] And the rest can be said in the same way about mixed colors as was said about colors placed side by side or on the surface. For what cause the kinds of colors are determinate and not infinite, and likewise of flavors and sounds, we will say later. [section 1] What color is, then, and for what cause there are many colors, has been stated; about sound and voice it has been stated earlier, in the treatise on the soul; about odor and flavor we must now speak. For it is nearly the same affection, though each of the two does not occur in the same subjects. [section 2] The kind belonging to flavors is more evident to us than that of odor. The cause of this is that we have the worst sense of smell of all the animals, and the worst among the senses in ourselves, but the most exact touch of all
16| the animals. And taste is a kind of touch. [section 3] Now the nature of water wants to be flavorless; and it is necessary either that water contains in itself the kinds of flavors, imperceptible because of their smallness, as Empedocles says, or that there is in it a matter of that kind, a sort of seed-mixture of flavors, and that everything comes to be from water, but different things from different parts of it; or that, water having no differentiation at all, the efficient cause is something else — as if one were to say the hot, and the sun. [section 4] Of these, as Empedocles states it, the falsehood is all too easy to see; for we observe flavors changing under the action of heat when the rinds are removed and exposed to the sun and scorched, showing that they do not come to be such by drawing them out of the water, but change within the rind itself; and further, when dried out and left lying, in the course of time things become astringent instead of sweet, and bitter, and all sorts of things, and when boiled they change into practically every kind of flavor. [section 5] And likewise it is impossible for water to be a matter that is a seed-mixture; for we observe different flavors coming to be from the same thing, as from the same nourishment. It remains, then, that water changes by being affected in some way.
17| [section 6] That water, then, does not acquire this power which we call flavor from the power of heat is clear; for water is the thinnest of all liquids, thinner even than oil itself. But oil spreads further than water because of its viscosity. Water is crumbly; that is why it is harder to keep water in the hand than oil. [section 7] Since water when heated shows no thickening by itself alone, it is clear that there must be some other cause; for all flavors have thickness to a greater degree, and heat is a contributing cause. And the flavors that appear in the rinds of fruit are found to be present in the earth as well. [section 8] That is why many of the ancient natural philosophers say that water is of whatever kind the earth is through which it passes. And this is clearest of all in the case of salty waters; for salt is a kind of earth. And water filtered through ash, since the ash is bitter, produces a bitter flavor. [section 9] There are also many springs, some bitter, some sharp, and some having all sorts of other flavors. And it is reasonable that the kind belonging to flavors should occur above all in growing things. For the moist is by nature affected, like other things, by its contrary; and the contrary is the dry. That is why it is also affected by fire; for fire's nature is dry.
18| [section 10] But what is proper to fire is the hot, and to earth the dry, as has been said in the treatise on the elements. So, insofar as a thing is fire and insofar as it is earth, it is not naturally suited to act or be acted upon at all, nor is anything else; but insofar as contrariety belongs to each, in that respect all things both act and are acted upon. [section 11] Just as those who rinse colors and flavors out into a liquid make the water take on such a quality, so too does nature make the dry and earthy element, and by filtering through the dry and earthy and moving it with heat, prepares the moist as having a certain quality. [section 12] And this affection coming to be in the moist, under the action of the dry just spoken of, is flavor — an affection capable of altering the taste's capacity into actuality; for it brings what is perceptive, existing potentially, into this actuality; for perceiving occurs not by way of learning but by way of contemplating. [section 13] That flavors are an affection, or a privation, not of everything dry but of what is nutritive, one must grasp from this: that neither the dry occurs without the moist nor the moist without the dry; for neither of them by itself is nourishment for animals, but only what is mixed of the two.
19| [section 14] Of the nourishment brought to animals, the tangible sensible qualities produce growth and decay; for the cause of these is that what is brought is hot or cold, since these produce both growth and decay; but what nourishes is that what is brought is tasteable, for all things are nourished by the sweet, either simply or in combination. [section 15] These matters need to be determined precisely in the works on generation, but here we need only touch on them so far as is necessary. For heat increases and produces the nourishment, and draws off what is light, while it leaves behind what is salty and bitter on account of its weight. Now what external heat does in bodies outside, this the internal heat does in the nature of animals and plants; that is why they are nourished by the sweet. [section 16] The other flavors are mixed into nourishment in the same way as the salty and the sharp, serving as seasoning. This is because they counteract the sweet's being too nourishing and apt to rise to the surface. And just as colors arise from a mixture of white and black, so flavors arise from the sweet and the bitter. [section 17] And indeed each flavor exists according to a ratio of more and less,
20| whether according to certain numbers of the mixture and motions, or in an indeterminate way. But those flavors that produce pleasure when mixed do so only when they are in numerical ratios. So the oily is a flavor akin to the sweet, the salty and the bitter are practically the same, while the astringent, the pungent, the harsh, and the sharp lie in between. [section 18] For the species of flavors and the species of colors are practically equal in number. There are seven species of each, if one posits, as is reasonable, that gray is a kind of black; for then yellow remains as a species of white, just as the oily is a species of the sweet, while crimson, purple, leek-green, and deep blue lie between white and black, and the rest are mixtures of these. [section 19] And just as black is the privation of white in what is transparent, so the salty and the bitter are the privation of the sweet in nourishing moisture. That is why the ash of all burned things is bitter, for the potable element has been evaporated out of them. But Democritus and most of the natural philosophers who discuss perception do something quite absurd, for they make all sensible objects tangible. [section 20]
21| Yet if this is so, it is clear that each of the other senses too would be a kind of touch; and it is not hard to see that this is impossible. Moreover, they treat what is common to all the senses as though it were peculiar to one; for magnitude and shape, and the rough and the smooth, and further the sharp and the blunt found in solid bodies, are common to the senses -- if not to all of them, at least to sight and touch. [section 21] That is why we are deceived about these common qualities, but not deceived about the objects peculiar to each sense, as sight is not deceived about color, nor hearing about sounds. But some thinkers reduce the objects peculiar to a sense to these common qualities, as Democritus does; for he says white is rough and black is smooth, and he reduces flavors to shapes. Yet it is either no sense at all, or sight more than any other, that discerns the common qualities. [section 22] But if in fact taste discerns them better, still it belongs to the most exact sense to distinguish the smallest differences within each genus, so that taste ought to perceive the other common qualities best of all as well, and be the most discriminating with respect to shapes. [section 23] Further, all sensible objects admit of contrariety, as in color white is contrary to black, and in flavors bitter is contrary to sweet; but one shape does not seem to be contrary to another -- for to which of the many-sided figures is the circle contrary?
22| [section 24] Further, since shapes are infinite in number, flavors would necessarily be infinite as well; for why should one shape produce a sensation and another not? So much, then, has been said about the tasteable and flavor; the other affections of flavors have their own proper inquiry in the natural science concerning plants. [section 1] We must think about odors in the same way. For what the dry produces in the moist, the flavored moisture produces in another genus, in air and water alike. What is common to both of these we are now calling the transparent, but a thing is smellable not insofar as it is transparent, but insofar as it is capable of washing out or rinsing off a flavored dryness; for the object of smell exists not only in air but also in water. [section 2] This is clear in the case of fish and shellfish; for they evidently smell even though there is no air in the water (for air, when it gets in, rises to the surface) and even though they themselves do not breathe. If, then, one posits that both air and water are moist, the nature of a flavored dryness in a moist medium would be odor, and what is such would be smellable.
23| [section 3] That this affection belongs entirely to flavor is clear from things that have and do not have odor. For the elements are odorless -- fire, air, water, earth -- because both their dry and their moist components are without flavor, unless something mixed in produces one. [section 4] That is why the sea has odor, for it has flavor and dryness. And salt is more odorous than natron; this is shown by the oil that can be extracted from it, whereas natron is more earthy. Again, stone is odorless, since it is without flavor, while wood is odorous, since it has flavor; and among woods, the watery ones are less odorous. [section 5] Again, among the mined substances gold is odorless, since it is without flavor, while bronze and iron are odorous. When the moisture has been burned out, the slag of all of them becomes less odorous. Silver and tin are more odorous than some metals and less than others, since they are watery. [section 6] Some think that odor is a smoky exhalation, common to earth and air. And everyone is drawn toward this view about odor; that is why Heraclitus too has said that if all existing things became smoke, the nostrils would distinguish them. [section 7]
24| Everyone is drawn to explain odor either as vapor, or as exhalation, or as both together. But vapor is a kind of moisture, while smoky exhalation, as has been said, is common to air and earth; and from the one water is formed, and from the other some form of earth. [section 8] But odor seems to be neither of these; for vapor belongs to water, while smoky exhalation cannot occur in water. Yet things in water do smell, as has been said before. Further, exhalation is spoken of in the same way as effluences. So if that account is not correct, this one is not correct either. [section 9] That the moisture in breath and the moisture in water can partake of and be affected by a flavored dryness is not unclear, for air too is moist by nature. And that the dry, as it were washed out, acts in the same way in moist bodies and in air is evident. Further, odors must be analogous to flavors. [section 10] And indeed this does hold in some cases; for there are pungent and sweet odors, and astringent, harsh, and oily ones, and one might say that putrid odors are analogous to bitter flavors. That is why, just as bitter flavors are hard to swallow, putrid odors are hard to breathe in. It is clear, then, that what flavor is in water, odor is in air and in water.
25| [section 11] And for this reason cold and congealing both dull flavors and destroy odors; for cooling and congealing destroy the heat that moves and produces them. There are two species of the object of smell; for it is not the case, as some say, that there are no species of the object of smell — rather there are. [section 12] We must distinguish in what sense there are and in what sense there are not: one kind is ranked according to the flavors, as we said, and these have the pleasant and the painful only accidentally; for since they are affections of the nutritive faculty, the odors of these things are pleasant to those who desire them, but not pleasant to those who are sated and need nothing, nor again to those for whom the food that has these odors is not itself pleasant either. [section 13] So these odors, as we said, have the pleasant and the painful only accidentally, and that is why they are common to all animals; but there are odors that are pleasant in their own right, such as those of flowers — for these neither summon one to food any more nor less, nor contribute anything at all to appetite, but rather the opposite; for what Strattis said in mockery of Euripides is true: when you boil lentil soup, don't pour perfume into it.
26| [section 14] Those who nowadays mix such powers into their drinks force pleasure by habituation, until the pleasant, though it arises from two senses, comes to be felt as one thing and from a single sense. [section 15] This kind of object of smell, then, is peculiar to man, while the kind ranked according to flavors belongs to the other animals too, as was said before; and in their case, because they have the pleasant only accidentally, the species are divided according to the flavors, but this is no longer so for the other kind, because its nature is pleasant or painful in its own right. The cause of this kind of odor being peculiar to man is the cooling around the brain. [section 16] For since the brain is by nature cold, and the blood around it in the small vessels is fine and pure, but easily cooled (which is why the exhalation from food, being cooled because of this region, produces the diseased discharges), this kind of odor has come to exist in humans for the aid of health; for it has no other function than this. [section 17] And it does this evidently; for food that is pleasant, both the dry and the moist,
27| is often unhealthy, while what comes from an odor that is fragrant in its own right is beneficial, one might say always, whatever condition people are in. [section 18] And for this reason this effect comes about through breathing — not in all animals, but in humans, and among the blooded animals in the four-footed ones, and in those that partake more of the nature of air; for as the odors are carried up toward the brain because of the lightness of the heat in them, the region around this place is in a healthier condition; for the power of odor is by nature hot. [section 19] Nature has employed breathing for two purposes: as its main work, for aid to the chest, and as a by-product, for smell; for in the act of breathing it produces, as it were incidentally, the motion through the nostrils. [section 20] This kind of odor is peculiar to human nature because man has the largest and moistest brain of the animals in proportion to size; for this is why man, one might say alone among animals, perceives and delights in the odors of flowers and of things of this sort; for their heat and motion are commensurate with the excess of moisture and coldness present in that region.
28| [section 21] To the other animals that have lungs, because they breathe, nature has given perception of the other kind of odor only, so as not to make two organs of sense; for it is enough, since they too breathe, that perception of only the one kind belongs to them, whereas for humans it belongs to both kinds of object of smell. [section 22] That the animals that do not breathe have perception of the object of smell is evident; for fish and the whole class of insects perceive precisely and from far off, by means of the nutritive kind of odor, even when far removed from their proper food — as bees do in relation to honey, and the class of small ants that some call gnats, and among sea creatures the purple-fish, and many of the other such animals perceive their food sharply through its odor. [section 23] But by what organ they perceive it is not equally evident. Hence one might raise the puzzle of what they perceive odor by, if indeed smelling occurs only for those that breathe — for this appears to hold of all animals that breathe — while none of those other animals breathes, yet they do perceive it, unless there is some other sense besides the five. [section 24]
29| This is impossible; for smelling belongs to the object of smell, and those animals do perceive this object — though perhaps not in the same way. Rather, in animals that breathe, the breath removes what lies over the organ like a kind of lid (which is why they do not perceive when they are not breathing), while in animals that do not breathe, this lid has been removed from the start — just as, in the case of the eyes, some animals have eyelids, which must be uncovered before they can see, while the hard-eyed animals do not have them, and so need nothing to uncover the organ, but see straightaway, from the moment they are able to see. [section 25] Likewise, none of the other animals whatsoever is troubled by the odor of things that are foul-smelling in their own right, unless the thing happens to be destructive. And by such things they are destroyed in the same way that humans too are made heavy-headed and often destroyed by the vapor of charcoal; so also the other animals are destroyed by the power of sulfur and of bituminous substances, and flee because of this affection. [section 26] But they take no notice at all of foulness of smell in its own right, even though many growing things have foul odors, unless it contributes something to their taste or their eating. [section 27] The sense of smelling seems — since the senses are odd in number and an odd number has a middle term — itself to be the middle between the senses that operate by contact, such as touch and taste, and those that perceive through something else, such as sight and hearing.
30| [section 28] That is why the object of smell is both an affection of the nutritive things (and these belong to the class of the tangible), and also of the audible and the visible, which is why animals smell both in air and in water. So the object of smell is something common to both of these, belonging both to the tangible and to the audible and the transparent; for this reason it has reasonably been compared to a kind of dyeing and washing of dryness in moisture and in what is fluid. [section 29] As to in what sense one should speak of species of the object of smell and in what sense not, let this much be said. But what some of the Pythagoreans say is not reasonable; for they say that some animals are nourished by odors. [section 30] For first, we observe that food must be composite; for the things that are nourished are not simple either, which is why residues of the food are also produced, either within them or outside them, as in the case of plants. Further, water by itself alone, unmixed, is not able to nourish; for what is to be constituted into body must have some bodily character. And it is far less reasonable still that air should become body. [section 31] Besides this, all animals have a place receptive of food, from which the body draws and takes it; but the organ of smell is in the head, and smell enters along with a vaporous exhalation, so that it would go to the region used for breathing.
31| [section 32] That the object of smell, as such, does not contribute to nourishment is clear; but that it does contribute to health is evident both from perception and from what has been said, so that what flavor is in the nutritive process and in relation to what is nourished, that is what the object of smell is in relation to health. Let this, then, be the manner in which we have distinguished the several senses one by one. [section 1] One might raise the difficulty whether, if every body is divisible without limit, the sensible affections too are so divisible - color, for instance, and flavor and odor and weight and sound and cold and hot and light and hard and soft - or whether this is impossible. For each of these is productive of perception; indeed they are all said to be what they are through their capacity to move perception. [section 2] So it would be necessary both that perception be divisible into infinitely many parts and that every magnitude be perceptible; for it is impossible to see white without seeing it as having some quantity. For if this were not so, it would be possible for there to be some body having no color nor weight nor any other such affection at all - and so it would not be perceptible at all, since these are precisely what the perceptible things are. [section 3] The perceptible thing, then, will turn out to be composed of things that are not perceptible. But that is necessary - for it is certainly not composed of mathematical points. Further, by what shall we judge or come to know these parts? By the intellect? But they are not intelligible, and the intellect does not think external things except in company with perception. And at the same time, if this is how things stand, it appears to bear witness for those who posit indivisible magnitudes; for it is in this way that the argument would be resolved.
32| [section 4] But this is impossible; the point has been discussed in our treatises on motion. As for the resolution of these difficulties, it will become clear at the same time, and also why the forms are limited in number - of color, of flavor, of sounds, and of the other perceptible objects. For wherever there are extremes, the things between them must be limited; and the contraries are the extremes. [section 5] Every perceptible thing has a contrariety - in color, for instance, white and black, in flavor, sweet and bitter; and in all the others likewise the contraries are the extremes. Now the continuous is divided into unequal parts without limit, but into equal parts only a limited number of times; but what is not continuous in its own right is divided into a limited number of forms. [section 6] Since, then, the affections must be spoken of as forms, and continuity always belongs to them, one must grasp that potentiality and actuality are different things; and this is why the ten-thousandth part of a millet seed escapes notice when the seed is seen, even though sight has already reached it, and the quarter-tone in a musical interval escapes notice, even though, being continuous, one hears the whole melody. [section 7] The interval that lies between the extremes escapes notice too. And likewise with the other perceptible things, the very small parts escape notice; for they are visible potentially, but not actually, when they are separated out. For indeed the foot-length is present potentially in the two-foot length, but only actually once it has been divided off.
33| [section 8] When such excesses are separated off, it would be reasonable for them to dissolve away into their surroundings, just as a mere drop of flavor poured out into the sea dissolves away. [section 9] Nevertheless, since the excess in perception is not perceptible in its own right nor separable either - for the excess is present potentially in the more precise perception - so too such a small perceptible thing will not be separable so as to be perceived actually; but all the same it will be perceptible, for it already exists potentially, and will exist actually once it is added on. [section 10] That some magnitudes and affections escape notice, then, and for what cause, and how they are perceptible and how not, has been stated. But whenever things present in this way are such as to be perceptible actually, and are limited not only within the whole but also apart from it, then colors and flavors and sounds must be limited in number. [section 11] One might raise the difficulty whether it is the perceptible objects themselves, or the motions coming from the perceptible objects - whichever way it turns out that perception comes about - that first arrive at the intervening medium when the objects are acting; for instance, both odor and sound appear to act in this way. For the person nearby perceives the odor sooner, and sound arrives later than the blow that produces it.
34| [section 12] Is this the case, then, also with the visible object and with light? Just as Empedocles says that the light from the sun arrives first into the intervening medium before it reaches sight or the earth. [section 13] It would seem reasonable that this should happen; for what is moved is moved from one place to another, so that there must be some time in which it moves from the one to the other; and every time is divisible, so that there was a time when the ray was not yet seen but was still being carried through the intervening medium. [section 14] And even if everything hears at once and has heard, and in general perceives at once and has perceived, and there is no coming-to-be of these, but they exist without coming-to-be nonetheless - just as the sound, once the blow has already occurred, is not yet at the ear. [section 15] The reshaping of the letters shows this too, as evidence that the motion occurs within the intervening medium; for people evidently have not heard what was said, on account of the air being reshaped as it travels. Is this the case, then, also with color and with light? [section 16] For it is surely not by being in a certain state that the one sees and the other is seen, as though they were things made equal;
35| for there would be no need for either to be anywhere in particular; for things that become equal, it makes no difference whether they are near or far from one another. [section 17] Rather it is reasonable that this should happen in the case of sound and odor; for just as air and water are continuous, yet the motion of both is nonetheless divided into parts. Hence in one sense the one who hears or smells first and the one who does so later perceive the same thing, and in another sense they do not. [section 18] Some think there is a difficulty about these cases too; for some say it is impossible for one person to hear or see or smell the very same thing as another, since it is not possible for many people, being apart from one another, to hear or smell the same thing - for then the one thing would be apart from itself. [section 19] But as regards what first produced the motion - the bell, say, or the frankincense, or the fire - all perceive that very same thing, one in number; but as regards what is peculiar to each perceiver, that is different in number, though the same in form; and that is why many people see and smell and hear at the same time. And these are not bodies, but an affection and a certain motion - for otherwise this could not happen - nor yet are they without body. [section 20]
36| As for light, the account is different; for light exists by being something, and is not a kind of motion. And in general the case is not the same with alteration as with locomotion; for it is reasonable that locomotions should arrive first at the intervening medium - and sound seems to be a motion of something being carried - but with things that undergo alteration, this is no longer so in the same way; for it is possible for something to be altered all at once, and not the half of it first, as when water freezes all at once, entirely. [section 21] Nevertheless, if what is being heated or frozen is extensive, the part in contact is affected by the part in contact with it, while the parts nearest to what causes the alteration change first, and it is not necessary that alteration occur simultaneously and all at once. [section 22] And tasting would be like smelling, if we were in a liquid and perceived the object further off, before touching it. It is reasonable that, of the things that lie between the object and the organ of perception, not all are affected at once - except in the case of light, for the reason stated. And for the same reason this also holds for seeing; for it is light that produces seeing. [section 1] There is also another difficulty of the following kind about perception: whether it is possible to perceive two things at once, in the same indivisible time, or not - given that the greater motion always drives out the lesser; which is why, when things are brought toward the eyes, people do not perceive them, if they happen to be thinking intently about something, or afraid, or listening to a loud noise.
37| [section 2] Let this be laid down, and also that each thing is more perceptible when it is unmixed than when it is blended — for example, unmixed wine rather than mixed wine, and honey, and color, and the topmost note by itself rather than within the full octave — because they obscure one another. [section 3] This happens with things out of which some single thing comes to be. If, then, the greater motion drives out the lesser, it is necessary, when they occur together, that the greater itself also be less perceptible than if it were alone; for the lesser motion, being mixed in, takes something away from it, given that all simple things are more perceptible. If then two different motions are equal, there will be perception of neither; for each will equally obscure the other. And it is not possible to perceive either as simple. [section 4] So either there will be no perception at all, or a different perception arising out of both. And this is indeed what seems to happen with things that are blended, in whatever medium they are mixed. [section 5] Since, then, from some things a single thing comes to be, but from others it does not — and the things of this latter kind are those falling under different senses (for things blend whose extremes are one; but from white and sharp in pitch a single thing cannot come to be except accidentally, not the way a concord comes to be from a sharp and a low note) — it follows that it is not possible to perceive such things simultaneously either.
38| [section 6] For if the motions are equal, they will obscure one another, since a single motion does not arise out of them. But if they are unequal, the stronger will produce the perception, since the soul would perceive two things together more readily by the one perception whose object is a unity — sharp and low pitch, for instance — than by two, sight and hearing; for the motion of that single perception occurs more together than that of the two. [section 7] But it is not possible to perceive two things at once by the one perception unless they have been blended; for the blend wants to be one, and of one thing there is one perception, and the one perception operates together with itself. So it follows necessarily that one perceives the blended things together, because one perceives them by a single perception in actuality; for the perception that is one in actuality belongs to what is one in number, while the perception that is one in potentiality belongs to what is one in species. And so, if the perception in actuality is one, it will pronounce those things one. [section 8] They must, therefore, have been blended. When, then, they are not blended, there will be two perceptions in actuality. But by one capacity and in an indivisible time the actuality must be one; for of one thing there is, on a single occasion, one motion and one exercise, and the capacity is one. It is not possible, therefore, to perceive two things at once by the one perception.
39| [section 9] But surely if it is impossible to perceive at once two things falling under the same sense, when there are two, it is clear that it is even less possible to perceive at once things falling under two different senses — white and sweet, for example. For it appears that the soul calls a thing one in number by nothing other than the fact that it is simultaneous, while it calls a thing one in species by the discriminating perception and by the manner. [section 10] I mean this: that presumably white and black, though different in species, are discriminated by the same sense, and sweet and bitter likewise, the same sense discriminating itself, though a different sense from that one — but it discriminates each of the pair of contraries differently, while it discriminates the things in the same column with itself in the same way: as taste discriminates the sweet, so sight discriminates the white; and as the latter discriminates the black, so the former discriminates the bitter. [section 11] Further, if the motions of contraries are contrary, and it is not possible for contraries to belong at once to the same indivisible thing, and under the one sense there are contraries — sweet, for instance, as against bitter — it would not be possible to perceive these at once. [section 12] And likewise it is clear that neither is it possible to perceive the things that are not contraries; for some belong to white, others to black, and similarly in the other cases — of flavors, for instance, some belong to sweet, others to bitter. Nor is it possible to perceive the blended things at once; for they are ratios of opposites, as the octave and the fifth are, unless one perceives them as one.
40| [section 13] It is in this way that a single ratio of the extremes comes to be, and not otherwise; for there would then be at once a ratio of much to little, or of odd to even, and also a ratio of little to much, or of even to odd. [section 14] If, then, things said to be in the same column but belonging to a different genus are further apart from and differ more from one another than things in the same genus (I mean, for example, that I call sweet and white things "in the same column," though different in genus; and sweet differs still more in species from black than white does), then it would be still less possible to perceive these together than things that are the same in genus. [section 15] So that if not even the latter can be perceived together, neither can the former. Now what some writers on musical concords say — that sounds do not in fact arrive simultaneously, though they appear to, and this escapes notice when the interval of time is imperceptible — is this said correctly or not? [section 16] For perhaps someone would say that even now it is for this reason that we seem to see and hear at once — because the intervening times escape notice. But is this not true? Is it in fact not possible for any time to be imperceptible or to escape notice, but rather is it possible to perceive every interval of time? [section 17]
41| For if, when someone perceives himself or something else in continuous time, it is not possible at that time for its existing to escape his notice, and yet there is, within the continuum, some interval, however long, that is altogether imperceptible, then clearly it would escape his notice at that time whether he himself exists, and whether he sees, and he would not perceive; and if he does perceive, then again there would be neither time nor any object at all that he perceives, or in which he perceives, unless it is thus: that he sees something within a part of it, or that he sees a part of it — if indeed there is some magnitude, both of time and of the object, that is altogether imperceptible because of smallness; for if he sees the whole, he also perceives the same continuous time, not merely some part of these "nows." [section 18] Let the segment GB be taken away, the segment within which he was not perceiving. Then it is within some part of this whole, or of some part of this, that he perceives — just as he sees the whole earth because he sees this part of it, and he walks throughout the year because he walks in this part of it. But indeed within BG he perceives nothing. It is, then, by perceiving within some part of AB that he is said to perceive the whole, and to perceive it as a whole. [section 19] And the same account holds also for AG; for it is always within some part, and of some part, that he perceives, and it is not possible to perceive the whole as such. All things, then, are perceptible, but they do not appear to be as large as they are; for one sees the sun's size, and sees the four-cubit object from a distance, but its size does not appear as it is — rather sometimes it appears undivided, though one sees it as in fact not undivided.
42| [section 20] The cause of this has been stated earlier, in the discussion of this topic. That, then, no time is imperceptible is clear from these considerations. But concerning the difficulty stated earlier, we must inquire whether it is possible to perceive several things at once, or not possible. And by "at once" I mean at one and the same indivisible time, relative to one another. [section 21] First, then, is it possible in this way — that one perceives at once, but by a different part of the soul, and not by what is indivisible, though this part is indivisible in the sense of being a single continuous whole? Or is this impossible because, first of all, in the case of things falling under one sense — sight, say — if it is to perceive different colors by different parts, it will also have several parts that are the same in species? [section 22] For indeed the things it perceives are within the same genus. But if someone should say that it is like two eyes, nothing prevents its being so also in the soul — that presumably out of these a single thing comes to be, and their activity is one; whereas in the other case, if what comes from both is one, that will be the perceiving subject, but if they are separate, it will not be so. [section 23] Further, the supposedly same perceptions will be several, as if one were to call different branches of knowledge really different; for the actuality will not exist apart from the capacity in its own right, nor will there be perception apart from this. But if
43| perceives several of these in one and indivisible time, it is clear that it also perceives the others; for it was more possible for several of these to be perceived together than several of the things differing in genus. [section 24] If, then, the soul perceives sweet by one part and white by another part, what results from these is either some one thing or not one. But it must be one; for the perceiving part is some one thing. Of what one thing, then, is that part percipient? For nothing composed out of these is one. It is necessary, therefore, that there be some one thing belonging to the soul by which it perceives all of them, as has been said before, though a different genus is perceived through a different part. [section 25] Is it, then, that insofar as it is undivided in actuality, the faculty that perceives sweet and white is some one thing, but when it becomes divided in actuality, it is a different thing? Or perhaps what holds for the things themselves holds likewise for the soul: numerically the very same thing is both white and sweet, and many other things besides, provided the affections are not separable from each other, though each has a distinct being. [section 26] So likewise it must be laid down, in the case of the soul as well, that the faculty that perceives all things is the same and one in number, though different from case to case in its being -- different in genus for some, in species for others. So it would perceive several things at once by the same and one faculty, but not by the same account. And it is clear that every sensible object is a magnitude, and that there is no indivisible sensible object.
44| [section 27] For there is a distance from which a thing would not be seen, and this distance is unlimited, while there is a distance from which it is seen, and this is limited. And likewise for what is smelled and heard, and for everything that is perceived without being touched. And and a first point from which it is seen. [section 28] This point, then, must necessarily be indivisible: beyond it, while the thing remains there, it is not possible to perceive it, but on this side of it, it must be perceived. If, then, there is some indivisible sensible object, then when it is placed at that furthest point from which it is, as the last point, not perceived, but as the first point, perceived, it will follow that it is at the same time visible and invisible; and this is impossible. Concerning the sense organs, then, and the sensible objects, in what way things stand, both in common and for each sense organ taken separately, has now been stated.
1| On Memory and Recollection. We have discussed the sense organs and the objects of sense, both in general and for each sense organ separately. Of what remains, we must first examine memory and remembering: what it is, through what cause it comes about, and to which part of the soul this affection belongs, along with recollecting. For the same people are not good at remembering and good at recollecting; rather, for the most part, the slow are better at remembering, while the quick and the quick-witted are better at recollecting. First, then, we must grasp what sorts of things are objects of memory, since on this point people are often deceived. For it is not possible to remember the future — that is a matter of opinion and expectation (indeed there might even be a kind of knowledge concerned with expectation, as some say divination is); nor is it possible to remember the present — that is a matter of perception. For by perception we know neither the future nor what has occurred, but only the present. Memory, however, is of what has occurred. No one would say he remembers the present white thing while he is seeing it, nor what he is contemplating while he happens to be contemplating and thinking of it; rather, in the one case we say he perceives, in the other that he simply knows. But when someone has knowledge or perception apart from the actual activities, then he remembers — as when he remembers that the angles of a triangle are equal to two right angles: in one respect because he learned it or worked it out, in another because he heard it or saw it or something of that sort.
2| For always, whenever someone is engaged in the activity of remembering, he says to himself in his soul that he heard, perceived, or thought this before. Memory, then, is neither perception nor supposition, but a state or affection belonging to one of these once time has elapsed. There is no memory of the now in the now, as has also been said before, but rather perception of the present, expectation of the future, and memory of what has occurred. Hence all memory involves time. So of the animals, only those that perceive time remember, and they remember by that very faculty by which they perceive it. Now since we have already discussed imagination earlier, in our work on the soul, and since thinking is not possible without an image — for the same affection occurs in thinking as in drawing a diagram: in that case, although we make no use of the fact that the quantity of the triangle is determinate, we nevertheless draw it with a determinate quantity; and the one who thinks does likewise — even if he is not thinking of a quantity, he sets a quantity before his eyes, though he does not think of it as a quantity. And if the nature in question belongs among quantities but is indeterminate, he sets before himself a determinate quantity, but thinks of it only insofar as it is a quantity. For what cause it is not possible to think of anything without something continuous, nor to think of things not in time without time, is another discussion.
3| It is necessary to know magnitude and motion by the same faculty as time, and the image is an affection of the common sense. Hence it is clear that the knowledge of these belongs to the primary faculty of perception. And memory, even of objects of thought, does not occur without an image. Hence it would belong to the object of thought accidentally, but in its own right to the primary faculty of perception. This is why memory belongs also to certain other animals, and not only to human beings and to those that have opinion or practical wisdom. For if it were one of the faculties of thought, it would not belong to many of the other animals — perhaps to none of the mortal creatures — since even as it is, not all of them have memory, because not all of them perceive time. For always, whenever an animal is engaged in the activity of memory, as we said before, it perceives in addition, along with the fact that it saw, heard, or learned this, that it did so before; and before and after are in time. It is clear, then, to which part of the soul memory belongs — namely, the same part as imagination; and the objects of memory are, in their own right, whatever things are objects of imagination, and accidentally, whatever things are not without imagination. One might raise the difficulty of how it is that, when the affection is present but the thing is absent, what is not present is remembered.
4| For it is clear that we must conceive of what comes to be through perception in the soul, and in the part of the body that possesses it, as being something like a picture — the affection whose persisting state we call memory. For the motion that occurs stamps in, as it were, a kind of imprint of the perception, just as people do who seal with signet rings. This is why in those who are in a state of great agitation, whether through some affection or through their time of life, no memory occurs — as if the motion and the seal fell upon flowing water; while in others, because of wearing away, as with old buildings, and because of the hardness of what receives the affection, the imprint fails to form. This is why both the very young and the old are forgetful: the former because they are in a state of flux due to growth, the latter because of decay. Similarly, neither the very quick nor the very slow appear to be good at remembering: the former are too moist, the latter too hard; in the one case the image does not remain in the soul, in the other it does not take hold at all. But if what happens with memory is indeed of this sort, is it this affection itself that is remembered, or that other thing from which it arose?
5| For if it is the affection itself, then we would remember none of the things that are absent; but if it is that other thing, how is it that by perceiving this affection we remember that of which we have no perception, namely the absent thing? Suppose there is in us something like an imprint or a picture: why should the perception of this very thing be memory of something else, rather than of this thing itself? For the one who is engaged in the activity of memory contemplates this affection and perceives it. How then does he remember what is not present? For on that basis one might as well see and hear what is not present. Or is it in fact possible, and does this actually happen? For just as the thing drawn on the panel is both a living creature and a likeness, and this same single thing is both, though what it is to be each of the two is not the same, and it is possible to contemplate it both as a living creature and as a likeness — so too we must suppose that the image within us is itself, in its own right, an object of contemplation, and also an image of something else. As far as it is itself, it is an object of contemplation or an image; but as far as it is of something else, it is, so to speak, a likeness and a remembered thing. Hence, whenever its motion is active, if the soul is affected by it as being itself, then it appears that something like a thought or an image has come upon it;
6| but if the soul is affected by it as being of something else, then — just as in the case of the drawing, someone who has not seen Coriscus contemplates it as a likeness of Coriscus — here the affection involved in this contemplation is different from that involved when someone contemplates it simply as a drawn living creature. In the soul, one case produces something like a mere thought, the other, in the way described, a remembered thing, because it is taken as a likeness. This is why sometimes, when such motions arise in us from an earlier act of perceiving, we do not know whether this happens because of having perceived, and we are in doubt as to whether it is memory or not; but at other times it happens that we come to realize and to recollect that we heard or saw something before. This occurs when someone, who was contemplating the image as itself, shifts and contemplates it as belonging to something else. The opposite also happens, as occurred to Antipheron of Oreus and to others who are deranged: they spoke of their images as though they had actually occurred, and as though they were remembering them. This happens when someone contemplates as a likeness what is not a likeness. Practice preserves memory by repeated recollection; and this is nothing other than repeatedly contemplating something as a likeness rather than as itself. We have now said, then, what memory and remembering are: namely, a state involving an image, taken as a likeness of that of which it is an image; and to which part within us it belongs: to the primary faculty of perception, that by which we perceive time.
7| It remains to speak about recollection. First, then, whatever is true in the argumentative accounts must be laid down as holding good. For recollection is neither the recovery nor the acquisition of memory: for when a person first learns something or is affected by it, he neither recovers any memory (for none has preceded) nor acquires it from the start; it is only when the state and the affection have come to be present that memory exists. So memory does not come to be together with the affection as the affection is coming to be. Further, at the moment when the affection first comes to be present in the individual and ultimate perceiver, the affection is already present in the one affected, and so is the knowledge, if we are to call the state or the affection knowledge (nothing prevents our also remembering, incidentally, some of the things we know); but remembering, strictly speaking, does not hold good before time has elapsed. For one remembers now what one saw or was affected by earlier, not what one is affected by now — one does not remember what is happening now, at the moment it happens. Further, it is evident that remembering is not something that happens to one who has just now recollected, but to one who perceived or was affected from the start. But when one recovers the knowledge or perception one had before, or the state whose possession we were calling memory, this recovery, then, is precisely what recollecting one of the things spoken of consists in.
8| Remembering happens, and memory follows upon it. Nor indeed do these simply occur whenever things that existed before come to be present again; rather, in a way they do, and in a way they do not. For it is possible for the same person to learn or discover the same thing twice; so recollecting must be distinguished from these, and it occurs when there is present some further starting point beyond the one from which people learn in the first place. Now recollections happen because it is the nature of this motion to occur after that one: if the sequence is necessary, then plainly whenever the first motion is stirred, the second will be stirred too; but if it is not necessary but only customary, the second will be stirred for the most part. And it happens that some people become habituated by a single occurrence more than others by many repetitions; that is why we remember some things better from seeing them once than other things from seeing them often. So whenever we are recollecting, we are stirred by certain of the earlier motions, until we are stirred by the one after which that motion habitually follows. That is also why we hunt for what comes next, starting our thinking from the present moment or from something else, and from what is similar, or opposite, or neighboring to it. This is how recollection comes about: for the motions of these things are in some cases the same, in others simultaneous, and in others contain a part, so that what is left over, the small remainder, was stirred right after that other motion. This, then, is how people search when they search deliberately; and they also recollect this way without searching, whenever that motion comes to be after another motion;
9| for the most part it comes about that, when other motions of the kind we have described occur, that motion follows. There is no need to inquire how we remember the far-off things — only the near ones; for it is clear that the manner is the same, I mean the sequence, whether or not one has sought it out beforehand and recollected. For motions follow one another by habituation, this one after that one. So whenever a person wishes to recollect, this is what he will do: he will seek to grasp a starting point of motion, after which that motion will come. That is why recollections happen fastest and best when they start from a beginning: for as the things stand to one another in sequence, so too do the motions. And things that have some order, like mathematical propositions, are easy to remember, while others are remembered poorly and with difficulty. And in this respect recollecting differs from learning again: the person recollecting will, in some way, be able to be stirred through himself to the point that comes after the starting point. But when this does not happen, but only through something else, he no longer remembers. Often, too, a person is at present unable to recollect, but is able to search, and finds it. This happens to one who sets many things in motion, until he sets in motion the sort of motion that the thing will follow. For remembering is the presence, in potentiality, of that which sets the process in motion; and this means being able to be stirred, starting from itself, by the motions it possesses, as has been said.
10| One must get hold of a starting point. That is why people seem sometimes to recollect starting from places. The cause is that they pass quickly from one thing to another, for example from milk to white, from white to air, and from air to moisture, from which one remembers autumn, if it is this season one is looking for. And in general the middle term seems to be a starting point for everything: for if not earlier, then when he arrives at this, he will remember, or else he will not remember from any other point either — for example, if someone were to think of the letters A B C D E F G H: for if he does not remember at E, he remembered at E and at H; for from there it is possible to be moved to both, both to D and to E. But if he is not searching for one of these, he will remember on arriving at C, if he is searching for H or for G. If not, he will remember at A; and so on always. As for why sometimes one remembers starting from the same point and sometimes not, the cause is that it is possible to be moved from the same starting point to several things, for example from C to F or to D. If, then, the motion does not go by way of the old path, it moves toward the more habitual one;
11| for habit is by now like a second nature. That is why we quickly recollect the things we think of often: for just as one thing follows another by nature, so too it follows it in actuality; and frequent repetition creates a nature. But since, just as things happen among natural things, they also happen contrary to nature and by chance, this is even more true among things that occur through habit, where nature does not hold in the same way; so that the motion may sometimes go astray there too, and in a different way, especially whenever something pulls it off from there toward itself in some direction. That is why, too, whenever we need to remember a name, we hit on one that sounds similar but we get it wrong for the one we want. This, then, is the manner in which recollecting comes about. But the most important thing is that one must recognize the time — either by a measure or indefinitely. Let there be something by which one judges the greater and the lesser interval; and it is reasonable to suppose it works as with magnitudes: for one thinks of things that are large and far off not by stretching one's thought out there, as some people say happens with sight (for one will think in the same way even of things that do not exist), but by a motion proportional to them; for within the mind there are figures and motions similar to the things. In what way, then, will it differ, when it thinks of the greater things? Is it not because it thinks of those very things, or of lesser ones? For everything internal is smaller, just as, proportionally, the external things are too.
12| It is perhaps possible, just as with forms one can take something else analogous within the soul itself, so too with distances. Just as, then, if it is moved along AB, BE, it produces AD; for AC is proportional to CD. Why, then, does it produce CD rather than FG? Is it not because as AC stands to AB, so H stands to M? These, then, it is moved along together. But if it wishes to think of FG, it thinks of BE in the same way, and instead of HI it thinks of KL; for these stand as FA to BA. Whenever, then, the motion of the thing and the motion of the time occur together, then it is actively engaged in memory. But if one thinks one is remembering without doing this, one merely believes one is remembering; for nothing prevents someone from being deceived and thinking he remembers when he does not. But it is not possible, while actively engaged in memory, not to think one remembers but to remember without being aware of it — for that very awareness was what remembering consisted in. But if the motion of the thing occurs apart from that of the time, or the latter apart from the former, one does not remember. The motion of the time is twofold:
13| For sometimes one does not remember it by a measured interval of time, for instance that he did something two days ago, and sometimes one does remember it by such a measured interval; but one remembers even when not by a measured interval. And people are accustomed to say that they remember something, but do not know when, whenever they do not know the quantity of the "when" by measure. That the same people are not both good at remembering and good at recollecting has been said earlier. Recollecting differs from remembering not only in point of time, but because many of the other animals also share in remembering, while none of the animals we know of, so to speak, share in recollecting, except man. The reason is that recollecting is a kind of syllogism: for the one who recollects reasons that he saw or heard or experienced something of the sort earlier, and it is a kind of search. And this belongs by nature only to those in whom deliberation is also present; for deliberating too is a kind of syllogism. And that the affection is something bodily, and that recollection is a search for an image in something of this kind, is shown by the fact that it troubles some people when they are unable to recollect, even though they apply their thought very hard; and it pursues them none the less even when they are no longer trying to recollect, and especially the melancholic; for images move these people most of all.
14| The reason recollecting is not up to us is that, just as with those who throw something, it is no longer up to them to stop it, so too the one who is recollecting and hunting sets in motion something bodily, in which the affection resides. And those are troubled most in whom a certain moisture happens to be present about the perceptive region; for once set in motion it does not easily come to rest, until the thing sought arrives and the motion runs a straight course. This is also why fits of anger and fear, once something has set them in motion, do not subside when people try to counter-move them, but instead these move again in the same direction. And the affection resembles names and tunes and speeches, when some part of them has been uttered very forcefully through the mouth; for even when people have stopped and do not wish to, it comes upon them again to sing or speak. And those who have larger upper parts, and dwarfish people, are more forgetful than their opposites, because they have a great weight bearing upon the perceptive part, and because their motions are not able to remain steady from the start but rather disperse, nor can they easily run a straight course when recollecting. And those who are altogether young, and those who are very old, are forgetful on account of motion; for the ones are in a state of wasting away, the others in a state of great growth; and further, children too are, up to a considerable age, dwarfish.
15| Concerning memory, then, and remembering, what their nature is, and by which part of the soul animals remember, and concerning recollecting, what it is, and how it comes about, and through what cause, we have now stated.
1| ON SLEEP AND WAKING. We must investigate sleep and waking: what they actually are, and whether they are proper to the soul or to the body or common to both, and if common, to which part of the soul or of the body; and for what cause they belong to animals; and whether all animals share in both of these, or some in sleep only and others in waking only, or some in neither and others in both. Besides this, what is a dream, and for what cause the sleeping sometimes dream and sometimes do not; or does it happen that those who sleep always dream, but do not remember it; and if this happens, for what cause it happens; and whether it is possible to foresee future events, or not possible; and in what way, if it is possible; and whether this applies only to things that are going to be done by a human being, or also to things whose cause lies with the divine and that come about by nature or by chance. First, then, this much at least is clear: that waking and sleep belong to the same thing in the animal, for they are opposites, and sleep appears to be a certain privation of waking. For opposites are always seen to occur in the same recipient and to be affections of the same thing, both elsewhere and in the domain of natural things — I mean, for example, health and disease, beauty and ugliness, strength and weakness, sight and blindness, hearing and deafness.
2| Further, this is also clear from the following. That by which we recognize the one who is awake is the same thing by which we recognize the one who is asleep. For we think that the one who perceives is awake, and that every waking thing perceives either something external or some motions within itself. If, then, being awake is nothing other than perceiving, it is clear that it is by the very thing by which it perceives that a waking thing is awake and a sleeping thing sleeps. Now since perceiving is proper neither to the soul alone nor to the body alone (for that of which there is a capacity, of that there is also an actuality; and what is called perception, as an actuality, is a certain motion of the soul through the body), it is clear that this affection is proper neither to the soul alone, nor is a soulless body capable of perceiving. Since it has been determined earlier, in other works, about the things called parts of the soul, and since the nutritive part is separate from the others in things that have life in their bodies, while none of the others occurs without this one, it is clear that whatever living things partake only of growth and decay have neither sleep nor waking — plants, for example. For they do not have the perceptive part, whether it is separable or not separable; for it is separable in capacity and in being.
3| Likewise it is also clear that there is nothing that is always awake or always asleep, but both these affections belong to the same animals. For it is not possible that anything which is an animal having perception should be incapable both of sleeping and of waking; for both these affections concern the perception belonging to the primary perceptive faculty. Nor is it possible for either of these to belong always to the same thing — for example, that some kind of animal should always be asleep or always awake. Further, whatever things have some function according to nature, when that function exceeds the time for which it is capable of doing something, must become incapable of it — for example, the eyes, which see and also cease from doing this, and likewise the hand and everything else that has some function. If, then, perceiving is the function of something, and this too, if it exceeds the time for which it was capable of perceiving continuously, will become incapable and will no longer do this. If, then, being awake is defined by the perceptive faculty being unbound, and of two opposites one must necessarily be present while the other need not, and being awake is the opposite of sleeping, and one or the other must necessarily belong to everything, it would be necessary to sleep. If, then, this affection is sleep, and this is an incapacity due to an excess of waking, and the excess of waking sometimes comes about through disease and sometimes without disease, so that the incapacity too, and the dissolution, will occur in the same way, it is necessary that everything that is awake be capable of sleeping;
4| for it is impossible to be always in actuality. Likewise nothing is capable of always being asleep either. For sleep is a certain affection of the perceptive part, a kind of binding and immobilization, so that everything that sleeps must necessarily have the perceptive part. And the perceptive is what is capable of perceiving in actuality; but it is impossible to be in actuality by perception, in the strict and unqualified sense, and to be asleep at the same time; hence it is necessary that every sleep be one from which one can be woken. Now as for the other animals, it is virtually clear that they all share in sleep, both swimming and flying and walking creatures; for all the kinds of fish and of soft-bodied creatures have been observed sleeping, and all the rest that have eyes; for hard-eyed creatures too are evidently seen sleeping, and insects as well. All such creatures, however, sleep briefly, so that it might often escape notice whether they partake of sleep or not. As for the shelled creatures, it has not yet become clear from perception whether they sleep; but if the argument just given seems persuasive to anyone, he will be convinced by it. That all animals, then, share in sleep is clear from these considerations; for the animal is defined by having perception, and of perception we say that a certain immobility and, as it were, a binding is sleep, while its release and relaxation is waking.
5| None of the plants can share in either of these affections. For without perception there is neither sleep nor waking; and whatever has perception has also pain and pleasure; and whatever has these has also appetite. But none of these belong to plants. A sign of this is that the nutritive part performs its own function better during sleep than during waking; for at that time nourishment and growth occur more, since these do not need perception in addition.
6| We must investigate why an animal sleeps and wakes, and through what sort of perception, or what sorts, if through several. Now since some animals have all the perceptions while others do not — sight, for instance — but all have touch and taste, except perhaps some incomplete animal (this has been discussed in the works on the soul), and it is impossible for a sleeping animal to perceive, without qualification, by any perception whatsoever, it is clear that the same affection must necessarily belong to all in what is called sleep; for if an animal perceived by one perception while sleeping but not by another, it would in that respect be perceiving while asleep, and this is impossible. Now since in each perception there is something proper to it and something common, proper being, for example, seeing for sight and hearing for hearing, and similarly for the others in the same way; and there is also a certain common capacity that follows upon all of them, by which one is also aware that one sees and hears and perceives — for it is surely not by sight itself that one sees that one sees. And indeed one also judges, and is able to judge, that sweet things are different from white things, not by taste, nor by sight, nor by both together, but by some common part of all the organs of perception.
7| For perception is one thing, and the controlling organ of perception is one; but what it is for a perception of each kind — for example, of sound and of color — to occur is different. This common capacity belongs together with the organ of touch above all; for touch is separable from the other organs of perception, while the others are inseparable from it. This has been discussed in the treatises on the soul. It is clear, then, that waking and sleep are an affection of this organ. And this is why they belong to all animals; for touch alone belongs to all. For if being asleep came about by all the perceptions being affected in some way, it would be strange that those perceptions which neither must nor can in any way be in actuality at the same time should necessarily be idle and immobilized together at the same time; for it would be more reasonable that the opposite should happen to them — that they should not be at rest all together. But as we are now saying, the matter stands reasonably even with regard to these; for when the organ that controls all the others, and toward which the rest converge, is affected in some way, it is necessary that all the rest be affected along with it, whereas when one of those others becomes incapable, it is not necessary for this controlling organ to become incapable. It is clear from many considerations that sleep does not consist in the perceptions being idle and not being used, nor in being unable to perceive.
8| For this is what happens in fainting fits too, since a fainting fit is an incapacity of the senses. Certain kinds of loss of consciousness also come about in this way. Again, those whose neck veins are compressed become without perception. But sleep occurs when the incapacity for the exercise of sense arises not in some chance sense organ nor from some chance cause, but, as has just now been said, in the first organ by which the animal perceives all things: for when this becomes incapacitated, it is necessary that all the sense organs be incapacitated for perceiving as well, whereas when one of those others is affected, this first organ need not be. We must now state the cause on account of which sleep occurs, and what sort of affection it is. Since there are several senses of cause (for we say that the cause is that for the sake of which, and that from which the origin of motion comes, and the matter, and the account), then first, since we say that nature does things for the sake of something, and this something is a good, and that for everything whose nature it is to move but which cannot move always and continuously, rest with pleasure is both necessary and beneficial — people apply this metaphor to sleep, calling it a rest, precisely because it is true that sleep is a kind of rest — sleep therefore exists for the sake of the preservation of animals. Waking, on the other hand, is an end.
9| For perceiving and thinking are an end for all things to which either of them belongs, since these are the best things, and the end is the best thing. So it is necessary that sleep belong to each animal. I mean the necessity hypothetically: that if there is to be an animal having its own nature, certain things must necessarily belong to it, and if these belong, certain other things must belong as well. Further, we must next state what sort of motion and activity occurring in the bodies produces waking and sleeping in animals. For the other animals, then, just as for the blooded ones, we must suppose the causes of the affection to be either the same or analogous, and for the blooded ones the same as for human beings; so we must study everything on this basis. That the origin of perception occurs in animals from the same part from which the origin of motion also comes has been determined earlier, elsewhere. This is, of three distinguished regions, the middle one, between the head and the lower belly. For the blooded animals this is the region around the heart; for all blooded animals have a heart, and the origin both of motion and of the authoritative perception is from there.
10| Now as regards motion, it is clear that the origin of the breath, and in general of the cooling, is there as well, and nature has provided both breathing and cooling by moisture for the preservation of the heat in this part. This will be discussed later on its own account. In the bloodless animals, and in the insects and those that do not take in breath, the connate breath is seen, in the analogous part, to swell and to subside. This is clear in the case of the wing-cased insects, such as wasps and bees, and in flies and all such creatures. And since it is impossible to move or act on anything without force, and the retention of breath produces force — for those that draw it in, force from outside, and for those that do not breathe, the connate breath — this is why winged creatures are seen to buzz when they move, from the friction of the breath striking against the diaphragm-like membrane of the wing-cased insects. Everything that moves does so as some perception occurs, either its own or another's, in the first sense organ. If sleep and waking are affections of this part, it is clear in what place and in what first part sleep and waking occur.
11| Some creatures move while asleep and do many things characteristic of waking, yet not without some image and some perception; for the dream is in a way a perception. This must be discussed later. As for why people remember their dreams once they have woken but do not remember their waking activities, this has been discussed in the Problems. Next after what has been said, it is proper to go on to examine what things occur, and from where the origin of the affection arises, both of waking and of sleeping. It is clear that, since it is necessary for the animal, once it has perception, then for the first time to take in nourishment and grow, and nourishment for all animals is, in its final form, for the blooded ones the nature of blood, and for the bloodless ones the analogous substance, and the place of the blood is the veins, and the origin of these is the heart — and what has been said is clear from dissections. Now when the nourishment from outside enters into the receptive places, the exhalation rises into the veins, and there, changing, it is turned into blood and travels to the origin. This has been discussed in the works on nourishment; but now it must be taken up again for this purpose, so that we may examine the origins of motion, and what happens to the perceptive part when waking and sleep occur. For sleep is not just any incapacity of the perceptive part whatsoever, as has been said; for loss of consciousness, and a kind of choking, and fainting also produce such an incapacity. And it has already happened to some people, through mere imagination, that they fainted violently. Now this presents a certain difficulty:
12| for if it is possible for one who has fainted to fall asleep, then it would be possible for the image too to be a dream. There are many things that those who have fainted very severely and seemed to be dead report; about all of these the same account must be supposed to hold. But in fact, as we said, sleep is not every incapacity of the perceptive part, but this affection arises from the exhalation connected with nourishment; for what is exhaled must necessarily be pushed up to a certain point, and then turn back and change direction, like a strait with reversing currents. The heat of each animal is naturally borne upward; but when it comes to be in the upper regions, it turns back all at once again and is carried down. This is why sleep occurs most of all from food; for then a great deal of moisture and bodily matter is carried up all at once. While it is rising it weighs the creature down and makes it nod off; but when it inclines downward and, having turned back, pushes away the heat, then sleep occurs and the animal sleeps. A sign of this is also found in things that induce sleep; for all of them produce heaviness in the head, both drinks and foods — poppy, mandrake, wine, darnel. And those who are sinking down and nodding off appear to undergo this very thing, and are unable to lift their head or their eyelids. And sleep of this kind occurs especially after meals;
13| for the exhalation from food is considerable. It also occurs from certain kinds of fatigue; for fatigue causes a kind of melting, and the melted matter becomes like undigested nourishment, unless it is cold. Certain diseases also produce this same effect, namely those that arise from a moist and hot residue, as happens to people with fevers and in cases of lethargy. Further, there is the earliest stage of life; for small children sleep a great deal because all their nourishment is carried upward. A sign of this is that the upper parts exceed the lower in size during this earliest stage of life, because growth occurs in that direction. For this same reason children are also prone to epileptic fits; for sleep is similar to epilepsy, and sleep is in a way a kind of epilepsy. This is why in many people the onset of this affection occurs while they are asleep, and they are seized by it while asleep but not while awake; for when a great deal of breath is carried upward, and comes back down again, it swells the veins, and compresses the passage through which breathing occurs. This is why wine does not agree with small children, nor with their nurses (for it perhaps makes no difference whether the children themselves drink it or the nurses do), but they should drink watered-down wine, and little of it;
14| For wine is full of vapor, and dark wine more so than the rest. And the upper parts are so full of nourishment in infants that up to five months they cannot even turn their necks; for just as in those who are very drunk, a great deal of moisture is carried upward. It is reasonable that this affection is also the cause of embryos lying still in the womb at first. And in general, those whose veins are indistinct, and dwarfish people, and people with large heads, are fond of sleep; for in the former the veins are narrow, so that it is not easy for the fluid to flow down through them, while in dwarfish and large-headed people the upward impulse and the rising vapor are considerable. But people with prominent veins are not prone to sleep, on account of the free flow through their veins, unless they have some other affection working against this. Nor are melancholic people prone to sleep; for the inner region is chilled in them, so that no abundance of vapor arises in them. This is also why, though they are hardy eaters, they remain lean; for their bodies are disposed as if they had derived no benefit from their food. Black bile, being cold by nature, also makes the nutritive region cold, and the other parts as well, wherever this residue is present potentially. So it is clear from what has been said that sleep is a kind of concentration of the hot inward, a natural counter-reaction, for the cause stated.
15| For this reason there is much motion in the person sleeping. And where the heat departs from, that place is chilled, and it is on account of this chilling that the eyelids fall shut. And the upper parts and the outer parts are chilled, while the inner and lower parts are hot, as around the feet and the internal parts. Yet one might raise a difficulty here, that sleep becomes strongest after food, and that wine and other things possessing such heat are conducive to sleep. But it is not reasonable that sleep should be a chilling while the causes of sleeping are hot. Is it, then, that this happens in the way that the stomach, when empty, is hot, but filling it chills it because of the motion involved, and likewise the passages and places in the head are chilled as the vapor is carried upward? Or is it as with those who have hot liquid suddenly poured over them, who get a shudder — so there too, as the heat rises, the cold that gathers chills it, and makes the natural heat grow powerless and withdraw? Further, when much nourishment falls in, which the heat draws up — just as fire is chilled when logs are piled on it — the body is chilled until the food is concocted. For sleep occurs, as has been said, when the corporeal element is carried up by the heat through the veins toward the head.
16| But when the heat can no longer manage this, and what has been carried up exceeds it in quantity, it is pushed back again and flows downward. This is why, as the heat that was carrying it upward is withdrawn, people fall down (for humans alone among animals stand upright), and its falling produces first a loss of consciousness, and afterward imagination. Now the explanations just given are capable of accounting for how the chilling occurs; nevertheless, the region around the brain is the governing factor, as has been said elsewhere. Of all the parts in the body the brain is the coldest — or, in animals lacking a brain, the part analogous to it. Just as moisture that is vaporized by the heat of the sun, when it comes to the upper region, is chilled on account of that region's coldness and, condensing, is carried back down again as water, so too in the rising of heat toward the brain, the residual vapor collects into phlegm (which is why catarrhs are evidently produced from the head), while the nourishing vapor that is not diseased is carried back down as it condenses and chills the heat. And toward this chilling, and toward not readily admitting the vapor, the fineness and narrowness of the veins around the brain also contribute.
17| This, then, is the cause of the chilling, even though the vapor exceeds the surrounding region in heat. Waking occurs when the heat that has been forced together is concocted and, being much in a small space, gains mastery from what surrounds it, and the blood that is more corporeal is separated out from what is purest. The blood in the head is finest and purest, while that in the lower parts is thickest and most turbid. The source of all blood, as has been said both here and elsewhere, is the heart. Of the chambers in the heart, the middle one is common to the two on either side; and each of those two receives from each of the two vessels from each of the two vessels, the one called the great vessel and the aorta; and it is in the middle one that the separating-out occurs. But to determine matters about this belongs more properly to other discussions. And because the blood becomes less well separated after the intake of food, sleep occurs, until the blood is separated, the purer part going to the upper region and the more turbid part to the lower; and when this happens, people wake, released from the weight arising from their food. What the cause of sleeping is, then, has been stated: it is the counter-reaction, occurring all at once at the primary organ of perception, produced by the corporeal element that is carried up by the connate heat.
18| And what sleep is: it is a seizing of the primary organ of perception such that it is unable to be active, occurring of necessity (for it is not possible for an animal to exist unless the conditions that produce the animal are fulfilled), but for the sake of preservation; for rest preserves it.
1| After this we must inquire about the dream, and first, to which part of the soul it belongs, and whether this affection belongs to the intellectual part or to the perceptual part; for it is only by these that we come to know anything among the things in us. Now if the use of sight is seeing, and of hearing is hearing, and in general the use of perception is perceiving, and if some things are common to the senses, such as shape and magnitude and motion and the like, while others are proper to each, such as color, sound, flavor, and if all these are unable to see while their eyes are shut and while they are asleep, and likewise for the rest of the senses, it is clear that we perceive nothing at all in sleep. It is not, then, by perception that we perceive the dream. But neither is it by opinion. For we say not merely that the thing approaching is a man or a horse, but also that it is white or beautiful; and about these things opinion apart from perception would assert nothing, either truly or falsely. But in sleep it happens that the soul does this; for we seem to see alike both that the approaching thing is a man and that it is white. Further, alongside the dream we also think of something else, just as when perceiving something while awake; for about the thing we perceive we often also think something further. So too in sleep, alongside the images, we sometimes think of other things as well.
2| This would become apparent to anyone who paid attention and tried, on getting up, to remember. And indeed some have already had dreams of the following sort: those who, following a rule of the art of memory, are in the habit of setting the objects proposed to them in a fixed place. For it often happens to them that, apart from the dream, some other image places itself before their eyes in that place. So it is clear both that not every image occurring in sleep is a dream, and that what we think we do so by opinion. And this much at least is clear about all these cases: that it is the same thing by which we are deceived while awake in illnesses that produces this affection in sleep as well. And even to those who are healthy and know better, the sun nonetheless appears a foot across. But whether the imaginative part of the soul is the same as the perceptual part or different, none the less it does not come about apart from seeing and perceiving something; for to see amiss and to hear amiss belong to one who is truly seeing and truly hearing something, though not the thing he supposes. But in sleep it is assumed that one sees nothing and hears nothing and perceives nothing at all. Is it, then, that seeing nothing is true, but that the sense-faculty's being affected in no way is not true, but rather it is possible that sight too is affected in some way, and the other senses as well, and that each of these, as when one is awake, does in some way impinge upon the sense, yet not in the way it does when one is awake?
3| And sometimes opinion says that what is seen is false, just as when we are awake, while sometimes it is held fast and follows the image. That this affection, then, which we call dreaming, does not belong to the part that forms opinion, nor to the part that thinks discursively, is evident. But neither does it belong, without qualification, to the perceiving part; for then one would be seeing and hearing without qualification. But how then, and in what manner, must be examined. Let it be assumed, as is indeed evident, that the affection belongs to the perceptual faculty, if indeed sleep does too; for it is not that sleep belongs to one animal and dreaming to another, but to the same one. And since imagination has been discussed in the treatise on the soul, and the imaginative faculty is the same as the perceptual faculty, though what it is for something to be the imaginative faculty and to be the perceptual faculty differ, and imagination is the motion produced by perception when in actuality, while the dream appears to be some sort of image (for we call an image occurring in sleep a dream, whether it occurs simply or in some qualified way), it is clear that dreaming belongs to the perceptual faculty, and belongs to it insofar as it is the imaginative faculty.
4| What the dream is and how it comes about we may best consider from what happens in connection with sleep. For the objects of perception, in respect of each sense-organ, produce perception in us, and the affection produced by them is present not only in the sense-organs while the acts of perceiving are in operation, but also once they have departed. For the affection in these cases seems to be much like that in things carried along. For in the case of things carried along, motion continues even after the thing that set it moving is no longer in contact; for what set it moving moved some air, and this in turn, being moved, moves another portion. And in this way, until it comes to rest, the motion continues both in air and in liquids. And the same must be supposed to hold for alteration too; for what has been heated by something hot heats what is next to it, and this transmits the heat onward as far as the starting point. So too with that in which perceiving occurs: since actual perception is a kind of alteration, this same thing must happen there as well. Hence the affection exists not only in the sense-organs while they are perceiving, but also once they have ceased, and both deep within and on the surface. This becomes evident whenever we go on perceiving something continuously; for when we shift the perception elsewhere, the affection still follows, as, for example, in passing from the sun into darkness;
5| for it happens that we see nothing, because of the motion still remaining in the eyes from the light. And if we look for a long time at one color, whether white or greenish-yellow, whatever we then turn our sight to appears of that same color. And if, after looking at the sun or some other bright object, we shut our eyes and then watch carefully, it appears directly in the line of sight in which the sight happens to be looking, first of that same color, then it changes to crimson, then to purple, until it arrives at black and vanishes. And the appearances coming from moving things also change, for example from rivers, and most of all from those flowing most swiftly; for things at rest then appear to be moving. And people become hard of hearing from great noises and lose their sense of smell from strong odors, and similarly with the other senses. These things, then, clearly happen in this way. And as a sign that the sense-organs perceive quickly and even the slightest difference, there is what happens with mirrors, about which too, if one applied one's mind and looked into it, one would raise a puzzle. And at the same time it is clear from this very fact that, just as sight is affected, so too it does something. For in mirrors that are extremely clean, whenever women who are having their monthly period look into the mirror, there occurs on the surface of the mirror something like a bloody cloud;
6| and if the mirror is new, it is not easy to wipe off such a stain, but if it is old, easier. The cause, as we said, is that sight is not only affected in some way by the air, but also does something and moves it, just as bright objects do; for sight too belongs to the class of bright things and things possessing color. The eyes, then, are reasonably affected when the monthly period occurs, just as any other part of the body is, for they too happen by nature to be full of veins. Hence, when the monthly discharge occurs, on account of the disturbance and blood-inflammation, the difference in the eyes is to us imperceptible, but it is present nonetheless (for semen and the menstrual discharge are of the same nature), and the air is moved by them, and this air, being continuous with the air upon the mirrors, it makes qualified in some way, of the same sort as it itself is affected; and this air affects the surface of the mirror. And just as, among garments, the cleanest are stained the quickest, for what is exactly clean shows clearly whatever it receives, and especially the smallest motions. And bronze, because it is smooth, perceives any touch whatsoever most readily (one must conceive of the air's contact as a kind of rubbing, and as a wiping and a washing off), while because it is clean it becomes evident, however slight the motion may be.
7| The reason that the mark does not quickly go away from new mirrors is that they are clean and smooth: for it sinks through such mirrors both to a depth and in every direction — through their being clean, to a depth, and through their being smooth, in every direction. But in old mirrors it does not remain, because the stain does not sink in the same way but more superficially. It is clear from this both that motion arises even from small differences, that perception is quick, and further that the sense-organ of colors not only is affected but also acts back. What happens with wines and with perfume-making bears witness to what has been said. For prepared oil quickly takes on the smells of things nearby, and wines undergo this same thing: for they take up smells not only from what is thrown in or mixed in, but also from things placed near the vessels, or growing near them. For the inquiry from the beginning, let one thing be laid down — which is clear from what has been said — that even when the sensible object from outside has departed, the sense-impressions remain, being perceptible; and besides this, that we are easily deceived about our perceptions when we are in the grip of emotions, different people in different ones, for instance the coward in fear, the person in love in love, so that from a small resemblance the one seems to see enemies, the other the beloved;
8| and the more emotional a person is, the more easily this appears to him from a slighter resemblance. In the same way, in fits of anger and in all appetites, everyone becomes easy to deceive, and more so the more they are in the grip of these emotions. That is why to people with fevers, animals sometimes appear on the walls, composed from a slight resemblance of the lines. And these things sometimes intensify along with the emotions to such a degree that, if the sufferers are not very ill, they do not fail to notice that it is false, but if the affliction is greater, they are actually moved toward these appearances. The cause of this happening is that the ruling faculty and the faculty by which images arise do not judge by the same power. A sign of this is that the sun appears a foot across, yet something else often contradicts this appearance. And by the crossing of the fingers, one thing appears as two, yet all the same we do not say it is two: for sight has more authority than touch. But if touch alone were operating, we would in fact judge the one to be two. The cause of being deceived is that something appears to be moving not only when the sensible object is moving, but also when the perception itself is moving, if it moves in the same way as it does under the action of the sensible object;
9| I mean, for example, that the land seems to those sailing to be moving, because their sight is being moved by something else.
10| From this it is clear that it is not only in waking people that the motions arising from sense-impressions occur — both those coming from outside and those already present from within the body — but also when this affection called sleep occurs, and indeed they appear more then. For by day they are driven out while the senses and the intellect are active, and they disappear the way a small fire does beside a much greater one, and small pains and pleasures beside great ones; but once these have ceased, even the small ones rise to the surface. At night, because of the inactivity of the particular senses and their inability to be active, since the ebb of heat occurs from outside inward, the motions are carried down to the origin of perception and become apparent as the disturbance subsides. One should suppose that, just as small eddies form in rivers, so each motion occurs continuously, often remaining similar, but often breaking up into other shapes because of the counter-current. That is why, after eating, and altogether in the very young, such as small children, dreams do not occur: for the motion is too great, on account of the heat coming from the food. So just as in a liquid, if someone stirs it violently, sometimes no image appears at all, sometimes it appears but altogether distorted, so that it appears other than what it is, but once the liquid has settled the images are clear and plain — so too in sleep, the images and the remaining motions that result from sense-impressions sometimes are altogether obliterated because the motion just mentioned is greater, and sometimes the visions appear disturbed and monstrous, and the dreams are not vigorous, as with melancholics, feverish people, and the drunk;
11| for all such conditions, being full of breath, produce much motion and disturbance. But when the blood settles and is separated out in blooded animals, the motion of the sense-impressions coming from each of the sense-organs is preserved and makes the dreams vigorous, and makes it appear and seem, through what is carried down from sight, that one sees, and through what comes from hearing, that one hears. And likewise from the other sense-organs as well: for because the motion arrives there at the origin, a person even while awake seems to see and hear and perceive; and because sight sometimes seems to move though it is not moving, we say we see, and because touch reports two motions, the one thing seems to be two. For in general, the origin declares what comes from each sense, unless another, more authoritative sense contradicts it. So the appearance occurs in every case, but what appears is not believed in every case, but only if the discriminating faculty is held fast or is not moved with its own proper motion. And just as we said that different people are easily deceived through different affections, so too the sleeper, because of sleep and because the sense-organs are in motion and the other things that happen concerning perception, is easily deceived, so that whatever has a slight resemblance to that thing appears to be that thing.
12| For when a person sleeps, as most of the blood descends to the origin, the motions present within it descend along with it, some potentially, some actually. And they stand in such relation to one another that in this motion, this particular one will rise to the surface out of it, but if this one perishes, that one will. And they stand toward one another just like the little modeled frogs that rise up in water as the salt dissolves. In this way they are present potentially, and when what restrains them is relaxed they become actual; and being set loose in the small amount of blood remaining in the sense-organs, they move, bearing a resemblance like the shapes in the clouds, which people liken to men and centaurs, changing rapidly. Each of these, as has been said, is a remnant of the sense-impression that occurred in actuality; and when the true sense-impression has departed, the remnant remains present, and it is true to say that it is such as Coriscus, but it is not Coriscus. When the person was actually perceiving, the ruling and discriminating faculty did not call it Coriscus, but called that person the real Coriscus on account of this true perception. But this faculty, which does perceive it, says this, that it is Coriscus, provided it is not entirely held fast by the blood; as though it were not perceiving this, it is moved by the motions in the sense-organs. And the resembling thing seems to itself to be the true one. And so great is the power of sleep that it makes this go unnoticed.
13| So then, just as, if someone did not notice a finger being placed beneath his eye, the one thing would not only appear but would also be believed to be two, whereas if he did notice it, it would appear so but not be believed — so too in sleep: if the sleeper perceives that he is asleep, and perceives the affection in which the perception belonging to the sleep-state consists, the image appears, but something within him says that it appears to be Coriscus but is not Coriscus (for often, while a person is asleep, something in the soul says that what appears is a dream); but if he does not notice that he is asleep, nothing contradicts the appearance. That we speak truly, and that there are image-producing motions in the sense-organs, is clear if one pays attention and tries to remember what we experience while dropping off to sleep and while waking up: for sometimes a person, on waking, will catch the images that appeared to him while asleep as being motions present in the sense-organs; for in some young people, even when they are wide awake, if it is dark, many moving images appear to them, so that they often cover their heads out of fear. From all this one must conclude that a dream is indeed some sort of image occurring in sleep; for the images just mentioned are not dreams, nor is anything else that appears when the senses have been released from their normal function;
14| Nor is every image occurring in sleep a dream. For to begin with, it happens to some people that they perceive in some way sounds, light, taste, and touch, though weakly and as if from a distance; for already, while asleep, glancing dimly, they would faintly see the light of the lamp as they were sleeping, or so they thought, and on waking immediately recognized it as the lamp's; and hearing the voice of cocks and dogs faintly, on waking they recognized it clearly. Some even answer when questioned; for it is possible that, while strictly one of the two states, waking or sleeping, holds, the other holds too in some way. None of these cases should be called a dream. Nor should the true thoughts that occur in sleep alongside the images be called dreams. But the image that arises from the motion of the sense-impressions, when this occurs in sleep, insofar as one is asleep, this is a dream. Now it has happened to some people that they have seen no dream at all in their whole life. Such a thing is rare, but it does happen. For some it lasted their whole life through; but for others a dream came only when they had advanced far in age, having seen none before. The cause of its not occurring should be thought of as something similar to this: dreams do not occur to people either just after eating or to infants. For in those whose nature is so constituted that a great deal of exhalation rises to the upper region, and this, falling back down again, produces a large amount of motion, it stands to reason that no image appears to them.
15| As age advances, it is nothing strange for a dream to appear; for when some change occurs, whether by way of age or by way of an affection, this reversal must necessarily come about.
1| ON DREAMS AND DIVINATION IN SLEEP. As for the divination that occurs in sleep and is said to come about from dreams, it is neither easy to dismiss nor easy to be persuaded of. The fact that everyone, or most people, suppose that dreams have some significance lends it credibility, as something said on the basis of experience; and that divination should hold for some particular cases of dreaming is not incredible, for there is some account to be given of it, and this might lead one to think the same of dreams generally. But the fact that we can see no reasonable cause by which it might come about makes one distrustful of it. For the notion that a god is the sender, besides being unreasonable on other counts, is also strange in that he would not send dreams to the best and wisest people but to ordinary ones. And once the causal role of the god is set aside, none of the other causes proposed appears reasonable either; for that certain people should foresee events at the Pillars of Heracles or on the Borysthenes would seem to be beyond our capacity to find the origin of. It is necessary, then, that dreams be either causes, or signs, of the things that happen, or else coincidences — either all of these, or some of them, or only one. I call a cause, for instance, the moon in relation to the sun's eclipse, and fatigue in relation to fever; a sign, the entry of the star in relation to the eclipse, and roughness of the tongue in relation to having a fever; and a coincidence, the sun's eclipsing while a man happens to be walking;
2| for this is neither a sign of the eclipse nor its cause, nor is the eclipse a sign or cause of the walking. Hence none of the coincidences occurs either always or for the most part. Is it the case, then, that some dreams are causes and others signs, for instance of what happens in the body? At any rate the more discerning among physicians say that one must pay very close attention to dreams; and it is reasonable for those who are not specialists but who look into such things and philosophize about them to hold this view as well. For the motions that occur during the day, unless they are very great and forceful, are overshadowed by the greater motions of waking life. But in sleep the opposite holds: even small motions seem great. This is clear from what often happens during sleep: people think they are being struck by thunderbolts and hearing thunderclaps when only faint sounds are occurring in their ears, and think they are enjoying honey and sweet flavors when only a tiny bit of phlegm is trickling down, and think they are walking through fire and growing intensely hot when only a slight warmth is occurring around certain parts. When they wake up, these things are plainly of this character. So then, since the beginnings of all things are small, it is clear that this holds also for the diseases and other affections about to occur in bodies.
3| It is clear, then, that these must necessarily be more apparent in sleep than in waking. But indeed it is also not unreasonable that some of the images occurring in sleep should be causes of the actions proper to each person; for just as when we are about to act, and while engaged in actions, or after having performed them, we often find ourselves involved with these very things in vivid dreams and act them out (the cause being that the motion has, as it happens, already been made a path by the wakeful origins of the day), so too, conversely, it is necessary that the motions occurring in sleep should often be the origin of the actions of the following day, because in this case too the path for their thought has already been made in the images of the night. In this way, then, it is possible for some dreams to be both signs and causes. But most dreams resemble coincidences — especially all those that are disjointed and those whose origin does not lie in the dreamers themselves but concern sea-battles and events happening far away; for it is likely that the same holds of these as when something a person happens to be remembering actually comes to pass — for what prevents this from happening in dreams as well? Indeed it is more likely that many such things should occur. So then, just as the remembering of something is neither a sign nor a cause of its actually coming about, so too in that case the dream is, for the one who saw it, neither a sign nor a cause of the outcome, but a coincidence.
4| That is also why many dreams do not come true: coincidences occur neither always nor for the most part. In general, since some of the other animals dream as well, dreams could not be sent by a god, nor do they occur for that purpose — they are, however, of the order of nature's spirits (daimonic), for nature is daimonic, not divine. Here is a sign of this: quite ordinary people are prescient and have vivid, straightforward dreams, which shows it is not a god who sends them, but rather that those whose nature is, so to speak, talkative and melancholic see all sorts of visions; for because their minds are set in motion in many and various ways, they hit upon likenesses to actual events, being lucky in this the way some people are lucky at guessing odd or even. As the saying goes, if you throw the dice many times, you will get one throw different from another, and this is what happens in their case too. That many dreams do not come true is nothing strange — no more strange than that the signs given by things in the body, or in the heavens, such as signs of rain or of wind, should sometimes fail; for if another motion occurs that is more decisive than the one from whose impending occurrence the sign arose, then the event does not come about. And many things well deliberated, and due to be carried out, have been undone by other, more decisive causes. For in general not everything that is about to happen actually happens, nor is what will be the same as what is about to be; but nonetheless these must be called origins, from which the outcome was not in fact brought to completion, and by nature they are signs of certain things that did not occur.
5| Concerning those dreams that do not have origins of the kind we have described, but that lie beyond the ordinary range either in time or in place or in magnitude, or that have none of these features but nonetheless do not have their origins within the dreamers themselves — if the foreseeing in these cases does not come about by coincidence, it would more likely be of the following sort, rather than as Democritus says, who attributes it to images and emanations. For just as when something sets water or air in motion, this in turn sets something else in motion, and even once the original mover has stopped, the resulting motion continues on for some distance though the original mover is no longer present, so too nothing prevents some motion and some perceptible impression from reaching the souls of those who are dreaming — the very things from which Democritus makes his images and emanations — and, arriving wherever they happen to arrive, being more perceptible at night because during the day, being carried along, they are more readily dissolved (for the air is less disturbed at night, since nights are calmer), and producing a perception in the body on account of sleep, because sleepers are more aware of even small internal motions than waking people are. These motions produce the images from which people foresee the things that are going to happen concerning such matters. And this is why this experience happens to ordinary people and not to the wisest ones.
6| For if a god were the sender, it would occur during the day as well, and to the wise; as it is, it is likely that ordinary people should be the ones to foresee things, since the thought of such people is not given to reflection but is, as it were, empty and vacant of everything, and once set in motion is led along by whatever sets it moving. And the reason some people in ecstatic states foresee things is that their own proper motions do not get in the way but are, so to speak, brushed aside, so that they perceive the foreign motions most of all. And the fact that some people have vivid, straightforward dreams, and that acquaintances especially foresee things about their acquaintances, comes about because acquaintances think about one another the most; for just as people recognize and perceive those who are dear to them fastest even from a distance, so too with their motions — the motions of people we know are more recognizable to us. Melancholic people, because of the intensity of their motions, are like people throwing from far off, and hit the mark well. And because of their changeable temperament, whatever comes next appears quickly to them in imagination; for just as in the poems of Philaegides, and as madmen do, they string together one thing connected to the next by mere resemblance — for instance Aphrodite — and in this way carry the chain forward. Further, because of the intensity of their motion, it is not knocked out of the way by some other motion. The most skillful judge of dreams is the one who is able to discern resemblances; for judging straightforward dreams is within anyone's ability.
7| By resemblances I mean this: the images that occur are similar to the reflections in water, just as we said before. There, if the motion of the water is great, the reflection and the images bear no resemblance at all to the real things. A person would be clever at judging reflections, then, if he could quickly perceive and discern, in images that are scattered and distorted, that it is the image of a man or a horse or whatever it may be. And in the case of dreaming, too, this same thing holds in a similar way; for motion cuts off accurate dreaming. What sleep and dreaming are, then, and for what cause each of them occurs, and further, concerning divination from dreams, has now been stated.
1| ON LENGTH AND SHORTNESS OF LIFE.
2| As for the fact that some animals are long-lived and others short-lived, and about the length and shortness of life in general, we must examine the causes. The necessary starting point of the inquiry is first to work through the puzzles about them. For it is not clear whether the cause is one and the same, or different, for all animals and plants having some long-lived and some short-lived; for among plants too, some have a life of a single year while others live for a long time. Further, it is a question whether the same things are long-lived and naturally healthy among things constituted by nature, or whether short-livedness and being disease-prone are separate, or whether, in the case of some diseases, bodies whose nature is disease-prone coincide with the short-lived, while in the case of others there is nothing to prevent disease-prone bodies from being long-lived. Now sleep and waking have been discussed earlier, and life and death must be discussed later, and likewise disease and health, so far as these fall within natural philosophy; but for now we must examine the cause of some animals being long-lived and others short-lived, as was said before. This difference belongs both to whole genera as against other whole genera, and to different members within one and the same species as against each other. I mean that man differs from horse by genus (for the human genus is longer-lived than that of horses), while man differs from man by species; for there are also humans who are long-lived and others short-lived, differing from each other by region: those among the peoples in hot regions are longer-lived, and those in cold regions shorter-lived. And among those who inhabit the same region, some likewise differ from one another in this same way.
3| We must grasp, then, what it is among things constituted by nature that is easily destroyed and what is not easily destroyed. For fire and water and the things akin to these, not having the same power, happen to be causes of coming-to-be and destruction for each other, so that it is reasonable that each of the other things too, being made of and composed from these, should share in their nature — that is, whatever is not a composite of many things, such as a house. Now concerning the other things there is a different account; for many existing things have their own particular kinds of destruction, as with knowledge, health, and disease. For these are destroyed even while the things capable of receiving them are not destroyed but preserved — for instance, the destruction of ignorance is recollection and learning, while the destruction of knowledge is forgetting and being deceived. But it is accidentally that the destructions of these other things follow upon natural things; for when animals are destroyed, the knowledge and the health that are in animals are destroyed along with them. Hence one might also draw a conclusion about the soul from these considerations: for if the soul is not present by nature but is in the body in the way knowledge is in the soul, then there would be some other destruction of it besides the destruction it undergoes when the body is destroyed. So since it does not appear to be of this kind, its relation to its partnership with the body would have to be otherwise.
4| Perhaps one might reasonably raise this puzzle: is there some place where the destructible will be indestructible, as fire is indestructible when above, where there is nothing contrary to it? For the things that belong to contraries are destroyed accidentally, by the destruction of those contraries — for contraries are eliminated by one another; but none of the contraries present in substances is destroyed accidentally, because substance is not predicated of any underlying subject. So that which has no contrary, and the place in which there is no contrary, would be incapable of being destroyed; for what will be the agent of destruction, if it is only by contraries that destruction occurs, and this is not present, either altogether or in that place? Or is this true in one sense and not in another? For it is impossible for a thing possessing matter not to have its contrary present in it in some way. For it is possible for the hot, or the straight, to be present throughout something entirely, but it is impossible for anything to be entirely hot or straight or white; for then the affections would exist separately. If, then, whenever the active and the passive are present together, the one always acts and the other is acted upon, it is impossible for there to be no change. Further, if it is necessary to produce residue, and the residue is a contrary — for change always proceeds from a contrary, and the residue is what is left over from what came before.
5| But if a thing entirely expels what is contrary to it in actuality, then in that place too it would be indestructible. Or not — rather, it is destroyed by what surrounds it. If this is sufficient, then the point is settled from what has been said; but if not, we must suppose that something actually contrary is present within, and that residue comes to be. That is why a smaller flame is burned up accidentally by a larger one: because the nourishment — that is, the smoke — which the smaller flame uses up over a long time, the larger flame uses up quickly. That is why everything is always in motion, and either comes to be or is destroyed. And what surrounds a thing either cooperates with it or works against it. And because of this, things that are relocated become longer-lived or shorter-lived than their nature would give them, but nowhere eternal, in the case of things that have contraries; for matter immediately carries its contrary within it. So that if the change is one of place, the thing changes locally; if of quantity, by growth and diminution; if of an affection, it is altered.
6| Now it is not the largest things that are less destructible (for the horse is shorter-lived than man), nor the small ones (for most insects live only a year), nor plants as a whole compared with animals (for some plants live only a year), nor the blooded (for the bee lives longer than some blooded creatures), nor the bloodless (for the soft-bodied creatures live only a year, yet are bloodless), nor those that live on land (for there are plants that live only a year, and land animals too), nor those that live in the sea — for there too the shelled creatures and the soft-bodied creatures are short-lived. In general, the longest-lived things are found among plants, such as the palm tree; then among blooded animals more than among bloodless ones, and among land animals more than among water-dwelling ones. So that when these traits are combined — being blooded and being land-dwelling — the result is the longest-lived of animals, such as man and the elephant. And indeed, for the most part, the larger are longer-lived than the smaller; for size, too, is found to belong to the other longest-lived things, just as to those mentioned.
7| One might examine the cause of all this as follows. For we must grasp that the animal is by nature moist and hot, and that living is of this character, while old age is cold and dry, and so is the dead body; for this is how it appears. Now the matter of bodies, for the things that exist, is these — the hot and the cold, the dry and the moist. It is necessary, then, that as a thing grows old it dries out. Hence the moisture in it must not be easily dried up. And this is why fatty things do not putrefy. The cause is that they are of air; and air, relative to the other elements, is fire, and fire does not become rotten. Nor again must the moisture be small in quantity; for what is small is also easily dried up. And this is why, generally speaking, large animals and plants are longer-lived, as was said before; for it is reasonable that the larger should have more moisture. But it is not only for this reason that they are longer-lived; for there are two causes, the quantity and the quality, so that there must not only be an abundance of moisture, but this moisture must also be hot, so that it is neither easily congealed nor easily dried up. And this is why man is longer-lived than some larger creatures; for those that fall short in quantity of moisture are longer-lived, provided they exceed by a greater ratio in quality than they fall short in quantity.
8| In some animals the hot element is the fatty kind, which at once makes the animal resistant to drying and resistant to chilling; in others the hot element carries a different humor. Further, what is going to be long-lived must not be prone to residue. For such a thing destroys the animal, either by disease or by nature; and the power of the residue is opposed to it, and destructive — in one case destructive of the whole nature, in another of a part. Hence animals given to mating and productive of much seed age quickly; for seed is a residue, and moreover it dries the animal as it departs. And for this reason the mule is longer-lived than the horse and the donkey from which it was born, and females are longer-lived than males, if the males are given to mating; hence male sparrows are shorter-lived than females. Further, whatever males undergo hard toil age more because of the toil; for toil dries, and old age is dry. By nature, and to speak generally, males are longer-lived than females; the cause is that the male is a hotter animal than the female. The same animals are longer-lived in warm regions than in cold regions, for the same cause through which they become larger. And this effect on size is most evident in animals that are cold by nature;
9| hence snakes and lizards and scaly creatures grow large in hot regions, and in the Red Sea the shelled creatures grow large; for hot moisture is the cause both of growth and of life. But in cold regions the moisture in animals is more watery; hence it freezes easily, so that some bloodless or low-blooded animals do not occur at all in the regions toward the north — neither the land ones on earth nor the water ones in the sea — while others do occur, but are smaller and shorter-lived; for the frost takes away growth. Both plants and animals that take in no nourishment perish; for they consume themselves. For just as a great flame burns up and destroys a small one by using up its fuel, so the natural heat, which is the primary agent of concoction, uses up the matter in which it resides. Water animals are less long-lived than land animals not because they are simply moist, but because they are watery; and moisture of this kind is easily destroyed, because it is cold and freezes easily. And the bloodless animal is short-lived for the same reason, unless it defends itself by size; for it has neither fat nor sweetness.
10| For in an animal the fatty is the sweet; hence bees are longer-lived than other, larger animals. Among plants are found the longest-lived things, and more so than among animals — first because they are less watery, so that they do not freeze easily; then, they have oiliness and viscosity, and though dry and earthy, they nonetheless have moisture that is not easily dried out. As to why the nature of trees is long-lasting, we must grasp the cause; for it has a cause peculiar to itself compared with animals, except compared with insects. For plants are always becoming new; hence they are long-lasting. For the shoots are always different ones, while the old ones age. And likewise the roots. But not at the same time: rather, at one time only the trunk and branches perish, while others grow up alongside them; and when this happens, new roots come to be out of what already exists, and thus it continues always, part perishing and part coming to be; hence plants are also long-lived. Plants resemble insects, as was said before; for when divided they live on, and two or many come to be from one. But insects, though they reach the point of living when divided, cannot do so for long; for they do not have the organs, nor can the principle present in each part produce them. But the principle in the plant can produce them;
11| for everywhere it has, potentially, both root and stem. Hence from this principle there is always proceeding, on the one hand the new, on the other the aging, differing only slightly in being long-lived, in the same way as cuttings that are planted out. For indeed, in the case of taking cuttings, one might say that this same thing happens in a way; for what is planted out as a cutting is a part of the parent. In the case of cuttings, then, this happens through separation, but in the other case through continuity. The cause is that the principle is present everywhere, inhering potentially. And the same thing occurs in the case of both animals and plants. For among animals the males are, for the most part, longer-lived; and of these, the upper parts are larger than the lower (for the male is more stunted than the female in the lower part), and heat is in the upper part, and cold in the lower; and among plants, those that are top-heavy are longer-lived. Such are those that are not annual but tree-like; for the upper part of the plant, and its head, is the root, while annual plants direct their growth toward the lower part and toward the fruit. But on this point, considered in its own right, a determination will be made in the works on plants; for now, the cause has been stated concerning the other animals, regarding both length of life and shortness of life.
12| It remains for us to examine youth and old age, and life and death; for once these have been determined, the inquiry concerning animals would reach its completion.
1| On Youth and Old Age. On Life and Death. We must now speak about youth and old age, and about life and death; and at the same time it is probably necessary to state the causes connected with respiration, since for some animals living and not living turn on this. Now since soul has been determined in other works, and it is clear that its substance cannot be a body, yet it is plain that it exists in some part of the body, and in that part which is one of those having power among the parts. As for the other parts or powers of the soul—whichever way one ought to call them—let them be set aside for now. But of the things that are called animals and are said to live, in those that possess both of these (I mean both being an animal and living), it is necessary that it be the same and one part in virtue of which it lives and in virtue of which we call it an animal. For an animal, insofar as it is an animal, cannot fail to live; but insofar as a thing lives, it is not necessary that it be an animal on that account—for plants live but do not have perception, and it is by perceiving that we distinguish the animal from the non-animal. In number, then, this part must necessarily be one and the same, but in being it is several and different things,
2| for being an animal and living are not the same thing. Since, then, of the private senses there is some one common sense-organ, to which the perceptions in actuality must arrive, and this would be midway between what is called the front and the back (for we call front that toward which our perception is directed, and back what is opposite to it); and further, since the body of all living things is divided by up and down (for all things have an up and a down, so that even plants do), it is clear that the nutritive principle would have its seat midway between these. For the part by which nourishment enters we call up, looking to it in itself and not to the surrounding whole, and down is that by which it first releases the residue. This is the reverse in plants and in animals: for man, because of his upright posture, has this above all the other animals—that his upper part is turned toward the upper part of the universe, while in the other animals it is intermediate; but plants, being motionless and taking their nourishment from the earth, necessarily always have this part turned downward. For roots are analogous in plants to what is called the mouth in animals, the part through which some take their nourishment from the earth, others through themselves.
3| There being three parts into which all the complete animals are divided—one by which they receive nourishment, one by which they discharge the residue, and a third, the middle of these—this in the largest animals is called the chest, and in the others the analogous part, though it is more clearly articulated in some than in others. Those of them that are capable of locomotion have, in addition, parts serving this function, by which they will carry the whole trunk—legs and feet and whatever else has the same power as these. But the principle of the nutritive soul plainly lies in the middle of the three parts, both according to perception and according to reasoned account. For many animals, when either part is removed—the so-called head, or the receiver of nourishment—go on living with whichever part is the middle one. This is evident in the case of insects, such as wasps and bees; and many of the non-insects too, when divided, are able to live because of the nutritive part. Such a part is one in actuality, but several in potentiality, for it is constituted in the same way as plants: plants too, when divided, live apart, and many trees come to be from one starting point.
4| For what reason some things cannot live when divided, while others among plants can be propagated by cutting, will be a separate account. But plants and the class of insects are alike, at least in this respect. And it is necessary that the nutritive soul too be one in actuality in the things that have it, but several in potentiality; and likewise the perceptive principle, for the divided parts of these creatures evidently retain perception. But when it comes to preserving their nature, plants can do so, while these creatures cannot, because they do not have organs for self-preservation, and are deficient—some in what would take the nourishment, others in what would receive it, and others in both of these together. For such animals resemble many animals grown together into one; but the best-constituted animals do not undergo this, because their nature is, as far as possible, one. This is why some, when their parts are divided, produce a slight perception, because they have some affection of the soul in them: for when the entrails are separated they produce motion, as tortoises do when the heart has been removed.
5| Further, this is clear both in plants and in animals: in plants, if one examines the generation from seeds and both graftings and cuttings. For the generation of seeds occurs, in all cases, from the middle: since all seeds have two valves, joined where they have grown together, and the middle is common to each of the two parts; for from there both the stalk and the root grow out in the things that sprout, and the starting point is their middle. In graftings and cuttings this happens especially in connection with the nodes: for the node is in a way a starting point of the branch, and at the same time a middle, so that people either remove this or insert into this, so that either the branch or the roots may grow from it, on the ground that the starting point comes from the middle of stalk and root. And in the blooded animals the heart comes to be first. This is clear from what we have observed in cases where it is still possible to see the animal in the process of coming to be. So in the bloodless animals too the part analogous to the heart must come to be first. That the heart is the starting point of the veins has been stated earlier, in the works on the parts of animals;
6| and that blood is the final nourishment for the blooded animals, out of which the parts come to be. It is clear, then, that the power of the mouth performs one function with regard to nourishment, and that of the belly a different one. But the heart is the most authoritative, and puts the finishing touch on it. So it is necessary that the starting point of both the perceptive and the nutritive soul be in the heart, for the blooded animals: for the functions of the other parts concerning nourishment exist for the sake of this one's function. For the authoritative thing must persist with a view to that for the sake of which it exists, and not be counted among the things that exist for its sake—as a doctor exists for the sake of health, not the reverse. And indeed the authoritative element of the senses is in this part, for all the blooded animals: for it is necessary that the common sense-organ of all the sense-organs be in this. And we plainly see two senses converging there, taste and touch, so that the others must do so as well: for in the case of the other sense-organs it is possible for the motion to be produced elsewhere and then travel to this part, but taste and touch have no tendency toward the upper region at all. And apart from these considerations, if living resides in this part for all animals, it is clear that the perceptive principle must be there too;
7| for insofar as a thing is an animal, in that respect we also say it lives, and insofar as it is perceptive, in that respect we say the body is an animal. As for why some of the senses evidently converge on the heart while others are in the head (which is also why some think that animals perceive by means of the brain), the cause of this has been stated separately elsewhere. So then, from what has been said, it is clear on the evidence of the observed facts that in this part, and in the middle of the body's three parts, lies both the principle of the perceptive soul and that of the growth-producing and nutritive soul.
8| And by argument too, since we see nature in all things doing the finest thing possible from among the possibilities. Now since each of the two principles lies in the middle of the substance, each of the two parts will most fully perform its own work — the part that works up the ultimate nourishment and the part that receives it; for in this way it will be next to each of them, and the middle region of such a thing is the region of a ruler. Further, that which uses and that which is used must differ. And just as with the capacity, so it might be with the manner too — as with pipes and that which moves the pipes, namely the hand. If then the animal is defined by having a perceptive soul, then in blooded animals this principle must be in the heart, and in bloodless animals in the part analogous to it. Now all the parts, and the whole body of animals, have a certain connate natural heat; that is why, while living, they appear warm, but when they die and are deprived of life, the opposite holds. So the principle of this heat must necessarily be in the heart in blooded animals, and in the analogous part in bloodless ones; for it is by natural heat that all of them work up and concoct their nourishment, and above all the most sovereign part does. That is why, when the other parts are chilled, life still persists, but when the heat in this part is chilled, life is destroyed entirely, because the principle of heat for all the parts depends on this one, and the soul is, as it were, kindled as a fire within these parts — in the analogous part for bloodless animals, and in the heart for blooded ones. It is necessary, then, that being alive and the preservation of this heat hold together at once, and that what is called death be the destruction of this heat.
9| But indeed we observe two kinds of destruction of fire, wasting away and quenching. We call the one that comes about by the fire's own agency a wasting away, and the one that comes about at the hands of its opposites a quenching — the one by old age, the other by force. Now it turns out that both kinds of destruction come about through the same cause: for when the nourishment falls short, the heat being unable to take up nourishment, destruction of the fire results. For the opposite, by stopping the concoction, prevents the fire from being nourished; but sometimes a wasting away results because more heat is gathered together on account of there being no respiration and no cooling; for in this way too the heat, being gathered together in quantity, quickly uses up the nourishment, and it uses it up before the exhalation can arrive in its place. That is why not only does the lesser fire waste away next to the greater, but the very flame of a lamp, when placed within a larger flame, is itself burned up, just as anything else combustible is. And the cause is that the larger flame gets to the nourishment present in the flame first, before another supply can come to it, while the fire itself continues always coming to be and flowing like a river, though this escapes notice because of its speed. It is clear, then, that if the heat is to be preserved (and this is necessary, if the thing is going to live), some cooling of the heat in the principle must come about.
10| One can take as an example of this what happens with coals being smothered: for if they are continuously covered over by what is called a choke-pot, they are quickly extinguished; but if one repeatedly, close together, removes and replaces the cover, they remain aglow for a long time. Now burial in ash preserves the fire: for it is not prevented from breathing out on account of the porousness of the ash, and yet the ash also blocks off the surrounding air, so that it does not extinguish the fire by the abundance of the heat present within it. But concerning this cause — that the opposite result happens to fire that is buried in ash and to fire that is smothered outright (the one wastes away, the other persists for a longer time) — this has been discussed in the Problems.
11| Since every animal has soul, and soul does not exist without natural heat, as we have said, in plants the assistance that comes through their nourishment and through what surrounds them proves sufficient for the preservation of the natural heat. For nourishment, too, produces cooling as it enters, just as it does in human beings when they first take food; whereas fasting produces heat and causes thirst; for the air, being unmoved, is constantly being heated, but when the nourishment enters, it cools as it is set in motion, until it undergoes concoction. But if the surrounding air exceeds in coldness on account of the season, strong frosts occurring, the plant is dried out; or if in summer strong heat-waves occur and the moisture drawn up from the earth is unable to cool it, the heat is destroyed as it wastes away, and at these seasons the trees are said to become blighted and struck as if by a star. That is why people also place certain kinds of stones beneath the roots, and water in vessels, so that the roots of the plants may be cooled. And of animals, since some live in water and others make their dwelling in air, they procure their cooling from these media and by means of them, some by water and some by air. But in what manner and how this happens must be stated once we have applied our argument more closely to it.
1| ON RESPIRATION. About respiration few of the earlier natural philosophers have spoken; and as to what purpose it serves for animals, some have declared nothing at all, while others have spoken, but not well, being more ignorant of the facts than they should be. Further, they say that all animals breathe; but this is not true. So it is necessary to go over these points first, so that we do not seem to be making charges against people who are not there to answer. That all the animals that have lungs breathe is clear. But even among these, those that have a bloodless and spongy lung need respiration less; hence they are able to remain a long time in the water, beyond what the strength of their body would allow. All the egg-laying animals have a spongy lung, for example the frog family. Further, water-tortoises and land-tortoises remain a long time in moist places; for the lung has little heat, since they have little blood in it; so when it is inflated by the motion it cools itself and enables them to remain a long time submerged. If, however, someone forces the issue and holds them under too long, they all suffocate; for none of these creatures takes in water the way fish do. All those that have a lung with blood in it need respiration more, because of the amount of heat they have; and of the rest, whatever has no lung, none of them breathes.
2| Democritus of Abdera and certain others among those who have spoken about respiration have not distinguished anything concerning the other animals, but seem to speak as though all animals breathe; Anaxagoras and Diogenes, however, while asserting that all animals breathe, do explain how fish and shellfish breathe. Anaxagoras says that when fish release the water through their gills, they draw in the air that forms in the mouth and so breathe; for there is no void anywhere. Diogenes says that when they release the water through their gills, they draw the air from the water standing around the mouth into the void that forms in the mouth, on the assumption that air is present in the water. But these accounts are impossible. For, in the first place, they leave out half the matter, because they speak of the common term as applying to only one of its two parts. For the term is called "respiration," and of this one part is exhalation and the other inhalation; and about exhalation they say nothing at all, as to how such animals breathe out. Nor is it possible for them to say; for whenever they breathe in, they must breathe out again by the very same channel, and do this continually in alternation, so that it follows that they take in water at the mouth and breathe out at the same time. And necessarily, when the two meet, each must impede the other. Then again, when they release the water, at that point they breathe out either through the mouth or through the gills, so that it follows that they breathe out and breathe in at the same time; for that, they say, is when the fish breathes in. But to breathe in and breathe out at the same time is impossible. So if it is necessary that things which breathe both breathe out and breathe in, and it is not possible for any of these creatures to breathe out, it is clear that none of them breathes in either.
3| Further, to say that the fish draws air from the mouth, or from the water through the mouth, is impossible; for fish have no windpipe, because they have no lung, but the stomach lies immediately next to the mouth, so that it would have to be the stomach that does the drawing in. And the fish themselves, when out of the water, would plainly do it; but it is evident that they do not do it. Further, in all animals that breathe and draw in breath we see a certain motion occurring in the part that does the drawing, but in the case of fish this does not happen; for they are seen to move nothing around the stomach, but only the gills, both while in the water and when they have been cast out onto dry land and are gasping. Further, when all breathing animals die by suffocation in water, bubbles of breath appear, forced out violently — as happens if one forcibly holds under water tortoises or frogs or any other such creature; but in the case of fish this does not happen, no matter how one tries it, since they have no breath from outside at all. And the manner in which they say respiration occurs for fish could equally well occur for human beings while in water;
4| for if fish draw in from the surrounding water with the mouth, why should not human beings and the other animals do this too? And we would likewise draw the air in from the mouth just as the fish do. So that if the one were possible, the other would be possible too; but since the latter is not so, it is clear that the former is not the case for fish either. Besides this, for what reason do fish die in air and appear to gasp just like creatures that are suffocating, if indeed they breathe? For it is surely not from lack of nourishment that they suffer this. As for the cause Diogenes gives, it is naive; for he says that they draw in too much air when in air, but only a moderate amount when in water, and that this is why they die. But this ought then to be possible in land animals too; yet as it is, no land animal is suffocated by breathing too vigorously. Further, if all animals breathe, it is clear that insects too must breathe; but many of them are observed to live when cut apart, not only into two parts but into several, for example the creatures called centipedes; and how, or by what part, could they possibly breathe? The chief reason they speak wrongly about these matters is that they are inexperienced in the internal parts, and that they do not grasp that nature does everything for the sake of something;
5| for if they had inquired for the sake of what respiration belongs to animals, and had examined this in connection with the parts, for example the gills and the lung, they would have found the cause more quickly. Democritus does say that something results for breathing animals from respiration, asserting that it prevents the soul from being squeezed out; yet he has said nothing to the effect that nature does this for this purpose. For, altogether, like the other natural philosophers, he too touches nowhere on this kind of cause. He says that soul and heat are the same thing, the primary shapes of the spherical bodies. So when these are compressed together by the surrounding air squeezing them, he says respiration comes to their assistance. For in the air there is a great number of the things he calls intellect and soul; so when the animal breathes and the air enters, these enter along with it, and by resisting the compression, they prevent the soul present in the animals from passing out. And this is why, he says, life and death consist in breathing in and breathing out; for whenever the surrounding air prevails, compressing the animal, and the air can no longer enter from outside to resist it, because the animal is unable to breathe, then death occurs for animals; for death, he says, is the departure of such shapes from the body due to the compression exerted by the surrounding air. But as to the cause why it is necessary for all to die, yet not whenever it happens to occur, but by nature in old age, and by force contrary to nature, he has shown nothing at all.
6| And yet he ought to have explained, since this is sometimes seen to happen and sometimes not, whether the cause is external or internal. Nor does he say anything about the origin of breathing — what the cause is, whether it comes from within or from without; for surely it is not the intellect from outside that keeps up the assistance, but the origin of respiration and of the motion arises from within, not as though the surrounding air were forcing it. And it is also absurd that the surrounding air should at once be compressing and, on entering, dilating. What he has said, and how, is roughly this. But if we must hold that what was said earlier is true, and that not all animals breathe, then this cause must be supposed to have been stated not for every kind of death, but only for the death of things that breathe. Yet even for these it is not stated well. This is clear from what actually happens, and from facts of which we all have experience. For in hot weather, being warmed more, we all need respiration more and breathe more rapidly; but when the surrounding air is cold and contracts and congeals the body, it happens that we hold the breath in. And yet on his account it ought to be then that the air entering from outside would prevent the compression. But in fact the opposite happens;
7| for whenever too much heat has been gathered together because we are not breathing out, that is when we need respiration; and having breathed in, we must then breathe out. And in hot weather people often breathe repeatedly, breathing as if for the sake of cooling, at the moment when, as the saying goes, they are adding fire to fire.
8| The account of circulation given in the Timaeus determines nothing about the other animals — by what means the preservation of their heat comes about, whether by the same means or through some other cause. For if breathing belongs only to land animals, one must state the cause of its belonging only to them; but if it belongs to the others too, though in a different way, this too must be determined — that is, if it is even possible for all of them to breathe. Further, the manner of the cause given is contrived. For he says that when the heat goes out through the mouth, the surrounding air, being pushed, moving along, falls into the same place, through the flesh being porous, from where the internal heat went out — since there is nothing empty, as things replace one another in turn; and having been heated, it goes out again by the same place, and pushes the air that falls out hot back in through the mouth; and that they do this continuously, always, breathing in and breathing out. Now it follows for those who think this way that exhalation occurs before inhalation. But it is the opposite. And here is the sign: these occur alternately with each other, but when they come to an end, they exhale — so that the beginning must be inhalation. Further, as to the purpose for which these things belong to animals (I mean breathing in and breathing out), those who speak in this way have said nothing, but declare themselves only as about some incidental occurrence.
9| And yet we see that these are decisive for living and dying: for when creatures are unable to breathe, that is when destruction occurs for those that breathe. Further, it is absurd that the exit and re-entry of heat through the mouth should not escape our notice, while the entry of breath into the chest and its exit again once heated should escape our notice. It is also absurd that inhalation should be an entry of heat. For the opposite appears to be the case: what is exhaled is hot, while what is inhaled is cold. And when it is hot, they breathe panting; for because the incoming breath does not cool sufficiently, it happens that they often gasp for breath. But surely one must not suppose that breathing occurs for the sake of nourishment, as though the internal fire were nourished by the breath, and as though in breathing in, fuel were thrown under the fire, so to speak, and once the fire had been fed, exhalation occurred. For we will say the same things again against this account as against the previous ones: this ought to happen also in the other animals, or something analogous to it, for all of them have vital heat. Further, in what manner one must say that heat comes to be from breath is itself contrived, since we see this coming about rather from nourishment. And it follows on this view that the same process both takes in nourishment and gives off residue — but we do not see this happening in the other cases.
10| Empedocles too speaks about breathing, though he does not say for what purpose, nor does he make clear anything about all the animals, whether they breathe or not. And in speaking about breathing through the nostrils he thinks he is speaking about the principal kind of breathing. But breathing occurs also through the windpipe from the chest, as well as through the nostrils; and the nostrils by themselves, apart from the windpipe, cannot breathe. And animals deprived of the breathing that occurs through the nostrils suffer nothing, but they die when deprived of that which occurs through the windpipe. For nature makes incidental use of breathing through the nostrils, in some animals, for the sake of smell; and this is why nearly all animals share in smelling, though the same sense-organ is not present in all of them. This has been discussed more clearly elsewhere. He says that inhalation and exhalation occur because there are certain vessels in which blood is present, though they are not full of blood, and which have passages to the outside air, smaller than the parts of the body but larger than those of air; so that, since blood is naturally disposed to move up and down, when it moves downward air flows in and inhalation occurs, and when it goes upward it falls out again and exhalation occurs — comparing what happens to water-clocks.
11| This is how all things breathe in and breathe out: all have bloodless channels of flesh stretched over the outer surface of the body, and at their mouths the outermost surface of the nostrils is pierced through and through with close-set channels, so that they hide the blood but leave a passage cut through for the air to pass easily. Then, from there, whenever the soft blood rushes away, the frothing air rushes down with a furious surge, and when it leaps back up, it breathes out again — just as when a child plays with a water-clock of shining bronze: when she places the mouth of the tube against her shapely hand and dips it into the yielding mass of silvery water, no water enters the vessel, but the mass of air pressing from within upon the close-set holes holds it back, until she uncovers the compressed stream; but then, as the air gives way, the water flows in to fill it. And in the same way, when water occupies the depths of the bronze vessel, with the mouth and passage blocked by human flesh, the air outside, straining to get in, holds back the water around the gates of the harsh-sounding narrow opening, gripping its edges, until she releases it with her hand; then again, the reverse of before, as the air rushes in, the water flows out to match. In the same way, when the soft blood, surging through the limbs, rushes back inward, the stream of air at once comes rushing down in a swelling flood, and when it leaps back up, it breathes out again in equal measure.
12| This, then, is what he says about breathing; but, as we have said, the animals that plainly breathe do so through the windpipe, by way of the mouth and the nostrils together. So if he is speaking about this kind of breathing, one must ask how the account of the cause he has given will fit the facts; for the opposite appears to happen. For when they raise that region, as with bellows in a smithy, they breathe in; and it is reasonable that the heat should rise, and that the blood should occupy the place of the heat; and when they contract and compress it, as with the bellows there, they breathe out. Except that there, they do not take in the air and let it out again by the same route, whereas those who breathe do so by the same route. But if he is speaking only about breathing through the nostrils, he is greatly mistaken; for breathing is not peculiar to the nostrils, but occurs by way of the passage around the uvula, where the back of the roof of the mouth ends, since the nostrils are perforated through to it — part of the breath going that way, part through the mouth, entering and leaving alike. The views stated by others about breathing, then, have difficulties of this kind and this many.
13| Since it has been said before that living, and the state of the soul, involve some heat — for not even concoction, through which nourishment comes to be for animals, occurs without soul or without heat, since fire accomplishes everything — it follows that in whatever place of the body, and in whatever part of that place, such a principle must first be found, there too the nutritive soul must first be present. This is the middle place, between that which receives the nourishment and that by which the residue is discharged. In the bloodless animals this part has no name, but in the blooded animals it is the heart. For the nourishment from which the parts of animals already come to be is the nature of blood. And the blood and the blood-vessels must have the same starting point; for the one exists for the sake of the other, as a vessel and its contents. And in the blooded animals the heart is the starting point of the blood-vessels; for they are not suspended through it but from it, all of them. This is clear to us from dissections. Now the other capacities of the soul cannot exist without the nutritive capacity (the reason for this has been stated earlier, in the work on the soul), but this one cannot exist without the natural fire.
14| for nature has kindled it in this. Destruction of fire, as has been said before, is quenching and wasting-away. Quenching is destruction by the opposite; and this is why it happens all at once from the coldness of the surrounding medium, and happens faster the more the fire is scattered apart. This kind of destruction, then, is a violent one, and it belongs alike to ensouled things and to soulless things; for animals die when they are cut apart by instruments, and also when they are frozen solid by extreme cold. Wasting-away, by contrast, happens through excess of heat; for if the surrounding heat is too great, or if the fire does not get nourishment, that which is on fire is destroyed, not by being cooled but by wasting away. So it is necessary that cooling occur if the thing is to attain preservation; for this is what helps against this kind of destruction.
15| Since some animals spend their time in water and others on land, for the small ones among these altogether, and for the bloodless ones, the cooling that comes from the surrounding water or air is sufficient to help against this destruction; for having only a little heat, they need only a little help against it. This is why nearly all such creatures are short-lived; for they are close to the tipping point on both sides. But those insects that are longer-lived (for all insects are bloodless) have a split beneath the diaphragm-band, so that they may be cooled through the membrane, which is thinner there; for being hotter, they need more cooling — for example bees (some bees live as long as seven years) and the other creatures that buzz, such as wasps, cockchafers, and cicadas. For they make their sound with breath, as if panting; for within the band itself, as the innate breath rises and subsides, a friction against the membrane results; for they move this region, just as creatures that breathe from outside move it with the lung, and fish with their gills. And something similar happens if one chokes a breathing creature by holding its mouth shut —
16| for this too will produce this same rising motion in the lung. But in these creatures such a motion does not produce sufficient cooling, whereas in the others it does. And by the friction against the membrane they make the buzzing sound, as we say — just as children do through hollowed-out reeds, when they fit a thin membrane over them. This is also why, among cicadas, the ones that sing do sing: they are hotter, and the region beneath the diaphragm-band is split in them, whereas in the ones that do not sing this part is unsplit. And among the blooded creatures that have a lung, some, because they have little blood and a spongy lung, are for this reason able to live for a long time without breathing, because the lung has a great deal of rising-and-falling motion while containing little blood and moisture; for its own proper motion suffices for a long time to provide cooling. It cannot do so forever, though, but the creature is suffocated if it does not breathe, as has also been said before; for the kind of wasting-away that comes from not being cooled is called suffocation, and we say that things destroyed in this way are suffocated. That the insect class of animals does not breathe has also been said before, and it is evident too in the case of small animals, such as flies and bees; for they can be kept swimming in liquids for a long time, provided the liquid is not too hot or too cold.
17| And yet creatures of small power seek to breathe more frequently. But these creatures are destroyed, and are said to be suffocated, when the belly-cavity is filled and the moisture in the diaphragm-band is destroyed. This is why, after lying a while in ashes, they rise up again. And among creatures that live in water, those that are bloodless live longer in air than the blooded ones that take in seawater, such as fish; for because they have little heat, the air suffices to cool them for a long time — for example the soft-shelled creatures and the octopuses. Still, it does not suffice all the way to sustain life, because they have little heat, since indeed most fish live on land too, though motionless, and are found by digging them up. For whatever creatures either have no lung at all, or have a bloodless one, need cooling less often.
18| Concerning the bloodless creatures, then, it has been said that for some the surrounding air, for others the water, helps toward life. As for the blooded creatures that have a heart, all those that have a lung take in air and effect their cooling by breathing in and breathing out. And a lung is possessed by those that bear their young alive within themselves and not only outside (for the cartilaginous fish bear their young alive, but not within themselves), and among the egg-laying creatures, both the feathered ones, such as birds, and the scaly ones, such as tortoises, lizards, and snakes. The former group is blooded; and most of the latter have a spongy lung. This is why they use breathing more sparsely, as has been said before too. And all creatures that spend their lives and pass their time in the waters make use of breathing as well — for instance the class of water-snakes, frogs, crocodiles, freshwater tortoises, both the sea tortoises and the land tortoises, and seals; for all of these and creatures like them give birth on dry land, and sleep either on dry land, or in the water while holding their mouth above it for the sake of breathing. Whatever creatures have gills are all cooled by taking in water —
19| and gills are possessed by the class of the so-called cartilaginous fish and the other footless creatures. And all fish are footless; for even the parts they have that resemble feet, they have in the likeness of little fins. Of the creatures that have feet, only one that has been observed has a single gill, the creature called the tadpole-like one. But nothing has yet been seen having both a lung and gills at the same time. The reason is that the lung exists for the sake of cooling by means of breath (indeed the lung seems to have taken its very name from its reception of breath), whereas gills exist for cooling from water; and one instrument is useful for one purpose, and a single mode of cooling is sufficient for all. So since we see nature doing nothing in vain, and of the two, one would have been in vain, for this reason some creatures have gills and others have a lung, but none has both.
20| Since each of the animals needs nourishment in order to exist, and needs cooling in order to be preserved, nature makes use of the same instrument for both of these purposes — just as in some creatures the tongue serves both for tastes and for speech, so in those that have a lung, the part called the mouth serves both for the working of nourishment and for exhalation and inhalation. In those that do not have a lung and do not breathe, the mouth serves for the working of nourishment, while for those that need cooling, the nature of the gills provides it. How the power of the aforesaid instruments produces the cooling, we shall say later. As for not letting nourishment get in the way, much the same thing happens both in creatures that breathe and in those that take in liquid; for they do not take in nourishment at the same time as they breathe — otherwise it results in choking, when nourishment, whether liquid or dry, slips in beside its path toward the lung by way of the windpipe; for the windpipe lies in front of the gullet, through which the nourishment travels to the part called the stomach. In four-footed and blooded creatures, then, the windpipe has, as it were, a lid, the epiglottis —
21| but in birds, and in those four-footed creatures that lay eggs, this is not present; instead they achieve the same effect by drawing the passage together. For as they take in nourishment, some draw it together, while others place the epiglottis over it. And when the nourishment has passed on, some lift this part again, others open it apart and admit the breath for cooling. Those that have gills, having let the liquid out through these, take in nourishment through the mouth; for they do not have a windpipe, so that in this respect they could not be harmed at all by the liquid falling in beside its path, since it goes into the stomach instead. This is why they make the release and the taking of nourishment quick, and why they have sharp teeth, and nearly all of them are saw-toothed; for it is not possible for them to grind their nourishment smooth.
22| One might raise a difficulty about the cetaceans among the water animals, but their case too conforms to reason — I mean dolphins, whales, and all the others that have what is called the blowhole. These are footless, yet since they have a lung they take in sea water. The cause of this is what has just been stated: they do not take in the liquid for the sake of cooling. That cooling comes to them from breathing, since they have a lung. That is also why they sleep with the mouth held above water, and why dolphins actually snore. Further, if they are caught in nets they are quickly suffocated, because they are not breathing; and such animals are seen floating up to the surface of the sea because of their need to breathe. But since it is necessary for them to take their food in liquid, it is necessary that in taking in the liquid they also let it out again, and this is why they all have the blowhole: having taken in the water, just as fish do at the gills, they draw it up and expel it through the blowhole. A sign of this is also the position of the blowhole: it does not connect to any of the blooded parts, but is positioned in front of the brain, and lets the water out. For this same reason the molluscs and the crustaceans also take in water — I mean, for example, the animals called crayfish and crabs.
23| For none of these happens to need cooling: each of them has little heat and is bloodless, so that it is sufficiently cooled by the surrounding liquid; rather, they take in water for the sake of feeding, so that the liquid does not flow in on them at the same time as they take in food. So the crustaceans, such as crabs and crayfish, let the water out past the hairy parts, through the folds, while cuttlefish and octopuses let it out through the hollow above the part called the head. A more precise account of these has been written in the Researches on Animals. Concerning the taking in of liquid, then, it has been said that it happens both because of cooling and because those animals that are by nature aquatic must take their food from the liquid.
24| Next we must speak about cooling — in what way it occurs both in the animals that breathe and in those that have gills. That all animals that have a lung breathe has been stated earlier. As for why some animals have this part, and why those that have it need breathing, the cause of their having it is that the more honorable animals have obtained a greater share of heat; for it is necessary that they have at the same time obtained a more honorable soul as well, since such natures are more honorable than the nature of plants. That is also why the animals that have the most fully blooded and hot a lung are also greater in size, and why man, who among animals has the purest and most abundant blood, stands most upright, and is the only animal whose upper part is oriented toward the upper part of the universe — because of having this part of such a kind. So this must be posited as a cause of the substance both of this animal and of the others, just as any other of the parts is. It has the lung, then, for the sake of this. But one must also think that such animals are constituted by the cause that arises from necessity and from motion, just as many animals not of this kind are also constituted; for some have come to be from a greater share of earth, as the class of plants, others from water, as the class of water animals; and of the winged and land animals, some from air and some from fire. And each has its rank in its own proper region.
25| Empedocles did not put this well when he said that the hottest animals, having the most fire, are aquatic, fleeing the excess of heat in their nature, so that, since they are deficient in the cold and the liquid, they might recover the opposites by their region — for liquid, he says, is less hot than air. Now in general it is strange how it is possible for each of them, having come to be in the dry, to change its region to the liquid; for pretty much all of them are, moreover, footless. And he who says their original constitution came to be says they came to be in the dry, but fled and came into the liquid. Further, they do not appear to be hotter than the land animals: some of them are entirely bloodless, and others have little blood. But what sort of things one ought to call hot and cold has its own inquiry, taken in its own right; as for the cause Empedocles has stated, in one respect it has some plausible account for what is sought, but what he says is not in fact true. For the opposite regions and seasons preserve those that have excesses of state, but nature is preserved most of all in its own proper regions. For the matter of animals, out of which each of them is, is not the same thing as its states and dispositions.
26| I mean, for example, if nature were to constitute something out of wax, she would not have preserved it by placing it in the hot, nor if out of ice; for it would quickly have been destroyed by the opposite, since heat melts what has been constituted by the opposite. Nor if she had constituted something out of salt or soda, would she have carried it and set it down in liquid; for liquid destroys what has been constituted by the hot and the dry. If, then, the liquid and the dry are matter for all bodies, it is reasonable that the things constituted out of liquid and cold are in liquids, and if cold, will be in the cold, and those out of the dry in the dry. This is why trees do not grow in water, but in earth. And yet by the same reasoning they should go into water, on the ground that they are excessively dry, just as he says the excessively fiery animals do — for it was not because of the cold that the animal went into the liquid, but because it is liquid itself. So the natures of matter, in whatever region they are, happen to be of that kind: those in water are liquid, those in earth are dry, those in air are hot. States, however — those that exceed in heat are preserved more by being placed in the cold, and those that exceed in coldness by being placed in the hot —
27| for the region equalizes the excess of the state toward the mean. This, then, one must investigate with reference to the proper regions of each kind of matter, and with reference to the changes of the common season; for it is possible for states to be opposite to their regions, but for matter this is impossible. That it is not, then, because of the heat of their nature that some animals are aquatic and others land-dwelling, as Empedocles says, let this much be said, and also why some do not have a lung while others do. As for why those that have it take in air and breathe, and especially those among them that are blooded, the cause of their breathing is that the lung is spongy and full of passages. And indeed this part is the most fully blooded of the things called viscera. So those animals whose lung is blooded need rapid cooling, because the inclination of the soul's fire is small in them, yet it must penetrate inward throughout because of the quantity of blood and of heat. Both of these air can do easily: because it has a fine nature it both penetrates throughout and, passing through quickly, cools thoroughly; water does the opposite. And that those with a blooded lung breathe most of all is clear from these considerations: what is hotter needs more cooling, and at the same time the breath travels easily toward the source of the heat in the heart.
28| The way the heart has its passage toward the lung must be studied both from dissections and from the researches written on animals. Now the nature of animals in general needs cooling, on account of the fire of the soul that burns in the heart. Those animals produce this cooling by means of respiration which have not only a heart but also a lung. Those that have a heart but no lung, as fish do not, because their nature is aquatic, produce their cooling by water, through the gills. How the position of the heart stands relative to the gills must be studied, for the visible fact, from dissections, and for precision, from the researches; but to state it now in summary, it stands as follows. It might seem that the heart does not have the same position in land animals as in fish, but it does have the same position. For in whatever direction the animals incline their heads, there the heart has its point. But since the heads of land animals and of fish do not incline the same way, the heart has its point toward the mouth.
29| From the tip of the heart a channel, like a vein and sinew together, stretches to the middle, where all the gills join with one another. This is the largest such channel; but on either side of the heart other channels also stretch to the tip of each of the gills, through which the cooling reaches the heart, as the water continually runs its course through the gills. In the same way, in animals that breathe, the chest moves up and down repeatedly as they take in and let out breath, just as the gills do for fish. And breathing animals suffocate in a small and unchanging quantity of air; for in each case the medium quickly grows hot, since the touch of the blood heats it in both cases. The blood, being hot, prevents the cooling; and when breathing animals are unable to move the lung, or aquatic animals the gills, because of disease or old age, then death occurs.
30| Now coming-to-be and death are common to all animals, but the manners of it differ in kind; for destruction is not undifferentiated, though it does have something common to it. Death is either violent or natural: violent whenever the principle is from outside, natural whenever it is within the thing itself. And natural death is when the constitution of the part is such from the start, and not some acquired affection. In plants this is called withering, in animals it is called old age. Death and destruction occur alike for all things that are not incomplete; for incomplete things, in a similar way but by a different manner. By incomplete I mean, for example, eggs, and the seeds of plants, those that have not yet taken root. For all things, then, destruction occurs through the failing of some heat, but for complete things, through the failing of the heat in that part where the principle of the substance resides. This, as has been said before, is the point where the upper and lower parts join — in plants, the middle between shoot and root; among animals, in the blooded ones the heart, in the bloodless ones the analogous part. Some of these have many such principles potentially, though not in actuality.
31| That is why some insects go on living when cut apart, and why, among blooded animals, those that are not overly full of life live for a long time even with the heart removed — tortoises, for example, which still move with their feet while the shell is still on, because their nature is not well put together, in a way similar to insects. The principle of life fails, in those that possess it, whenever the heat that shares in it is no longer cooled. For, as has often been said, this heat consumes itself by itself. So whenever the lung in the one case, or the gills in the other, become hardened — the gills or the lung drying out over a long stretch of time and becoming earthy — these parts can no longer move, nor rise and draw together. And in the end, as the strain increases, the fire gradually dies away. That is why, when small afflictions befall them in old age, they die quickly; for because the heat is small, most of it having been breathed away over the course of a long life, whatever strain then occurs in the part quickly extinguishes it — just as when a tiny, faint flame is present in something, it is put out by the smallest disturbance. That is why death in old age is painless: for they die with no violent affection befalling them, but the release of the soul comes about wholly without being perceived.
32| And among diseases, those that make the lung hard — whether by growths, or by residues, or by an excess of morbid heat, as in fevers — make the breath rapid, because the lung is unable to rise high and settle far down. And in the end, when they can no longer move it at all, they die, breathing their last. Coming-to-be, then, is the first participation of the nutritive soul in the hot element, and life is the persistence of this participation. Youth is the growth of the primary cooling part, old age is its decline, and the prime of life is the mean between the two. A violent ending and destruction is the quenching and withering of the heat; for it could be destroyed through either of these two causes, while the natural death is the withering of this same heat coming about through length of time and completeness. In plants this is called withering, in animals it is called death. Of this, death in old age is the withering of the part through an incapacity to produce cooling, caused by old age. What, then, coming-to-be and life and death are, and through what causes they belong to animals, has been stated.
33| From this it is also clear why it happens that breathing animals suffocate in liquid, while fish suffocate in air: for in the one case cooling comes about through water, in the other through air, and each is deprived of its proper medium when the two change places. The cause of the motion — of the gills in the one case, of the lung in the other, by whose rising and settling the one group breathes out and in while the other takes in the liquid and expels it — and further the constitution of the organ itself, stands as follows.
34| There are three things that occur with respect to the heart which seem to have the same nature but do not: throbbing, pulsation, and respiration. Throbbing, then, is a contraction of the heat within the heart caused by a cooling that is either excremental or dissolving, as in the disease called palpitation, and in other diseases too, and also in states of fear; for those who are afraid grow cold in the upper parts, and the heat, fleeing inward and drawing together, produces the throbbing, being pushed together into so small a space that animals sometimes are extinguished and die from fear and from this morbid affection. But the pulsation that occurs in the heart, which it evidently keeps producing continuously, is like that of abscesses — the motion they produce with pain, because the change taking place in the blood is contrary to nature. This continues until the matter is concocted into pus. This affection is like boiling; for boiling occurs when the liquid is turned into vapor by the heat, and it rises because its bulk becomes greater. The cessation of this, in the case of abscesses, if the matter does not disperse by breathing out, is putrefaction, as the liquid grows thicker; but in the case of boiling, the end comes by spilling over the vessel's rim.
35| In the heart, the swelling produced by heat in the moisture that continually arrives from nutriment causes the pulse, as it rises toward the outermost membrane of the heart. And this happens continuously and without interruption; for the moisture from which the substance of blood arises continually flows in without interruption — for blood is first produced in the heart. This is clear from its generation, from the beginning: for even before the veins are yet distinctly formed, the heart is visibly seen to contain blood. And because of this the pulse beats more strongly in the young than in the old; for the exhalation is greater in the young. And all the veins pulse, and pulse together with one another, because they are suspended from the heart. And the heart is always in motion; so those veins too are always moving, and moving together with one another, whenever it moves. The rebound, then, is the resistance that occurs against the contraction caused by the cold, while the pulse-beat is the aeration of the moisture as it is heated.
36| Respiration occurs as the heat increases, the heat in which the nutritive principle resides. For just as everything else needs nourishment, so too does this heat, and more than the rest; for it is the cause of nourishment for the rest. So, as it becomes greater, it necessarily raises the organ. One should suppose that the structure of this organ is similar to the bellows used in smithies; for neither the lung nor the heart is far from admitting such a shape; and this structure is double, for the nutritive part of the natural power must lie in the middle. So it rises as it becomes greater, and as it rises the part surrounding it must necessarily rise as well. This is plainly what those who breathe do: they raise the chest, because the principle residing within it makes that part do this same thing. For as it rises, just as with bellows, it necessarily draws in the air from outside, and this air, being cold and cooling, quenches the excess of the fire. And just as this part rose as the heat increased, so, as the heat diminishes, the part must necessarily sink down, and as it sinks the air that entered must go out again — entering cold but leaving hot, on account of its contact with the heat present in this part, and most of all in those creatures whose lung contains blood;
37| for the air falls into the passages in the lung, which are like many channels, and alongside each of these veins are stretched out, so that the whole lung seems to be full of blood. The entrance of the air is called inhalation, and its exit exhalation. And this happens continuously without interruption, for as long as the animal lives and this part continues to move without interruption. And because of this, life consists in breathing in and breathing out. And in the same way, the movement of the gills occurs in fish. For as the heat in the blood rises through the parts, the gills also rise, and let the water pass through; and as it descends toward the heart through the passages and is cooled, the gills sink down, and release the water. And since the heat in the heart is always rising, the fish always takes in water again as it cools. For this reason, for land animals life and death find their end in breathing, and for fish in taking in moisture. Concerning life and death, then, and the topics related to this inquiry, nearly everything has been said. But concerning health and disease, it belongs not only to the doctor but also to the natural philosopher, up to a point, to state the causes.
38| But it should not escape notice in what way they differ, and in what respect they study different things, since what actually happens bears witness that the two inquiries border on one another up to a point: for among doctors, those who are refined or meticulous say something about nature and think it right to take their principles from there, and among those who have written treatises on nature, the most refined pretty much end up at medical principles.
1| History of Animals, Book 1. Of the parts found in animals, some are non-composite — those that divide into parts alike in kind, as flesh divides into flesh — while others are composite — those that divide into parts unlike in kind, as the hand does not divide into hands, nor the face into faces. Of parts of the latter kind, some are called not only parts but also limbs. Such are those that, being themselves whole parts, contain within themselves other parts — for example the head, the leg, the hand, the whole arm, and the chest; for these are themselves whole parts, and there are other parts within them. Now all the parts unlike in kind are composed out of the parts alike in kind — for example the hand out of flesh and sinews and bones. Some animals have all their parts the same as one another, others have different parts. Of parts that are the same, some are the same in form — for example a human's nose and eye are the same in form as another human's nose and eye, and flesh is the same as flesh, bone as bone; and the same holds for the horse and the other animals that we say are the same as themselves in form, for as the whole stands to the whole, so each of the parts stands to each. Other parts are the same, but differ by excess and deficiency, wherever the genus is the same for both.
2| By genus I mean, for example, bird and fish; for each of these has a differentia proper to its genus, and there are several species of fish and of birds. Most of the parts differ among themselves owing to the opposition of their affections — for example of color and of shape — in that some are more affected in this way and others less, and further by superiority and inferiority in number, and in largeness and smallness, and in general by excess and deficiency. For some of these animals have soft flesh and others hard flesh, and some have a long beak and others a short one, and some have many feathers and others few. Yet even among these, some have parts that others lack — for example some have spurs and others do not, and some have a crest and others do not. But speaking generally, most of the parts, and indeed the parts out of which the whole bulk is composed, are either the same or differ by their opposites, that is by excess and deficiency; for the more and the less one might class as a kind of excess and deficiency. Some animals, however, have parts that are neither the same in form nor differing by excess and deficiency, but analogous — as bone stands to fish-spine, and claw to hoof, and hand to pincer, and scale to feather;
3| for what feather is in a bird, that scale is in a fish. So then, with respect to the parts that each of the animals has, they are different and the same in this way, and further in the position of the parts; for many animals have the same parts, but not placed in the same way — for example some have their breasts on the chest, others near the thighs. Of the parts alike in kind, some are soft and moist, others dry and solid. Moist — either altogether, or for as long as they remain in their natural state — are, for example, blood, serum, lard, suet, marrow, seed, bile, milk in those that have it, flesh and what is analogous to it in other animals, and further, in another way, the residues, such as phlegm, and the sediments of the stomach and of the bladder. Dry and solid are, for example, sinew, skin, vein, hair, bone, cartilage, claw, horn (for "horn" is used equivocally as applied to the genus, whenever the whole is also called horn from its shape), and further whatever is analogous to these. The differentiae among animals lie in their modes of life, their activities, their characters, and their parts; about these let us first speak in outline, and afterward, giving attention to each genus in turn, we shall speak of them individually.
4| The differentiae with respect to modes of life, characters, and activities are of the following sort. Some animals are aquatic, others live on land; and aquatic animals are so in two ways: some, because they pass their life and take their nourishment in the water, and take in water and let it out, and cannot live if deprived of this — as happens with many fish; others take their nourishment and spend their time in the water, yet do not take in water but air, and give birth outside the water. Many such animals are also land-dwelling, like the otter, the beaver, and the crocodile, and some are winged, like the diver-bird and the grebe, and some are footless, like the water-snake. Some take their nourishment in the water and cannot live outside it, yet take in neither air nor water — for example the sea-nettle and the shellfish. Of aquatic animals, some are marine, some river-dwelling, some lake-dwelling, some marsh-dwelling, like the frog and the tadpole. Of land animals, some take in air and let it out, which is called breathing in and breathing out — for example man and all land animals that have lungs;
5| others do not take in air at all, yet live and get their nourishment on land — for example the wasp, the bee, and the other insects. I call insects those that have notches along the body, either on the underside, or on both the underside and the upper side. And of land animals many, as has been said, procure their nourishment from the water, while of aquatic animals — even those that take in the sea — none procures nourishment from the land. Some animals live at first in water, then change into another form and live outside it, as happens with the gnats found in rivers; for the gadfly is generated from these. Further, some animals are stationary, others capable of movement; and the stationary ones are found in water — none of the land animals is stationary. In water many live by being attached, like many kinds of shellfish. The sponge too seems to have some perception; the sign of this is that it is harder to tear away, they say, unless the disturbance is made stealthily. Some are both attached and detached, as is a certain kind of the so-called sea-nettle; for some of these detach themselves at night and go about feeding.
6| Many are detached yet motionless, like the shellfish and the so-called sea-cucumbers. Others are swimmers, like fish and the cephalopods and the crustaceans, such as the crayfish. Others are walkers, like the crab kind; for this, though aquatic in nature, is a walker. Of land animals, some are winged, like birds and bees, and these differ from one another in their manner of flight, and others are footed. And of the footed ones, some are walkers, some crawlers, some wrigglers. Nothing is winged only, just as no fish is a swimmer only; for even the leather-winged creatures walk on the ground, and the bat has feet, and the seal has stunted feet. And among birds there are some poor-footed ones, which for this reason are called "footless"; this little bird is well-feathered. And nearly all birds resembling it are well-feathered but poor-footed, like the swallow and the swift; for all these are alike in habits and alike in wing, and their appearances are close to one another. The footless one appears at every season, but the swift when it rains in summer; for then it is seen and caught, and in general this bird is rare. Many animals are both walkers and swimmers.
7| There are also differences of the following kind, in ways of life and activities. Some animals are gregarious, others solitary, and some are land-dwelling, others winged, others swimming, while others live in both ways. And among both the gregarious and the solitary, some are political and some are scattered. Gregarious, for example, among the winged, are the pigeon family, the crane, and the swan (no hook-taloned bird is gregarious), and among swimming creatures many kinds of fish, such as those they call runners — tunny, pelamyds, amiae. Man lives in both ways. Political animals are those for which some single common task arises for all — which not all gregarious animals do. Man is such, and so is the bee, the wasp, the ant, the crane. And of these, some live under a leader, others without a ruler: the crane, for instance, and the bee family live under a leader, while ants and countless others have no ruler. Some, whether gregarious or solitary, stay at home, others migrate. Some are flesh-eating, some fruit-eating, some omnivorous, and some feed on a special diet of their own, like the bee family and the spider family: bees live on honey and a few other sweet things, spiders live by hunting flies, while others feed on fish.
8| Some are hunters, some are food-storers, others not. Some make dwellings, others are homeless: dwelling-makers, for example, are the mole, the mouse, the ant, the bee, while many insects and four-footed creatures are homeless. Again, by location, some are burrowers, like the lizard and the snake, others live above ground, like the horse and the dog. Some are hole-dwellers, others not. Some are night-active, like the owl and the bat, others live in the light. Again, some are tame and some are wild, and some are always so: man and the mule are always tame, others are always wild, like the leopard and the wolf; others again can be tamed quickly, like the elephant. And yet in another sense: all the kinds that are tame also occur wild, for example horses, cattle, pigs, sheep, goats, dogs. Some are noisy, others voiceless, others vocal, and of these some have a distinct call while others are inarticulate, and some are chattering, others silent, some are song-birds, others not; but it is common to all that they sing and call most around mating time. Some are creatures of open country, like the wood-pigeon, others of the mountains, like the hoopoe, and others live alongside man, like the domestic pigeon.
9| Some are highly sexual, like the partridge and the cock family, others are chaste, like the crow family of birds — these mate rarely. Among sea creatures, some live in the open sea, some near the shore, some among rocks. Again, some are defensive, others merely watchful: defensive are those that either attack or, when wronged, fight back; watchful are those that have within themselves a means of escaping harm without fighting. They also differ in the following ways of character. Some are gentle, low-spirited, and unaggressive, like the ox; others are spirited, aggressive, and unintelligent, like the wild pig; others are prudent and timid, like the deer and the hare; others are ignoble and treacherous, like snakes; others are noble-spirited, courageous, and well-bred, like the lion; others are high-born yet wild and treacherous, like the wolf — for well-bred means coming from a good stock, while noble-spirited means not departing from one's own nature. Some are cunning and mischievous, like the fox; some are spirited, affectionate, and fawning, like the dog; some are gentle and easily tamed, like the elephant; some are bashful and watchful, like the goose; some are jealous and lovers of beauty, like the peacock.
10| Man alone among animals is capable of deliberation. Many animals share in memory and in being taught, but none besides man can recollect. The characters and ways of life belonging to each kind will be discussed later in greater detail. All animals have in common the parts by which they take in food and the part into which they take it; and these are the same or different in the ways already stated — differing in species, in degree, by analogy, or in position. Beyond these, most animals have further common parts, namely that by which they expel the residue of their food and that by which they take it in — for this is not present in all. What takes it in is called the mouth, what receives it is called the stomach; the rest goes by many names. Since the residue is of two kinds, whatever has parts receptive of the moist residue also has parts for the dry food, but not all that have the latter have the former. Hence whatever has a bladder also has a stomach, but not all that have a stomach have a bladder. For the part receptive of the moist residue is called the bladder, and that of the dry residue the stomach.
11| Of the remaining parts, many animals also have those by which they emit seed; and among these, in those where generation of animals occurs, one emits into itself, the other into another. What emits into itself is called female, what emits into this is called male. In some there is no male and female; and here too the form of the parts serving this function differs — some have a uterus, others what is analogous to it. These, then, are the most necessary parts, some belonging to all animals, others to most. All animals have one perception in common, and only one: touch. Hence the part in which this naturally occurs has no name — for in some it is the same organ, in others what is analogous to it.
12| Every animal also has moisture, deprived of which, whether by nature or by force, it perishes. Further, there is that in which this moisture arises, and this is a further thing: in some it is blood and vein, in others what is analogous to these; and in some these are incomplete, as with one animal it is fibrous fluid, with another ichor. Touch, then, occurs in a uniform part, such as flesh or something of that kind, and in general in blooded creatures, wherever they have blood; in the others it occurs in the analogous part, but in all of them it occurs in the uniform parts. The functional capacities, on the other hand, occur in the non-uniform parts — for example the working of food occurs in the mouth, and locomotion in feet or wings or their analogues. Beyond this, some animals are blooded, such as man and the horse and all that, when mature, are footless, or two-footed, or four-footed; others are bloodless, such as the bee and the wasp, and among sea creatures the cuttlefish and the crayfish and all that have more than four feet.
13| Some animals bear live young, others lay eggs, others produce larvae. Live-bearers are, for example, man and the horse and the seal and all the others that have hair, and among water creatures the whale-kind, such as the dolphin, and the so-called cartilaginous fish. Of these, some have a blowhole and no gills, like the dolphin and the whale (the dolphin has its blowhole through its back, the whale on its forehead), others have uncovered gills, like the cartilaginous fish, the dogfish and the rays. Among complete conceptions, that is called an egg from which the animal that comes to be is generated, beginning from one part, while the rest serves as nourishment for what is being formed; a larva is that from which the whole animal comes to be from the whole, the conception being articulated and growing as a whole. Of the live-bearers, some lay eggs within themselves, like the cartilaginous fish, others bear live young within themselves, like man and the horse; and into the visible world, in some cases, once the conception is complete, an animal emerges, in others an egg, in others a larva. Of eggs, some are hard-shelled and two-colored, like those of birds, others are soft-shelled and single-colored, like those of the cartilaginous fish.
14| Among grubs, too, some are motile from the start and others are not. But about these we will speak with precision later, in the works on generation. Further, of animals some have feet and some are footless; and of those with feet, some have two feet, as man and birds alone, some have four, as the lizard and the dog, and some have more, as the centipede and the bee; but all have an even number of feet. Of the swimming animals, those without feet have fins, as fish do, and of these some have four fins, two above on the upper side and two below on the underside, as the gilthead and the bass, while others have only two, namely those that are elongated and smooth, as the eel and the conger; others have none at all, as the moray and any others that use the sea the way snakes use land, and they swim through the water in the same fashion. Of the cartilaginous fish, some have no fins at all, namely the flat, tail-bearing ones, as the ray and the sting-ray, but these swim with their flat bodies themselves; the fishing-frog, however, does have fins, as do all those whose flatness is not extreme. As for those that appear to have feet, as the soft-bodied creatures do, these swim with their fins as well, and move faster tail-first, as the cuttlefish, the squid, and the octopus;
15| but neither of these actually walks, no more than the octopus does. The hard-shelled creatures, as the crayfish, swim with their tail-parts, and move fastest tail-first, by means of the fins on that part; and the crab-fry swims with its feet and its tail-part, having a tail-part like the sheat-fish's, small compared to large, so to speak. Of the winged creatures, some are feathered, as the eagle and the hawk, some are plumed, as the bee and the cockchafer, and some have skin-wings, as the fox-bat and the bat. Now those that are feathered are all blooded creatures, and likewise those with skin-wings; those that are plumed are all bloodless, as the insects. The feathered and the skin-winged are all either two-footed or footless; for there are said to be certain snakes of this sort around Ethiopia. Now the feathered class of animals is called bird, while the other two classes have no single name of their own. Of the winged but bloodless creatures, some are sheath-winged (for they keep their wings inside a sheath, as the cockchafers and the dung-beetles), and others have no sheath; and of these latter some are two-winged, others four-winged — four-winged whichever have some size or have their sting at the rear, two-winged whichever lack size or have their sting at the front. None of the sheath-winged creatures has a sting.
16| The two-winged creatures have their stings at the front, as the fly, the horse-fly, the gadfly, and the gnat. All the bloodless creatures are smaller in size than the blooded ones, except that a few bloodless creatures in the sea are larger, as some of the soft-bodied kind. These classes grow largest in the warmest regions, and more so in the sea than on land, and in fresh waters as well. Everything that moves, moves by means of four points or more: the blooded creatures by four only, as man with two hands and two feet, the bird with two wings and two feet, and the four-footed creatures and fishes, the former with four feet and the latter with four fins. As for those that have only two fins or none at all, as the snake, they move no less by four points; for its bends are four, or two together with the fins. But such bloodless creatures as have more feet, whether winged or land-going, move by more points, as the creature called the day-fly does, by four feet and wings; for this creature is remarkable not only in its manner of life, from which it gets its name, but also in that, though it is winged, it is also four-footed.
17| All creatures move alike, the four-footed and the many-footed; for they move on the diagonal. Now the other animals have two feet that lead, but the crab alone of animals has four. The greatest classes of animals, into which the rest of the animals are divided, are these: one of birds, one of fishes, another of cetaceans. All of these, then, are blooded. Another class is that of the hard-shelled creatures, which is called the oyster kind; another is that of the soft-shelled creatures, which has no single name, as the crayfish and certain classes of crabs and lobsters; another is that of the soft-bodied creatures, as the squids and the calamaries and the cuttlefish; and a further one is that of the insects. All of these are bloodless, and whichever of them have feet are many-footed; and some of the insects are winged as well. Of the remaining animals the classes are no longer large; for a single class does not embrace many species, but in some cases the species itself is simple, having no differentia, as man, while in others it does have differentiae, but the species are nameless. For the four-footed, non-winged creatures are all blooded, but some of them bear their young alive and others lay eggs. Now whichever bear their young alive do not all have hair, and whichever lay eggs have scales; and the scale is something like a strip of the horny plate. The class of snakes is by nature bloodless — footless and land-going; and this class is scaly.
18| But whereas the other snakes lay eggs, the viper alone bears its young alive. For not all live-bearing creatures have hair; indeed some fishes too bear their young alive; yet whichever have hair all bear their young alive. For one must reckon as a kind of hair the spine-like hairs too, such as land hedgehogs and porcupines have; for these serve the purpose of hair, not of feet, unlike those of the sea-creatures. Of the class of four-footed, live-bearing animals there are many species, but they are nameless; still, taken one by one, so to speak, just as man has been named, so too lion, deer, horse, dog, and the rest in this same way — since there is a single class as well in the case of the so-called tufted-tail animals, as the horse and the ass and the mule and the hinny and the jenny and the creatures called in Syria half-asses, which are called half-asses on account of resemblance, though they are not simply the same species; for indeed they mate with one another and produce offspring from one another. For this reason one must, even when taking them separately, examine the nature of each of them.
19| These things, then, have now been stated in this manner in outline, by way of a taste, for the sake of showing about how many and what sort of things one must inquire; we will speak with precision later, so that we may first grasp the differentiae that belong to them and the attributes that belong to all. After this one must try to find the causes of these things. For it is natural to conduct the inquiry in this way, once the descriptive history concerning each animal is available; for it becomes clear from these what the demonstration ought to be about and out of what it ought to be built. One must first take up the parts of animals, out of which they are composed. For it is chiefly and primarily in respect of these that wholes differ as well, either by having some parts and not having others, or by position and arrangement, or according to the differentiae stated earlier — in form, in degree, in ratio, and in the opposition of their affections. First one must take up the parts of man; for just as everyone tests coinage by reference to what is most familiar to himself, so too in other matters; and man is necessarily the animal most familiar to us. Now the parts are not unclear to perception; still, for the sake of not omitting what comes next in order, and of having an account to go along with perception, one must state the parts, first the organic ones, then the uniform ones.
20| These, then, are the largest parts into which the body as a whole is divided: head, neck, chest, two arms, two legs, and the cavity from the neck to the genitals, which is called the thorax. Of the head, the part covered with hair is called the skull. Of this, the front part is the bregma, which comes into being last (for it is the last of the bones in the body to harden), the back part is the inion, and the part between the inion and the bregma is the crown. Under the bregma is the brain, but the inion is empty. The whole skull is a porous, rounded bone, covered by fleshless skin. It has sutures — in women, one running in a circle, in men, as a rule, three meeting at one point; but a man's head has before now been seen with no suture at all. The middle of the skull, where the hair lies smooth, is called the crown. In some people this is double, for some are born with two crowns — not from a double bone, but from the way the hair lies smooth in two places. The part under the skull is called, only in the case of man among the other animals, the face; for one does not speak of the face of a fish or an ox. Of the face, the part under the bregma between the eyes is the forehead. In those in whom this is large, people are slower; in those in whom it is small, quick to move; and in those in whom it is broad, given to distraction; in those in whom it is rounded, quick-tempered.
21| Under the forehead are the two eyebrows. Of these, straight ones are a sign of a soft character; those curving down toward the nose, of a harsh one; those curving toward the temples, of a mocking and dissembling character; those drawn down, of envy. Under the eyebrows are the eyes. These are naturally two in number. Each of them has parts, the upper and lower eyelid. Of the eyelid, the outermost hairs are the eyelashes. Of the inside of the eye, the moist part with which it sees is the pupil, the part around this is the black, and the part outside that is the white. The part of the eyelid shared by the upper and lower is the two corners, one toward the nose and one toward the temples; if these are long, it is a sign of ill nature, and if, as in the case of combs, they have flesh toward the nostril, of wickedness. Now all the other kinds of animals, except the testaceans and any other incomplete kind, have eyes; and all the live-bearing animals have them, except the mole. This animal one might posit as having them in a certain way, yet as wholly without them. For it wholly neither sees nor has eyes visible in the open; but once the skin is stripped away, it has both the place where the eyes should be and, in that region, the black parts of the eyes, and the space that by nature belongs to eyes on the outside — as if in its formation the eyes had been stunted and the skin had grown over them.
22| Of the eye, the white is much alike in all animals, but the so-called black part differs: in some it is black, in others quite grey-blue, in others light blue, and in some goat-eyed, which is a sign of the best character and is strongest for sharpness of vision. Man alone, or man most of all among animals, has eyes of many colors; the other animals each have one kind. Horses, though, are sometimes born grey-blue-eyed. Of eyes, some are large, some small, some middling; the middling are best. And eyes are set either quite prominent, or sunken, or in between; of these, the sunken are the sharpest-sighted in every animal, while the middling is a sign of the best character. And eyes are either given to blinking, or fixed and staring, or in between; the middling is a sign of the best character, while of the other two, the one is a sign of shamelessness, the other of instability.
23| Further, there is a part of the head through which one hears, without breath passing through it, the ear; for Alcmaeon is not speaking the truth when he says that goats breathe through their ears. Of the ear, one part has no name, the other is the lobe. The whole is composed of cartilage and flesh. On the inside its nature is like that of spiral shells, and at its innermost end there is a bone resembling the ear itself, into which, as into a final vessel, sound arrives. This bone has no passage into the brain, but does have one into the roof of the mouth; and a vein stretches from the brain to it. The eyes too terminate in the brain, and each of them lies upon a small vein. Man alone among the animals possessing this part has an immovable ear. For of the animals possessing hearing, some have ears and some do not, but instead have the passage exposed, as do all that are feathered or scaly. All that are live-bearing have ears, except the seal and the dolphin and the other whale-like creatures of that kind — for the cartilaginous fish too are live-bearing — but man alone does not move his ears. Now the seal has visible passages by which it hears; the dolphin hears, but has no ears.
24| All the other animals move their ears. The ears are set on the same circumference as the eyes, and not, as in some of the four-footed animals, above them. Of ears, some are bare, some hairy, some in between; the in-between are best for hearing, but signify nothing about character. And ears are either large or small or middling, or standing up very much, or not at all, or in between; the middling are a sign of the best character, while large ears that stand up are signs of foolish talk and idle chatter. The part between the eye, the ear, and the crown is called the temple. Further, of the face, the passage for the breath is the nose; for one both breathes in and breathes out through it, and a sneeze occurs through it — a sudden discharge of breath, and the only one of the breaths that is taken as an omen and held sacred. Breathing in and breathing out occur at the same time as movement toward the chest, and it is impossible to breathe in or out through the nostrils apart from this, because breathing in and out proceed from the chest by way of the uvula, and not from some part of the head; but it is possible to live without making use of this passage. Smelling occurs through this part; and this is the perception of odor.
25| The nostril is easily moved, and not, like the ear, immovable on its own. One part of it is the cartilage that divides it, the other the hollow channel; for the nostril is split in two. In elephants the nose becomes long and strong, and the animal uses it like a hand; for with it the elephant draws things to itself and takes hold of them, and brings food, both wet and dry, to its mouth — the only animal to do so. Further, there are two jaws; of these, the front one is the chin, the back one the jaw proper. All animals move the lower jaw, except the river crocodile; this one moves only the upper. After the nose come the two lips, easily moved flesh. The mouth is the interior enclosed by the jaws and lips. Of this, one part is the palate, the other the pharynx. The organ that perceives flavor is the tongue; the perception occurs at its tip, and if a flavor is placed on the flat part, it is felt less. It also perceives everything that the rest of the flesh perceives, such as hard, hot, and cold in any part whatsoever, just as it perceives flavor. The tongue is either broad or narrow or middling; the middling is best and clearest. And it is either loose or bound down, as in the case of the lisping and the stammering.
26| The tongue is flesh that is loose and spongy. A part of it is the epiglottis. The double-formed part of the mouth is the tonsil, the multiply-formed part is the gum; these are fleshy. Inside are the teeth, made of bone. Within is another part that bears the uvula, a vein-covered pillar; if this becomes moist and inflamed, it is called the uvula, and it chokes. The neck is what lies between the face and the chest. Of this, the front part is the larynx, the back part is the gullet. Of the larynx, the cartilaginous and forward part, through which voice and breath pass, is the windpipe; the fleshy part is the gullet, lying inside in front of the spine. The back part of the neck is the point of the shoulder. These, then, are the parts as far as the chest. Of the chest, some parts are in front, some behind. First, after the neck, in the front parts, is the breast, double because of the two breasts. Of these the nipple is double, through which milk filters in females; the breast itself is loose in texture. Milk also forms in males; but the flesh is dense in males, while in women it is spongy and full of passages.
27| After the chest, in the front parts, is the belly, and its root is the navel. Below its root, the part that is double is the flank; the part that is single is, below the navel, the abdomen (the lowest part of this is the pubic region), and above the navel is the hypochondrium; the part common to the hypochondrium and the flank is the flank-hollow. Of the parts behind, the loin is the girding band, from which it also gets its name (for it seems to be of uniform growth throughout); of the region of motion, the part that serves as a kind of seat is the buttock, and the part in which the thigh turns is the hip-socket. The part peculiar to the female is the womb, and to the male the genitals, on the outside at the end of the trunk, in two parts: the tip, which is fleshy and smooth and, one might say, uniform, is called the glans; the skin around it has no name of its own, and if it is cut through it does not grow back together, any more than the cheek or the eyelid does. Common to this skin and to the glans is the foreskin. The remaining part is cartilaginous and grows readily, and it goes out and comes in in the opposite way to the case of tufted-tailed animals. Below the genitals are the two testicles. The skin around them is called the scrotum. The testicles are neither identical with flesh nor far removed from flesh; how they are constituted will be stated later in detail, in general, concerning all parts of this kind.
28| The genitals of the woman are the opposite of those of men: for the part below the pubic bone is hollow, and not, as in the male, projecting outward. And the urethra lies outside the womb, a passage for the male's semen, and an outlet for the liquid residue of both. The part common to the neck and the chest is the throat-hollow; common to the ribs, the upper arm, and the shoulder is the armpit; common to the thigh and the abdomen is the groin. The inner part common to the thigh and the buttock is the perineum; the outer part common to the thigh and the buttock is the under-buttock. Concerning the front parts of the trunk enough has been said; the back part of the chest is the back.
29| The parts of the back are the two shoulder-blades and the spine, and below, level with the belly of the trunk, is the loin. Common to the upper and lower parts are the ribs, eight on each side; for as regards the Ligurians said to have seven ribs, we have not yet heard anything trustworthy on the matter. A human being has both an upper and a lower part, front and back parts, and right and left parts. Now the right and left parts are nearly alike in their divisions and the same in all respects, except that the left side is weaker; but the back parts are unlike the front, and the lower unlike the upper, except in this respect, that they are alike: the parts below the abdomen resemble the face in fleshiness and leanness, and the legs stand opposite the arms; and those whose elbows are short generally also have short thighs, and those whose feet are small also have small hands. Of the limb, the double-jointed part is the upper arm; of the upper arm, the parts are the shoulder, the elbow, the point of the elbow, the forearm, and the hand; of the hand, the palm and five fingers; of the finger, the bending part is the knuckle, the unbending part is the joint-bone. Of the fingers, the thumb has one knuckle, the rest have two. The bending, both of the arm and of the finger, is inward in every case;
30| and the upper arm bends at the point of the elbow. Of the hand, the inner part is the palm, fleshy and divided by joint-lines — in the long-lived, by one or two lines running all the way across, in the short-lived, by two lines that do not run all the way across. The joints of the hand and the arm form the wrist. The outer part of the hand is sinewy and has no name. Of the limb, the leg is another two-part member. Of the leg, the part with two rounded ends is the thigh; the part that shifts about in its seat is the kneecap; the part with two bones is the shin, of which the front part is the shin proper and the back part is the calf — flesh that is sinewy or full of veins, drawn up toward the ham in those who have large hips, and in others drawn down the opposite way. The end of the shin is the ankle, which is double on each leg. The part of the leg with many bones is the foot. Of this, the back part is the heel, and of the front of the foot, the part split into five is the toes; the fleshy part underneath is the ball, and the part above, on the upper surface, is sinewy and has no name. Of the toe, one part is the nail, the other the joint; in all cases the nail is at the tip; all the lower toes bend in only one direction. Those whose foot is thick on the inside and not hollow, but who walk on the whole of it, are cunning.
31| Common to the thigh and the shin is the knee, the bending-point. These, then, are the parts common to both male and female. As for the position of the parts with respect to up and down, front and back, right and left, this might seem to be obvious to perception simply by looking at the outside; nevertheless it must be stated, for the same reason we stated the earlier matters, so that what follows may be carried through, and so that, in enumerating them, those cases that do not follow the same pattern — both among the other animals and among human beings — may be less likely to escape notice. The human being, more than the other animals, has up and down clearly marked off with reference to their natural places; for in humans, up and down correspond to the up and down of the universe as a whole. In the same way front and back, and right and left, are also disposed according to nature. Of the other animals, some do not have this distinction at all, while others have it, but in a more confused way. In every animal, the head is 'up' with reference to that animal's own body; but the human being alone, as has been said, has this part positioned with reference to what is 'up' for the whole universe, since he alone has reached completion in this respect.
32| After the head comes the neck, then the chest and the back, the one in front, the other behind. Next after these come the belly, the loin, the genitals, and the hip, then the thigh and the shin, and last the feet. The legs bend toward the front, in the direction of forward motion, and the more mobile part of the foot, along with its bend, is likewise forward; the heel is behind; and each of the anklebones is level with the ear. From the sides, right and left, come the arms, bending inward, so that the convex sides of the legs and of the arms face one another most of all in the human being. The senses and their organs — the eyes, the nostrils, and the tongue — are set in the same region, facing forward; but hearing, its organ, and the ears are set to the side, though on the same circumference as the eyes. In humans, the eyes are separated by the smallest distance relative to their size of any animal. Of the senses, the human being has touch as the most precise, and taste second; but in the rest he falls short of many animals.
33| The parts on the outer surface, then, are arranged in this way, and, as was said, are for the most part named and familiar to us because we are used to them; the internal parts are the opposite. For the internal parts of human beings are the least known of all, so that we must study them by referring to the parts of the other animals, whose nature is similar. First, then, the brain is positioned toward the front of the head. This holds likewise for the other animals that have this part; and all blooded animals have it, and so do the cephalopods too. In proportion to size, the human being has the most brain and the moistest. Two membranes surround it: the one around the bone is stronger, the one around the brain itself is weaker than that one. In all animals the brain is double in nature. And at the rear of it is what is called the cerebellum, which has a different shape both to the touch and to sight. The back part of the head is empty and hollow in all, in proportion to each animal's size. Some animals have a large head but a smaller portion of face beneath it — those that are round-faced;
34| while others have a small head but long jaws, as is true of the whole tribe of crested animals. In all animals the brain is bloodless, containing no vein within itself, and cold to the touch by nature. In most animals it has some small hollow in its middle. The membrane around it is veined; this membrane, the one enclosing the brain, is a skin-like tissue. Above the brain is the thinnest and weakest bone of the head, which is called the bregma. Three passages lead from the eye to the brain: the largest and the middle one lead to the cerebellum, and the smallest to the brain itself; the smallest is the one nearest the nostril. The largest passages lie alongside one another and do not meet, while the middle ones do meet (this is most evident in fish); for these lie nearer to the brain than the large ones do; but the smallest are furthest apart from one another and do not meet. Within the neck is what is called the esophagus, named from its length and narrowness, and also the windpipe. The windpipe is positioned, in all animals that have it, in front of the esophagus;
35| and every animal that has a lung has this windpipe too. The windpipe is cartilaginous in nature and has little blood, being surrounded by many thin small veins; it lies, toward the upper part, against the mouth, at the perforation running from the nostrils into the mouth — the passage by which, when people draw up some of their drink while drinking, it goes out from the mouth through the nostrils. Between these openings it has what is called the epiglottis, which is able to fold down over the opening of the windpipe that stretches toward the mouth. The tip of the tongue is joined to this. On the other side it descends to the space between the lungs, and from there it splits toward each of the two parts of the lung. For the lung tends to be two-parted in all animals that have one; but in the live-bearing animals the division is not equally evident, and least of all in the human being. The human lung is not much-divided, as it is in some live-bearing animals, nor is it smooth, but has an unevenness. In the egg-laying animals, such as birds and those four-footed animals that lay eggs, each part is split far apart from the other, so that the animal seems to have two lungs; and from one windpipe there are two divisions, each stretching to its own part of the lung.
36| It is also joined to the great vein and to what is called the aorta. When the windpipe is inflated, it passes the breath on into the hollow parts of the lung. These hollow parts have cartilaginous branchings that converge to a point; and from these branchings there are passages running throughout the whole lung, always passing on from larger to smaller. The heart, too, is joined to the windpipe by fatty, cartilaginous, and fibrous bonds; and where it is joined, it is hollow. When the windpipe is inflated, in some animals this does not become evident, but in the larger animals it is clear that the breath enters into the heart itself. This, then, is how the windpipe is: it receives only breath and lets it go, and nothing else, neither dry nor moist, or it causes pain until what has come down is coughed back up. The gullet is suspended above from the mouth, adjoining the windpipe, continuous with both the spine and the windpipe by membrane-like bonds, and it ends, passing through the diaphragm, into the stomach; it is fleshy in nature, and has extension both in length and in breadth. The human stomach is similar to that of a dog;
37| for it is not much larger than the intestine, but resembles, as it were, an intestine of wide bore; then comes a simple coiled intestine, then a fairly broad intestine. The lower belly is similar to that of a pig; for it is broad, and the part from it to the anus is thick and short. The omentum is attached from the middle of the belly, and is by nature a fatty membrane, as it is also in the other single-bellied and double-toothed animals. Above the intestines is the mesentery; this is membrane-like and broad, and becomes fatty. It is suspended from the great vein and the aorta, and through it run many close-set veins, stretching down toward the arrangement of the intestines, beginning above and reaching all the way down. This, then, is how things stand concerning the gullet and the windpipe, and concerning the belly.
38| The heart has three chambers, and lies higher than the lung, at the point where the windpipe divides; it has a fatty, thick membrane by which it is attached to the great vein and to the aorta. It lies upon the aorta at its pointed end. This pointed end lies toward the chest in the same way in all animals that have a chest. In all animals alike, both those that have this part and those that do not, the heart has its point turned toward the front; though this could often escape notice because it shifts when animals are dissected. Its rounded part is above. The point is fleshy for the most part and dense, and there are sinews within its hollow parts. In position it lies, in the other animals that have a chest, in the middle of the chest, but in human beings more toward the left, inclining a little from the division between the breasts toward the left breast, in the upper part of the chest. It is not large, and its overall shape is not elongated but rather rounded; except that its tip is drawn together to a point. It has three chambers, as has been said: the largest is the one on the right, the smallest the one on the left, and the middle one in size is the one between them;
39| and all of them are perforated into the lung. Both of the small chambers are perforated into the lung. This is evident, in the case of one of the chambers, from below, at the point of attachment. By its largest chamber the heart is attached to the largest vein, to which the mesentery too is attached; by its middle chamber it is attached to the aorta. Passages also lead from the heart into the lung, and they branch in the same way as the windpipe does, running throughout the whole lung alongside the branches from the windpipe. The passages from the heart lie above. There is no passage common to both; rather, because of their junction, they receive breath and pass it on to the heart in turn; for one of the passages leads into the right chamber, the other into the left. Concerning the great vein and the aorta themselves we will speak later, treating both together. Of all the parts in animals, the lung has the most blood, in those animals that have a lung and bear their young alive, whether within themselves or outside; for the whole of it is spongy, and beside each air-passage run branches of the great vein.
40| But those who believe there is empty space in the body are mistaken: they base this on watching animals being cut apart from which the blood has immediately gushed out all at once. Of the other internal organs, only the heart has blood in it. The lung does not have blood in itself but in its vessels, whereas the heart has blood in itself; for it has blood in each of its chambers, and the blood in the middle chamber is the thinnest. Below the lung is the diaphragm of the chest, the so-called phrenes, attached to the ribs, the region under the ribs, and the spine, and having in the middle a thin, membrane-like part. Through it run stretched vessels; and in man these vessels are thick in proportion to the body. Below the diaphragm, on the right side, lies the liver, and on the left the spleen — the same in all animals that have these parts naturally and not as a monstrosity, for the arrangement has in fact been observed reversed in some quadrupeds. The spleen is attached to the lower belly by the caul. In appearance the human spleen is narrow and long, like that of a pig.
41| The liver, for the most part and in most animals, has no gallbladder, though in some it is present. The human liver is round and like that of an ox. This same thing occurs in sacrificial animals too: for example, in a certain place in Chalcis in Euboea sheep have no gallbladder, while in Naxos almost all the quadrupeds have one so large that visiting sacrificers are astonished, supposing the sign to be peculiar to their own animal rather than the ordinary nature of the local ones. The liver is attached to the great vessel but has no connection with the aorta; for a vessel branching off from the great vessel passes through the liver, at the point where the so-called gates of the liver are. The spleen too is attached only to the great vessel, for a vessel stretches from it to the spleen. After these come the kidneys, lying close against the spine itself, similar in nature to those of an ox. In all animals that have kidneys the right one is higher up; and the right kidney has less fat than the left and is drier. This holds alike in all the other animals as well.
42| Passages lead into the kidneys from both the great vessel and the aorta, though not into the hollow part. For the kidneys have a hollow in the middle, larger in some, smaller in others, except in the seal; the seal's kidneys, being like those of an ox, are the most solid of all. The passages that run into the kidneys are used up within the body of the kidney itself; the proof that they do not pass all the way through is that no blood collects or clots inside them. The kidneys have, as has been said, a small cavity. From the hollow of the kidneys two vigorous passages run to the bladder, and others, strong and continuous, run from the aorta. From the middle of each kidney a hollow, sinewy vessel hangs down, stretching along the spine itself through the narrow parts; then it disappears into each hip-joint, and becomes visible again stretching toward the hip. These branchings of the small vessels reach down to the bladder. For the bladder lies last of all, having its attachment by the passages stretched from the kidneys alongside the stalk that leads to the urethra, and it is enclosed almost all the way around by thin, fibrous membranes, somewhat resembling in a way the diaphragm of the chest.
1| The human bladder is of moderate size. The penis is attached to the stalk of the bladder, its outermost opening running together into one, a little below. One of the two openings leads to the testicles, the other to the bladder, and this latter is sinewy and cartilaginous. The testicles are attached to this in males, and how they are arranged will be determined among the topics discussed in common. The same arrangement holds in the female too, in every respect; for she differs in none of the internal parts except the womb, whose appearance should be studied from the diagram in the dissections, and whose position is above the intestines, with the bladder above the womb. We must speak about wombs in general, covering all of them together, in what follows; for they are not alike in all animals nor arranged alike. These, then, and of this kind, are the internal and external parts of man, and this is how they stand. B.
2| Of the other animals, some parts are common to all, as has been said before, while others belong to particular kinds. Parts are the same as one another and different from one another in the way already stated many times. For virtually all animals that differ in genus also have most of their parts differing in species; some parts are undifferentiated only by analogy while differing in genus, others are the same in genus but differ in species; and many parts belong to some animals but not to others. Now the quadrupeds that bear live young have a head and a neck and all the parts found in the head, though each of these parts differs in shape. The lion has a single bone for its neck, not vertebrae; but when opened up its internal parts are in every way like a dog's. The quadruped, live-bearing animals have, instead of arms, front legs — all the quadrupeds do — and those with many toes use them most analogously to hands, since they use them as hands for many purposes. And their left sides are less independently movable than a human's, except in the elephant; the elephant has the joints of its toes less articulated than other animals' feet, and its front legs are much larger.
3| It has five toes, and above its hind legs it has short ankles. It has a trunk of such a kind and size that it serves it in place of hands; for it drinks and eats by reaching this to its mouth, and it reaches it up to its elephant-driver. With this it also uproots trees, and when walking through water it blows through it. At its tip it bends, but does not flex, since that part is cartilaginous. Man alone among the other animals is ambidextrous. What corresponds to the human chest is present, by analogy, in all animals, but is not similar to it: for man's chest is broad, while in the others it is narrow. No animal has breasts on the front of the body except man; the elephant has two breasts, but not on the chest — near the chest. As for the bending of the limbs, both fore and hind, animals have them opposite both to one another and to the bendings of man, except the elephant. For in the quadrupeds that bear live young, the front limbs bend forward and the hind limbs bend backward, and the concave sides of their curvature are turned opposite to each other; but the elephant does not do as some have said, but crouches down and bends its legs, except that because of its weight it cannot do this on both sides at once, but leans over onto its left or its right, and sleeps in this posture, and it bends its hind legs the way a man does.
4| For egg-laying animals, such as the crocodile and the lizard and all others of that kind, both sets of legs, front and back, bend forward, inclining a little to the side. It is the same too with the other many-footed animals; except that the ones lying between the extremes always bend both ways and have their bending more to the side. Man has both bendings of his limbs on the same side, but opposite to each other: for he bends his arms backward — except that they curve a little to the side, inward — while he bends his legs forward. None of the animals bends its front or back limbs backward. In all animals the bending of the shoulder is opposite to that of the elbow and the front legs, and the bending of the hip is opposite to that of the hind knee; so that, since man bends contrary to most animals, those animals that have limbs like his also bend contrary to the rest. The bird has bendings similar to those of the four-footed animals: for being two-footed, it bends its legs backward, and instead of arms and front legs it has wings, whose bending is forward.
5| The seal is, as it were, a maimed four-footed animal: for right after the shoulder-blade it has feet like hands, just as bears do too; for they are five-toed, and each of the toes has three bendings and a claw that is not large; the hind feet are likewise five-toed, and have bendings and claws similar to the front ones, but in shape they are similar to the tails of fish. The movements of the four-footed and many-footed animals go along the diagonal, and that is how they stand as well; and in all of them the initiation comes from the right side. The lion walks leg-following-leg, and so do both kinds of camel, the Bactrian and the Arabian. Walking leg-following-leg means that the right foot does not step out ahead of the left, but follows it. The four-footed animals have, on their underside, the parts that man has in front, and on their upper side the parts that are in back with him. Further, most of them have a tail; for even the seal has a small one, similar to a deer's. About the ape-like animals a determination will be made later. All that are four-footed and bear their young live are, one might say, shaggy, and not like man, who has little hair and fine hair, except on the head — the head being the shaggiest part of any animal.
6| Further, in the other animals that have hair, the back parts are shaggier, while the underside is either altogether smooth or less shaggy; man is the opposite. And man has eyelashes on both lids, and has hair in the armpits and on the pubic region; none of the other animals has either of these, nor a lower eyelash, but in some, below the eyelid, sparse hairs grow. Among the four-footed animals that have hair, in some the whole body is shaggy, as with the pig, the bear, and the dog; others are shaggier on the neck uniformly all around, namely those that have a mane, like the lion; others are shaggy on the back of the neck from the head down to the top of the shoulder, namely those that have a crest, like the horse and the mule, and, among the wild horned animals, the bison. The animal called the hippelaphos also has a mane at the top of the shoulder, and so does the beast called the pardion; from the head to the top of the shoulder each has a thin one, and the hippelaphos alone has, besides, a beard along the throat. Both are horned and cloven-hoofed; the female hippelaphos has no horns. This animal is close in size to the deer.
7| Hippelaphoi occur in Arachotia, the same place where the wild oxen also occur. The wild ones differ from the tame just as wild pigs differ from tame pigs: for they are black and powerful in appearance and hook-nosed, and their horns curve back more sharply; the horns of the hippelaphoi are similar to those of the gazelle. The elephant is the least shaggy of the four-footed animals. In those whose tails have any size, the tails follow the rest of the body in shagginess or smoothness; for some have altogether small tails. Camels have, unlike the other four-footed animals, what is called a hump on the back. The Bactrian camels differ from the Arabian: the former have two humps, the latter only one, but they have another hump of the sort that lies, as it were, above the lower one, on which, when the camel kneels down onto its knees, the rest of the body is propped. The camel has four teats, like the ox, and a tail similar to the donkey's, and its genitals point backward. It has one knee in each leg, and not more bendings than that, as some say — it only appears so because of the way the belly hangs down beneath it.
8| And it has an ankle-bone similar to the ox's, but slender and small for its size. It is cloven-hoofed and does not have teeth in both jaws; it is cloven in the following way. From behind it is split a little, as far as the second bending of the toes; in front it is split only a little, as far as the first bending of the toes, four splits at the very tip; and there is also something running through the middle of the splits, as with geese. The foot is fleshy underneath, as the feet of bears also are; and this is why they fit rawhide shoes onto the camels that go to war, whenever their feet are sore. All the four-footed animals have legs that are bony and sinewy and without flesh; and in general so do all the other animals that have feet, except man. They are also without buttocks; and indeed birds are affected by this even more. Man is the opposite: he has, of practically his whole body, the fleshiest parts in his hips and thighs and shins; for the so-called calves in the shins are fleshy. Among the four-footed, blooded, live-bearing animals, some are many-toed, like the hands and feet of man (for some are many-toed, such as the dog, the lion, and the leopard), others are two-toed, and instead of claws have hooves, like the sheep, the goat, the deer, and the river-horse;
9| and others are not cloven at all, namely the solid-hoofed, like the horse and the mule. The pig kind goes both ways: for there are, in Illyria and in Paeonia and elsewhere, solid-hoofed pigs as well. Now the cloven-hoofed have two splits behind; but in the solid-hoofed this is continuous. Again, some animals are horned, others hornless. Most of those that have horns are by nature cloven-hoofed, such as the ox, the deer, and the goat; but nothing solid-hoofed and two-horned has been observed by us. Few are one-horned and solid-hoofed, such as the Indian ass. The oryx is one-horned and cloven-hoofed. And the Indian ass alone, among the solid-hoofed, has an ankle-bone; for the pig, as was said before, goes both ways, and for that reason it does not have a well-formed ankle-bone either. Of the cloven-hoofed, many have an ankle-bone. No many-toed animal has been observed to have such a bone, nor does man; but the lynx has one similar to a half ankle-bone, while the lion has one like a labyrinth, of the sort sculptors represent. All that have an ankle-bone have it in the hind legs. The ankle-bone stands upright at the joint, with its convex side facing outward and its concave side facing inward; the faces called "Coan" are turned inward toward each other, while those called "Chian" face outward, and the projecting ridges point upward.
10| The position of the ankle-bones, then, is this same way in all the animals that have them. There are some animals that are cloven-hoofed and at the same time have a mane and two horns bent in toward each other, for example the bonasus, which occurs around Paeonia and Maedica. All horn-bearing animals are four-footed, unless something is said to have a horn by a transfer of the word, as for example the Egyptians say the snakes around Thebes have, these having a projection that serves only as a kind of pretext to the name. Of the animals that have horns, only the deer has a horn that is solid all the way through; the others are hollow up to a point, and the extremity alone is solid. The hollow part grows more from the skin, and around this the solid part, made of bone, is fitted, as with the horns of oxen. Only the deer sheds its horns, yearly, beginning from the age of two, and grows them again; the others keep theirs continuously, unless one is maimed by some force. Further, with respect to the breasts there is a difference among the other animals, both compared with each other and compared with man, and likewise with respect to the organs useful for mating. For some have their breasts in front, on the chest or near the chest, and have two breasts and two nipples, as man and the elephant do, as has been said before.
11| For the elephant too has its two breasts near the armpits; and the female has breasts that are altogether small and not in proportion to the size of her body, so that from the side one can hardly see them at all; the males too have breasts, like the females, altogether small. The bear has four. Some animals have two breasts, but have them on the thighs, and two nipples as well, like the sheep; others have four nipples, like the ox. Others have their breasts neither on the chest nor on the thighs, but on the belly, for example the dog and the pig, and these have many, though they are not all equal. Most of the others have more, but the leopard has four on the belly, and the lioness has two on the belly. The camel too has two breasts and four nipples, like the ox. Among the solid-hoofed animals the males do not have breasts, except such as resemble their mother, which is what happens with horses. As for the genitals, the males have them external in some cases, as man and the horse and many others, and internal in others, as the dolphin;
12| and among those that have them external, some have them turned forward, as in the cases mentioned, and of these some have both the member and the testicles separate and free, as man does, while others have both the testicles and the member attached to the belly, and some are more free and others less so; for this part is not equally free in the boar and in the horse. The elephant too has a member similar to the horse's, but small and not in proportion to the size of its body, and its testicles are not visible externally but are internal, near the kidneys; this is also why it finishes mating quickly. The female has her genital organ in the place where the udders of sheep are. When she is in heat to be mated, she draws it upward and turns it out toward the outer region, so that mating is easy for the male; and the genital organ is split open fairly extensively. In most animals, then, the genitals are arranged in this way; but some urinate backward, for example the lynx and the lion and the camel and the hare. The males, then, are opposed to one another in this respect, as has been said, but all the females urinate backward;
13| for the female elephant too has her genitals under the thighs, just as the other female animals do. There is much difference among genital organs. Some have a genital organ that is cartilaginous and fleshy, as man does; the fleshy part cannot be inflated, but the cartilaginous part is capable of increase. Others have sinewy ones, as the camel and the deer, and others bony ones, as the fox and the wolf and the marten and the weasel; for the weasel too has a bone in its genital organ. Beyond this, man, once fully grown, has the upper parts smaller than the lower, while the other animals, all those that have blood, have the opposite. By the upper parts we mean everything from the head down to the part where the residue has its exit, and by the lower parts what remains from there on. In the animals that have feet, the hind leg is the lower part relative to the body's size; in those without feet there are tails and rumps and the like instead. This, then, is how they are when fully grown, but they differ in the course of growth: for man, while young, has the upper parts larger than the lower, but as he grows he changes to the opposite (which is also why, virtually alone, he does not make the same manner of movement in walking when young and when full-grown, but as an infant he creeps on all fours at first), whereas other animals keep their growth in proportion, for example the dog.
14| Some animals have the upper parts smaller at first and the lower parts larger, but as they grow the upper parts become larger, as with the maned animals; for in none of these does the part from the hoof to the hip-joint ever become larger later on. There is also much difference with respect to the teeth among the other animals, both compared with one another and compared with man. All four-footed, blooded, live-bearing animals have teeth, but to begin with, some have teeth in both jaws and some do not. All horn-bearing animals do not have teeth in both jaws; for they do not have front teeth in the upper jaw. But there are some that lack teeth in both jaws and yet are also hornless, for example the camel. Some have tusks, as the male pigs do, and some do not. Further, some of them are saw-toothed, as the lion and the leopard and the dog, while others have teeth that do not interlock, as the horse and the ox; for saw-toothed animals are those whose sharp teeth overlap one another. No animal has both tusks and horns at once, nor is any animal both saw-toothed and either of these. Most animals have their front teeth sharp and their inner teeth broad. The seal is saw-toothed in all its teeth, as if it overlapped with the class of fishes; for nearly all fish are saw-toothed. None of these kinds has a double row of teeth. But there is, if one is to trust Ctesias; for he says that the beast among the Indians called the martichora has, on each side, three rows of teeth;
15| and that it is in size equal to a lion and similarly shaggy, and has feet like a lion's, but a face and ears like a man's, and its eye is blue-grey, and its color cinnabar-red, and its tail like that of the land scorpion, in which it has a sting and shoots out its barbs, and its voice is like the sound of a pipe and a trumpet together, and it runs no less swiftly than deer, and is savage and man-eating. Man, then, sheds his teeth, and so do other animals as well, for example the horse and the mule and the donkey. Man sheds his front teeth, but no animal sheds its molars. The pig sheds none of its teeth at all. Concerning dogs there is dispute, and some think they do not shed any teeth at all, while others think they shed only the canine teeth; but it has been observed that they shed teeth just as man does, though this escapes notice because they do not shed them until an equal number have grown up underneath beforehand. It is likely that the same thing happens with the other wild animals as well, since they too are said to shed only their canine teeth. People distinguish younger from older dogs by their teeth: the young ones have teeth that are white and sharp, the older ones have teeth that are black and blunt.
16| With horses the opposite happens compared with the other animals: for the other animals, as they grow older, have blacker teeth, but the horse has whiter ones. The teeth called canines mark the boundary between the sharp and the broad teeth, sharing in the shape of both: for they are broad at the bottom and sharp at the top. Males have more teeth than females, both in human beings and in the case of sheep, goats, and pigs; in the other animals this has not yet been observed. Those that have more teeth are, for the most part, longer-lived, while those with fewer and more widely spaced teeth are, for the most part, shorter-lived. The last teeth to grow in human beings are the molars called the wisdom teeth, which come in around the age of twenty in both men and women. Already in some women even as old as eighty, wisdom teeth have grown in at the very end, causing pain as they came up, and likewise in men; this happens to those in whom the wisdom teeth did not come up during the proper age. The elephant has four teeth on each side, with which it processes its food (it grinds it fine like groats), and apart from these, two other large teeth. The male has these large and curving upward, while the female has small ones pointing the opposite way from the male's; for hers point downward. The elephant has teeth as soon as it is born, though the large ones are at first not visible.
17| Its tongue is very small and set far inside, so that it is hard work to see it. Animals also differ in the size of the mouth. Some have mouths that are split wide open, as with the dog and the lion and all the sharp-toothed animals; others have small mouths, as man does; and others are in between, as with the pig kind. The river horse in Egypt has a mane like a horse, but is cloven-hoofed like an ox, and snub-faced in appearance. It also has an ankle-bone like the cloven-footed animals, and tusks showing slightly, a tail like a pig's, and a voice like a horse's; it is the size of a donkey. Its hide is so thick that spear-shafts are made from it. Its internal organs are like those of a horse and a donkey.
18| Some animals are ambiguous in nature between man and the four-footed animals, for example monkeys, cebi, and baboons. The cebus is a monkey with a tail. Baboons have the same shape as monkeys, except that they are larger and stronger, with faces more doglike, and further, they have wilder characters and teeth that are more doglike and stronger. Monkeys are hairy on their backs, since they are four-footed, and likewise on their fronts, since they are shaped like human beings (for in human beings this is the reverse of what holds in four-footed animals, as was said before); except that the hair is coarse, and monkeys are very hairy on both sides. Its face has many resemblances to that of a human being: it has nostrils and ears much like ours, and teeth like a human's, both the front teeth and the molars. Further, whereas the other four-footed animals lack eyelashes on one of the two lids, this animal has them, though very thin ones, and more on the lower lid, and altogether small; for the other four-footed animals do not have these at all. It has on its chest two nipples with small breasts.
19| It also has arms like a human being, except hairy; and it bends these and its legs just as a human being does, with the bends of both limbs turned toward each other. In addition to these it has hands, fingers, and nails like a human being's, except that all these are more brutish. Its feet are peculiar to it: for they are like large hands, and the toes are like fingers, the middle one being the longest, and the underside of the foot is like a hand, except that it is drawn out lengthwise toward the extremity like the hand is, corresponding to the palm; and this part is harder at the tip, poorly and faintly imitating a heel. It uses its feet for both purposes, both as hands and as feet, and it flexes them together as it does its hands. Its forearm and thigh are short in relation to its upper arm and shin. It has no protruding navel, but the place where the navel would be is hard. Its upper parts are much larger than its lower parts, as with the four-footed animals; the ratio is roughly five to three. And because of this, and also because its feet are like hands and seem to be composed, as it were, out of a hand and a foot — out of a foot as regards the extreme end at the heel, and out of a hand as regards the other parts —
20| for its toes too have what is called a palm. It spends most of its time going on four feet rather than upright; and it has neither haunches, as a four-footed animal would, nor a tail, as a two-footed animal would, except a small one altogether, just enough to serve as a mark. The female also has genitals like a woman's, while the male's are more doglike than a human's. The cebi, as was said before, have a tail. Their internal organs, when dissected, are all like a human being's in such respects. This, then, is the character of the parts of those animals that bear their young alive to the outside.
21| The four-footed animals that are egg-laying and blooded (and nothing that is land-dwelling and blooded lays eggs unless it is four-footed or footless) have a head, a neck, a back, and the front and rear surfaces of the body, and further, front legs and hind legs and something corresponding to the chest, as the live-bearing four-footed animals do, and a tail — larger in most cases, smaller in a few. All such animals are many-toed and many-clawed. Further, they all have the sense organs and a tongue, except the crocodile in Egypt. This one is in a condition like that of certain fish: for fish in general have a tongue that is spiny and not free, and some have a place that is altogether smooth and unarticulated unless the lip is bent well back. Such animals have no ears, only the passage for hearing, all of them; nor breasts, nor genitals, nor testicles visible outside but only within, nor hair, but they are all covered with scales. Further, they are all sharp-toothed. River crocodiles have eyes like a pig's, large teeth including tusks, strong claws, and an unbreakable scaly hide; they see poorly in the water but extremely sharply out of it. They spend most of the day on land and the night in the water; for the water is warmer than the open air.
22| The chameleon has a body whose overall shape is lizard-like, but its ribs come down to meet the belly, as with fish, and its spine stands up in a ridge as fish's do. Its face is most like that of a small long-tailed monkey. It has a very long tail, tapering to a fine point and coiling up over much of its length, like a strap. It stands higher off the ground than lizards do, but the bends of its legs are like those of lizards. Each of its feet is divided in two into parts that stand in the same relation to each other as our big toe does in opposition to the rest of the hand. Each of these parts is in turn divided a little way into several toes: on the front feet, three toes point inward and two outward; on the hind feet, two point inward and three outward. It also has small claws on these, like those of the hook-taloned birds. Its whole body is rough, like the crocodile's. Its eyes are set in a hollow, very large and round, and enclosed by skin like the rest of the body.
23| Right through the middle of them a small space is left for sight, through which it sees; the skin never covers this. It turns the eye in a circle and shifts its gaze to every region, and in this way sees whatever it wants. The change of color happens to it when it is inflated; and it has a black color, not far from that of crocodiles, and a pale one like lizards, mottled with black like leopards. This kind of change occurs over its whole body; for the eyes change along with it, in the same way as the rest of the body, and so does the tail. Its motion is extremely sluggish, like that of tortoises. When it is dying it turns pale, and once it has died its color stays like that. The parts around the gullet and windpipe are arranged in the same way as in lizards. It has flesh nowhere except a little near the head and jaws, and around the base of the tail. And it has blood only around the heart and the eyes and the region above the heart, and whatever small veins extend from these; and even in these there is altogether little.
24| The brain lies a little above the eyes, and is continuous with them. When the outer skin of the eyes is stripped away, it contains something shining through, like a thin ring of bronze. Over almost its whole body strong membranes stretch, many of them, and greatly exceeding those found in other animals. It goes on functioning by its breath, even when cut open all over, for a long time, while a very slight motion still remains in it around the heart; and it contracts most notably the parts around the ribs, though the rest of the body's parts as well. It has no spleen anywhere visible. It hibernates like lizards.
25| Birds, too, have some parts similar to those of the animals mentioned; for all of them have a head and a neck and a back and the underside of the body and the part analogous to the chest; and two legs, like man more than any other animal, except that they bend them backward as the four-footed animals do, as was said before. They have neither hands nor forefeet, but wings, which are peculiar to them among other animals. Further, the hip is like a long thigh and is attached down to below the middle of the belly, so that when divided it appears to be a thigh, while the actual thigh, lying between it and the shank, is a distinct part. The birds with hooked talons have the largest thighs, and their chest is stronger than that of the others. All birds have many claws, and in a sense all are many-cleft; for in most of them the toes are separated, while the swimming ones are web-footed, though they too have jointed and separate toes. All those that fly up into the air have four toes: most have three set forward and one set behind in place of a heel; but a few have two forward and two behind, such as the bird called the wryneck.
26| This bird is a little larger than a finch, of mottled appearance, and has peculiarities both in its toes and in its tongue, which is like that of snakes; for it stretches out lengthwise to four finger-breadths and then draws back into itself again. Further, it twists its neck backward while the rest of the body stays still, just as snakes do. Its claws are large but grown in the same way as those of jackdaws; and in voice it makes a shrill cry. Birds have a mouth, but a peculiar one: they have neither lips nor teeth, but a beak; and neither ears nor nostrils, but the passages for these senses — the passage for smell in the beak, that for hearing in the head. All of them, like the other animals, have two eyes, without eyelashes. The heavy-bodied ones close the lower eyelid, and all of them blink with a skin that comes from the corner of the eye, while the grey-eyed birds also use the upper eyelid. The scaly animals do the same thing, such as lizards and the other animals of the same kind as these; for all of them close with the lower eyelid, though they do not blink as birds do.
27| Further, they have neither scales nor hair, but feathers; and every feather has a shaft. They do not have a tail properly speaking, but a rump: the long-legged and web-footed ones have a short one, the opposite kind a large one. And these latter fly with their feet held against the belly, while those with a small rump fly with their feet stretched out. All have a tongue, but it is not alike in all: some have a long one, others a broad one. Of the animals after man, some kinds of birds most articulate distinct sounds; and it is above all the broad-tongued ones among them that do this. None of the egg-laying animals has an epiglottis on the windpipe, but instead it draws together and opens the passage, so that nothing heavy is let down onto the lung. Some kinds of birds also have spurs; but none has hooked talons and a spur together. The hook-taloned belong among the birds of strong flight, the spur-bearing among the heavy-bodied ones. Further, some birds have a crest: in some of these it is made of the feathers themselves standing up, but the cock alone has one of its own peculiar kind; for it is neither flesh nor, in its nature, far from flesh.
28| Among the water animals the class of fish is marked off as a single kind from the rest, though it contains many forms within it. It has a head, and a front and a back, in the region of which lie the belly and the internal organs; and it has a hindmost tail part that is continuous and undivided, though this is not alike in all. No fish has a neck, nor any limb at all, nor testicles whatsoever, either internal or external, nor breasts. This holds altogether, and likewise for every other animal that does not bear live young — nor even for all that do bear live young, but only for those that produce live young directly within themselves and do not first lay eggs. For the dolphin bears live young, and for this reason it has two breasts, not above but near the joints. It does not have projecting teats as the four-footed animals do, but as it were two channels, one on each side from the flanks, from which the milk flows; and it is suckled by its young as they swim alongside; and this has already been clearly observed by some. Fish, as has been said, have neither breasts nor any visible external passage for the genitals. What is peculiar to them is the matter of the gills, by which they let out the water they take in through the mouth, and the fins — most having four, but the elongated ones two, such as the eel, situated near the gills.
29| Similarly also the grey mullets, such as those in the lake at Siphae, have two, and likewise the fish called the ribbon-fish. Some of the elongated ones do not even have fins, such as the moray eel, nor gills articulated in the same way as in the other fish. Among those that do have gills, some have coverings over the gills, while all the cartilaginous fish have them uncovered. And all those with coverings have their gills set sideways, while among the cartilaginous fish the flat ones have them below, on their underside, such as the torpedo fish and the ray, but the elongated ones have them on the sides, such as all the dogfish kind. The angel-fish has them sideways, but covered not with a spiny covering as the non-cartilaginous fish are, but with a skin-like one. Further, among those that have gills, some have simple gills, others double ones; but in all of them the last one, nearest the body, is simple. And again, some have few gills, others a great number; but all have equal numbers on each side. The one with the fewest has one gill on each side, and this a double one, such as the boar-fish; others have two on each side, one simple and one double, such as the conger eel and the parrotfish;
30| Others have four simple gills on each side, for example the elops, the dentex, the moray, the eel. Others have four gills, double except for the last, for example the thrush-fish, the perch, the sheat-fish, and the carp. The dogfish tribe all have double gills, five on each side; the swordfish has eight, all double. This, then, is how matters stand regarding the number of gills among fish. Further, fish differ from the other animals in more than just this matter of the gills: they do not, as land animals that bear their young alive have hair, nor as some of the egg-laying quadrupeds have horny scales, nor as the tribe of birds is feathered; rather most of them are covered with scales, a few are rough-skinned, and the smallest number of all are smooth. Among the cartilaginous fish, some are rough and some smooth; conger eels, eels, and tunnies belong among the smooth ones. All fish are saw-toothed except the parrot-fish; and all have sharp teeth set in many rows, and some have them on the tongue as well. Their tongue is hard and spiny, and so firmly grown to the mouth that at times it does not seem to have one at all. As for the mouth, in some it is split wide open, as in some of the live-bearing quadrupeds.
31| Of the other sense organs they show no visible trace, neither the organ itself nor its passages, either for hearing or for smell; but all have eyes, without eyelids, though their eyes are not hard-surfaced. The whole class of fish, then, has blood; and of them some are egg-layers and some bear their young alive — all the scaly ones are egg-layers, while all the cartilaginous fish bear their young alive, except the fishing-frog.
32| What remains among the blooded animals is the tribe of serpents. This tribe is shared between land and water: most of them are land-dwellers, but a small portion of the water-dwelling kind spends its life in fresh water. There are also sea-serpents, similar in shape to the land ones in every other respect, except that their head is more conger-like. There are many kinds of sea-serpents, and they have every sort of coloring; these do not occur in very deep water. Serpents are footless, like the tribe of fish. There are also sea-centipedes, similar in form to the land ones but somewhat smaller in size; they occur around rocky places. In color they are redder, and they have more legs and thinner legs than the land ones. These too, like the serpents, do not occur in very deep water. There is a certain small rock-fish that some people call the remora, and some use it for lawsuits and love-charms; it is not eaten. Some say it has feet, though it does not, but it appears to because its fins are shaped like feet. So much, then, has been said about the external parts of the blooded animals — how many they are, of what kind, and what differences they show from one another.
33| What must next be discussed, in the case of the blooded animals first, is the condition of their internal parts; for it is by this that the largest classes differ most from the rest of the other animals — by some being blooded and others bloodless. The blooded animals are man and the live-bearing quadrupeds, and further the egg-laying quadrupeds, and bird, and fish, and cetacean, and whatever else has no name because it does not form a genus but is a single species among individual kinds, for example the serpent and the crocodile. Now all animals that are quadrupeds and bear their young alive have both a gullet and a windpipe, positioned in the same way as in man; and likewise so do the egg-laying quadrupeds, and the birds too — though they differ from one another in the forms of these parts. And in general, all animals that draw in air and breathe it in and out have a lung and a windpipe and a gullet, and the position of the gullet and the windpipe is similar in all, though the parts themselves are not alike; but the lung is neither alike in form nor similarly positioned in all. Further, all animals that have blood have a heart, and also the partition, which is called the midriff;
34| but in small animals, on account of its thinness and smallness, it is not equally visible, except in the case of the heart. A peculiar thing occurs in oxen: there is a certain kind of ox — not all of them — that has a bone in its heart. The horse's heart also has a bone. Not all animals have a lung; fish do not have one, nor does any other animal that has gills. All animals that have blood have a liver. Most animals that have blood also have a spleen. Many of those that do not bear their young alive but lay eggs have so small a spleen that it nearly escapes notice — this is so among most birds, for example the pigeon, the kite, the hawk, and the owl; the vulture has none at all. And among the egg-laying quadrupeds the same holds: they have altogether tiny spleens, for example the tortoise, the terrapin, the toad, the lizard, the crocodile, and the frog. Of animals, some have gall attached to the liver and some do not. Among the live-bearing quadrupeds, the deer has none, nor does the roe; nor, further, does the horse, the mule, the donkey, the seal, and some of the swine.
35| Among deer, the kind called the Achainai seem to have gall in their tail; what is said is that its color resembles gall, though it is not so entirely liquid, but is rather like the outer part of the spleen. All deer, however, have living worms in the head; these arise below the part under the tongue, in the hollow near the vertebra to which the head is attached, and are not smaller in size than the largest maggots; they arise in a mass and packed close together, and number about twenty at most. Deer, then, do not have gall, as has been said; and their intestine is so bitter that even dogs are unwilling to eat it, unless the deer is extremely fat. The elephant too has a liver without gall, yet when a cut is made near the spot where, in animals that have it, the gall grows on, a bilious fluid runs out, in greater or lesser amount. Among the sea-dwelling animals that have a lung, the dolphin has no gall. Birds and fish all have it, and so do the egg-laying quadrupeds — as a general rule, in greater or lesser amount; but in fish some have it attached to the liver, for example the dogfish tribe, the sheat-fish, the ray, the smooth ray, the electric ray, and among the long fish the eel, the garfish, and the hammerhead shark.
36| The stargazer also has it on the liver, and this fish has the largest gall of any fish relative to its size. Others have it near the intestines, stretched away from the liver by certain very thin ducts. The bonito has it stretched alongside the intestine, of equal length, and often even doubled back; others have it near the intestines, some farther off and some nearer, for example the fishing-frog, the elops, the dentex, the moray, and the swordfish. Often the same kind is found to have it in both positions, for example conger eels — some have it near the liver, others have it suspended below. The same holds for birds as well: some have the gall near the stomach, others near the intestines, for example the pigeon, the raven, the quail, the swallow, and the sparrow. Some have it both near the liver and near the stomach at once, for example the vulture; others have it both near the liver and near the intestines at once, for example the hawk and the kite. As for kidneys and bladder, all the live-bearing quadrupeds have them; of the egg-laying animals, none of the others have them, neither bird nor fish, but among the quadrupeds only the sea-tortoise has them, of a size proportionate to its other parts. The sea-tortoise has kidneys similar to those of oxen; the ox's kidney is, as it were, made up of many small ones joined into one. The bison too has all its internal parts similar to the ox's.
37| As for position, all animals that have these parts have them positioned alike, with the heart around the middle, except in man; in man it lies more toward the left, as was said before. And in all animals the heart has its point turned forward, except that in fish this would not seem to be so; for their point is not turned toward the chest, but toward the head and mouth. The tip of the heart is attached at the point where the right and left gills join one another. There are also other passages stretching from the heart to each of the gills, larger in the larger fish and smaller in the smaller ones; and the one at the very tip of the heart, in the large fish, is an extremely thick white tube. Few fish have a gullet, for example the conger eel and the eel, and in these it is small. As for the liver, in those animals whose liver is undivided, it lies wholly on the right side; in those whose liver is divided from the start, the larger part is on the right. For in some animals each of the two parts hangs separately and the two do not grow together at their origin, as in the cartilaginous fish among fishes, and in a certain kind of hare found elsewhere and also around Lake Bolbe in the place called Sycine, which one might suppose to have two livers because their ducts join only far apart, just as also happens with the lung of birds.
38| The spleen too lies, in all animals, naturally on the left, and the kidneys, in those that have them, lie in the same manner; though one four-footed animal has already been observed, on dissection, to have its spleen on the right and its liver on the left — but such cases are judged to be monstrosities. The windpipe stretches, in all animals, to the lung (in what manner we will say later), and the gullet, in those that have one, stretches to the stomach through the diaphragm; for most fish, as was said before, do not have a gullet, but the stomach joins directly onto the mouth, so that often, in some of the large fish chasing smaller ones, the stomach is thrust forward out through the mouth. All the animals mentioned have a stomach, and it is positioned alike in all of them (for it lies immediately below the diaphragm), and the intestine is continuous with it and ends at the exit for the food, at what is called the anus. But their stomachs are not alike. First, among the four-footed and live-bearing animals, all those horned animals that do not have teeth in both jaws have four such passages; and these are the animals said to chew the cud. For the gullet, beginning at the mouth, runs down past the lung, and from the diaphragm on to the large stomach;
39| and this stomach has rough, partitioned walls on the inside. Near where the gullet enters it, there is attached to it what is called, from its appearance, the honeycomb-bag; for on the outside it resembles the stomach, but on the inside it resembles woven honeycombs; in size the honeycomb-bag is much smaller than the stomach. Next to this comes the many-plied stomach, rough and plate-like on the inside, about the same size as the honeycomb-bag. After this comes what is called the reed, larger than the many-plied stomach and more elongated in shape; it has inside it many large smooth plates. From this the intestine then begins. Such, then, is the stomach of the horned animals that do not have teeth in both jaws; but they differ from one another in the shapes and sizes of these parts, and in whether the gullet enters the middle or the side of the stomach. The animals with teeth in both jaws have a single stomach, for example man, pig, dog, bear, lion, wolf. The jackal too has all its internal organs like the wolf's. All these, then, have a single stomach, and after it the intestine; but some have a larger stomach, like the pig and the bear (and the pig's has a few smooth plates), while others have a much smaller one, not much larger than the intestine, as with the dog, the lion, and man.
40| And the species of the other animals divide up in relation to these two kinds of stomach; some have one like the pig's, others one like the dog's, and this holds equally for the larger and the smaller animals. There is also variation among these in the size, shape, thickness, and thinness of the stomach, and in the position at which the gullet pierces into it. The nature of the intestines also differs between the two kinds of animal mentioned, those without teeth in both jaws and those with, in size, thickness, and the number of their coils. In all cases the intestines of the animals without teeth in both jaws are larger; for these animals themselves are all larger — few horned animals are small, and none at all is very small. Some animals also have outgrowths from their intestines, and no animal without teeth in both jaws has a straight intestine. The elephant has an intestine with internal partitions, so that it appears to have four stomachs. It is in this intestine that the food is processed, and apart from it the elephant has no separate stomach organ. Its internal organs are similar to the pig's, except that its liver is four times the size of an ox's liver, and the other organs correspondingly, while its spleen is smaller than proportion would suggest. The stomach and the nature of the intestines are the same, in the same way, also in those four-footed but egg-laying animals, such as the land tortoise and the sea turtle, the lizard, and both kinds of crocodile, and in all similar animals generally;
41| for they too have a simple, single stomach, and in some it resembles the pig's, in others the dog's. The class of snakes is similar and has almost everything in common with the land, egg-laying lizards, if one grants them length and takes away their feet. For a snake is scaly, and its upper and lower surfaces resemble those of lizards; except that it has no testicles, but instead, like a fish, two ducts joining into one, and a womb that is long and forked. The rest of its internal organs are the same as the lizard's, except that all of them, owing to the narrowness and length of the body, are narrow and elongated, so that their resemblance to the lizard's organs is not obvious at a glance; for its windpipe is very long, and its gullet is even longer still. The windpipe begins right at the mouth itself, so that the tongue seems to lie beneath it. The windpipe seems to project beyond the tongue because the tongue is drawn back and does not stay extended as it does in other animals. The tongue is thin, long, and black, and can be put out to a great distance. Snakes and lizards have, as something peculiar compared to the tongues of other animals, a tip that is forked, and this is far more pronounced in snakes;
42| for the tips of a snake's tongue are as thin as hairs. The seal too has a split tongue. The snake's stomach is like a wider intestine, resembling the dog's; after it comes the intestine, which is long and thin and remains a single tube to the end. The heart lies at the throat, and is small and kidney-shaped; this is why it might sometimes seem that its point is not turned toward the chest. Next comes the lung, which is single, divided by a fibrous passage, and very long, lying far apart from the heart. The liver too is long and simple, and the spleen is small and round, as in lizards as well. Snakes have bile in the same way as fish do; for water-snakes have it attached to the liver, while the others generally have it near the intestines. All snakes have saw-like teeth. They have ribs equal in number to the days of the month, for they have thirty. Some say that the same thing happens with snakes as with the nestlings of swallows: they say that if one pricks out the eyes of snakes, they grow back again. And the tails of both lizards and snakes, when cut off, grow back.
43| It is the same way with fish as regards the intestines and the belly: they have a single simple gut, but it differs in shape. For some have an intestine that is completely gut-like throughout, such as the fish they call the parrotfish, which indeed seems to be the only fish that chews the cud. And the size of the intestine is uniform, and it has a fold back on itself, which unwinds into one straight length. It is peculiar to fish and to most birds to have blind appendages; but birds have them below and few in number, while fish have them above, near the belly, and some have many, such as the goby, the dogfish, the perch, the scorpion fish, the citharus, the red mullet, the sea bream. The grey mullet has many on one side of the belly but only one on the other. Some have them but few, such as the liver-fish and the grey fish; and the gilt-head also has few. And they differ even from themselves: for instance, one gilt-head has more, another fewer. And there are some that have none at all, such as most of the cartilaginous fish; of the rest, some have few, and some have very many. All fish have these appendages right at the belly itself. Birds differ from one another, and from the other animals, with regard to their internal parts.
44| Some birds have a crop in front of the belly, such as the cock, the ring-dove, the pigeon, the partridge. The crop is a hollow, large skin, in which the food, on first entering, is still undigested. At the point where it joins the gullet it is narrower, then it becomes wider, and where it in turn opens down into the belly it becomes thinner again. Most birds have a belly that is fleshy and firm, with a strong skin inside that can be peeled away from the flesh. Others do not have a crop, but instead have a gullet that is wide and broad, either along its whole length or in the part that stretches toward the belly, such as the jackdaw, the raven, and the crow. The quail also has the wide part of its gullet lower down, and the goatsucker and the owl have the lower part somewhat wider. The duck, the goose, the gull, the cormorant, and the bustard have the whole gullet wide and broad, and many other birds are the same. Some have something belly-like resembling a crop, such as the kestrel. There are some that have neither a wide gullet nor a crop, but instead a long belly — this is true of the small birds, such as the swallow and the sparrow.
1| A few have neither a crop nor a wide gullet, but instead a very long one — these are the ones with a long neck, such as the purple coot; and nearly all of these also pass moister excrement than the rest. The quail is peculiar among the others in this respect: it has both a crop and, before the stomach, a gullet that is wide and has breadth to it; and the crop is separated from the gullet in front of the stomach by a considerable distance, relative to its size. Most birds also have a thin intestine, simple, and unwinding into one length. Birds have the blind appendages, as has been said, few in number, and not above as fish do, but below, at the end of the intestine. Not all birds have them, but most do, such as the cock, the partridge, the duck, the night-heron, the lokalos, the horned owl, the goose, the swan, the bustard, the owl. Some of the small birds have them too, but very small ones, such as the sparrow.
2| We have now spoken of the other internal parts — how many there are and of what sort, and what differences they have from one another. It remains to speak of the parts that contribute to generation. These are internal in all females, but in males they show more differences. For some blooded animals have no testicles at all, some have them but internal, and of those that have them internal, some have them near the loin, around the region of the kidneys, others near the belly, and others external. And as for the genital organ in these, in some it is attached to the belly, in others it hangs free just as the testicles do; and among those attached to the belly, it is attached differently in animals that urinate forward and those that urinate backward. Now none of the fish have testicles, nor does any other creature that has gills, nor the whole class of snakes, nor, generally, any footless animal that does not bear its young alive within itself. Birds have testicles, and have them internal, near the loin. And among the four-footed animals that are egg-laying, the arrangement is the same, such as the lizard, the tortoise, and the crocodile, and among the live-bearing animals, the hedgehog.
3| Among those that have the testicles internal, some have them near the belly, such as, among footless animals, the dolphin, and among four-footed live-bearing animals, the elephant; the rest have them visible. What difference there is in the way they are attached to the belly and to the adjoining region has been stated earlier: in some they are continuous from behind and not detached, as in the hog family, in others they are detached, as in humans. Now fish, as has been said before, have no testicles, nor do snakes; but they have two ducts, attached from the diaphragm on either side of the spine, joining into a single duct above the outlet for the residue — by 'above' we mean toward the spine. These become full of milt around the season of mating, and when pressed the semen comes out white. The difference these creatures have from one another must be studied from dissections, and will be stated later, more precisely, in the accounts devoted to each of them individually. All egg-laying animals, whether two-footed or four-footed, have testicles near the loin, below the diaphragm, some whiter, some more yellowish, and entirely enclosed in thin little veins.
4| And from each one a duct stretches, joining into one, just as in fish, above the outlet for the residue. This is the genital organ, which in small birds is not conspicuous, but in larger ones, such as the goose and birds of that size, becomes more evident when mating has recently occurred. The ducts, in both fish and these birds, are attached near the loin below the belly and the intestines, between the great vein, from which ducts stretch to each of the testicles. Just as in fish the milt is visible present around the mating season and the ducts are very clear, but once the season has passed the ducts too sometimes become inconspicuous, so it is also with the testicles of birds: before mating, some have them small, others altogether inconspicuous, but when they are mating, they have them very large. This happens most conspicuously in ring-doves and partridges, so that some people think these birds have no testicles at all in winter. Among those that have the testicles in front, some have them internal, near the belly, as the dolphin does, others have them external, in plain view, near the end of the belly.
5| In these the rest is arranged in the same way, but they differ in that some have the testicles by themselves, while others — those that have them external — have them in what is called the scrotum. The testicles themselves, in all land-dwelling, live-bearing animals, are arranged in this way. Veinous ducts stretch from the aorta as far as the head of each testicle, and two others from the kidneys; these latter are full of blood, while the ones from the aorta are bloodless. From the head, at the testicle itself, there is a duct denser than that one and more sinew-like, which bends back again in each testicle toward the head of the testicle; and from the head each of the two in turn joins together at the same point, forward toward the genital organ. The ducts that bend back and lie against the testicles are enclosed in the same membrane, so that they seem to be a single duct unless one splits the membrane apart. Now the duct that lies against the testicle still has a bloody fluid in it, though less so than the ones above coming from the aorta; but in the ducts that bend back into the shaft within the genital organ, the fluid is white. A duct also runs from the bladder, and joins in above, into the shaft.
6| Around this there is, as it were, a sheath — what is called the penis. Let what has been said be studied by reference to the following diagram. The origin of the ducts from the artery is marked A; the heads of the testes and the ducts leading down to them are marked K; those from these that lie against the testis are marked ΩΩ; those that bend back, in which the white fluid is, are marked ΒΒ; the penis is Δ, the bladder E, and the testes are marked ΨΨ. When the testes themselves are cut off or removed, the ducts are drawn upward. Some destroy them by friction while the animals are still young, others by cutting them out even later; and it has actually happened that a bull, once castrated, mounted immediately after and covered a cow and sired offspring. This, then, is how matters stand regarding the testes in animals. The uteri of animals that have uteri are neither alike in kind nor similar in all cases, but differ both among the live-bearing animals themselves and among the egg-laying ones. All animals that have the uterus near the genitals have it cloven in two, one part on the right side and the other on the left;
7| the point of origin is single and there is one mouth, like a stalk that is very fleshy and, in most and the largest of them, cartilaginous as well. Some of these parts are called uterus and delphys (from which people are also called adelphoi, 'brothers'), while the stalk and the mouth of the uterus is called metra. Now in all animals that are live-bearing and two-footed or four-footed, the uterus lies below the diaphragm — for example in man, dog, pig, horse, and ox; and this holds alike for all the horned animals too. At their upper ends, the uteri of most of them have a coiling in what are called the 'little horns.' Among the egg-laying animals, they are not all alike as seen externally: the uteri of birds lie near the diaphragm, but those of fish lie below, as in the live-bearing two-footed and four-footed animals, except that they are thin, membranous, and long, so that in very small fish each seems to be a single egg — as though these fish, in the cases where the egg is said to be crumbly, had two eggs; for it is in fact not one but many, which is why it disperses into many. The uterus of birds has, in its lower part, a stalk that is fleshy and firm, but the part near the diaphragm is membranous and altogether thin, so that the eggs would seem to lie outside the uterus.
8| In the larger birds, then, the membrane is more evident, and when blown through the stalk it rises and forms a pouch; in the small ones all this is less clear. The uterus is the same in character also in four-footed but egg-laying animals, such as the tortoise, the lizard, frogs, and other such creatures; for the stalk below is single and rather fleshy, while the division and the eggs lie above, near the diaphragm. As for the footless creatures that appear to bear live young but in fact lay eggs within themselves — such as the dogfish and the rest of the so-called selachians (an animal is called a selachian if it is footless, has gills, and is live-bearing) — in these the uterus is cloven in two and likewise extends toward the diaphragm, just as in birds. Further, beginning below, it runs through the middle of the two divisions up to the diaphragm, and the eggs form there, and also above, at the start of the diaphragm; then, once they have advanced into the open space, living creatures are produced from the eggs. The differences among these fish themselves, and between them and the other fish, in respect of the uteri, could be studied more precisely in their shapes from dissections.
9| The class of snakes, too, has differences both from these and among themselves. For the other kinds of snakes lay eggs, but the viper alone bears live young, having first laid eggs within itself; hence its uterine arrangement is much like that of the selachians. The uterus of snakes is long, like the body, and runs, beginning below, as a single continuous duct on either side of the spine, each side being like a separate duct, up to the diaphragm, in which the eggs form in a row, and it gives birth not one at a time but in succession. As for the position of the uterus: all animals that bear live young, both within themselves and visibly, have it above the belly, while all that lay eggs have it below, near the loins. Those that appear to bear live young but lay eggs within themselves have it in both positions: the part below, near the loins, is where the eggs are, while the part near the outlet lies above the intestines. There is also this further difference among uteri: horned animals, and those that are not double-toothed, have cotyledons in the uterus when it contains the embryo, and so do some of the double-toothed animals as well, such as the hare, the mouse, and the bat;
10| but the other double-toothed, live-bearing, footed animals all have a smooth uterus, and the attachment of the embryos is from the uterus itself, not from a cotyledon. This, then, is how matters stand with the non-uniform parts in animals, both the external and the internal. Among the uniform parts, the most common to all blooded animals is blood, together with the part in which it naturally forms (this is called a vein); next comes what is analogous to these in the bloodless animals, namely serum and fibers; and what is most truly the body of animals, flesh, together with the part analogous to it in each kind; further, bone and what is analogous to it, such as spine and cartilage; further, skin, membrane, sinew, hair, nails, and the things acknowledged to belong with these; and besides these, fat, suet, and the residues — these being dung, phlegm, and yellow and black bile. Since the nature of blood and of the veins seems to be a starting point, we must speak of these first, especially since some of those who have spoken before did not speak well of them. The cause of their ignorance is the difficulty of observing these parts. For in dead animals the nature of the principal veins is unclear, because these especially collapse as soon as the blood leaves them (for from these it pours out all at once as from a vessel; for nothing has blood in itself, except a little in the heart, but all of it is in the veins), while in living animals it is impossible to observe how they are arranged;
11| for their nature lies within. And so those who studied the greatest starting points in dead and dissected animals did not in fact observe them, while others, working from what appeared externally at the time in extremely emaciated men, distinguished the origins of the veins — Syennesis the Cyprian physician did so in this way. The thick veins are formed as follows: from the navel, along the loins, through the back, past the lung, under the breasts — one running from the right to the left, the other from the left to the right; the one from the left passes through the liver to the kidney and to the testis, the one from the right passes to the spleen and kidney and testis, and from there to the genital organ. Diogenes of Apollonia says the following. The veins in man are arranged thus. There are two largest ones; these stretch through the belly alongside the spine, one to the right, one to the left, each into the leg on its own side, and upward into the head, alongside the collarbones, through the throat. From these, veins extend through the whole body — from the right one to the right parts, from the left one to the left parts — the two largest into the heart, around the spine itself, and others a little higher up, through the chest, under the armpit, into each arm on its own side;
12| and one is called the splenic vein, the other the hepatic vein. The tip of each of these splits, one toward the big toe, the other toward the instep. From these, thin and much-branched vessels extend to the rest of the hand and the fingers. Other, thinner vessels extend from the first veins, one from the right to the liver, one from the left to the spleen and the kidneys. Those extending into the legs split at the point of attachment, and extend through the whole thigh. The largest of them runs behind the thigh, and shows up thick; another runs on the inside of the thigh, a little less thick than that one. Then they extend past the knee into the shin and the foot, just as they do into the hands; and they reach down to the instep of the foot, and from there extend on to the toes. Many thin veins also branch off from them toward the belly and the flank. Those extending to the head are visible, large, in the neck, running through the throat-vessels; from each of them, at the point where it ends, many branch off into the head, those from the right going to the left, those from the left going to the right —
13| both ending near the ear. There is another vein in the neck, alongside the large one on each side, a little smaller than it, into which most of the veins from the head converge. These extend inward through the throat-vessels, and from each of them branches extend under the shoulder blade and into the arms. Alongside the splenic and hepatic veins other, slightly smaller ones are visible, which they open when something is troubling the patient under the skin; but if the trouble is around the belly, they open the hepatic and splenic veins. Others also extend from these under the breasts. There are others, thin ones, extending from each side through the spinal marrow to the testicles. Others extend under the skin and through the flesh to the kidneys, and end at the testicles in men, and at the womb in women. The first veins, from the belly, are wider, then they become thinner, until they cross over from the right to the left and from the left to the right — these are called the seminal veins. The thickest blood forms under the flesh;
14| but as it passes beyond into these regions it becomes thin, hot, and frothy. This, then, is what Syennesis and Diogenes have said; Polybus speaks as follows. The veins fall into four pairs. One runs from the back of the head, through the neck, on the outside along the spine on either side, down to the hips and into the legs, then through the shins to the outside of the ankles and into the feet; and this is why they perform bloodlettings for pains around the back and the hip from the backs of the knees and the outer ankles. Other veins run from the head, past the ears, through the neck — these are called the jugulars — each on the inside along the spine, past the loins to the testicles and to the thighs, and through the inner part of the backs of the knees and through the shins to the inner ankles and the feet; and this is why they perform bloodlettings for pains around the loins and the testicles from the backs of the knees and the ankles. The third pair runs from the temples, through the neck, under the shoulder blades, and reaches the lung: those from the right go to the left, under the breast and to the spleen and the kidney, while those from the left go to the right, from the lung, under the breast and the liver and to the kidney —
15| both ending at the testicle. The fourth pair runs from the front of the head and the eyes, under the neck and the collarbones; from there they extend through the upper arms, from above, down to the bends of the elbow, then through the forearms to the wrists and their bends, and through the lower part of the upper arms into the armpits, and along the ribs from above, until one reaches the spleen and the other the liver; then, passing over the belly, both end at the genitals. What has been said by the others is, then, roughly this. But there are also among the natural philosophers some who have not worked out such precision about the veins, yet all of them alike make the head and the brain their starting point — speaking incorrectly. Since the observation is difficult, as has been said, it can be learned adequately only in animals that have been strangled and first emaciated, if anyone takes the trouble over such things. The nature of the veins is as follows. There are two vessels inside the chest, along the spine: the larger of them lies in front, the smaller behind it; and the larger lies more toward the right, the smaller toward the left — this is the one some call the aorta, from having observed its sinewy part even in dead animals.
16| These have their starting points from the heart. For through the other internal organs, wherever they happen to run, they pass straight through, remaining intact and being veins throughout; but the heart is, as it were, a part of them — more so a part of the front and larger one — because these vessels lie one above and one below, and the heart lies between them. All hearts have cavities in them, but in very small animals only the largest of these is barely visible; in animals of middling size there is a second one as well; and in the largest animals there are all three. With the point of the heart turned forward, as has been said before, the largest cavity is on the right and at the very top; the smallest is on the left; and the one of middling size lies between the two, in the middle. Both of the smaller ones are far smaller than the largest. All three, however, are perforated toward the lung, though the passages are undetectable because of their smallness, except in the case of one. The great vessel, then, is attached to the largest cavity, the upper one, on the right; then again a vessel extends through the middle cavity, as though that cavity were a part of the vessel in which the blood collects.
17| The aorta runs from the middle cavity — except not in the same way, but communicating through a much narrower channel. And the vessel passes through the heart, while it is from the heart that it extends into the aorta. The great vessel is membranous and skin-like, while the aorta is narrower than it but very sinewy; and as it stretches on, far toward the head and toward the lower parts, it becomes narrow and entirely sinewy. First a part of the great vessel extends upward from the heart toward the lung and the junction with the aorta, remaining an undivided and large vessel. From it two parts split off, one toward the lung, the other toward the spine and the last vertebra of the neck. The vessel extending to the lung, since the lung itself is in two parts, first splits into two, then runs along each channel and each opening, larger along the larger ones, smaller along the smaller, so that there is no part to be found in which there is not both an opening and a small vein; for the last of these are undetectable in size because of their smallness, but the whole lung shows up full of blood.
18| Above, the passages from the vessel lie over those of the channels running from the windpipe. The vessel extending to the vertebra of the neck runs again along the spine — the very one Homer too spoke of in his verses, when he wrote: "and he cut clean through the whole vessel, which running up along the back reaches all the way to the neck."
19| From this vein, small vessels stretch along each rib and to each vertebra, and at the vertebra above the kidneys it splits in two. These, then, are the parts that have split off from the great vein in this way. Above these, again, from the vein extending from the heart, the whole splits into two regions. Some of them carry to the sides and the collarbones, and then, through the armpits, stretch — in humans to the arms, in quadrupeds to the front legs, in birds to the wings, in fish to the upper fins. The starting points of these veins, where they first split, are called the jugulars; and where they split off toward the neck from the great vein, they run alongside the windpipe of the lung. When these are pressed on from outside, people sometimes collapse without choking, losing sensation, their eyelids closed. Stretching in this way, and taking the windpipe between them, they extend as far as the ears, where the jaws of the head meet. Again from there they split into four veins, one of which bends back and descends through the neck and the shoulder, and joins the earlier branch of the vein at the bend of the arm, while the other part ends in the hand and the fingers; another, from each of the regions around the ears, stretches to the brain, and splits into many fine small vessels into the so-called membrane around the brain. The brain itself is bloodless in every animal, and no vessel, small or large, ends in it. Of the remaining veins split off from this vein, some encircle the head in a ring, while others end in the sense organs and the teeth as extremely fine small vessels.
20| In the same way the parts of the lesser vein too, called the aorta, have split, running alongside those of the great vein — except that its channels are smaller, and its small vessels are much smaller than those of the great vein. The veins above the heart, then, are in this condition; but the part of the great vein below the heart stretches suspended through the diaphragm, and is held together, both toward the aorta and toward the spine, by membranous, slack channels. From it one vein stretches through the liver, short but broad, from which many fine vessels stretch into the liver and disappear. From the vein through the liver there are two branches: one ends in the diaphragm and the so-called midriff; the other, doubling back through the armpit into the right arm, joins the other veins at the inner bend. That is why, when physicians bleed this vein, patients are relieved of certain pains around the liver. From its left side a vein, small but thick, stretches to the spleen, and the small vessels from it disappear into it.
21| Another part, split off from the left side of the great vein in the same way, ascends to the left arm; except that the former is the one through the liver, while this is different from the one stretching to the spleen. Further, other veins split off from the great vein: one to the omentum, another to the so-called pancreas. From this, many veins stretch through the mesentery. All these end in one great vein, stretched out alongside the whole intestine and the stomach as far as the gullet. And around these parts many veins split off from them. Now as far as the kidneys each — both the aorta and the great vein — extends as a single vessel; there they attach more closely to the spine, and each splits into two like the letter lambda, and the great vein comes to lie more to the rear than the aorta. The aorta attaches most closely to the spine around the heart; the attachment is by small, sinewy vessels. The aorta, as it leads away from the heart, is quite hollow, but as it proceeds it becomes narrower and more sinewy. Veins also stretch from the aorta to the mesentery, like those from the great vein, except that they fall far short of them in size —
22| for they are narrow and fibrous; they end in fine, hollow, fibrous small vessels. Into the liver and the spleen no vein stretches from the aorta. The branches of each vein stretch to each hip, and both attach to the bone. Veins also carry to the kidneys, from both the great vein and the aorta; but they are spent not into the cavity but into the body of the kidneys. From the aorta, two other channels lead to the bladder, strong and continuous, and others lead from the cavity of the kidneys, having nothing in common with the great vein. From the middle of each kidney a hollow, sinewy vein hangs, stretching alongside the spine itself through the veins; then each of them first disappears into each hip, and afterward they become visible again, stretched out toward the hip. Their ends attach, in males, to the bladder and the genitals; in females, to the womb. From the great vein no vein stretches to the womb, but from the aorta many, closely packed.
23| From the aorta and the great vein, among those that split off, other veins also stretch: some, large and hollow, go first to the groin, then through the legs end in the feet and the toes; and again others, through the groin and the thighs, cross over — one from the left to the right, the other from the right to the left — and join the other veins around the backs of the knees. The condition of the veins, then, and where their starting points hang from, is clear from this. In all blooded animals the region around the starting points and the greatest veins is disposed in this way (for the rest of the multitude of veins is not the same in all, since the parts themselves are not disposed the same way in all, nor do all animals have all of them); yet it is not equally visible in all, but most of all in those richest in blood and largest. For in small animals, and those not rich in blood — whether by nature or by the fatness of the body — it cannot be made out in the same way: in some the channels are jumbled together like certain conduits choked with much silt; others have only a few fibers, and these in place of veins.
24| The great vein is in all animals the most distinguishable, even in the small ones. The sinews of animals are disposed in the following way. Their starting point too is from the heart; for the heart itself has sinews in its largest chamber, and the so-called aorta is a sinewy vein — at least its extreme and outermost parts; for these are without cavity, and have a tension like that of the sinews, where it ends at the bends of the bones. All the same, the nature of the sinews is not continuous from a single starting point, as the veins are. For the veins, as in painted outline-sketches, hold the shape of the whole body in such a way that, in animals thoroughly emaciated, the whole bulk appears full of small vessels (for the same region, when the animals are lean, shows small vessels, but when they are fattened, shows flesh); whereas the sinews are scattered apart around the joints and the bendings of the bones. If their nature were continuous, in emaciated animals the continuity of them all would become visible. The largest parts of the sinews are the one around the part that governs leaping (this is called the hollow of the knee), and another, double sinew, the tendon, and those that assist strength, the spinal ligament and the shoulder sinew.
25| The unnamed sinews are those concerned with the bending of the bones; for all the bones that are joined together where they touch one another are bound by sinews, and around all the bones there is a great quantity of sinews. Except in the head there is none, but the sutures of the bones themselves hold it together. The nature of sinew is that it splits lengthwise, but not crosswise, and it has great tension. A moisture forms around these, mucous, white and glutinous, by which they are nourished and out of which they appear to be generated. Now a vein can be cauterized and survive, but every sinew, once cauterized, is destroyed; and if it is cut through, it does not grow together again. Nor does numbness occur where there is no sinew in the body. Sinews are most numerous around the feet and the hands and the ribs and the shoulder-blades and around the neck and the upper arms. All animals that have blood have sinews; but in those that have no bendings but are footless and handless, they are thin and not evident; that is why in fish they are most evident near the fins.
26| Fibers lie between sinew and vein. Some of them have the moisture of serum, and they extend from the sinews to the veins and from these to the sinews. There is also another kind of fiber, which occurs in blood, though not in the blood of every animal; when these are removed from the blood, the blood does not clot, but if they are not removed, it clots. Now in the blood of most animals they are present, but in that of the deer and the roe and the bubalis and certain others fibers are not present; and that is why their blood does not clot in the same way as that of the others, but the blood of deer clots much like that of hares (the clotting of both is not firm, as in the others, but loose, like that of milk when nothing is put into it to curdle it), while that of the bubalis clots more; for it sets in a manner similar to, or a little less firm than, that of sheep. Concerning vein and sinew and fiber, then, matters stand in this way.
27| The bones of animals are all connected from one origin and continuous with one another, like the veins; and no bone by itself, taken on its own, is anything. The starting point, in all animals that have bones, is the spine. The spine is composed of vertebrae, and extends from the head to the hip-bones. Now all the vertebrae are pierced through, and above, the bone of the head is continuous with the last vertebrae; this is called the skull. The saw-toothed part of this is the suture. This is not the same in all animals alike; for some have a skull of a single bone, like the dog, others a composite one, like man, and in man the female has the suture running in a circle, while the male has three sutures meeting at the top, forming a triangle; indeed a man's head has even been seen without sutures. The head is composed not of four bones but of six; two of these are around the ears, small compared with the rest. From the head the jaws extend as bones. In all other animals the lower jaw moves; the river crocodile alone among animals moves the upper jaw.
28| In the jaws is found the class of teeth, bone that is in one respect unpierced and in another pierced, and alone among bones incapable of being carved. From the spine extend both the pin-bone and the collar-bones and the ribs. The breastbone too rests upon ribs; but these join together, while the others do not join; for no animal has bone around the belly. Further there are the bones in the shoulders, and the so-called shoulder-blades, and those next to the upper arms, and of these, those in the hands. And as many animals as have forelegs have the same arrangement in these too. Below, where the body ends, after the hip-bone comes the hip-socket, and then the bones of the legs themselves, those in the thighs and shins, which are called the shanks, of which the ankles are a part, and of these the so-called spurs in those that have an ankle-bone; and continuous with these are the bones in the feet. Now in as many of the blooded, land-dwelling animals as bear live young, the bones do not differ much, but only proportionally, in hardness and softness and size. Further, some of the bones in the same animal have marrow and some do not.
29| Some animals would seem not to have any marrow at all in their bones, such as the lion, because it has altogether little and thin marrow, and only in a few places; for it has it in the thighs and the upper arms. Of all animals the lion has the most solid bones; they are so hard that when they are struck together fire flashes out of them as out of stones. The dolphin too has bones, but not a spiny backbone. The bones of the other blooded animals in some cases differ slightly, as with birds, while in others they are the same by analogy, as with fish; for of these, the ones that bear live young have a cartilaginous spine, such as the so-called selachians, while the egg-laying ones have a spiny backbone, which stands to them as the spine does to quadrupeds. A peculiarity in fish is that in some of them there are, separate within the flesh, thin small spines. The snake is similarly disposed to fish; for its backbone is spiny. Among the quadrupeds that lay eggs, the larger ones have backbones more bony, the smaller ones more spiny. All animals that have blood have a backbone, either bony or spiny; the other bone-parts belong to some and not to others, but just as the having of the parts themselves varies, so too does the having of the bones within them.
30| For as many animals as have no legs and arms, neither do they have shanks, nor do those that have the same parts but not similar ones; for in these too the difference lies either in degree or in analogy. This, then, is how matters stand concerning the nature of bones in animals; cartilage too is of the same nature as bones, but differs from them in degree. And just as bone does not grow back if cut off, neither does cartilage. In the land-dwelling, live-bearing animals among the blooded, the cartilages are unpierced, and marrow does not form in them as it does in bones; but in the selachians (for these are cartilaginous-spined) there is, in the broad parts along the spine, a cartilaginous substance analogous to bone, in which there is a marrow-like moisture. In the land-dwelling animals that bear live young there are cartilages around the ears and the nostrils and around certain extremities of the bones.
31| Further, there are other classes of parts, having neither the same nature as these nor one far removed from it, such as nails and hooves and claws and horns, and besides these the beak, such as birds have, in those animals in which these parts occur. For these are both bendable and splittable, whereas no bone is bendable or splittable, but only breakable. And the colors of horns and nails and claws and hooves follow the color of the skin and the hair. For in animals with black skin the horns and the claws and the hooves, in those that have hooves, are black, and in white-skinned animals they are white, and in those in between, intermediate. It is the same way with nails too. Teeth are of the nature of bone. That is why among black men, such as Ethiopians and the like, the teeth are white, and so are the bones, but the nails are black, just like the whole skin. Of horns, most are hollow from their point of attachment around the solid bone that grows out from the head inward, but at the tip they have the solid part, and they are simple;
32| Only the horns of deer are solid all the way through and many-branched. And of the other animals that have horns, none sheds its horns, but the deer alone does so, each year, unless it has been castrated; about castrated deer we will speak later. The horns are attached more to the skin than to the bone; that is why in Phrygia and elsewhere there are cattle that move their horns just as they move their ears. Of the animals that have claws (and all that have toes have claws, and all that have feet have toes, except the elephant — for the elephant has toes that are unsplit and only faintly articulated, and has no claws at all), some have straight claws, like man, and some have curved claws, like the lion among land animals and the eagle among birds.
33| Concerning hair and its analogues, and skin, the position is as follows. Hair belongs to those animals that are land-dwelling and viviparous; scaly plates belong to those that are land-dwelling and oviparous; and scales belong only to fish, namely those that lay the crumbly kind of egg. For among the long fish the conger does not have such an egg, nor does the moray, and the eel has no egg at all. The thickness and fineness and size of hairs differ according to the region of the body they are on and according to the kind of skin present; for as a rule, hairs are harder and thicker on thicker skins, and more numerous and longer on skins that are more hollow and moist, provided the region is of a kind to have hair at all. The same holds for the scaly-plated and the scaled animals. Now animals that have soft hair, if they are well fed, get harder hair, while those with hard hair get softer and sparser hair. They also differ according to warmer and colder regions: for example, the hair of men is hard in hot regions and soft in cold ones. And again, straight hairs are soft, while curled hairs are hard.
34| The nature of hair is such that it splits. Hairs differ from one another by more and less of this. Some, changing by degrees toward hardness, no longer resemble hairs at all but spines, as with the hairs of land hedgehogs, which are much like claws; indeed in some animals the class of claws is not at all distinct from that of hairs, because of the hardness of the bones. Of all animals, man has the thinnest skin in proportion to his size. In all skins there is a sticky, mucous substance, less in some, more in others — as in the skin of cattle, from which glue is made; in some places glue is also made from fish. Skin, when cut, is itself without sensation; this is most true of the skin on the head, because the tissue between it and the bone is least fleshy there. Wherever skin exists purely by itself, if it is cut through it does not grow back together — for example the thin skin of the cheek, the foreskin, and the eyelid. In all animals the skin is continuous, and it is interrupted only where the natural passages let moisture out, and at the mouth and the claws. So then, all blooded animals have skin, but not all have hair, but rather as has been said before.
35| Animals change color as they age, and in man they turn white. In the others this happens too, but not very noticeably, except in the horse. Hair also turns white starting from the tip. But most gray hairs grow white from the start. This makes it clear that grayness is not dryness, as some say; for nothing grows dry the moment it is born. In the skin eruption called leuke, all the hairs turn gray; and it has happened before now that people who were ill grew gray hairs, and then, once cured, when these fell out, black ones grew in their place. Hair turns gray more when it is kept covered than when it is exposed to air. In men the temples turn gray first, and the front hair before the back; last of all, the pubic hair. Some hairs are innate, others arise later according to age, in man alone among animals: innate are those on the head and on the eyelids and eyebrows; those that arise later are first the pubic hairs, then those of the armpit, and third those of the chin. For the regions in which hairs grow, whether innate or later-arising, are the same in number. The hairs of the head fall out and thin with age, and these are the first and the most to do so.
36| Of these, only the front ones do; for no one goes bald at the back. Smoothness at the crown is called baldness, and smoothness at the brow is called receding hair; neither of these happens to anyone before he begins to have sexual intercourse. No child goes bald, nor does a woman, nor do castrated men; but if a man is castrated before puberty, the later-arising hairs do not grow at all, while if he is castrated after puberty, these alone fall out, except for the pubic hair. A woman does not grow hair on the chin, except that in a few women a little grows when the menses stop, as for instance among the priestesses in Caria, which is thought to happen as a sign of things to come. In other women too it happens, but less. There are also men and women who from birth lack the later-arising hairs and are at the same time infertile, namely all who are also deprived of pubic hair. Now the other hairs grow in due proportion, more or less, most of all those on the head, then those of the beard, and men with fine hair grow it most of all. In some men, as they grow older, the eyebrows grow so shaggy that they must be trimmed, because they lie over the joining of bones which, as the bones separate with age, let through more moisture. The eyelashes do not grow further, but they fall out once a man begins to have sexual intercourse, and more so in those more given to it;
37| and these are the slowest of all to turn gray. Hairs that are plucked out grow back until a man reaches his prime, but not after. Every hair has a sticky moisture near its root, and as soon as it is plucked out it draws up light objects when touched to them. Animals that are variegated in their hair are already variegated beforehand in their skin, and in the skin of the tongue as well. As for the chin, in some men it happens that both the mustache and the chin are shaggy, while in others these are smooth but the jaws are shaggy; men whose beards come in thin go bald less. Hair grows more in certain illnesses, for instance more in consumption, and in old age, and even in the dead, and it becomes harder instead of soft; the very same things happen also with the claws. Innate hairs fall out more in men given to sexual intercourse; the later-arising hairs grow back faster. Men who have a viscous humor go bald less, and even if bald men acquire it, some of them grow hairy again. A hair that has been cut off does not grow further, but growing up again from below it becomes longer. Fish scales too become harder and thicker with age, and in fish that grow thin and in those that age they become harder. And as four-footed animals grow older, in some the hair, in others the wool, grows deeper but fewer in number;
38| In some animals the hooves become larger as they age, in others the claws, and likewise the beaks of birds. The claws grow larger too, just as the nails do. As for the winged animals, such as birds, none of them changes with age, except the crane; this bird, though gray, has darker feathers as it grows old. But because of the changes that occur with the seasons — for instance when the weather turns colder — some birds that are a single color sometimes turn from black or very black to white, as with the raven, the sparrow, and swallows; but none has been observed to change from the white kinds into black. And with the seasons most birds change their colors, so that one unfamiliar with them would fail to notice. Some animals also change the color of their hair according to changes in the water; for in one place the same animals become white, in another black. And around mating season there are, in many places, waters of this sort, which, when drunk and followed by mating, cause the sheep to bear black lambs — as, for example, in Chalcidice on the Thracian coast, in the district of Assyritis, the river called Cold River did. And in Antandria there are two rivers, of which one makes the sheep white and the other black. The river Scamander, too, is thought to make sheep tawny;
39| and this, they say, is why Homer calls it Xanthus instead of Scamander. Now the other animals have hair neither on the inside, nor on the underside of their extremities, only on the outward-facing parts; but the hare alone has hair inside its jaws as well and under its feet. Further, the whale — the sea creature called mys — has no teeth in its mouth, but has hair like a pig's bristles. Now hair, when cut, grows again from below but not from above; feathers, on the other hand, grow again neither from below nor from above, but simply fall out. The feather of the bee does not grow back once plucked, nor does that of any other creature whose wing is undivided; nor does the sting, when the bee loses it — instead the bee dies. All blooded animals also have membranes. A membrane resembles a dense, thin skin, but it is a different kind of thing, for it can be neither split nor stretched. There is a membrane around each of the bones and around each of the internal organs, both in larger and in smaller animals; but in the smaller ones they are inconspicuous because they are altogether thin and small. The largest membranes are the two around the brain, of which the one next to the bone is stronger and thicker than the one next to the brain itself, and after these, the membrane around the heart. When a bare membrane is cut through it does not grow back together, and bones stripped of their membranes become gangrenous.
40| The omentum, too, is a membrane. All blooded animals have an omentum, but in some it is fatty, in others fat-free. In the viviparous animals and in those with teeth in both jaws it has its origin and attachment from the middle of the stomach, where there is, as it were, a kind of seam in it; and in those without teeth in both jaws likewise from the large stomach. The bladder, too, is membranous, but it is a different kind of membrane. Not all animals have a bladder: all the viviparous ones do, but among the oviparous only the tortoise. When cut through, the bladder too does not grow back together, except right at the origin of the ureter — unless in some altogether rare case, for such a thing has in fact happened before. Now in dead animals it lets through no fluid, but in living ones it also lets through dry concretions, from which stones form in those who suffer from them. In some cases such concretions have even formed in the bladder so as to seem no different from shellfish. Concerning vein and sinew and skin, and concerning fibers and membranes, and further concerning hair and nails and claw and hoof and horns and teeth and beak and cartilage and bones and the parts analogous to these, matters stand in this way.
41| Flesh, and whatever has a nature similar to flesh, lies in all blooded animals between the skin and the bone, or the parts analogous to bones; for as the spine stands to the bone, so the fleshlike substance stands to the flesh in those creatures that have bones and a spine. Flesh can be divided in every direction, unlike sinews and veins, which run lengthwise only. When animals grow lean, flesh disappears and small veins and fibers become visible; but when animals are given richer feeding, fat takes the place of flesh. In those that have much flesh, the veins are smaller, the blood redder, and the internal organs and the stomach small; in those that have large veins, the blood is darker, the internal organs large, the stomach large, but the flesh less. Animals with small stomachs become fat in their flesh.
42| Pimele (soft fat) and stear (hard fat) differ from each other. Stear is brittle throughout and solidifies on cooling, whereas pimele is fluid and does not solidify; and the broths of animals with pimele, such as horse and pig, do not set, while those of animals with stear, such as sheep and goat, do set. They also differ in location: pimele forms between skin and flesh, while stear forms only at the end of the flesh. The omentum too becomes pimele-like in animals with pimele, and stear-like in animals with stear. Animals with teeth in both jaws have pimele, those without teeth in both jaws have stear. Among the internal organs, the liver in some animals becomes fatty like pimele — for instance in cartilaginous fish among the fishes; people make oil from these livers, which is produced by melting them down. The cartilaginous fish themselves are the least fatty of all, both in their flesh and in their stomach, their fat being kept separate. The fat of fish, too, is pimele-like, and does not solidify. All animals are fat either throughout the flesh or in a separate, localized place. Those that do not have their fatness set apart are less fat around the stomach and omentum, as with the eel;
43| for these have little stear around the omentum. Most animals become fat around the belly, and especially those animals that are not active. The brains of animals with pimele are moist and glistening, as with the pig, while those of animals with stear are dry. Among the internal organs, animals become fattest around the kidneys; and the right kidney is always less fatty, and even when animals are extremely fat there is always some deficiency around the middle. Fat forms around the kidneys more in animals with stear, and above all in sheep among animals; for a sheep dies if its kidneys become entirely covered over. This fat around the kidneys comes about through rich feeding, as in Sicily around Leontini; and this is why they drive the sheep out late in the day, so that they take in less food. Common to all animals is the fatty substance around the pupil in the eyes; for all animals that have such a part in their eyes and are not hard-eyed have this part made of stear. Animals with pimele are less fertile, both males and females. All animals grow fatter as they get older rather than when they are younger, and especially once they have reached their full breadth and length and are still growing in depth.
44| Here is how things stand regarding blood. This is the most necessary and most common thing to all blooded animals, and it is not something acquired but belongs to all of them as long as they are not decaying. All blood is in a vessel, in what are called veins, and in nothing else except the heart alone. Blood has no perception when animals are touched anywhere in it, just as the residue in the stomach has none; nor does the brain nor the marrow have perception when touched. Wherever one cuts the flesh, blood appears in a living animal, provided the flesh is not decayed. Blood by nature has a sweet flavor, if it is healthy, and a red color; blood that is worse, whether by nature or by disease, is darker. And the best blood is neither too thick nor too thin, unless it is worse through nature or through disease. In the animal it is always fluid and warm, but on going out it congeals in all animals except the deer and the roe deer and any other that has that same nature; the rest of the blood congeals unless the fibers are removed from it. Of all bloods, that of the bull congeals fastest.
45| Among blooded animals, those that bear live young both within themselves and outside themselves have more blood than those [and] blooded animals that lay eggs. Animals in good condition, whether by nature or through health, have neither too much blood, as animals that have just drunk a fresh draught, nor too little, as animals that are very fat; for fat animals have blood that is pure but scanty, and as they grow fatter they become more bloodless, since fat is bloodless. And fat does not putrefy, while blood, and blooded parts, putrefy fastest, and among these the parts around the bones putrefy fastest of all. The human being has the thinnest and purest blood, while the bull and the ass, among animals that bear live young, have the thickest and darkest. And in the lower parts of the body, or in the upper, the blood becomes thicker and darker. Blood pulses in the veins everywhere at once in all animals alike, and it is the only one of the fluids present throughout the whole body in animals, and it alone is present always, as long as the animal lives. Blood is the first thing to form in animals, in the heart, even before the whole body has been articulated. When it is diminished and released outward in quantity, animals die from losing much of it, and if they lose a very great deal, they die outright.
46| When blood becomes too watery, animals fall sick; for it turns serous, and flows through the body to such a degree that some have actually been observed to sweat blood. And on going out, in some animals it does not congeal completely, or only congeals in a divided and separate way. In sleeping animals, less blood is present in the outer parts, so that when they are pricked it does not flow in the same way. Blood, when concocted, comes to be formed from serum, and fat is formed from blood; and when blood has fallen sick, there results a flux of blood, both the kind in the nostrils and the kind around the seat, and also a viscous discharge. When blood putrefies within the body it becomes pus, and from pus comes callus. The blood of females differs from that of males: in females it is thicker and darker than in males of similar health and age, and near the surface it is scantier in females, but within, females have more blood. Of female animals, woman has the most blood of all, and what are called the menses occur in the greatest quantity of any animal in women. This blood, when it has fallen sick, is called a flux. Women share less than men in other diseases. Few women suffer from viscous discharge or flux of blood or a flow from the nostrils; and if any of these occurs, the menses become worse.
47| Blood also differs according to age, in both quantity and kind: in the very young it is serous and more abundant, in the old it is thick and dark and scanty, and in those in their prime it is in between. And the blood of old people congeals quickly, even while still within the body near the surface; this does not happen in the young. Serum is unconcocted blood, either because it has not yet been concocted or because it has become watery.
48| Now about marrow. This too is one of the fluids present in some blooded animals. All the fluids that are naturally present in the body are contained in vessels, just as blood is in veins and marrow is in bones, while others are contained in membranous structures, and in skins and cavities. In the young, marrow is entirely blood-like, but as animals grow older, it becomes fatty in animals that are fatty, and suet-like in animals that are suety. Not all bones have marrow, but only the hollow ones, and even among these some lack it: the lion's bones for one part lack it, for another part have only a very small amount, which is why some say that lions have no marrow at all, as has been said before. And in the bones of pigs there is less marrow, and in some of their bones none at all. These fluids, then, are almost always innate in animals, but milk and semen come later in life. Of these, the one that is separated off is present in all animals when it is present at all — that is, milk; but semen is not present in all, though in some fish what are called the milt serve this role. Whatever has milk has it in the breasts.
49| Breasts belong to whatever bears live young both within itself and outside itself, such as those that have hair, like the human being and the horse, and the cetaceans, such as the dolphin, the seal, and the whale; for these too have breasts and milk. Whatever bears live young only outside itself, or lays eggs, has neither breasts nor milk, such as fish and birds. All milk has a watery serum, called whey, and a solid part, called curd; the thicker of milks has more curd. The milk of animals that do not have teeth in both jaws congeals (which is why it is made into cheese among the domesticated ones), while the milk of animals with teeth in both jaws does not congeal, just as their fat does not, and it is thin and sweet. The thinnest milk is that of the camel, second is that of the horse, third that of the ass; the thickest is that of cattle. Cold does not make milk congeal, but rather makes it run more; fire congeals it and thickens it. Milk is not produced, in most cases, in any animal before it becomes pregnant. When it is pregnant, milk is produced, but it is useless both at the very first and at the very last. In animals not pregnant, a little milk comes from certain foods, and moreover it has been known to increase in older females already being milked, and in some cases so much that it has sufficed to nurse a child.
50| And the people around Mount Oeta, when any of their she-goats will not submit to mating, take nettle and rub the udders forcibly, because of the pain involved; at first what is milked out is blood-like, then somewhat purulent, and finally milk, no less than in goats that have mated. In males, both among the other animals and in man, milk is not produced in most cases, yet it does occur in some: for instance in Lemnos, milk was milked from the breasts of a he-goat — the male has two, beside the genitals — in such quantity that a small cheese was made from it, and again, when this goat mated, the same thing happened to the kid born from him. Such occurrences people take as omens, since indeed the god, when consulted by the man in Lemnos, foretold that he would come into an increase of wealth. In men, after puberty, a little milk is expressed in some cases; and in those already being milked, it has been known to increase considerably. There is a fatty quality present in milk, which in the congealed part becomes oil-like. Into sheep's milk in Sicily, and wherever there is a greater quantity of it, they mix goat's milk. What congeals most is not only the milk with the most curd, but also the milk that is drier.
51| Some animals have more milk than is needed to rear their young, and it is useful for making cheese and for storing, above all the milk of sheep and goats, and next that of cattle. Mare's milk and ass's milk are mixed in to make Phrygian cheese. There is more cheese-substance in cow's milk than in goat's milk: for herdsmen say that from an amphora of goat's milk they get nineteen curd-cakes of an obol's weight each, and from an amphora of cow's milk thirty. Other animals have only as much milk as suffices for their young, and no abundance, nor any that is useful for cheese-making — for example, all those that have more than two teats: for none of these has either a quantity of milk or milk that curdles into cheese. Milk is curdled by fig-juice and by rennet. Now the fig-juice is worked into wool, and when the wool is afterward washed out into a little milk, this, being mixed in, curdles it. Rennet is itself a kind of milk: it is found in the stomach of animals still suckling.
52| Rennet, then, is milk that has cheese-substance in it, produced when the milk is concocted by the heat of the animal. All ruminants have rennet, and among the double-toothed animals the hare has it. Rennet is better the older it is: such rennet, and that of the hare, is especially good against diarrhea, but the best rennet of all is that of the fawn. The amount of milk drawn from milk-bearing animals, more or less, differs according to the size of their bodies and the differences in their food. For example, in Phasis there are small cattle, each of which is milked in great abundance, while the large Epirot cattle are each milked one amphora, and half again as much from the two teats. The milker stands upright, bending slightly, because he could not reach them sitting down. Apart from the ass, the other four-footed animals in Epirus also grow large, and the largest are the cattle and the dogs. The large animals need more pasture, but the country has abundant good grazing of this kind, and suitable places for every season. The largest are the cattle and the sheep called Pyrrhic, which take this name from King Pyrrhus.
53| Some fodder dries up the milk, such as Median grass, especially in ruminants; other fodder produces much milk, such as cytisus and vetch, except that flowering cytisus is not beneficial (for it causes swelling), and vetch is not beneficial for pregnant animals (for it makes their delivery harder). In general, whatever four-footed animals are able to eat is beneficial for conception as well, and animals that have plenty of food are milked in abundance. Some flatulence-producing foods also produce milk when eaten, such as a large quantity of beans for a ewe, a goat, a cow, or a she-goat; for these make the udder go down. A sign that there will be more milk is when, before giving birth, the udder points downward. Milk continues to be produced for a long time in all animals that have it, if they remain unmated and have suitable food, and most of all in sheep among the four-footed animals: for they are milked for eight months. In general, ruminants are milked for much milk that is useful for cheese-making. Around Torone, cows stop only for a few days before giving birth, and have milk the rest of the time. Among women, the darker milk is better than the white for nursing infants, and dark-skinned women have healthier milk than fair-skinned ones.
1| The most nourishing milk, then, is that which has the most cheese-substance, but the milk with less is healthier for infants. All animals that have blood emit seed. What it contributes to generation, and how, will be discussed elsewhere. Man emits the most seed in proportion to his body. In animals that have hair it is viscous, but in the other animals it has no viscosity. In all animals it is white; but Herodotus is mistaken in writing that the Ethiopians emit black seed. Semen comes out white and thick if it is healthy, but once outside it becomes thin and dark. In frosty weather it does not congeal, but becomes altogether thin and watery both in color and in thickness; heat makes it congeal and thicken. And when it comes out after remaining some time in the womb, it comes out thicker, and sometimes dry and shriveled. What is fertile sinks down in water, what is infertile disperses. What Ctesias has written about the seed of elephants is also false. D.
2| Concerning the blooded animals — both the parts common to them and those peculiar to each genus, both the non-uniform and the uniform parts, and both the internal and the external ones — we have spoken earlier. We must now speak of the bloodless animals. There are several genera. One is that of the so-called cephalopods: these are the animals that, being bloodless, have their fleshy part outside, while inside — if they have anything solid — it corresponds to what the blooded animals have, for example the genus of cuttlefish. Another is that of the crustaceans: these are the animals whose solid part is outside and whose soft, fleshy part is inside; and their hard part is not brittle but crushable — for example the genus of crayfish and the genus of crabs. Further, there are the testaceans: these are animals whose fleshy part is inside and whose solid part is outside, being brittle and breakable but not crushable — such is the genus of snails and the genus of oysters. Fourth is the genus of insects, which encompasses many dissimilar species of animals. Insects are those that, in accordance with their name, have notches either on their upper side or on their under side or on both, and have neither one separate bony part nor one fleshy part, but something between the two —
3| for their body is equally hard both inside and out. Some insects are wingless, such as the millipede and the centipede, and some are winged, such as the bee, the cockchafer, and the wasp; and the same genus can be both winged and wingless, as ants are both winged and wingless, and so are the creatures called glow-worms. Now the external parts of the so-called cephalopods are as follows: first, what are called the feet; second, next to these, the head; third, the sac, which encloses the internal parts — some call this the head, but incorrectly; and further, fins running all around the sac. In all cephalopods it happens that the head lies between the feet and the belly. All of them have eight feet, and all of these have a double row of suckers, except for one genus of the many-footed kind. Cuttlefish, calamary, and squid have, in addition, two long tentacles at the extremities, bearing a double row of rough suckers, with which they draw in and take food to their mouth, and when there is a storm, they throw these against some rock and ride at anchor, as it were, by them. They swim by means of the fin-like parts they have around the sac.
4| All of them have suckers on their feet. The octopus uses its arms both as feet and as hands. It draws things toward itself with the two arms above its mouth; and it uses the last of its arms — the sharpest one, the only one that is whitish, and forked at its tip (this one is on the back; the back is called the smooth part, in front of which the suckers lie) — in mating. In front of the sac, above the arms, they have a hollow tube, through which they expel the seawater they have taken in with the sac, whenever they take something into their mouth. This tube shifts sometimes to the right, sometimes to the left; and they also discharge their ink through it. The octopus swims sideways, stretching its feet out toward what is called its head; and swimming in this way, it happens to see ahead of it (for its eyes are on top), while its mouth is behind. As long as it is alive, its head remains hard, as though inflated. It grips and holds on with its arms turned upward, and the whole membrane between its feet is stretched taut; but if it falls onto sand, it can no longer hold on.
5| The octopuses and the mollusks just mentioned show a difference among themselves: in the octopuses the body-sac is small and the legs long, while in the others the body-sac is large and the legs short, so short that they cannot walk on them. Among the others, comparing them with each other, the squid is the longer, the cuttlefish the broader. Among the squids, the ones called "teuthoi," the calamary, grow far larger, reaching as much as five cubits in length. Some cuttlefish too grow to two cubits, and the tentacles of octopuses reach that size and even larger. But the calamary is a rare kind. The calamary differs from the squid in shape: its pointed end is broader, and the fin runs in a circle around the whole body-sac, whereas in the squid it is incomplete. It lives out at sea, as the squid also does. In all of them, after the legs comes the head, set in the middle of the legs, which are called tentacles. Part of the head is the mouth, in which are two teeth; above these are two large eyes, and between the eyes a small piece of cartilage holding a small brain. In the mouth there is a small fleshy part—
6| none of them has a tongue, but uses this fleshy part instead of a tongue. After this, on the outside, one can see the visible body-sac. Its flesh is split, not in a straight line but running in a circle; and all the mollusks have skin covering this. After the mouth they have a long, narrow gullet, and next to this a large, round, bird-like crop. Next to this comes the stomach, like a fourth stomach, and its shape is like the spiral in whelks. From this a thin intestine runs back up again toward the mouth; the intestine is thicker than the gullet. None of the mollusks has an internal organ of that kind, but they have what is called the "ink-bag," and on it the ink. The cuttlefish has the most of this and the largest ink-bag; all of them release it when frightened, but the cuttlefish does so most of all. The ink-bag lies below the mouth, and the gullet runs through it; where the intestine runs up, below is the ink, and it has its duct enclosed in the same membrane as the intestine, and it releases the ink and the residue through the same passage. They also have certain hair-like structures in the body.
7| In the cuttlefish, the squid, and the calamary there is, inside, on the back of the body, a solid structure, which in the one case is called the cuttle-bone and in the other the pen. They differ: the cuttle-bone is strong and broad, something between a spine and a bone, having in it a spongy friability, while that of the squids is thin and more cartilaginous. In shape they differ from one another just as the body-sacs do. The octopuses have no such solid part inside at all, but around the head something cartilaginous, which, if one of them grows old, becomes hard. The females differ from the males: the males have a duct below the gullet, running from the brain down toward the lower part of the body-sac; the point it runs to is like a nipple; in the females there are two such structures, and they are higher up. In both sexes, below these, certain small red bodies are attached. The octopus has a single egg, uneven on the outside and large; inside is the fluid part, uniform in color throughout and smooth, white in color; and the quantity of the egg is such that it fills a vessel larger than the octopus's own head.
8| The cuttlefish has two body-sacs, and many eggs within them, like white hailstones. How each of these parts is situated should be studied from the diagram in the Anatomies. All the males of these differ from the females, and especially the cuttlefish: the male has the back of the body-sac darker than the underside, and rougher, than the female, and it is variegated with stripes, and its tail-end is more pointed. There are several kinds of octopus: one is the kind found most on the surface and the largest of them (the ones near shore are much larger than those out at sea); then there are other small, mottled ones, which are not eaten. There are two others besides: the one called the "heledone," which differs in the length of its legs and in being the only mollusk with a single row of suckers (for all the others have a double row), and the one some call the "bolitaina" and others the "ozolis." There are yet two others found in shells, the one called by some the nautilus and the sea-pen, by others the "octopus's egg"; its shell is like a hollow comb-shell and is not fused to the body. This creature often grazes near the shore, and then gets washed by the waves onto dry land, and when the shell tips over it is caught and dies on land.
9| These are small, similar in kind to the bolitainai. And there is another in a shell, like a snail, which does not come out of the shell but stays inside it as the snail does, though sometimes it stretches its tentacles out. So much, then, for the mollusks. Among the crustaceans, one kind is that of the crayfish, and closely resembling it another, that of the so-called lobsters; these differ from the crayfish in having claws and in a few other differences. One kind is that of the shrimps, and another that of the crabs. There are several kinds of shrimp and of crab: among shrimps, the bent ones and the "krangones" and the small kind (for these do not grow larger); among crabs the kind is far more varied and not easily enumerated. The largest are those called "maiai"; second are the "pagouroi" and the Heraclean crabs, and further the river crabs; the rest are smaller and mostly nameless. Around Phoenicia, on the shore, occur the ones called "horsemen," because they run so fast that it is not easy to catch them; when opened up they are empty, because they have no food inside. There is also another kind, small like the crabs but similar in shape to the lobsters. All of these, as has been said before, have the solid, shell-like part outside, occupying the place of skin, and the fleshy part inside, and on the underside flatter plate-like parts, into which the females also lay their eggs.
10| The crayfish have five legs on each side, counting the terminal claws; likewise the crabs too have ten in all, counting the claws. Among the shrimps, the bent kind have five on each side, sharp ones near the head, and another five on each side along the belly, with flat tips; they have no plates on the underside, but the parts on the back are like those of the crayfish. The "krangon" is the opposite: it has the first four on each side, then another three slender ones next to these on each side, and the rest, the greater part of the body, is footless. In all of them the legs bend sideways, as in insects too, but the claws, in those that have claws, bend inward. The crayfish has a tail as well, and five fins; and the bent shrimp has a tail-fin and four fins. The "krangon" too has fins on each side of the tail; the part between them in both is spiny, except that in these it is broad, while in the bent shrimp it is pointed. The crab alone among these has no tail-end; and the body of the shrimps and crayfish is elongated, while that of the crabs is round.
11| The male crayfish differs from the female. In the female the first foot is forked, but in the male it ends in a single point. And the female has large fins on the underside that overlap near the neck, while the male's are smaller and do not overlap. Again, on the male's last feet there are large sharp projections like spurs, but on the female these are small and smooth. Both alike have two large rough feelers in front of the eyes, and other small smooth horns below these. In all of these creatures the eyes are hard-eyed, and they move both inward and outward and to the side; and it is the same, only still more so, with most crabs. The lobster has a body that is on the whole whitish, but sprinkled with black. It has eight feet below, up to the large ones, and after these the large claws, much bigger and broader at the tip than in the crayfish, and unequal to each other; for the right one has its broad tip elongated and thin, while the left one is thick and rounded.
12| Each claw is split at the tip like a jaw, with teeth both below and above, except that the right claw has all small teeth, jagged like a saw, while the left claw has jagged teeth at the tip, but the inner ones are like molars—four in a row on the lower side, and three not in a row on the upper side. Both claws move their upper part, and press it down against the lower. Both are bent outward in their position, as if naturally suited for grasping and squeezing. Above the large claws there are two other, hairy ones, a little below the mouth, and below these are the gill-like parts around the mouth, which are hairy and numerous. These it keeps moving continually; and it bends and draws the two hairy feet toward its mouth. The feet next to the mouth also have thin side-shoots. It has two teeth like the crayfish, and above these the long horns, though much shorter and thinner than the crayfish's, and another four similar to these in shape but shorter and thinner still. Above these are the eyes, small and short, not large as in the crayfish. The part above the eyes is sharp and rough, like a forehead, and larger than in the crayfish.
13| In general its face is more pointed, and its chest much broader than the crayfish's, and its whole body fleshier and softer. Of the eight feet, four are forked at the tip and four are not. The parts around what is called the neck are divided into five sections on the outside, and there is a sixth, the broad tail-piece, which has five plates. The inner parts, into which the females lay their eggs beforehand, are four hairy sections. On each of the sections mentioned there is a short, straight spine pointing outward. The whole body, including the parts around the chest, is smooth, unlike the rough crayfish; but on the large feet the outer parts have larger spines. Between female and male no difference is apparent; for both male and female, whichever of the two claws happens to be, have it larger, though neither ever has both equal. All such creatures take in sea water by the mouth; crabs release it by lifting a small part of this same opening, while crayfish release it through the gill-like parts—crayfish have many of these gill-like parts. Common to all of these is the following:
14| all have two teeth (for even the crayfish have two front ones), and a mouth that is fleshy in place of a tongue, then a stomach connected directly to the mouth—except that the crayfish have a small gullet before the stomach—and then from this stomach a straight intestine. This ends, in the crayfish-kind and the shrimp, in a straight line toward the tail, where they discharge waste and lay their eggs; but in the crabs it ends at the middle of what is called the flap, at the place where they have the flap. In these too, however, it is on the outside, where they lay their eggs. Further, the females among them have the place for the eggs alongside the intestine. All of these also have what is called the ink-sac or poppy, in greater or smaller amount. The differences peculiar to each must now be examined. The crayfish, then, as has been said, have two large hollow teeth, in which there is a fluid like the ink, and between the teeth a small fleshy piece like a tongue. From the mouth it has a short gullet, and a stomach connected to this, membranous, at whose mouth-end there are three teeth—two of them opposite each other, and one below. From the side of the stomach there runs a simple intestine of equal thickness throughout, all the way to the outlet for waste.
15| All these parts, then, are possessed alike by the crayfish, the shrimp, and the crabs; for the crabs too have two teeth. Further, the crayfish have a duct running from the chest to the outlet for waste; in the female this is the passage for the womb, in the male for the seed. This duct lies against the hollow side of the flesh, so that the flesh comes between the two: for the intestine lies against the convex side, and the duct against the hollow side, arranged just as in four-footed animals. There is no difference between the male's and the female's; both are thin and white and contain within themselves a pale moisture, and both are likewise suspended from the chest. The shrimp and the spiny lobsters have the egg-passage arranged in the same way. What the male has, peculiar to himself as against the female, is two whitish bodies by themselves in the flesh at the chest, like in color and consistency to the tentacles of the cuttlefish; these are coiled up like the whelk's spiral shell. Their starting-point is from the sucker-like disks that lie below the last feet.
16| In this part too there is red, blood-colored flesh, sticky to the touch and unlike the rest of the flesh. From the whelk-like part around the chest there runs another coil, about as thick as a cord; below these lie two crumbly bodies attached to the intestine, which carry the seed. These, then, the male has; the female has eggs, red in color, whose attachment is to the stomach and to the intestine on each side, reaching to the fleshy parts, enclosed in a thin membrane. Such, then, are the parts, both internal and external, that these creatures have.
17| It happens that among the blooded animals the internal parts have names—for all of them have what are called viscera inside—but among the bloodless animals none do; instead stomach, gullet, and intestine are common terms for both groups alike. As for the crabs, concerning their claws and feet, that they have them and how they are arranged, this has been said before; and for the most part all of them have the right claw larger and stronger. It has also been said before about their eyes, that most of them look to the side. The cavity of the body is a single undivided thing, and there is besides a head, and whatever other part there may be. Some have their eyes set well apart from each other, up on the side just under the slope, while others have them in the middle and close together, as do the Heracleotic crabs and the hermit-crabs. Below the eyes is the mouth, and in it two teeth as in the crayfish, except that these are not round but elongated. Over these there are two coverings, between which is the same sort of thing that the crayfish has by its teeth. It takes in water by the mouth, pushing back the coverings, and it lets the water out through the upper passages of the mouth, closing the coverings over the place by which the water entered.
18| These are situated right below the eyes; and whenever it takes in water, it closes the mouth with both coverings, and then in this way spits the seawater back out. Next to the teeth the gullet is altogether short, so that the stomach seems to come immediately after the mouth. And next to this the stomach is two-chambered, from the middle of which the intestine is simple and thin; the intestine ends beneath the outer covering, as has been said before. Between the coverings it has, just as the crayfish does, structures next to the teeth. Inside the body cavity there is a pale fluid, and some small oblong white things, and other reddish things scattered about. The male differs from the female in size and in breadth and in the covering; for the female has this larger, and more spread out and more thickly covering, just as also in the case of female crayfish. The parts of the crustaceans, then, are in this condition.
19| The testaceans among animals — such as the land-snails and the whelks and all the creatures called oysters, and further the class of sea urchins — as regards their flesh, those that have flesh have it in the same way as the crustaceans (for they have it inside), but their shell is outside, and inside there is nothing hard. But they have many differences among themselves, both in respect of their shells and in respect of the flesh within. For some of them have no flesh at all, such as the sea urchin, while others have flesh, but keep all of it hidden inside except for the head, such as the land-snails and the creatures some call "kokalia," and among sea creatures the purple-fish and the trumpet-shells (kēryx) and the sea-snail (kochlos) and the other spiral-shelled kinds. Of the rest, some are two-shelled and some one-shelled; by two-shelled I mean those enclosed by two shells, and by one-shelled those enclosed by one; and their flesh is on the surface, as in the limpet. Of the two-shelled kind, some open up, such as scallops and mussels; for all such creatures are joined together on one side and separated on the other, so that they can close and open. Others are two-shelled, but are closed alike on both sides, such as razor-shells.
20| There are also some that are wholly enclosed by the shell and have none of their flesh exposed to the outside, such as the creatures called tethya. Further, the shells themselves differ from one another. For some are smooth-shelled, like the razor-shell and mussels and certain cockles that some call "milk-shells," while others are rough-shelled, like pond-oysters and the pinna and some kinds of cockles and whelks. And of these, some are ribbed, such as the scallop and a certain kind of cockle, while others are unribbed, such as the pinna and a certain kind of cockle. They also differ in the thickness and thinness of their shells, both over the whole shell and in particular parts, such as around the edges; for some are thin-edged, like mussels, while others are thick-edged, like pond-oysters. Further, some of them are able to move themselves, such as the scallop (some even say scallops can fly, since they often leap right out of the instrument by which they are caught), while others are immobile because of their attachment, such as the pinna. All the spiral-shelled kinds move and crawl; and the limpet too, when it detaches itself, grazes about. Common to these and to the other hard-shelled kinds is that the shell is smooth on the inside.
21| In the one-shelled and two-shelled kinds the flesh has grown onto the shells, so that it can be torn off only by force, but in the spiral-shelled kinds it is more detached. A feature peculiar to all of these in respect of the shell is that the shell has a spiral coil at the point furthest from the head. Further, all of them have a lid from birth. Further, all the spiral-shelled testaceans coil to the right, and move not toward the spiral but toward the opposite side. The outer parts of these animals, then, have differences of this sort; but as for the internal parts, the nature of all of them is in a way similar, and especially of the spiral-shelled kinds (for they differ from one another in size and in attributes of degree), and the one-shelled and closable two-shelled kinds do not differ much either — they have small differences among themselves, but greater differences from the immobile kinds. This will become clearer from what follows. The nature of all the spiral-shelled kinds is alike, but they differ, as has been said, in degree (for some have larger and more conspicuous parts, while others have the opposite, smaller ones), and further in hardness and softness and other such attributes. For all of them have, at the outermost part, in the mouth of the shell, firm flesh — some more so, some less.
22| From the middle of this comes the head and two small horns; these are large in the bigger kinds, and altogether small in the smaller ones. The head comes out in the same way in all of them; and if something frightens the creature, it draws back in again. Some have a mouth and teeth, such as the land-snail, whose teeth are sharp and small and thin. They also have proboscises, just as flies do; this is tongue-like. Whelks and purple-fish also have this, and theirs is firm; and just as gadflies and horseflies pierce right through the skins of four-footed animals, so does this organ, because in strength it is the most forceful of all; for they bore right through the shells of the bait. Next to the mouth comes the stomach immediately. The stomach of the whelks is similar to a bird's crop. Below it they have two white firm organs, resembling breasts, of the kind that also occur in cuttlefish, except these are firmer. From the stomach a simple long gullet runs to the "poppy," which is at the base of the shell. These features are visible also in the purple-fish and the whelks, in the coil of the shell. Next to the gullet comes the intestine;
23| the gullet and the intestine are continuous, and the whole is simple all the way to the exit. The beginning of the intestine is around the coil of the "poppy," and there it is wider (for the poppy is, for most of its extent, a kind of residue in all the shelled creatures); then, bending, it runs back up toward the flesh, and the end of the intestine is next to the head, where they discharge the residue — alike in all the spiral-shelled kinds, both the land ones and the sea ones. Woven in alongside the stomach, attached to the gullet in the large whelks and held together by a thin membrane, is a long white passage, similar in color to the breast-like organs mentioned above. It has indentations like the roe in the crayfish, except in color: this one is white, that one red. This organ has no outlet or passage, but is enclosed in a thin membrane, having within itself a narrow cavity. From the intestine, downward, run continuous dark and rough parts, such as also occur in tortoises, except less dark. Sea whelks also have these, and the white organs too, except that the smaller ones have smaller ones. The one-shelled and two-shelled kinds are in some respects similar to these, and in other respects different.
24| For they have a head and little horns and a mouth and the tongue-like part; but in the smaller ones these are unclear because of their smallness, and even in the larger ones they are not clear when the animals are dead or not moving. All of them have what is called the poppy, but not in the same place, nor of equal size, nor equally visible in all: in the limpets it lies down in the depth, while in the two-shelled kinds it lies at the hinge. And the hair-like growths belong to all of these round about, as for instance in the scallops too. And what is called the egg, in those that have it, when they have it, is in the circuit on the one side of the circumference, just as the white part is in the snails, for that too is present in them in a similar way. But all such parts, as has been said, are clear in the large specimens, and in the small ones either not at all or scarcely. That is why they are most visible in large scallops; and these are the ones that have the one valve broad, like a lid. The exit for the residue is, in the others, from the side; for there is a passage by which it travels out, since the poppy, as has been said, is in all of them a residue enclosed in a membrane. But what is called the egg has a passage in none of them; rather it swells up out of the flesh itself.
25| It is not in the same position as the intestine: the egg is on the right, the intestine on the left. In the others, then, this is how the residue exits, but in the wild limpet, which some call the sea-ear, the residue comes out below the shell, for the shell is pierced through there. The stomach, too, is clear, lying just after the mouth, and in it also are the egg-like parts. In what manner all these lie in position must be studied from dissections. What is called the little crab is in a way common to both the soft-shelled crustaceans and the shell-skinned animals. In its own nature it is like the crayfish kind, and it comes into being on its own, but by creeping into a shell and living in it, it is like the shell-skinned animals, so that on both these counts it seems to be of both kinds. In shape, to put it simply, it is like the spiders, except that the part below the head and thorax is larger than in them. It has two thin, reddish little horns, and beneath these two long eyes, not able to withdraw or lie flat as those of crabs do, but standing upright; and below these the mouth, and around it a number of hair-like growths, and next to these two forked feet by which it draws itself along, and two more on each side, and a third small pair.
26| The part below the thorax is entirely soft, and when opened is pale within. From the mouth there is a single passage as far as the stomach, but the passage for the residue is not clear. The feet and the thorax are hard, though less so than in crabs. It has no attachment to its shell such as the purple-fish and the whelks have, but is easily detached. In the periwinkles the feet are longer than in the nerites. There is another kind, that of the nerites, similar to the others in most respects, but of the forked feet it has the right one small and the left one large, and it does its walking mostly on this one. Such a creature is also caught in cockles, whose attachment is similar, and in others as well. This they call the kyllaros. The nerite has a shell that is smooth, large, and round, and in shape similar to the whelks, except that unlike them its poppy is not black but red; and it is attached vigorously at the middle. In calm weather, then, these creatures detach themselves and graze, but when winds blow the little crabs keep still by the rocks, while the nerites cling fast just as the limpets do.
27| and likewise the haimorrhoids and the whole kind of that sort. They attach themselves to the rocks when they tilt their covering aside; for this seems to be like a lid — what for the two-shelled kinds is both valves, this is for the spiral-shelled kinds the single part. The inner part is fleshy, and in this is the mouth. It works the same way in the haimorrhoids and the purple-fish and all such creatures. Those that have the left foot the larger one do not occur among the periwinkles, but do occur among the nerites. There are certain snails that contain within themselves creatures similar to the small crayfish, which also occur in rivers; they differ from these in having the inside of their shell soft. What their shape is like must be studied from dissections.
28| Sea urchins do not have the fleshy part, but this is peculiar to them — for all of them are deprived of it, and have no flesh at all inside; and all of them are black. There are several kinds of sea urchins. One is the edible kind, and this is the one in which what are called the eggs, which are large and edible, occur, alike in the larger and the smaller specimens; for even while still small they already have these. There are two other kinds, that of the spatangoi and that of what are called bryssoi; these occur far out at sea and are rare. There are also the so-called echinometra, the largest of all in size. Besides these there is another kind, small in size but with large, hard spines, which occurs in the sea at many fathoms' depth, and which some people use for strangury. Around Torone there are white sea urchins, both the shells and the spines and the eggs, and they are larger than the others in length; the spine is not large or strong but rather softer, and the black parts near the mouth are more numerous, joined together toward the outer passage but not joined to one another; among these it is as it were divided up.
29| The edible ones among them move the most and the most often, and they have a certain mark on their spines. All of them, then, have eggs, but some have them altogether small and inedible. It happens that the sea urchin has what is called its head and mouth below, and the point where it discharges the residue above. This same thing occurs also in all the spiral-shelled kinds and in the limpets, for their feeding is from below, so that the mouth is toward the feeding surface while the residue is above, toward the upper side of the shell. The sea urchin has five hollow teeth on the inside, and in the middle of these a fleshy body in place of a tongue. Attached to this is the gullet, and then the stomach, divided into five parts, full of residue; all its pouches converge into one for the exit of the residue, at the point where the shell is pierced through. Below the stomach, in another membrane, are what are called the eggs, equal in number in all specimens; for they are five in number, an odd number. Higher up, the black parts hang from the base of the teeth, which are bitter and inedible. In many animals there is this same thing, or its analogue,
30| for it is found in tortoises and in toads and in frogs and in the spiral-shelled and soft-bodied kinds; but it differs in color, and in all of them such parts are inedible, either entirely or for the most part. Now with respect to its base and its top the body of the sea urchin is continuous, but over its surface it is not continuous, but is like a lantern that lacks the skin running round it. The sea urchin uses its spines as feet: by pushing off on these and moving, it changes its place.
31| The creatures called tethya (sea squirts) have the most peculiar nature of all these. For their body alone among them is entirely hidden in the shell, and the shell is intermediate between skin and shell, which is why it can be cut like tough hide. They are attached to the rocks by the shell, and they have two passages set apart from one another, altogether small and not easy to see, through which they let out and take in liquid; for they have no visible residue, as some of the other oysters do — some like a sea urchin, others what is called a poppy-head. When opened, inside first there is a sinewy membrane around the shell-like part; and within this is the fleshy part of the tethyon itself, unlike that of any other creature; the flesh itself, however, is uniform in all of them. This is attached at two points to the membrane and to the skin from the side; and where it is attached, it is narrower on each side, from which it stretches toward the passages leading outward through the shell, through which it lets out and takes in nourishment and liquid, as though the one were a mouth, the other an exit for the residue; and of these one is thicker, the other thinner.
32| Inside it is hollow on each side, and a small continuous part separates the two; in one of the hollows the liquid forms. It has no other part, either organ or sense-organ, nor — as was said earlier concerning the others — anything for the residue. The color of the tethyon is in some cases pale yellow, in others red. The genus of the sea nettles (anemones) is also peculiar; for it is attached to the rocks like some of the shell-creatures, but sometimes detaches itself. It has no shell, but its whole body is fleshy. It perceives, and seizes a hand brought near it and clings to it, just as the octopus does with its tentacles, so that the flesh swells up. It has its mouth in the middle, and lives off the rock as an oyster does. And if any of the small fish come against it, it holds fast to them as it would a hand; likewise, if anything edible comes against it, it devours it. And a certain kind of them also detaches itself, which, if anything comes against it, devours it, sea urchins and scallops included. It appears to have no residue at all, and in this respect resembles the plants. There are two kinds of sea nettles: the smaller ones, which are more edible, and the large, tough ones, such as occur also around Chalcis.
33| In winter their flesh is firm (which is why they are hunted and are edible), but in summer they perish; for they become flabby, and if one touches them, they quickly tear apart and cannot be taken up whole, and being distressed by the heat they burrow further into the rocks. Concerning the soft-bodied creatures, then, and the crustaceans and the shell-creatures — both the parts they have outside and those inside — this has been said.
34| Concerning the insects the same method must be followed. This genus has many species within itself, and some of them, though akin to one another, have no common name attached to them — for example the bee, the hornet, the wasp, and such creatures; and again all those that have their wing in a sheath, such as the cockchafer, the stag-beetle, the blister-beetle, and the like. Now three parts are common to all: the head, the cavity around the belly, and third, what lies between these, corresponding to what in the others is the chest and the back. In most of them this is a single part; but those that are long and many-footed have segments nearly equal in number to their incisions. All insects, when divided, retain life, except those that are either extremely chilled or, on account of their small size, are quickly chilled, since even wasps live on after being cut in two. Now together with the middle part both the head and the belly live, but without this the head does not live. Those that are long and many-footed live a long time when divided, and the severed part moves toward both extremities; for it travels both toward the cut and toward the tail, as does the creature called the centipede.
35| All of them have eyes, but no other sense-organ is evident, except in some cases something like a tongue; and all the shell-creatures too have this, by which they also taste and draw their food up into themselves. In some this is soft, in others it has great strength, as in the purple-fish. The horsefly and the gadfly also have this strong, and so do nearly all the rest; for in all that are not stingless-from-behind, each has this as a kind of weapon. Those that have this have no teeth, except a few, since flies too draw blood by touching with this, and gnats sting with it. Some insects also have stings. The sting some have within themselves, as bees and wasps do, others outside, as the scorpion does; and this alone among insects has a long sting. Further, both this creature and the scorpion-like creature that occurs in books have claws. The winged ones among them have, in addition to their other parts, wings as well. Some of them are two-winged, like flies, others four-winged, like bees; and nothing that stings from behind is two-winged only.
36| Further, some of the winged ones have a sheath for their wings, like the cockchafer, others are sheathless, like the bee; the flight of all of them is without a steering tail, and the wing has neither shaft nor cleft. Further, some have feelers in front of their eyes, such as the moths and the stag-beetles. Of those that are jumpers, some have their hind legs longer, others have oars that bend backward like the legs of four-footed animals. All have their upper side differentiated from their under side, as do the other animals too. The flesh of the body is neither shell-like nor, as with what is inside the shell-creatures, so fleshy, but intermediate. This is why they have neither spine nor bone nor anything like a cuttlebone nor a shell all around; for the body preserves itself by its own hardness, and needs no other support. They do have skin, but it is altogether thin. These, then, are their outer parts, and of this kind; inside, immediately after the mouth, in most of them the gut is straight and simple all the way to the exit, but in a few it has a coil.
37| None of these has any internal organ, nor fat, just as none of the other bloodless creatures does. Some have a stomach as well, and from this the rest of the gut is either straight or coiled, as in locusts. The cicada alone among such creatures, and among the other animals, has no mouth, but instead of what in the backward-stingers is the tongue-like organ, it has something long, fused, and uncleft, through which it feeds on dew alone; and in its belly it holds no residue. There are several species of them, differing in largeness and smallness, and in that the ones called harvest-cicadas are divided under the girdle-band and have a visible membrane, while the little cicadas do not have this. There are also some peculiar creatures in the sea which, because they are rare, cannot be assigned to a genus. For some experienced fishermen already say that some of them have seen in the sea things like beams, black, round, and of equal thickness throughout; and others like shields, red in color, having dense little fins; and others resembling a man's genitals both in shape and in size, except that instead of testicles they have two fins, and that once such a creature was caught by the point of a many-hooked line.
38| This, then, is how the parts of all animals stand, the internal and the external, both peculiar to each kind and common to them. We must now speak of the senses; for they do not belong to all animals alike, but to some all of them, to others fewer. The senses are, at most, and beyond which no other distinct one appears, five in number: sight, hearing, smell, taste, and touch. Man, then, and the animals that bear live young and walk on land, and besides these all that are blooded and bear live young, all appear to have all of these, except if some one kind is maimed, as is the case with the mole. For this animal has no sight; it has no eyes visible on the outside, but when the skin, which is thick, is stripped away from the head, in the region outside where the eyes would be, the eyes are found inside, ruined, having all the same parts as genuine eyes—for they have the black part and, within the black, what is called the pupil, and the surrounding ring—only all of these are smaller than in visible eyes. But none of this shows to the outside, because of the thickness of the skin, as though nature were maimed in the process of generation; for from the brain, where it joins the spinal marrow, there run two sinewy and strong passages, stretching to the very sockets of the eyes, and ending at the upper canine teeth.
39| The other animals have perception of colors and of sounds, and further of smell and of flavors. And touch, the fifth sense, all the other animals have as well. In some, the organs of sense are quite conspicuous—those of the eyes especially so. For the place of the eyes is clearly marked off, and so is that of hearing; some animals have ears, others have the passages visible. It is the same with smell: some have nostrils, others have the passages of smell only, as is the case with the class of birds. It is the same too with the organ of flavors, the tongue. Among the water animals called fishes, they have the organ of flavors, the tongue, but have it indistinctly; for it is bony and not free. But in some fishes the palate is fleshy, as in the river carp among the freshwater kinds, so that to those who do not look carefully it seems to be a tongue. That fishes perceive by tasting is plain; for many delight in particular flavors, and the amia takes the bait, and so do the fat fishes, most readily, as though delighting in the taste and eating of such baits.
40| Of hearing and of smell fishes have no organ that is plainly visible; for whatever might seem in some to be one, in the region of the nostrils, does not reach through to the brain at all, but in some cases the passages are blind, in others they lead only as far as the gills. That fishes both hear and smell, however, is plain; for they are seen fleeing from loud noises, such as the oar-strokes of triremes, so that they are easily caught in the hollows of the sea when this happens; for even if the noise outside is small, it appears harsh and great and heavy to all creatures whose hearing is exercised in water. This is what happens also in the hunting of dolphins: when hunters surround them in a body with their dugout boats, making noise from the boats in the sea, they drive the dolphins in a mass to run themselves aground on the land in flight, and catch them stupefied by the noise. And yet not even dolphins have any organ of hearing that is plainly visible. Further, in the hunting of fish, those engaged in this kind of hunting are especially careful to avoid making noise, whether with oar or with nets; but whenever they notice that many fish are gathered together in some spot, judging the extent of the place, they let down their nets in such a way that neither the noise of the oar nor of the fishing-boat's motion reaches that spot;
41| and they instruct all the sailors to sail in as much silence as possible, until they have completely encircled the fish. But sometimes, when they want the fish to run together, they do the very opposite, the same thing done in the hunting of dolphins: they make noise by striking stones together, so that the fish, frightened, run together into one place and so become entangled in the nets. And before closing the net, as has been said, they prevent noise, but once they have encircled the fish, they then order the men to shout and make noise; for hearing the noise and the din, the fish rush together out of fear. Further, when fishermen see, from quite a distance, large numbers of fish grazing together and floating near the surface in calm and fair weather, and want to see their size and what kind they are, if they sail up without making noise, they go unnoticed and catch the fish still at the surface, but if someone happens to make a noise first, the fish are plainly seen fleeing. Further, in rivers there are certain small fish that some people call kottoi; some hunt these by striking the rocks with stones, because the fish hide under the rocks; and the fish fall out and are swept along as though they had heard the noise and were stupefied by it. That fish hear, then, is plain from such facts; and there are some who say that fish are actually the sharpest of hearing among animals, on the ground that men who spend their time about the sea encounter many such cases.
42| The sharpest of hearing among fishes are the grey mullet, the chremps, the bass, the saupe, the chromis, and other fish of that sort; the rest are less so, and that is why they spend their time more toward the bottom of the sea. The same holds also for smell. Most fish are unwilling to touch bait that is not fresh, and they are not all caught with the same baits but with baits proper to each, distinguishing them by smell; for some are lured by foul-smelling baits, as the saupe is by dung. Further, many fish spend their time in caves, and when fishermen want to draw them out for hunting, they smear the mouth of the cave with the smells of salted fish, which brings them out quickly. The eel is caught in this same way: fishermen set out a jar of salted fish, putting into the mouth of the jar what is called a funnel-trap. And in general all fish are drawn more toward things with a strong smell. Fishermen also roast the flesh of cuttlefish for the sake of the smell and use it as bait, since the fish come to it more readily. They say fishermen also roast octopuses and put them into fish-traps for no other reason than the strong smell. Further, the fish called rhyades, when the water used to rinse fish is poured out, or when the bilge-water is emptied out, flee, as though smelling the odor of it.
43| They say that fish also quickly smell their own blood; they make this plain by fleeing and removing themselves far off whenever fish blood is spilled. And in general, if one baits a fish-trap with rotten bait, the fish are unwilling to go in or even come near, but if the bait is fresh and strong-smelling, they come from far off and go straight in. This is especially clear in the case already mentioned of dolphins; for these have no organ of hearing that is plainly visible, yet they are caught because they are stupefied by noise, as has been said before. Nor, again, do they have any organ of smell that is plainly visible, and yet they smell keenly. That these animals have all the senses, then, is plain. As for the remaining kinds of animals, there are four divided classes that comprehend the multitude of the remaining animals: the soft-bodied, the crustaceans, the shelled animals, and further the insects. Of these, the soft-bodied, the crustaceans, and the insects have all the senses; for they have sight and smell and taste. For insects, though at a distance, perceive together with the rest, both the winged and the wingless, as bees and gnats perceive honey.
44| For they perceive from a great distance, as though recognizing by smell. And many creatures are destroyed by the smell of sulfur. Again, ants abandon their anthills when marjoram and sulfur, ground fine, are sprinkled on them, and most such creatures flee when deer-horn is burned as incense; but they flee most of all when storax is burned. Cuttlefish, octopuses, and crayfish are caught by means of bait; and octopuses cling so fast that they do not tear away but endure being cut, yet if someone brings fleabane near them, they let go at once, as soon as they smell it. The same holds for taste: for they pursue different kinds of food, and not all creatures delight in the same flavors — for example the bee settles on nothing rotten but on sweet things, while the gnat goes to nothing sweet but to sour things. As for perceiving by touch, as has already been said, this belongs to all animals. The testaceans have both smell and taste, and this is evident from the way they are lured with bait — for instance in the case of the purple murex: for it is baited with rotten things, and comes toward such bait as though it had perception from a distance. And that they also have perception of flavors is clear from the same facts;
45| for the things they approach, discriminating by smell, are the very things each delights in also by taste. Further, all that have a mouth feel pleasure and pain from the contact of flavors. About sight and hearing nothing is certain or even very clear, but razor-shells seem, if a sound is made, to burrow down and flee lower when they perceive the iron tool approaching (for only a small part of them projects, the rest being as it were in a chamber); and scallops, if someone brings a finger near, gape and close up as though seeing. And those who hunt sea-worms do not approach them against the wind when driving them onto the bait, nor do they speak, but keep silent, as though the creatures smelled and heard them; and if they do speak, they say the creatures flee away. Of the testaceans, the least sense of smell appears to belong, among the mobile kinds, to the sea-urchin, and among the immobile kinds, to sea-squirts and barnacles. Concerning the organs of sense, then, this is how it stands for all animals; but concerning the voice of animals, it is as follows.
46| Voice and sound are different things, and a third besides these is speech. Nothing produces voice with any part other than the pharynx; hence whatever has no lung does not utter sound at all; speech is the articulation of the voice by the tongue. Vowel sounds are emitted by the voice and the larynx, but the voiceless sounds by the tongue and lips; speech is composed of these. Hence whatever has no tongue, or none that is free, neither has voice nor speaks; but it is possible to make sound with other parts as well. Insects, then, neither have voice nor speak, but make sound with the breath inside them, not breath sent outward; for none of them breathes, but some buzz, like the bee and the winged insects of that kind, while others are said to sing, like the cicadas. All these make their sound by means of the membrane beneath the midriff, in those in which it is divided into segments — for example a certain kind of cicada does so by the friction of the breath. And flies too, and bees, and all the rest, do so by raising and contracting their wings in flight; for the sound is a friction of the breath within. Locusts make their sound by rubbing with their hind legs. Nor again does any mollusk either utter voice or make any natural sound, nor do the crustaceans.
47| Fish are voiceless (for they have neither lung nor windpipe nor pharynx), but they emit certain sounds and grating noises which people call "voicing" — for example the lyre-fish and the chromis (for these emit something like a grunt), and the boar-fish in the Achelous, and further the chalcis and the cuckoo-fish; for the one makes a sound like a hiss, the other a sound resembling the cuckoo's call, from which it also has its name. All these emit what seems to be a voice, some by the friction of the gills (for those regions are spiny), others by the internal parts around the belly; for each of these has breath within, which, being rubbed and moved, produces the sounds. And some of the cartilaginous fish too seem to squeak. But it is not correct to say that these utter voice — rather that they make sound. For scallops too, when they move along by pressing against the water, which people call "flying," make a whizzing sound, and so do the sea-swallows likewise; for these too fly aloft, not touching the sea, since they have broad, long fins. Just as, then, in the case of birds in flight, the sound produced by their wings is not voice, so too it is not voice in the case of any of these. The dolphin also emits a squeak and moans when it comes out into the air, though not in the same way as the creatures mentioned;
48| for this creature does have voice: it has both lung and windpipe, but its tongue is not free, nor does it have lips, so as to produce any articulation of the voice. Of those that have both tongue and lung, all that are egg-laying and four-footed emit voice, but a weak one — some a hissing sound, like snakes, others a thin and weak voice, others a small hiss, like tortoises. The frog has a peculiar tongue: the front part is attached fish-like, which in other creatures is free, while the part toward the pharynx is free and folded back, and by this it emits its peculiar voice. And the croaking that occurs in the water is made by the male frogs, when they call the females to mating; for each kind of animal has its own peculiar calls for consorting and coming together, as also with pigs and goats and sheep. It makes the croaking sound by leveling its lower jaw at the surface of the water and stretching the upper jaw over it. And as the jaws light up from the tension, the eyes seem to appear like lamps; for mating occurs mostly at night. The class of birds emits voice;
49| and speech belongs especially to those in which the tongue is moderately broad, and also to those that have a thin tongue. Some emit the same voice, both female and male, others a different one. The smaller birds are more various in voice and more talkative than the larger ones; and each bird becomes especially so around the time of mating, and some cry out while fighting, like the quail, others call out before fighting, or when they have won, like cocks. Some sing alike, male and female, as the nightingale sings, both male and female, except that the female stops when she is brooding and has chicks; in others the males sing more, like cocks and quails, while the females do not sing. Viviparous four-footed animals each emit a different voice, but none has speech — this belongs to man alone; for whatever has speech also has voice, but not everything that has voice has speech. Those who are born deaf are all also mute; they do emit voice, but no speech at all. Children, just as they are not yet in control of their other parts, so too at first they are not in control of the tongue, and it is imperfect, and is loosed rather late, so that for the most part they lisp and stammer.
50| Voices and speech also differ by locality. Voice is most distinguished by pitch — high and low — but in kind it does not differ within the same genus; but the articulate element, which one might call speech, differs both between other animals and, within the same kind of animal, by locality — for example, among partridges, some cackle and others chirp. And some of the small birds do not emit the same call in singing as their parents did, if they are reared away from them and hear other birds singing. Indeed a nightingale has even been observed teaching its chick beforehand, as though speech were by nature not the same fixed thing that voice is, but capable of being shaped. Humans too emit the same voice, but not the same speech. The elephant makes sound without the use of its trunk, with the mouth itself, a breathy sound, as when a person exhales and groans, but with the trunk, a sound like a trumpet made harsh.
51| As for sleep and waking in animals: that all footed, blooded animals both sleep and wake is made evident by observation. For all that have eyelids sleep by closing them. Further, not only human beings but also horses and dogs and cattle, and also sheep and goats and the whole class of live-bearing quadrupeds, appear to dream; dogs make this plain by barking. About the egg-laying animals this is unclear, but that they sleep is evident. Likewise too the water animals, such as fish and the molluscs and the crustaceans — crayfish and the like. All these, then, sleep only briefly, but they are observed to sleep. In the case of the eyes no evidence can be taken (for none of them has eyelids), but it can be taken from their stillness. Fish are caught — if it were not for the lice and the so-called fleas on them — even to the point of being taken easily by hand; but as it is, if they linger, these creatures fall upon them in the night and eat them up, since they occur in great numbers. They arise in the depths of the sea, and in such numbers that even the bait, whatever fish it may be made of, if it lingers on the ground, they devour;
52| and fishermen often haul up around the bait what looks like a ball, so tightly are the lice packed together. But it is rather from evidence of the following kind that one can infer that fish sleep. For often it is possible to fall upon fish and take them unnoticed, even by hand, or to strike them unnoticed; at that particular time they are perfectly still, and move nothing except the tail, and that gently. It also becomes clear that a fish is asleep from its movements, if something is stirred while they are resting quietly; for it darts off as though roused out of sleep. Further, they are caught in torch-fishing because they are asleep. Often, too, the tunny-spotters throw their nets around them while they sleep; this is clear from the fact that they are caught lying quiet and showing their pale undersides. They sleep more by night than by day, so much so that when men cast their nets they do not stir. Most of them sleep clinging to the ground or the sand or some stone in the depths, or hiding themselves under a rock or a sandbank; the flat fish sleep in the sand, and are recognized by the shape the sand takes, and are caught by being struck with the three-pronged spear. The bass, the gilthead, the grey mullet, and similar fish are often caught by day with the trident because they are asleep; otherwise none of these is thought likely to be taken with the trident.
53| The cartilaginous fish sometimes sleep so soundly that they can even be taken by hand. The dolphin and the whale, and all that have a blowhole, sleep with the blowhole held above the surface of the sea, through which they also breathe, gently moving their fins; and some have already heard a dolphin actually snoring as it slept. The molluscs sleep in the same way as the fish do; and likewise the crustaceans do the same as these. That the insect class of animals also experience sleep is evident from signs of the following kind: they lie still and are conspicuously motionless. This is most evident in the case of bees; for they grow quiet and stop buzzing during the night. It is also clear in the case of those insects most familiar underfoot; for it is not only because they do not see sharply that they lie still at night (all the hard-eyed creatures see dimly), but even in the light of lamps they are seen lying just as still. Of animals, the human being dreams the most. In infancy and early childhood no dream occurs at all; it begins for most children around four or five years of age. There have already been men and women, however, who never once in their whole lives saw a dream.
54| It has happened to some such people that as their age advanced they did see a dream, and that afterward a change came over their body — for some ending in death, for others in sickness. Concerning perception, then, and sleep and waking, matters stand this way. Male and female belong to some animals, but not to others; rather, by a certain resemblance, these too are said to give birth and to be pregnant. There is no male and female at all among the stationary animals, nor at all among the shelled creatures. Among the molluscs and the crustaceans there is female and male, and among the footed animals, both two-footed and four-footed, and among all that produce, by mating, either a live animal or an egg or a grub. In the other genera it either simply is present or is not: for instance among all the quadrupeds there is female and male, while among the shelled creatures there is not, but just as among plants some are fruit-bearing and some barren, so it is among these as well. Among the insects and the fish there are some that have this differentiation on neither side at all — for instance the eel is neither male nor female, nor does it generate anything from itself; but those who say that certain eels have sometimes been seen with hair-like and worm-like growths attached speak carelessly, without having examined where these are found. For none of these creatures bears live young without also laying eggs, and no eel has ever been seen with an egg in it;
55| and all that do bear live young have the young attached in the womb, not in the belly, since otherwise it would be digested like food. As for the difference they speak of between a male and a female eel — that the one has a larger and longer head, while the female's is small and more snub — they are not in fact speaking of female as against male, but of one kind as against another. There are certain fish called epitragiai, and among the river fish the carp and the balagros are of this sort; such fish never have either roe or milt at all, but those that are solid and fat have a small gut, and these are thought to be the best. Further, in some cases, just as among the shelled creatures and among plants one sort bears and generates while another sort, though it mounts, does not, so too among fish it is this way with the flatfish family and the red mullet family and the sea perch; for all of these are seen to have eggs. Now among the footed, blooded animals that do not lay eggs, in most cases the males are larger and longer-lived than the females, except in the mule, where the females are longer-lived and larger; but among the egg-laying and the grub-bearing animals, such as the fish and the insects, the females are larger than the males — for instance in snakes, spiders, geckos, and frogs.
56| And it is the same way among the fish, for instance the small cartilaginous fish and most of the shoaling fish, and all the rock-dwelling ones. That the females of fish are longer-lived than the males is evident from the fact that older ones caught are female rather than male. In all animals the upper and forward parts are stronger and better-armed in the males, while the parts that could be called hind and lower belong to the females. This holds in the same way both in human beings and in the other footed, live-bearing animals generally. The female is also more sinewless and less jointed, and finer-haired in those that have hair; those without hair show the corresponding difference by analogy. The females also have softer flesh than the males and are more knock-kneed, and their shins are thinner; their feet are more shapely, in those animals that have these parts. And as for voice, all females have a thinner and higher voice than the males, except in cattle, among those animals that have voice; for cows low more deeply than bulls. As for the parts that nature provides for fighting, such as teeth, tusks, horns, spurs, and other such parts, in some genera the males have them entirely while the females do not — for instance the female deer has no horns, and among the birds that have spurs, in some the females have no spurs at all;
1| Similarly, female pigs also lack tusks. In some cases both sexes have them, but they are larger and better developed in the males, as with cattle, whose horns are stronger in the males than in the female cattle. V. All the parts that animals have, both internal and external, have already been discussed, and so have their senses, voice, and sleep, and which animals are female and which male, in every case; what remains is to go through their generation, beginning with the most basic kinds. There are many modes of generation, showing great variety: in some ways unlike one another, in some ways resembling one another. Since the kinds have already been distinguished, we must now try to conduct our study in the same way; except that then we began by examining the parts starting from man, but now we must speak of him last, because his case involves the most extensive treatment. We must begin first with the shelled animals, then after these deal with the soft-shelled animals, and take up the rest in this same order thereafter: the soft-bodied animals and the insects, and after these the class of fish, both the live-bearing and the egg-laying kinds, then the class of birds; after these we must speak of the land animals, both the live-bearing and the egg-laying. Among the four-footed animals some are live-bearing, and among the two-footed, man alone is.
2| Now this is common to animals as it is to plants: some come from the seed of other plants, while others come about spontaneously, once some such originating principle has been formed, and among these, some draw their nourishment from the earth, while others come to be within other plants, as has been said in the study concerning plants. In the same way, among animals too, some come to be from animals, in accordance with kinship of form, while others come about spontaneously and not from kin; and among these, some arise from decaying earth and plants, as happens with many insects, while others arise within the animals themselves, from residues in their parts. Now among those whose generation comes from kindred animals, in those cases where there is both a female and a male, they are generated by pairing; but in the class of fish, some come to be that are neither male nor female — the same in genus as other fish, but different in species, and some even entirely peculiar to themselves. Others are female, but never male; from these come, as among birds, the wind-eggs. Now all these products among birds are unfertile — for nature is able to bring their process to completion only as far as the egg — unless some other manner of union with the males happens to them;
3| about which matters greater precision will be given later. In some fish, when they spontaneously produce eggs, it happens that animals also come to be from these; except that in some cases this happens by themselves, in others not without a male; how this happens will also become clear in what follows, for much the same thing happens among birds as well. Whatever comes to be spontaneously among animals, or in earth, or in plants, or in the parts of these, and possesses both male and female, when these pair something does come to be from them, but in no case the same as the parent, only something incomplete: for example, from lice mating come what are called nits, from flies come maggots, and from moths come egg-shaped grubs, from which neither the parents themselves come to be, nor any other animal, but only things of this same kind. First, then, we must speak about mating — which animals mate — and after that, about the rest in order, both what happens to each in particular and what happens to them all in common.
4| Now mating occurs among those animals in which there is a female and a male, but the acts of mating are neither alike in all of them nor carried out in the same way. For the live-bearing land animals among the blooded kinds all have the organs suited to the act of generation, yet they do not all come together in the same way; some come together from behind, joining rump to rump, as lions, hares, and lynxes do — and among hares the female often mounts the male first. Among the rest, in most cases the manner is the same: the majority of four-footed animals carry out the pairing in the way available to them, with the male mounting the female, and the entire class of birds does so in this one and only way. There are, however, some differences even among birds: in some, the female crouches down onto the ground and the male mounts her, as with bustards and domestic cocks; in others the female does not crouch down, as with cranes — in these the male leaps upon the female and mates with her, and they come together quickly, as sparrows also do. Among the four-footed animals, bears lie on their sides to mate, in the same manner as the others do on their feet, with the underside of the males against the underside of the females as they lie prone;
5| whereas land hedgehogs mate upright, with their underparts turned toward each other. Among the live-bearing animals that have some size, the females do not tolerate the males mounting them — hinds do not tolerate stags, except rarely, nor do cows tolerate bulls, because of the stiffness of the male organ — but instead the females crouch down and receive the semen; this has indeed been observed to happen among deer, at least among the tame ones. The wolf mates and is mated in the same way as the dog. Cats do not come together from behind; rather the male stands upright while the female puts herself beneath him; female cats are by nature highly amorous, and they entice the males into mating, and cry out while coupling. Camels mate with the female sitting down; the male mounts and mates not from behind but as the other four-footed animals do, and they spend the whole day at it, one mounting and one being mounted. They withdraw into solitude when they mate, and no one can approach them except the keeper who tends them. The camel's male organ contains a sinew so strong that a bowstring can even be made from it. Elephants mate in solitary places, especially near rivers and wherever they are accustomed to spend their time;
6| the female mates by crouching down and wading in, and the male mounts and mates from above. The seal also mates like the animals that mate from behind, and they remain joined together for a long time during mating, as dogs do; the males have a large male organ. Land animals that are four-footed and egg-laying carry out mating in the same way. Some mount as the live-bearing animals do, such as the tortoise, both the sea and the land kind. Others have some part into which the passages join, and by means of which they come together during mating, such as stingrays and frogs, and the whole class of that kind. Animals that are footless and elongated, such as snakes and morays, entwine themselves belly to belly. Snakes coil around each other so tightly that the whole body seems to belong to a single two-headed snake. The class of lizards does the same, for they carry out mating by a similar entwining.
7| All fish, except the flat cartilaginous ones, mate by coming alongside each other, belly to belly. But the flat, tailed ones, such as the skate, the sting-ray, and the like, mate not only by coming alongside but also by mounting, belly-down onto the females' backs, in the case of those whose tail has no thickness to get in the way. But the angel-sharks, and those of this kind with a thick tail, mate only by rubbing against each other, belly to belly. There are some who say they have seen certain cartilaginous fish joined from behind, like dogs. In all the cartilaginous fish the female is larger than the male; and in nearly all the other fish too the females are larger than the males. The cartilaginous fish are those just named, and also the ox-ray, the lamia shark, the eagle-ray, the torpedo-fish, the angler, and all the dogfish kind. All the cartilaginous fish, then, have been observed by many people to mate in these ways; for the coupling of all the live-bearing kinds lasts longer than that of the egg-laying kinds. Dolphins too, and all the cetaceans, mate in the same way; for the male comes alongside the female and mates with her, for a time that is neither short nor very long.
8| In some of the cartilaginous fish the males differ from the females in that the males have two appendages hanging near the outlet of the residue, while the females do not have these — as in the dogfish kind; for this holds true of all of them. No fish, then, nor any other footless animal, has testicles; but both snakes and male fish have two ducts, which become full of milt at the season of mating, and all of them emit a milky fluid. These ducts join into one, just as in birds too; for birds have their testicles inside, as do all the other footed animals that lay eggs. This duct then comes to an end and extends into the female's place of reception. In the live-bearing land animals, the duct for the seed and the duct for the residue of liquid waste are the same on the outside, but on the inside there is a separate duct, as was said before in the account of the differentiation of the parts. In those that have no bladder, the duct is also the same on the outside for the dry residue as well; but on the inside the two ducts lie close to one another. This holds alike for both the females and the males among them;
9| for they have no bladder except in the case of the tortoise, and among these the female has a single duct even though she has a bladder; tortoises belong among the egg-laying animals. The mating of the egg-laying fish is less readily observed; and for this reason most people think that the females become filled by the males through swallowing the milt. For this is often seen happening: at the mating season the females follow the males and do this, striking them beneath the belly with their mouths, and the males emit the milt faster and in greater quantity. At the time of spawning it is the males who follow the females, and as the females lay their eggs the males snap them up; the fish are produced from the eggs that escape being eaten. In Phoenicia they also use the fish to hunt one another: by putting out male mullets as decoys they draw the females together and net them, and by putting out females they draw in the males. It was this practice, then, being so often observed, that gave rise to the belief about this manner of mating; and the four-footed animals do this too — at the mating season both the males and the females spray about, and they smell one another's genitals. As for partridges, if the females stand downwind of the males, they become pregnant;
10| often too from the male's voice, if they happen to be in heat, and from his breathing down on them as he flies over; both female and male gape open-mouthed, and hold their tongues out, in the act of mating. The true coupling of the egg-laying fish is rarely seen, because after coming alongside they separate quickly; nevertheless their mating too has been observed to occur in the manner described. The soft-bodied creatures — octopuses, cuttlefish, and squid — all come together with one another in the same manner: they interlock at the mouth, fitting their tentacles to each other's tentacles. The octopus, when it sets what is called its head against the ground and spreads out its tentacles, has the other octopus fit itself onto the spread of tentacles, and they bring their suckers into continuous contact with one another. Some say too that the male has a kind of genital organ in one of his tentacles, the one on which the two largest suckers are; that this organ is sinewy in character, growing attached along the whole tentacle as far as its middle, with which he plugs it into the female's funnel. Cuttlefish and squid swim together while interlocked, fitting mouths and tentacles opposite each other, swimming in opposite directions; and they also fit together what is called the funnel, funnel to funnel. One of them swims backward, the other swims mouth-forward. She lays her eggs through what is called the blow-hole, through which some say they are also mated.
11| The crustaceans mate — spiny lobsters, lobsters, prawns, and the like — just as the four-footed animals that urinate backward do: one turns its tail up, and the other places its tail on top of it. They mate at the beginning of spring, close to the shore (for the mating of all such creatures has actually been observed), and in some places also when the figs begin to ripen. Lobsters and prawns mate in the same manner. Crabs mate front to front, bringing their folded flaps together against one another. First the smaller crab climbs on from behind; and once it has climbed on, the larger one turns sideways. In no other respect does the female differ from the male; but the female's flap is larger, standing further out and more closely covering, and it is into this that they lay their eggs and through this that the residue passes out. Neither one emits any part into the other.
12| Insects come together from behind, and then the smaller mounts the larger; and this smaller one is the male. The female inserts her organ from below into the male above, rather than the male into the female, as in the other animals. And in some cases this part appears even larger than is proportionate to the whole body, even in creatures that are very small, though in others less so. This is evident if one separates flies while they are mating. They are separated from each other only with difficulty; for the coupling of such creatures lasts a long time. This is clear in creatures within reach, such as flies and beetles. All mate in this way: flies, beetles, cockchafer grubs, and spiders, and any other such creature among those that mate. Spiders mate in the following manner, at least those that weave webs: when the female pulls on the strands of the stretched web from the middle, the male pulls back in turn; and after doing this many times, they come together and mate rear to rear; for on account of the roundness of their belly, this is the manner of coupling that suits them.
13| Mating, then, occurs in this way for all animals, but each kind of animal has fixed seasons and ages for it. Now nature wishes most animals to carry on this union at about the same time, when the changeover from winter to summer takes place; and this is the season of spring, in which most creatures, whether winged or land-dwelling or swimming, set out for pairing. But some make their mating and their bearing of young in autumn and winter too, for instance certain kinds of water-creatures and of winged creatures; man mates at practically every season, and so do many of the animals that live alongside man, because of the warmth and good feeding they get, namely those whose periods of gestation are short, such as the pig and the dog, and those winged creatures that bear young more than once. And many creatures, aiming at the proper rearing of their offspring, time their pairing so as to fit the season exactly. In human beings the male is more roused toward intercourse in winter, the female in summer. The tribe of birds, as has been said, for the most part carries out its mating and its bearing of young around spring and the beginning of summer, except for the halcyon.
14| The halcyon bears young around the winter solstice. That is why, when the solstice turns calm, the days are called halcyon days, seven before the solstice and seven after, just as Simonides also wrote of it: how, whenever for fourteen days in the winter month Zeus lulls the winds, men on earth call it the windless season, the sacred nurse of the child of the dappled halcyon. They become calm whenever it happens that the winds at the solstice blow from the south, the Pleiad having become northerly. It is said that the halcyon builds its nest in seven days, and in the remaining seven days lays its young and rears them. Now in the regions here it does not always happen that the halcyon days occur around the solstice, but in the Sicilian sea it happens almost always. The halcyon lays about five eggs.
15| The shearwater and the gulls lay their eggs on the rocks by the sea, in number two or three; but the gull lays in summer, while the shearwater lays right at the beginning of spring, straight from the solstice, and it broods just as the other birds do. Neither of these birds hibernates. Of all birds the halcyon is the rarest to see; for it is seen only, roughly speaking, around the setting of the Pleiad and the solstice, and even in anchorages, the moment it is seen flying around a ship it vanishes at once, which is why Stesichorus recalled it in just this way. The nightingale too lays at the beginning of summer, laying five or six eggs; it hibernates from autumn until spring. Insects mate and are generated even in winter, whenever there are fine days and south winds, that is, those of them that do not hibernate, such as flies and ants. Most wild animals bear young once a year, those that is that do not conceive again while already pregnant, as the hare does. Likewise most fish bear once, for instance the ones called net-fish (they are called net-fish because they are the ones caught by the net) — the tunny, the young tunny, the mullet, the chalcides, snails, the chromis, the flatfish, and the like — except for the bass;
16| this fish alone among them bears twice, and its second brood turns out weaker. The shad and the rock-fish also bear twice, but the red mullet alone bears three times. This is inferred from the spawn, for the spawn appears three times in certain places. The scorpion-fish bears twice. The sargue also bears twice, in spring and in autumn; the saupe bears once, in autumn. The tunny-fish bears once, but because it releases its young some early and some late, it seems to bear twice; the first bearing comes around the month Poseideon, before the solstice, and the second in spring. The male tunny differs from the female in that the female has, and the male does not have, a fin under the belly, which they call the apron.
17| Among the cartilaginous fish only the angel-shark bears twice; for it bears both at the start of autumn and around the setting of the Pleiad, and it is more prolific in autumn; each single bearing produces about seven or eight. Some of the dogfish, such as the starry dogfish, seem to bear twice a month; this happens because not all the eggs reach maturity at the same time. Some bear at every season, for instance the moray eel. This fish lays many eggs, and its young grow rapidly from small beginnings, as do those of the dolphinfish too; for these also become largest most quickly from the smallest start — except that the moray bears at every season, while the dolphinfish bears in spring. The smyros differs from the moray: the moray is mottled and weaker, while the smyros is uniform in color and strong, and has a color like that of the pine, and has teeth both inside and outside its mouth. It is said, as with the other creatures, that one is male and the other female. These fish come out onto dry land, and are often caught there. Now it happens that growth is rapid in practically all fish, not least in the small kind of black-tail; it lays its eggs near the shore, in weedy and thick-grown places. The sea-perch too grows quickly from small to large. The young tunny and the tunny bear young in the Black Sea and nowhere else; the mullet, the gilthead, and the bass bear chiefly wherever rivers flow in; the orkynos, the scorpion-fish, and many other kinds bear in the open sea.
19| Most fish bear young in three months, Munychion, Thargelion, and Skirophorion; few bear in autumn, such as the saupe and the sargue and other such fish, a little before the autumn equinox, and also the electric ray and the angel-shark. Some bear both in winter and in summer, as was said before — for instance in winter the bass, the mullet, and the garfish, and in summer, around the month Hecatombaion, near the summer solstice, the tunny-fish; it bears a sac-like mass, in which many small eggs form. The rhyades also bear in summer. Among the mullets, the chelon and the sargue and the fish called smyxon and the cephalus begin to be pregnant in the month Poseideon; they carry for thirty days. Some of the mullets are not produced by mating at all, but grow out of mud and sand. Now for the most part most fish conceive in spring, yet nevertheless, as has been said, some do so in summer and autumn and winter too; but this does not happen in the same way for all of them, neither straightforwardly nor kind by kind, as it does for most in spring; nor do they carry as many broods alike at the other times. And in general one must not fail to notice that, just as with plants and with the four-footed animals the region makes a great difference, not only to the general well-being of the body but also to more frequent mating and breeding, so too with fish the localities themselves make a great difference, not only in size and good feeding but also in the times of bearing and mating, since in one place the same fish breed more often, in another less often.
20| The cephalopods also breed in spring, and the cuttlefish is among the first sea creatures to breed. It breeds at every season, but lays its eggs over a period of fifteen days. When it has laid the eggs, the male follows along and blows his ink over them, and they become firm. They move about in pairs; the male is more mottled than the female and darker on the back. The octopus mates in winter and breeds in spring, when it also dens up for about two months. It lays its egg like a little curl, resembling the fruit of the white poplar. The creature is very prolific, for from what is laid an unlimited quantity results. The male differs from the female in having a more elongated head, and in having what fishermen call the "genital" in its tentacle white. It broods over the eggs once it has laid them; for this reason octopuses are then in their worst condition, since they do not feed during this time. The purple-shellfish also breed around spring, and the whelks as winter ends. And in general the shelled creatures appear in spring having what are called eggs, and in autumn too, except for the edible sea-urchins; these have them mostly in these seasons, but in fact they have them at all times, and especially at the full moon and on warm days, except for those in the strait of the Pyrrhaeans; those are better in winter. They are small, but full of eggs. Snails too all appear pregnant, similarly, at the same season.
21| Of birds, the wild ones, as has been said, mate once and for the most part breed only once, but the swallow breeds twice, and so does the blackbird. Now the blackbird's first brood is destroyed by the winter cold (for it breeds earliest of all birds), but it rears the later brood to completion. Those that are tame, or can be tamed, breed more often — for example doves throughout the whole summer, and the tribe of hens; for the male fowls mate and the female fowls are mated and they lay continually, except on the turning days of winter. Of the pigeon kind there happen to be several sorts, for the dove and the wood-pigeon are different. The wood-pigeon is smaller, but the dove becomes tamer; the wood-pigeon is black and small and red-footed and rough-footed, and for this reason no one keeps it. The largest of these is the ring-dove, and second the stock-dove; this is a little bigger than the dove; the smallest of these is the turtle-dove. Doves breed at every season and rear their young, if they have a warm place and the necessities; if not, only in summer. The young of spring and of autumn are the best; those of summer and on hot days are the worst.
22| Animals also differ in age with respect to mating. First, then, the semen does not begin to be secreted, nor is the animal able to breed, at the same time as most other things happen to it, but later: for in all animals the young are at first infertile, and even once fertile their offspring are weaker and fewer. This is most evident in humans, in the live-bearing quadrupeds, and in birds; for in the former the offspring are fewer, in the latter the eggs are fewer. The ages at which they mate come, relative to each species itself, at roughly the same time for most kinds, unless something makes it earlier because of some monstrous affection or because of damage to their nature. In humans, then, the sign is given by the change of voice and by the genitals, not only in size but also in form, and likewise by the breasts, and especially by the growth of hair at puberty. The semen begins to be produced at about fourteen years, and the capacity to beget at about twenty-one. In the other animals puberty does not occur in the same way (for some have no hair at all, others have none on the underside, or less than on the upper side), but the change of voice is noticeable in some;
23| but in others other parts of the body give the sign both that they have begun to have semen and that it is now fertile. The voice, in general, is higher-pitched in the female in most cases, and in the younger than in the older, since even in deer the males call with a deeper voice than the females. The males call when the season of mating is at hand, the females when they are frightened. The female's call is short, while the male's has length. And in dogs too, as they grow old, the voice becomes deeper. In horses too the voices differ: as soon as they are born, the females emit a voice that is thin and small, while the males emit one that is small too, but greater and deeper than the female's; as time goes on it grows greater; and once a horse becomes two years old and begins to mate, the male emits a voice that is large and deep, while the female's is greater and clearer than before, up to about twenty years for the most part; but after this time both males and females emit a weaker voice. So then, for the most part, as we have said, the voice of males differs from that of females in that the males call more deeply than the females, in those animals whose voice has some range or extension;
24| not, however, in all animals, but in some the opposite holds, as in cattle; for among these the female calls more deeply than the male, and the calves more deeply than the full-grown. For this reason animals that are castrated change their voices in the opposite direction; for castrated animals change toward the female voice. The times of mating according to age stand as follows for the various animals. The sheep and the goat mate and conceive in their first year, the goat more so; and the males too mate at the same age. But the offspring of the males differ in these and in the other animals; for the males produce better offspring in a later year, once they have grown older. The pig mates and is mated first at eight months, and the female produces young at a year old (for this is how the time of gestation works out), while the male begets at eight months, though the offspring are poor before he is a year old. But it is not everywhere, as has been said, that the ages fall out in the same way; for in some places the sows are mated and mate at four months, so as to bear and rear young at six months, while in other places the boars begin to mate at ten months, and are good for it up to three years. The dog for the most part is mated at a year old and mates at a year old, but sometimes this happens even at eight months;
25| and this happens more with males than with females. The bitch is pregnant for sixty-one, or even sixty-two or sixty-three days at the longest; she carries for no less than sixty days, but if a litter is born before that, it is not reared to completion. Once she has given birth, she is mated again in the sixth month, and not before. The horse begins to mate and to be mated at two years old, so as also to beget; the offspring produced at these ages, however, are smaller and weaker. For the most part it mates and is mated at three years old. And it goes on improving, producing ever better offspring, up to twenty years. The stallion mates up to thirty-three years old, the mare is mated up to forty years old, so that mating turns out to occur for practically the whole of life; for the male lives for the most part about thirty-five years, the female more than forty; indeed a horse has already lived to seventy-five years. The donkey mates and is mated at thirty months. However, they do not for the most part beget until three years old, or two and a half. Indeed one has already conceived at a year old, so as even to rear its young.
26| Even a cow one year old has given birth, so that it went on to be raised; and it grew to the size it was going to reach, and no further. The starting points of generation for these animals, then, work in this way. A man's power of begetting lasts, at the outside, until seventy years of age, a woman's until fifty. But this is rare; for children are born to few people at these ages; for the most part the limit is sixty-five for men and forty-five for women. A ewe bears young until it is eight years old, or, if well tended, even until eleven; and it happens that for practically their whole life both sexes go on covering and being covered. Billy-goats that are fat are less fertile (which is why, when vines fail to bear, people call them "goating"), but when made lean they are able to beget by covering. Rams cover the oldest ewes first, and do not pursue the young ones. As has been said earlier, young ewes bear fewer offspring than older ones. A boar is good for covering up to three years old, but the offspring of older boars are inferior; for he no longer gains in growth or in strength. A boar is accustomed to cover after being fed up, and not after having covered another sow first;
27| otherwise the covering is shorter and the offspring smaller. A sow bears the fewest young when she is bearing for the first time; she is at her best bearing for the second time; as she grows old she still bears in the same way, but is covered more slowly; and when sows are fifteen years old, they no longer breed but become barren with age. If a sow is well fed, she comes to be covered more quickly, both when young and when growing old; and if, while pregnant, she is fattened up excessively, she has less milk after giving birth. As regards age, the offspring are best when the mother is in her prime; as regards seasons, those born at the beginning of winter are best; those born in summer are worst, for they are small and thin and moist. The male, if well fed, is able to cover at any season, both by day and by night; if not, he covers chiefly in the early morning; and as he grows old he is able to less and less, as has also been said before. Often males that are unable, either through age or through weakness, to mount quickly, when the female lies down because she is tired of standing, lie down together with her and unite with her that way. A sow conceives most readily when, in heat, she drops her ears; if not, she comes into heat again. Bitches are covered not throughout their whole life but only up to a certain prime;
28| for the most part their coverings and their pregnancies occur up to twelve years of age; nevertheless it has happened already, in some cases, that females as old as eighteen or twenty years have been covered and males of that age have begotten. Old age takes this away too, so that they neither beget nor bear, just as with the other animals. The camel is an animal that urinates backward, and is covered in the way described earlier; the season of covering, in Arabia, falls in the month Maimakterion. She is pregnant for twelve months and bears one young; for she is a bearer of a single offspring. The female begins covering at three years old, and the male at three years old as well; after giving birth the female is covered again only after letting one year pass. The elephant, in its youngest case, begins to be mounted at ten years old, and at its oldest at fifteen; the male mounts at five or six years old. The season of covering is spring. After covering he mounts again in the third year following; and whichever female he has made pregnant, he does not touch again. She is pregnant for two years and bears one young; for she is a bearer of a single offspring; and the embryo, when it is born, is the size of a calf two or three months old.
29| This, then, is how matters stand regarding the covering of animals that are covered. We must now speak of the generation both of animals that are covered and of those not covered, and first of the shelled animals (the testacea); for this whole class is, so to speak, the only one that is not covered at all. Purple-fish, in spring, gather together into one place and produce what is called the honeycomb. This is like a honeycomb, except not so neatly formed, but rather as if many white shells of chickpeas had been packed together. None of these has any open passage, nor do the purple-fish come to be out of them; rather, both these creatures and the other testacea grow out of mud and putrefaction. This substance occurs as a kind of discharge in both purple-fish and whelks, for whelks too produce honeycombs. The testacea that produce honeycombs come to be in the same way as the other testacea, but more so when creatures of the same kind already exist beforehand. For when they begin producing the honeycomb they discharge a slimy stickiness, out of which the shell-like parts are formed. All this then dissolves away, and what it contained is discharged into the earth; and at that spot small purple-fish form and take shape in the earth, and the purple-fish are caught while attached to these, though some of them have not yet had their shape fully worked out. If they are caught before giving birth, sometimes, in the fish-baskets, they do not lay their eggs at random but gather into one place, just as they do in the sea, and because of the cramped space they form what looks like a bunch of grapes.
30| There are several kinds of purple-fish: some are large, such as those around Sigeum and Lectum, others small, such as those in the Euripus and around Caria; and those in gulfs are large and rough-shelled, and as for their bloom, most of them have a black one, though some have a small red one; some of the large ones grow to as much as a mina in weight. Those along beaches and around headlands are small in size but have a red bloom. Further, in the northern regions they are black, in the southern regions red, for the most part. They are caught in spring, when they are making their honeycombs; under the Dog Star they are not caught, for they do not feed then but hide themselves away and lie up. They have their bloom midway between the "poppy-head" and the neck; the joining of these parts is dense, and its color to look at is like a white membrane, which is removed; when squeezed it dyes and colors the hand. A kind of vein runs through it; this is thought to be the bloom. The rest of its substance is like alum. When the purple-fish are producing their honeycombs, their bloom is then at its worst.
31| The small ones, then, they crush shell and all, since it is not easy to remove the bloom separately; but with the larger ones they strip off the shell and remove the bloom. This is why the neck and the "poppy-head" become separated: the bloom lies between these two parts, above what is called the belly; so once it is removed the parts must necessarily be divided. They take care to crush them while alive; for if the creature dies first, it vomits up the bloom along with itself; this is also why they keep them in weel-baskets until they have gathered enough and have leisure to deal with them. The ancients used not to let the weel-baskets down close to the bait, nor did they fasten them, with the result that a basket already hauled up would often fall back off; those of today fasten them, so that if it falls, it is not lost. It falls off most readily when it is full; when it is empty it is even hard to pull loose. These, then, are the things peculiar to purple-fish. Whelks come to be in the same way as purple-fish, and at the same season. Both also have their coverings alike, as do the other spiral-shelled creatures, all from birth; they feed by putting out what is called the tongue from under the covering. The purple-fish has a tongue bigger than a finger, with which it feeds and bores through both shellfish and its own shell.
32| The purple-fish and the whelk are both long-lived; the purple-fish lives about six years, and each year's growth is visible in the intervals on the shell of its spiral. Mussels too show this comb-like growth. The so-called lake-oysters first take shape wherever there is mud. Cockles, clams, razor-shells, and scallops form their substance in sandy places. Pinnas grow upright from their byssus in sandy and muddy places. They have within them a pinna-guard — in some cases a small shrimp, in others a small crab — and if deprived of it they perish more quickly. In general all the shelled creatures also arise spontaneously in mud, different kinds according to the different kind of mud: oysters in muddy mud, cockles and the kinds just named in sandy mud, and around the crevices of small rocks, sea-squirts and barnacles and the creatures that live on the surface, such as limpets and nerites. All such creatures grow quickly, but purple-fish and scallops most of all; these reach their full size within a year.
33| In some of the shelled creatures there grow small white crabs, altogether tiny in size — most of all in the tub-mussels, and next in the pinnas, where they are called pinna-guards. They also occur in scallops and in lake-oysters, but these show no noticeable growth. Fishermen say that they come into being together with the creatures they live in. Scallops too disappear into the sand for a time, as do purple-fish. Oysters, then, grow as has been said; and of them, some grow in shallow lagoons, some on beaches, some in spotted rocky places, some in hard and rough places, and some in sandy places. Some change their location, others do not. Among those that do not change location, pinnas are rooted, while razor-shells and cockles remain unrooted; but once they are torn up, they can no longer live. The creature called the starfish is by nature so hot that whatever it seizes, once pulled out, is instantly found to be cooked through. They say it is also the greatest scourge in the strait of the Pyrrhaeans. In shape it resembles the pictures made of it.
34| The so-called sea-lungs also arise spontaneously. The shellfish that painters use greatly exceeds the others in thickness, and its bloom forms on the outside of the shell; such shellfish are found especially in the regions around Caria. The small crab originates at first from earth and mud, then slips into the empty shells, and as it grows moves on again into another, larger shell — for instance that of the nerite or the sea-snail and other such creatures, and often into small whelk-shells. Once it has slipped in, it carries this shell around with it and feeds again within it; and as it grows it again moves on into another, larger one.
35| In the same manner as the shelled creatures, creatures without shells also come into being, such as sea-anemones and sponges, in the crevices of rocks. There are two kinds of sea-anemone: those in hollows do not detach from the rocks, while those on smooth, flat rocks detach and move to other places. Limpets too detach and move about. In the chambers of sponges, pinna-guards occur. Over the chambers there lies something like a spider's web, which they open and close to catch small fish — opening it so the fish will enter, and closing it once they have entered. There are three kinds of sponge: the loose-textured, the dense, and a third which they call the Achillean, the finest, densest, and strongest of all; this they place under helmets and greaves, and a blow rings out less loudly against it. This kind is the rarest. Among the dense kind, those that are extremely hard and rough are called goat-sponges. All sponges grow either on rock or in the shingle, and they feed on the mud. Here is the sign of it: when they are taken up, they are found full of mud, which also happens with the other creatures that grow attached to something, their nourishment coming from the point of attachment.
36| The dense sponges are weaker than the loose ones, because their point of attachment covers a smaller area. They also have perception, as people say. Here is the sign of it: if a sponge perceives that someone is about to tear it away, it contracts itself, and it is then hard to pull off. It does this same thing also when there is much wind and surf, so as not to be torn loose. There are some who dispute this, such as the people of Torone. The sponge nourishes creatures within itself — worms and certain others — which, once the sponge has been torn away, eat the small rock-fish, and also the roots that are left behind; and if the sponge is broken off, it grows again from what remains and is restored to fullness. The loose-textured sponges grow largest, and are most numerous around Lycia; the dense ones are softest, for the Achillean sponges are firmer than these. In general, the sponges that grow in deep, calm waters are softest; for wind and storm harden them, just as they harden other growing things, and take away their growth. That is why the sponges in the Hellespont are rough and dense, and in general those beyond Cape Malea and those within it differ in softness and hardness. But there must also not be too much warmth, for then they rot, just like growing things do.
37| That is why the finest sponges are those near the coast, if the water there is deep close in; for on account of the depth they are well tempered against both extremes. While still unwashed and alive, they appear black to look at. Their attachment is neither at one single point nor over the whole surface, for between the points of attachment there are empty passages. A membrane-like covering is stretched around the lower parts, and the attachment occurs at several points. On the upper side the other passages are closed off, but four or five are visible; hence some say it is through these that the sponge takes in its nourishment. There is another kind, which they call the unwashable, because it cannot be washed clean. This kind has large passages, but the rest of it is entirely dense; when cut through it is denser and more glutinous than the sponge, and altogether lung-like. It is agreed by everyone, more than for any other kind, that this one has perception and is long-lived. In the sea they are distinguished from sponges in that sponges turn white once the mud has settled on them, while these remain always black. This, then, is how matters stand concerning sponges and the origin of the shelled creatures.
38| Among the crustaceans, spiny lobsters, after mating, carry their eggs for about three months — Skirophorion, Hekatombaion, and Metageitnion; after this they lay them beneath the belly into the folds there, and their eggs grow just as grubs do. The same thing is true also of the cephalopods and of those fish that lay eggs, for in all of them the egg grows. The egg-mass of the spiny lobster becomes crumbly, divided into eight parts. For under each of the flaps that grow out from the side there is something cartilage-like which the eggs grow around, and the whole becomes like a bunch of grapes, since each of the cartilage-like parts splits into several. These become visible if one pulls them apart, but to someone simply looking they appear to be a single solid mass. The largest eggs are not those near the opening but those in the middle, and the smallest are those at the ends. The small eggs are the size of a millet seed. They are not attached directly at the opening but at the middle, for on each side they lie about two intervals away from the tail and from the thorax, since that is also how the flaps naturally grow. Now the flaps growing from the side alone cannot enclose them all, but once the tail-tip is laid over them it covers everything, and this becomes for them a kind of lid.
39| It seems that as they lay their eggs, they bring them up against the cartilaginous parts as the breadth of the tail unfolds, and pressing them close and being bent they lay them at once. The cartilaginous parts grow at these times and become receptive of the eggs; for they lay against the cartilaginous parts, just as cuttlefish lay against twigs and rubbish. So they lay in this manner, and having concocted the eggs there, within about twenty days they discharge them compacted and in a mass, as is also plain from outside; then from these the crawfish are produced within about fifteen days, and are often caught smaller than a finger's length. So they lay before Arcturus rises, and after Arcturus discharge the eggs. In the case of the humpbacked shrimp, gestation is about four months. Crawfish occur in rough, rocky places, lobsters in smooth ones; in muddy places neither occurs; hence in the Hellespont and around Thasos lobsters occur, but around Sigeum and Athos, crawfish. Fishermen mark out the rough places and the muddy ones by the headlands and other such signs, whenever they wish to fish out on the open sea.
40| They keep closer to land in winter and in spring, but in summer out on the open sea, pursuing now the warmth, now the cold. At about the same times the creatures called 'bears' also give birth, like the crawfish; hence in winter, and before giving birth, in spring, they are at their best, but once they have given birth, at their worst. They shed their shell in spring, just as snakes shed what is called their old skin, and this happens both crawfish and crabs do, right after being born and again later. Crawfish are all long-lived.
41| Cephalopods, from mating and copulation, produce a white egg; this becomes brittle over time, like the eggs of the hard-shelled creatures. And the octopus lays its eggs into its lair, or into a jar, or into some other hollow thing, resembling the tendrils of the vine-blossom or the fruit of the white poplar, as has been said before. The eggs hang around the lair once it has laid them. Their number is so great that, once removed, they fill a vessel much bigger than the head in which the creature holds them. Now the eggs of octopuses turn into little octopuses after about fifty days, and these creep out, like spiders, in great numbers; the nature of their individual parts is not yet distinct in them, but the whole shape is already evident. Because of their smallness and weakness, most of them perish. Indeed some have been seen so extremely small that they are unarticulated, yet move when touched. Cuttlefish lay eggs that come out resembling large black myrtle-berries; and they cling to one another, the whole mass being like a bunch of grapes, entwined about a single stem, and not easily pulled apart from one another. For the male discharges a certain mucous fluid, and this supplies the stickiness.
42| The eggs grow in this way, and at first are white, but once the creature lets go the ink, they become both bigger and black. When the little cuttlefish is formed, having formed entirely out of the white part on the inside, it comes out once this bursts around it. It comes about like this: if the female first discharges something like hail, then out of this the little cuttlefish grows, head downward, just as birds are attached at the belly. What sort of thing the navel-like attachment is has not yet been observed, except that, as the little cuttlefish grows, the white part is always becoming less, and in the end, just as the yolk does with birds, so here the white part disappears. In these creatures, as in the others, the eyes appear largest first. The egg is marked A, the eyes B and Γ, the little cuttlefish itself Δ. It is pregnant in spring, and lays within fifteen days; and once it has laid the eggs, in another fifteen days they become, as it were, the berries of a bunch of grapes, and when these burst the little cuttlefish slip out from inside. And if one splits them open earlier, once they are already fully formed, the little cuttlefish discharge excrement, and their color changes, turning redder instead of white, out of fear. Now the crustaceans place their eggs under themselves and brood over them, but the octopus and the cuttlefish and other such creatures, once they have laid, keep watch wherever their broods are — the cuttlefish especially;
43| for its body often shows above the water near the land. The female octopus sometimes sits over the eggs, sometimes stations itself at the mouth of the lair, holding out its tentacle. The cuttlefish lays toward the land, around seaweed and reed-like growths, and if anything of that sort has been cast up — brushwood, twigs, or stones; and fishermen even place twigs there on purpose — and against these it lays a long, continuous string of eggs, like a string of curls. It lays and discharges the eggs by a kind of retching, as though the discharge came with effort. Squid lay out on the open sea; their egg, like the cuttlefish's, comes out continuous. Both the squid and the cuttlefish are short-lived; for they do not live two years, except a few of them; and the octopuses likewise. From one egg comes one little cuttlefish; and it is the same with squid. The male squid differs from the female; for the female, if one parts the mantle and looks inside, has two red things like breasts, but the male does not have them. The cuttlefish shows this same difference, and also that the male is more variegated than the female, as has been said before.
44| That the males of insects are smaller than the females and mount from above, and how they perform copulation, and that they are separated only with difficulty, has been said before; and once they have mated, most of those that mate produce their offspring quickly. All of them bring forth grubs, except one kind of butterfly; these produce something hard, like the seed of safflower, with fluid inside it. From the grubs the animal is not formed out of some one part, as it is from eggs, but the whole grows and, becoming articulated, turns into the animal. Some of them come from kindred animals — for instance spiders and their young from spiders and their webs, and locusts, grasshoppers, and cicadas from their own kind; others come not from animals but spontaneously — some from the dew that settles on leaves, naturally in spring, but often in winter too, whenever there is fine weather and south winds for a longer stretch of time; others in mud and dung as these rot; others in wood, some in the wood of living plants, others in wood already dried out; others in the hair of animals; others in the flesh of animals; others in excrement — and of these, some in excrement already discharged, others while still inside the animals, such as the creatures called worms.
45| There are three kinds of these: the one called the flat kind, the round ones, and third the threadworms. From these nothing else is produced; the flat kind alone attaches itself to the intestine and discharges something like cucumber seed, and by this sign physicians recognize those who have it. The creatures called 'psychai' come from caterpillars, which occur on green leaves, especially on the cabbage plant — which some call kale — first smaller than a millet seed, then small grubs as they grow, then within three days small caterpillars; after this, once grown, they become motionless and change their shape, and are called chrysalides, and have a hard shell, though they move when touched. They attach themselves by spider-web-like threads, having neither a mouth nor any other part that can be made out. After not much time has passed, the shell bursts open, and out of them fly winged creatures, which we call 'psychai'. Now at first, while they are caterpillars, they feed and discharge waste matter; but once they become chrysalides, they neither taste anything nor discharge any waste. And it is the same way with all the other creatures that come from grubs, both those that come from the mating of animals and those that come about without copulation.
46| For also the grubs of bees, hornets, and wasps, when they are young, are nourished and are seen to have excrement; but when they pass from the grub stage to the shaped form, they are then called nymphs, and they no longer take food nor have excrement any longer, but shut in they lie motionless until they grow; then they come out, breaking through the part where the cell has been left. The 'hypera' and the 'penia' also come to be from certain other such creatures, which arch themselves in their movement and, advancing, bend and mount upon the other part; each of the creatures that come to be takes its own proper color from the caterpillar. From a certain large grub, which has something like horns and differs from the others, there comes to be, first, when the grub changes, a caterpillar, then a chrysalis, and from this a cocoon; and in six months it passes through all these forms. From this creature, too, some women unwind the silk cocoons, reeling them off, and then weave them; and it is said that the first to weave in Cos was Pamphile, daughter of Plateus. From the grubs that are in dry wood the stag-beetles come to be in the same way: first the grubs become motionless, then, when the shell is broken all around, the stag-beetles come out.
47| From the stag-beetles come the leek-shearers; these too have wings. From the broad little creatures that run about on the surface of rivers the gadflies come to be; that is why most of them occur around waters, where such creatures are found. From certain small, black, hairy caterpillars there first come glow-worms, not the flying kind; these in turn change, and winged creatures come to be from them, called curl-flies. Gnats come to be from maggots. The maggots occur in the mud of wells, and wherever there is a confluence of water that has an earthy sediment. At first the mud itself, putrefying, takes on a white color, then black, and finally blood-red; and when it has become so, there grows out of it something like tiny red seaweed; these for a time move while still attached, then, breaking off, are carried along through the water, the things called maggots. After a few days they stand upright on the water, motionless and hard, and then, when the shell is broken all around, the gnat sits on top, until sun or wind stirs it; then at last it flies. For all the other grubs too, and the creatures that break out from grubs, the beginning of their coming-to-be is due to sun or wind.
48| Maggots occur more, and more quickly, in places that have every sort of sediment, as happens at Megara and in workshops; for such matter putrefies more quickly. And they occur more in autumn, for then the moisture happens to be less. Cockchafer-grubs come to be from couch-grass, and cockchafers from the grubs that live in cow-dung and in donkey-dung. Dung-beetles, in the dung-ball they roll, both hibernate through the winter and lay little grubs in it, from which dung-beetles come to be. Winged creatures also come to be, in the same way as those mentioned, from the grubs in pulse. Flies come from the grubs in dung that has been set apart in separate heaps; that is why those engaged in this work make a point of separating out the rest that is mixed in, and say that only then has the dung been properly worked. The beginning of the little grubs is small; for here too, first there is a reddening, and out of motionlessness it takes on movement as though it had just grown there; then it turns out to be a motionless little grub; then, having moved, it later becomes motionless again; and from this a fly is finally produced, and it moves once wind or sun occurs. Horse-flies come to be from wood.
49| Cabbage-worms come from little grubs that change; these little grubs occur in the stalks of cabbage. Blister-beetles come from the caterpillars found on fig trees, pear trees, and pine trees (for grubs occur on all of these) and from those on the dog-rose; and they are drawn toward foul-smelling things because they have come to be from such matter. Gnats come from grubs that arise from the sediment around vinegar; for indeed creatures come to be even in things that seem to be most resistant to putrefaction, as in old snow. Old snow becomes redder, which is why the grubs in it are of that color too, and hairy; those from the snow in Media are large and white; all of them, however, move with difficulty. In Cyprus, where copper ore is smelted, when it is thrown in over many days, creatures come to be there in the fire, a little larger than large flies, winged, which leap and walk through the fire. Both these creatures and the grubs die when separated, the one kind from the fire, the other from the snow. That it is possible for certain constitutions of creatures not to be burned, the salamander makes clear; for this creature, as they say, walking through fire, puts the fire out.
50| Around the river Hypanis, near the Cimmerian Bosporus, at the summer solstice, the river carries down what look like little sacs larger than grapes, out of which, when they burst, there comes a winged, four-footed creature; it lives and flies until late afternoon, but as the sun goes down it withers away, and as soon as the sun sets it dies, having lived a single day, which is why it is called the ephemeron. Most of the creatures that come to be from caterpillars and grubs are at first enclosed in spider-webs. This, then, is the manner in which these creatures come to be.
51| The wasps called ichneumons (they are smaller than the other kind) kill spiders, carry them to a wall or something of the sort that has a hole in it, seal them in with mud, and lay their eggs there, and from these the ichneumon wasps come to be. Some of the small, nameless beetle-like creatures also make small holes of mud, either near tombs or walls, and lay their little grubs there. The time of their coming-to-be, from beginning to end, is measured for most of them in periods of seven days, either three or four such periods. For most grubs and grub-like creatures there are three periods of seven days; for those that lay eggs, generally four. Of these, the formation occurs, from mating, within the first seven days, and in the remaining three periods those that are produced by generation, such as by a spider or some other such creature, sit on and hatch their eggs. The changes occur for most of them at three-day or four-day intervals, just as the crises of diseases also occur. This, then, is the manner of coming-to-be of insects; they perish as their parts shrivel, just as the larger animals do from old age; and the winged kinds perish also as their wings shrink together around autumn; horse-flies perish also as their eyes become waterlogged.
52| As for the generation of bees, not everyone supposes it happens in the same way. Some say that bees neither lay eggs nor mate, but bring in their offspring, and some say they bring it from the flower of the reed-blossom, others from the flower of the reed, others again from the flower of the olive; and they cite as a sign that when there is a good crop of olives, then the most swarms are sent out. Others say that they bring the offspring of the drones from some such material as has been mentioned, but that the bees themselves are borne by the leaders. Of the leaders there are two kinds: the better one is reddish, the other is black and more variegated, and in size it is twice that of a good worker-bee; and the part below the waist-band is about half again as long, and by some they are called mothers, as being the ones that give birth. As a sign of this they say that the brood of drones comes to be even when no leader is present, but that of the bees does not. Others say that bees do mate, and that the drones are male and the bees female. Now for the others generation takes place in the hollows of the comb, but the leaders come to be below, near the comb, hanging apart by themselves, six or seven of them, formed the opposite way from the rest of the brood. Worker-bees have a sting, but the drones do not; the kings, or leaders, have a sting but do not strike with it, which is why some people think they do not have one.
53| There are kinds of bees: the best is small, round, and mottled; another is long, resembling the hornet; a third is the one called the thief (this one is black and broad-bellied); a fourth is the drone, largest of all in size, but stingless and sluggish. That is why some people weave barriers around the hives so that the bees can pass in but the drones cannot, because they are bigger. There are two kinds of leaders, as has also been said before. In each hive there are several leaders, and not just one; the hive is destroyed both if there are not enough capable leaders present (not so much because they are leaderless, but, as people say, because the leaders contribute to the generation of the bees) and if there are too many leaders, since they tear the hive apart. So when spring comes late, and when there are droughts and blight, less brood results; but in a drought they produce more honey, while in wet weather more brood, which is why a good crop of olives and swarming happen at the same time. They make the comb first, then deposit the brood into it — according to some, from the mouth, namely those who say the bees bring the brood in from elsewhere — and then in this way the honey, as food, some for summer use and some for autumn.
54| Autumn honey is the better kind. The comb comes from flowers, and they bring the wax-forming material from the resin of trees, while the honey is what falls from the air, especially at the risings of the stars, and when the rainbow comes down; in general no honey is produced before the rising of the Pleiades. So the bee makes the wax, as has been said, from the flowers; but that it does not make the honey but brings in what falls, there is a sign: beekeepers find the hives full of honey within one or two days. Moreover, in autumn flowers appear but no honey, once the earlier honey has been taken away. So once the honey already produced has been removed, and food is either no longer present or scarce, more honey would be produced then, if indeed they made it from the flowers. Honey forms by being concocted: at the start it is like water, and for some days it is liquid (which is why, if it is removed within those days, it has no thickness), and it sets, at the most, within twenty days. This is evident at once from its taste: it differs in sweetness and in thickness. The bee gathers from all plants that flower within a calyx, and also from other things that have sweetness, damaging no fruit in the process.
55| and takes up their juices with the organ like a tongue, and carries them off. The hives are harvested when the wild fig appears; and bees produce the best combs when they are making honey. They carry wax and bee-bread on their legs, but they disgorge the honey into the cell. When they have deposited the brood, they brood over it like a bird. In the comb the little grub, while still small, lies on its side; later it raises itself up on its own and feeds, and it holds fast to the comb so as to be attached to it. The brood of the bees and of the drones is white, and grubs come from it; as they grow they become bees and drones. But the brood of the kings is reddish-yellow in color, and in consistency is like thick honey; and it has, right from the start, a bulk close to that of the creature that comes from it. No grub forms from this beforehand; rather the bee comes straight away, as they say. When the bee lays brood in the comb, honey forms in the cell directly opposite. The grub grows feet and wings once it has been left alone; and when it reaches completion, it bursts the membrane around it and flies out. It excretes waste as long as it is a grub, but no longer afterward, except if it fails to come out in time, as was said before.
56| If someone removes the heads of the grubs before they have wings, the bees eat them out; and if someone nips off a drone's wing and lets it go, the bees themselves eat off the wings of the rest. The life span of bees is six years; some live seven. If a hive lasts nine or ten years, it is considered to have done well. In the Pontus there are some very white bees, which make honey twice a month. Those in Themiscyra, around the river Thermodon, make combs in the ground and in the hives that do not have much wax but very little, though the honey is thick; and the comb is smooth and even. They do not do this always, but in winter; for ivy is abundant in that region and flowers at that season, and it is from this that they gather the honey. Honey is also brought down to Amisus from higher up, white and very thick, which the bees make without combs, on the trees; and such honey is produced elsewhere in the Pontus too. There are also bees that make triple combs in the ground; these contain honey but no grubs.
57| But not all combs are of this kind, nor do all bees make combs like this. Hornets and wasps make combs for their brood: when they have no leader but have wandered off and cannot find one, hornets build up in some high place, wasps in holes; but when they have a leader, they build underground. So all their combs are six-sided, just like those of the bees, but the comb is composed not of wax but of bark-like and cobweb-like material; the hornets' comb is far more finely worked than the wasps' comb. They deposit brood, like the bees, about a drop's worth, into the side of the cell, and it clings to the wall. Brood is not present in all the cells at the same time; rather in some there are already creatures large enough even to fly, in others pupae, and in others still grubs. Excrement occurs only around the grubs, just as with the bees too. And as long as they are pupae, they remain motionless, and the cell is sealed over. Directly opposite the brood in the cell, about a drop's worth of honey forms, in the hornets' combs. Their broods form not in spring but in autumn; and they show their growth most noticeably at the full moons. Both the brood and the grubs are attached not from below the cell, but from the sides.
58| Some of the bombykia build against a rock or something of that kind a sharp structure of clay, the way salt deposits are left behind; this is extremely thick and hard, so that men can barely cut through it with a spear-point. There they lay their eggs, and white grubs form inside a black membrane. Apart from the membrane, wax forms in the clay; and this wax is far paler than that of bees. Ants too mate, and lay grubs, which are not attached to anything; as these grow, from being small and round at first they become elongated and jointed. Their generation occurs in spring. Land scorpions too lay many egg-shaped grubs, and brood over them. When the young are fully formed, they are cast out, as with spiders, and the mother is destroyed by her offspring; for they are often about eleven in number.
59| Spiders all mate in the manner described, and they first produce small grub-like creatures; for these become spiders as wholes changing all together, not part by part, since at the start they are round. When the spider has laid, she broods over them, and within three days they take on articulated form. All spiders lay within a web, but some within a fine, small one, others within a thick one, and some enclose the eggs wholly within a round pouch, while others are only partly enclosed by the web. The webs are not all made at the same time; the spider springs up at once and lets out a thread. The fluid found when the grubs are squeezed is the same as when they are still young, thick and white. Meadow spiders lay their eggs beforehand into a web, half of which is close to them and half projecting outward, and it is in this outer part that they brood and bring the young to life. Tarantula spiders lay into a thick woven basket, on which they brood. The neat, smooth-bodied spiders lay a smaller number, while tarantulas lay a great number; and once these have grown they surround their mother in a circle and, throwing her out, kill her, and often the male too, if they catch him, since he broods along with the female. Sometimes there come to be as many as three hundred young around a single tarantula. Spiders reach their full growth from small beginnings in about twenty-eight days.
60| Locusts mate in the same manner as the other insects, the smaller mounting the larger (for the male is the smaller), and they lay by driving into the ground the stalk-like organ near the tail, which the males do not have. They lay in clusters and in the same spot, so that the result is something like a honeycomb. Then, once they have laid, egg-shaped grubs form there, enclosed by a certain fine earth like a membrane, and out of this they are brought to maturity. The embryos are so soft at this stage that if one touches them they are crushed together. These are not on the surface but a little below the ground. When they have been matured, small black locusts creep out from the earthy covering that enclosed them; then their skin splits all around them, and at once they become larger. They lay as summer is ending, and having laid, they die; for at the same time as they lay, grubs form about their necks. The males also die around the same time. They creep out of the ground in spring. Locusts do not occur in mountainous country nor in barren country, but in flat, fissured ground; for it is in the fissures that they lay. The eggs remain in the ground through the winter, and with summer locusts arise from the previous year's embryos.
61| In the same way the migratory locusts also lay, and having laid they die. Their eggs are destroyed by the autumn rains when these are heavy; but if a drought occurs, then the migratory locusts become more numerous, because they are not destroyed in the same way, since their destruction seems to happen in no fixed order, occurring however chance has it.
62| Of cicadas there are two kinds: the small ones, which appear first and die out last, and the large ones, the singers, which appear later and die out earlier. Likewise among both the small and the large, some have the midriff divided — these are the singers — and some have it undivided — these do not sing. Some call the large singing ones "harvest-flies," and the small ones "little cicadas"; and among these too, the ones with the divided midriff sing a little. Cicadas do not occur where there are no trees; hence at Cyrene none occur on the plain, but many around the city, especially where there are olive trees, for these do not cast a deep shade. Cicadas do not occur in cold places, and so not in densely shaded groves either. The large mate with each other and the small with each other in the same way, coupling on their backs facing one another; the male discharges into the female, as with the other insects too. The female also has a cleft genital organ; she is the one into which the male discharges. They lay in untilled ground, boring with the sharp organ they have behind, just as the migratory locusts also do; for these too lay in untilled ground, which is why many occur in the territory of Cyrene.
63| They also lay into the reeds on which vines are trained, boring through the reeds, and into the stalks of squill. These embryos trickle down into the ground. Many occur when there has been heavy rain. The grub, having grown in the ground, becomes what is called a cicada-grub; and these are at their sweetest at this stage, before the shell splits open around them. When the season arrives, around the solstice, they come out at night, and at once the shell breaks and cicadas emerge from the cicada-grub; they at once become black and harder and larger, and they sing. In both kinds the singers are the males, and the others are the females. At first the males are more pleasant to eat, but after mating the females are, for they then hold white eggs. When flying up after someone has startled them, they discharge a fluid like water, which farmers say shows that they urinate and have residue and are nourished by dew. If someone approaches moving a finger toward them from the tip, bending and then extending it again, they hold their place better than if one simply extends it straight off, and they climb onto the finger; for since they see dimly, they climb on as though onto a moving leaf.
64| Among insects, those that are not flesh-eating but live on the juices of living flesh, such as lice, fleas, and bugs, all produce from mating what are called nits, and from these nothing else is born in turn. Of these creatures, fleas arise from a very small amount of decaying matter (for wherever dry dung collects, there they form), bugs arise from the moisture that collects outside animals' bodies, and lice arise from the flesh itself. They form, when they are about to appear, as small pimples without pus; if one pricks these, lice come out. This happens to some people as a disease, when there is a great deal of moisture in the body; and some have actually died in this way, as they say happened to Alcman the poet and to Pherecydes of Syros. A great abundance of lice also occurs in certain diseases. There is a kind of lice called wild, harder than those that occur on most people; these are also hard to remove from the skin. In children the head becomes lousy, less so in men. Women too become more lousy than men.
65| Those in whose heads lice occur suffer less from headaches. Lice also occur in many of the other animals. Birds have them, and the birds called pheasants, if they do not dust themselves, are destroyed by lice. So too with the other creatures that have feathers, both those with a quilled shaft and those with hairs. Only the donkey has neither lice nor ticks. Cattle have both; sheep and goats have ticks but not lice; and pigs have large, hard lice. In dogs occur what are called dog-fleas. All lice arise in the very animals on which they are found. Lice occur more when there is a change in the water in which the animals bathe, in the case of those bathing creatures that have lice. In the sea, lice occur on fish, but these do not arise from the fish themselves but from the mud; in appearance they resemble the many-footed donkeys of the sea, except that they have a flat tail. There is one species of sea-lice, and they occur everywhere, but especially around red mullets. All these creatures are many-footed and, being insects, are bloodless.
66| The gadfly of the tunny occurs about the fins, and it resembles a scorpion, in size about as large as a spider. In the sea between Cyrene and Egypt there is, about the dolphin, a fish they call the "louse"; it becomes the fattest of all fish because it enjoys abundant food from the dolphin's hunting.
67| Other small creatures are also generated, as was said before, some in wool and in things made of wool, such as the clothes-moths, which grow in wool more when the wool is dusty, and come about most of all if a spider is shut in along with it; for by drinking up whatever moisture is present, it dries the wool out. This grub also occurs in a tunic. It also occurs in wax that is growing old, just as an animal occurs in wood — the creature which is thought to be the smallest of all animals and is called the mite, white and small. In books, too, other creatures are generated, some like those found in cloaks, others like scorpions but without the tail, altogether tiny; and speaking generally this happens in almost everything, both in dry things that are becoming damp and in damp things that are becoming dry, in whatever of them has life in it. There is also a little grub called the wood-destroyer, no less strange than any animal. Its head projects out beyond its casing, mottled in color, and it has feet at the front end, as other grubs do, but the rest of its body is in a spider-web-like tunic, and around this are bits of chaff, so that it looks as though these things had stuck to it as it walks; but they are grown together with the tunic, just as the shell is with the snail — the whole covering is that way with the grub, and it does not fall off but is torn away as though it had grown on.
68| And if one strips off the tunic, the creature dies and becomes useless in the same way as a snail does when its shell is stripped off. As time goes on, this grub too becomes a chrysalis, like the caterpillars, and lives without moving; but what winged creature comes to be out of it has not yet been observed. The wild fig trees among the fig trees have what are called gall-insects. This creature is first a little grub, then, when the skin bursts round about, the gall-insect flies out leaving the skin behind, and makes its way into the wild figs of the cultivated fig trees, and by means of its mouth-parts keeps the wild figs from falling off; this is why farmers hang wild figs on their fig trees, and plant wild fig trees near their fig trees.
69| Among the four-footed, blooded, egg-laying animals, generation occurs in spring, but they do not all mate at the same season; rather some mate in spring, some in summer, some around autumn, according to whichever season suits each of them for the generation of their offspring. Now the tortoise lays eggs with a hard shell and two colors, like those of birds; having laid them, she buries them and beats the ground on top hard; and once she has done this, she comes and broods over them from above; the eggs hatch out in the following year. The freshwater tortoise, coming out of the water, lays after digging a jar-shaped pit, and having laid her eggs in it she leaves them; then after leaving them fewer than thirty days she digs them up and they hatch quickly, and she leads the hatchlings straight to the water. Sea turtles also lay eggs on land, like those of domestic fowl, and after burying them they brood over them by night. They lay a great number of eggs; indeed they lay as many as a hundred. Lizards too lay eggs, and so do crocodiles, both the land kind and the river kind, into the ground. The eggs of lizards hatch of themselves in the ground, for the lizard does not live two years; the lifespan of a lizard is said to be six months. The river crocodile lays many eggs, mostly around sixty, white in color, and she sits on them for sixty days (for she also lives a long time), and from the smallest of eggs the largest of animals comes to be out of these; for the egg is no bigger than a goose's egg, and the hatchling is correspondingly small, but as it grows it comes to be even seventeen cubits long. Some say that it even keeps growing as long as it lives.
1| Among snakes, the viper bears its young alive outside the body, having first laid an egg inside itself; and the egg, as with fish, is a single color and soft-shelled. The young comes to be on top of it, and no hard shell-like rind encloses it, just as none does with fish either. She bears small young vipers in membranes, which burst open on the third day; sometimes, too, the young eat their way through from inside and come out. She bears one in a day, and bears more than twenty in all; the other snakes lay eggs outside the body, and the eggs are joined to one another like a woman's string of beads; when she has laid them in the ground, she broods over them. These too hatch in the following year. Book Z.
2| The generations of snakes and of insects, and further of the four-footed egg-laying animals, occur in this way. Birds all lay eggs, but the season of mating and the times of laying are not the same for all of them. For some both mate and lay at almost every season, such as the hen and the pigeon — the hen laying the whole year round except for the two turning-point months of winter. Some, even of the well-bred kinds, lay a great number, even sixty, before brooding; and yet the well-bred hens are less prolific layers than the common ones. The Adriatic hens are small in size, and lay every single day; they are fierce, and often kill their chicks; they have every kind of coloring. Some home-bred hens even lay twice a day; indeed some, from laying too much, have already died quickly from it. The hens, then, lay continuously, as has been said; the pigeon, the ring-dove, the turtle-dove, and the stock-dove lay two eggs at a time, but pigeons lay even ten times a year. Most birds lay in the spring season, and some of them are prolific, and prolific in two ways — some by laying often, like pigeons, others by laying many at a time, like hens.
3| All the hook-taloned birds produce few young, except the kestrel; this bird lays the most of the hook-taloned kinds. As many as four have already been observed, but it lays even more. Most birds lay in nests, but the non-flying ones do not lay in nests, such as partridges and quails, but on the ground, sheltering the eggs with foliage. So too the crested lark and the corn-crake. These, then, make their nests in shelter from the wind; but the bird the Boeotians call the eirops burrows into holes in the ground and nests there alone. Thrushes build a nest, like swallows, out of mud on the tops of tall trees, and they build them one after another and joined to each other, so that because of this continuity there is, as it were, a string of nests. The hoopoe alone, of the birds that nest by themselves, builds no nest at all, but works its way into tree-trunks and lays in their hollows, gathering nothing together. The cuckoo nests both in houses and among rocks. The tetrix, which the Athenians call the ourax, nests neither on the ground nor in trees, but on low-growing plants.
4| The egg of all birds alike is hard-shelled, provided it has been fertilized and not spoiled (for hens do lay some soft ones), and the eggs of birds are two-colored, the white outside and the yolk inside. The eggs of birds that live around rivers and marshes differ from those of birds that walk on dry land; for the eggs of water birds have proportionally many times more yolk than white. The colors of eggs also differ according to the kinds of birds; for some birds' eggs are white, such as those of the pigeon and the partridge, others are yellow, such as those of the marsh-dwellers, others are speckled, such as those of guinea-fowl and pheasants; and the eggs of the kestrel are red like red ochre. The egg has a difference of shape: at one end it is pointed, at the other broader; and the broad end comes out first. Long, pointed eggs are female, while round eggs with roundness at the pointed end are male. Eggs are hatched out when birds brood over them, but they also hatch spontaneously in the ground, as in Egypt, when they are buried in dung.
5| And at Syracuse there was a certain fond drinker who used to set himself down on the ground under a rush mat and drink continuously for so long a time, they say, that the eggs he was hatching hatched. Indeed eggs placed in warm vessels have been fully concocted and have hatched out on their own. Now the seed of all birds is white, as it is in the other animals too; and when the female has been mated, it rises up toward the diaphragm. At first it appears small and white, then red and blood-colored, and as it grows it becomes yellow-colored and wholly yellow throughout; and when it becomes at length more substantial, it separates out, and the yellow settles inside while the white forms around it on the outside. When it is completed, it is released and comes out, changing at that point, by virtue of its softness, over into hardness, so that it comes out not yet set but sets and becomes hard immediately after coming out, unless it comes out diseased. It has also been observed — just as at a certain stage the egg is formed (for the whole of it is uniformly yellow, the way the chick later is) — that similar things are found in a cock when it is cut open under the diaphragm, in the place where the females have their eggs: things yellow in kind throughout and the size of eggs; these people count as a kind of freak.
6| Those who say that wind-eggs are leftovers from earlier matings are not telling the truth; for hens' and geese's young that have never been mated have been observed often enough laying wind-eggs. Wind-eggs are smaller in size and less pleasant and moister than fertile ones, but more numerous; and when they are put under a hen, the fluid does not thicken at all, but the yellow and the white remain unchanged, being alike as they were. Wind-eggs occur in many birds — for instance the hen, the partridge, the pigeon, the peacock, the goose, the fox-goose. They hatch faster when brooded in summer than in winter: hens hatch in eighteen days in summer, but in winter sometimes in twenty-five. Birds do, however, differ from one another in being better or worse at brooding. And if it thunders while a bird is brooding, the eggs are spoiled. The eggs some call "dog-star eggs" and "wind-season eggs" occur more in summer. Some call wind-eggs "zephyr-eggs," because it is around springtime that birds are seen taking in the winds; and they do the same thing, too, when stroked somehow by the hand. Wind-eggs become fertile, and eggs already present from mating change over from one kind to another, if the bird that has the wind-eggs, or the eggs already taken up by seed from another bird, is mated before the change from yellow to white takes place;
7| and so the wind-eggs become fertile, while the ones already present take on the character of the later-mating bird. But if the mating happens once the change to white has already begun, nothing changes — neither do the wind-eggs change so as to become fertile, nor do the ones already conceived by seed change over into the kind of the mating bird. And if the mating is interrupted while the eggs already present are still small, the ones already present grow no further; but if the bird is mated again, the increase in size is rapid. The yellow and the white of the egg have a nature opposite to one another, not only in color but also in capacity: the yellow sets under cold, while the white does not set but rather grows moister; whereas under fire the white sets, while the yellow does not set but continues soft, unless it is burned right through, and it congeals and dries out more when boiled than when roasted. Each of the two is kept separate from the other by a membrane. The hailstone-like knots at the origin of the yolk contribute nothing to generation, as some suppose; there are two of them, one below and one above. And this happens with the yellow and the white: when someone takes several such eggs out, pours them together into a bladder, and boils them gently, without a strong fire, the yellow all gathers together into the middle, while the white settles around it in a circle.
8| Among hens, the young ones begin laying first, right at the start of spring, and they lay more than the older ones do; but the eggs from the younger ones are smaller in size. In general, if birds are not allowed to brood, they sicken and suffer harm. After mating, hens shudder and shake themselves and often pick up a bit of straw and wrap it around themselves (they sometimes do this same thing after laying too); pigeons draw in the rump; geese duck right under the water. Conception and the taking-up of wind-eggs happen quickly in most birds — for instance in the partridge, when it is in heat for mating: if it stands downwind of the male, it conceives, and immediately becomes useless for hunting, since the partridge is thought to have a keen sense of smell. The formation of the egg after mating, and, once the egg is in turn concocted, the formation of the chick from it, does not take the same length of time in every case, but differs according to the size of the breeders. The hen's egg is formed after mating and is completed, generally speaking, in ten days; the pigeon's egg somewhat sooner. Pigeons are able, even while the egg is already in the pangs of being laid, to hold it back;
9| for if something disturbs the bird — around the nest, or a feather gets plucked out, or it suffers some other trouble and becomes upset — it holds the egg back and, although about to lay, does not lay. The following things too are peculiar to pigeons in regard to mating. They kiss one another before the male is about to mount, or he will not mate — the older male does this the first time only; afterward he mounts even without kissing; but the younger ones always do this before mating. This, then, they do as something peculiar to them; and further, the females mount one another, when no male is present, having kissed first just as the males do; and although they emit nothing into one another, they lay more eggs than the ones produced by seed, and from these no chick at all is produced, but all such eggs are wind-eggs.
10| The generation from the egg happens in the same way for all birds, but the times to completion differ, as has been said. In hens, then, once three days and nights have passed, the first sign appears; in the larger birds it takes a longer time, in the smaller ones a shorter time. At this stage the yellow has already moved up toward the pointed end, where the origin of the egg is and where the egg hatches, and the heart appears in the white as a mere blood-colored speck. This point leaps and moves as though it were alive, and from it two blood-filled, vein-like passages, coiling, lead as it grows into each of the surrounding membranes. And a membrane containing blood-colored fibers already encloses the white at this time, running out from the vein-like passages. A little later the body too is already differentiated, at first altogether small and white. The head is distinct, and its eyes are especially swollen out; and this continues far into development, for it is only late that they become small and close up. Of the body, the lower part at first shows no distinction at all from the upper.
11| Of the passages that stretch from the heart, one leads to what surrounds the embryo all around, the other to the yolk, which acts like a navel-cord. The chick's starting-point is from the white, and its nourishment comes through the navel-cord from the yolk. By the tenth day the chick is already wholly distinct, and all its parts are visible. But it still has a head larger than the rest of its body, and eyes larger than the head, though these do not yet have sight. At about this time the eyes, when lifted out, are found to be larger than beans and black; and when the skin is removed there is inside a moist white substance, cold, and glistening strongly toward the light, but nothing solid. That, then, is the condition of the eyes and the head at this time; and by now the internal organs are also visible, together with the region of the belly and the nature of the intestines, and the veins running from the heart are already seen stretching toward the navel-cord. From the navel-cord one vein stretches to the membrane surrounding the yolk (the yolk at this time is already fluid, and more abundant than is natural), while the other stretches to the membrane that surrounds the whole — both the membrane in which the chick lies and the membrane of the yolk, and the fluid between these two.
12| For as the chick grows, the yolk is gradually divided, part of it becoming upper and part lower, with the white fluid in the middle; and of the lower yolk the white lies underneath, just as it did at first. By the tenth day the white has become the outermost layer, being now small in amount, and glutinous, and thick, and slightly yellowish. For each part is arranged by position in the following way. First and outermost, next to the shell, is the membrane of the egg — not the membrane of the shell itself, but the one beneath it. Within this is the fluid white; then the chick, and around it a separating membrane, so that the chick may not lie in the fluid; and beneath the chick is the yolk, into which one of the veins led, while the other led to the surrounding white. The whole is enclosed by a membrane together with a serum-like moisture. Then there is another membrane, already around the embryo itself, as has been said, separating it from the fluid. Below this the yolk is enclosed in a further membrane, into which the navel-cord running from the heart and the great vein leads, so that the embryo lies in neither of the two fluids. By about the twentieth day it already makes a sound when moved from within, if one moves it after opening the egg, and it is by now becoming downy, when the hatching of the eggs takes place after the twentieth day.
13| It has its head above the right leg, at the flank, and its wing above its head; and visible at this time is the chorion-like membrane which comes after the outermost membrane of the shell, the one into which the second navel-cord stretched (and the chick is now entirely within this membrane), and also the other chorion-like membrane, the one around the yolk into which the other navel-cord stretched; both of these led from the heart and the great vein. At this time the navel-cord that stretched to the outer chorion collapses and is released from the animal, while the one leading to the yolk is joined to the chick's small intestine, and much of the yolk is by now inside the chick, with a yolky sediment in the belly. Also around this time it discharges residue toward the outer chorion, and it also has some in its belly; the outer residue too is white, and some white residue forms inside as well. Finally the yolk, growing ever smaller and diminishing, is entirely used up and taken in within the chick, so that when it has already hatched, on the tenth day after hatching, if one cuts it open, a small bit of the yolk is still left near the intestine, though it has been released from the navel-cord, and nothing remains between — it has all been consumed.
14| Around the time mentioned earlier the chick sleeps, but it also wakes and, moving, opens its eyes and makes a sound; and the heart together with the navel-cord pulses as if it were breathing. This, then, is the manner in which birds are generated from the egg. Birds lay some eggs that are unfertile, even those produced from mating, and when these are brooded nothing hatches from them; this has been observed especially in pigeons. Twin eggs have two yolks, and in some of these a thin partition keeps the yolks from running together into one, while in others there is no such partition, and the yolks touch one another. There are some hens that lay only twin eggs, and in these the phenomenon concerning the yolk has actually been observed: one hen that laid eighteen eggs hatched twins from all of them, except for those that were wind-eggs. The rest were fertile in general, except that of the twins one chick becomes larger and the other smaller, and the last one is monstrous.
15| All the pigeon-family birds lay two eggs, as for instance the ring-dove and the turtle-dove for the most part, though most lay three — the turtle-dove and the ring-dove included. The domestic pigeon, as has been said, lays at every season, but the turtle-dove and the ring-dove lay in spring, not more than twice; and they lay a second time when the first brood has been destroyed, for many birds destroy their own. So they do sometimes lay three, as has been said, but they never bring off more than two chicks, and sometimes only one; and the egg that is left over is always a wind-egg. Most birds produce no young in their first year. All birds, once they have begun to lay, continue to have eggs virtually without a break, although in some, because of their small size, this is not easy to observe. The domestic pigeon is for the most part male and female together, and of these the male generally lays first; and after laying it generally leaves off for one day, then lays the other egg again. The male also broods for part of the day, and the female by night. The egg laid earlier is fully formed and hatches within twenty days;
16| and the chick pierces the egg the day before it hatches. Both parents warm the chicks for the same length of time that they brooded the eggs. The female is more troublesome than the male about the rearing of the young, just as with other animals after giving birth. Pigeons lay as many as ten times a year, some even eleven times, and those in Egypt as many as twelve times. The domestic pigeon mates and is mated within the year — indeed it mates and is mated at six months old. Some say that ring-doves and turtle-doves mate and breed even at three months, taking as their evidence how numerous they are. They are pregnant for fourteen days, and brood for as many more; and in another fourteen days the young are so fully feathered that they are not easily caught. The ring-dove lives, so they say, as long as forty years; and partridges live more than sixteen years. The domestic pigeon, once it has finished rearing its brood, lays again within thirty days.
17| The vulture nests on inaccessible rocks; hence it is rare to see a vulture's nest and its young. And it is for this reason that Herodorus, father of the sophist Bryson, says that vultures come from another land, unknown to us, adducing as evidence for this the fact that no one has seen a vulture's nest, and that many appear suddenly, following armies. This is indeed hard to see, but it has nonetheless been observed. Vultures lay two eggs. As for the other flesh-eating birds, none has been observed laying more than once; but the swallow alone among flesh-eaters nests twice. And if one pricks out the eyes of swallow chicks while they are still young, they become sound again and can see later on.
18| The eagle lays three eggs, but hatches only two of them, as is also said in the verses attributed to Musaeus: "Who lays three, hatches two, and heeds only one." This, then, is what happens in most cases, but three chicks have also been observed. As the chicks grow, the eagle throws out one of them, being burdened by the feeding. At the same time it is also said that during this period it goes without food, so as not to seize the young of wild animals; for its talons become twisted for a few days, and its feathers turn white, so that at that time it becomes harsh even toward its own young. The one that is cast out is taken in and reared by the ossifrage. It broods for about thirty days. Among the other large birds too the period of brooding is about this long, as with the goose and the bustard; among the middle-sized ones it is about twenty days, as with the kite and the hawk. The kite lays mostly two eggs, but sometimes brings out three chicks; the one called the Aetolian kite sometimes even four. The raven too lays not only two eggs, as some say, but more; it broods for about twenty days, and the raven casts out its chicks. Other birds do this same thing too; for often, those that lay several eggs cast out one of them. Not all species of eagle are alike toward their young: the white-tailed eagle is harsh, while the black eagles are good providers of food for their young, since practically all the hook-taloned birds, as soon as the chicks are able to fly, drive them out of the nest by striking them. And of the other birds too, as has been said, most do this: once they have reared their young they take no further care of them thereafter, except the crow; the crow takes care of them for some time, for even after they are already flying it feeds them, flying alongside them.
20| The cuckoo is said by some to change from a hawk, because the hawk it resembles disappears around this time; and indeed the other hawks too can hardly be seen, once the cuckoo begins to call, except for a few days. The cuckoo appears for only a short time in summer, and disappears in winter. The hawk is hook-taloned, but the cuckoo is not hook-taloned. Further, its head does not resemble a hawk's either, but in both these respects it is more like a pigeon; it resembles the hawk only in coloring, except that the hawk's markings are like stripes, while the cuckoo's are like spots. Its size and flight, however, are close to those of the smallest hawk, which for the most part is not to be seen during the time the cuckoo appears, although in fact both have been seen together. A cuckoo has even been seen being eaten by a hawk, yet none of the birds of the cuckoo's own kind does this. They say no one has ever seen the chicks of a cuckoo; it does lay eggs, but without building a nest of its own — instead it sometimes lays in the nests of smaller birds, after eating their eggs, especially in the nests of ring-doves, having eaten their eggs too. It rarely lays two eggs, but mostly one. It also lays in the nest of the hedge-sparrow, and this bird hatches and rears the chick. It becomes especially fat and good to eat at this particular season. The chicks of hawks too become very good to eat and fat. One kind of hawk nests far off, on sheer rock faces.
21| Most birds brood, as has been said about pigeons, with the males relieving the females — some for only as long as the female is away procuring food for herself. Among geese, the females alone brood, and once they begin doing so they stay continuously sitting. The nests of all marsh birds are built near marshy, grassy places; and this is why, even while staying quietly on the eggs, they are able to procure food for themselves and not go entirely without eating. Among crows too the females alone brood, and remain continuously sitting on the eggs the whole time; the males feed them, bringing them food and feeding them. Among ring-doves, the female begins in the late afternoon and broods through the whole night until the hour of breakfast, while the male broods for the rest of the time. Partridges make two separate nests for their eggs, and the female broods on one, the male on the other; each hatches out and leads forth his own brood; and as soon as the male first leads out the chicks, he mounts them.
22| The peacock lives about twenty-five years, and begins breeding chiefly at three years old, at which time it also acquires the variegated coloring of its feathers; it hatches its eggs in thirty days or a little more. It lays only once a year; it lays twelve eggs or a little fewer; it lays with an interval of two or three days between, not in succession; those laying for the first time lay about eight eggs at most. Peahens also lay wind-eggs. They mate around spring, and the laying follows immediately after mating. It molts its feathers together with the first trees, and begins to regain its plumage again together with their budding. Those who keep peacocks put their eggs under a hen to brood, because when the female does this herself the male flies at her and breaks them; and for this same reason some wild birds too lay and brood while hiding from the males. At most two eggs are put under the hen for this purpose, for that is all she can hatch out while brooding. They take care that she does not interrupt the brooding by getting down off the eggs, by setting food beside her. Birds have noticeably larger testicles around mating time — those more given to mating have them more noticeably so, such as cocks and partridges, while those that do not mate continually have them less noticeably enlarged. This, then, is how matters stand concerning the conception and generation of birds,
23| and as for fish, it has been said earlier that not all of them lay eggs. For the selachians bear live young, while the rest of the fish kind lay eggs. The selachians bear live young after first producing eggs within themselves, and they rear the young within themselves, except for the fishing-frog. Fish also have differing wombs, as was said above; for the egg-laying kinds have wombs that are forked and situated low down, while the selachians have wombs more like those of birds. It differs from the womb of birds in that, in some cases, the eggs do not form near the diaphragm, but midway along the backbone, and from there, as they grow, they move onward. The egg of all fish is not two-colored but one-colored, either whiter or more yellowish, both before and once the embryo is present within it. The development from the egg differs between fish and birds in that it does not have the second umbilical cord stretching to the membrane beneath the shell; but of the two cords that birds have, the one stretching to the yolk, this alone it has. The rest of the development from the egg is now entirely the same in both birds and fish: the embryo forms at the tip of the egg, and the veins likewise stretch out from the heart first, and the head and eyes and the upper parts are likewise the largest at first;
24| As it grows, the yolk always becomes smaller, and in the end it disappears and sinks in, just as what is called the chick does in birds. The navel-cord too is attached a little below the mouth of the belly. In the young it is long, but as they grow it becomes smaller, and in the end small, until it goes in altogether, as was said in the case of birds. The embryo and the yolk are enclosed together by a common membrane; beneath this there is another membrane, which encloses the embryo separately; and between the membranes there is fluid. And the nourishment in the belly of the little fish is similar to that in the chicks of birds, one part white, the other yellowish. As for the shape of the uterus, that should be studied from dissections; but there is a difference among these animals themselves, for instance among the dogfish-type sharks, both among themselves and as against the flat rays. For in some the eggs are attached in the middle of the uterus around the spine, as has been said, for instance in the dogfish; and as they grow they move round. And since the uterus is forked and attached to the diaphragm, as is also true of the other animals of this kind, the embryo moves round into each of the two parts.
25| This uterus, and that of the other dogfish-type sharks, has, a little way along from the diaphragm, what look like white breasts, which do not form when there are no young inside. The dogfish and the skates have the shell-like structures in which an egg-like fluid forms; the shape of the shell is like the reeds of flutes, and hair-like passages form in the shells. In the dogfish, then, which some call fawn-sharks, when the shell breaks around and falls off, the young are born; in the skates, when they give birth, the shell breaks around and the young comes out. The spiny dogfish holds its eggs by the diaphragm, above the breasts; and when the egg descends, the young is formed from it once it has been released. The same manner of generation occurs also in the foxsharks. The so-called smooth sharks hold their eggs between the horns of the uterus just as the dogfish do, and these, having gone round, descend into each of the two forks of the uterus, and the young are formed with the navel-cord attached to the uterus, so that, as the eggs are used up, the embryo seems to be in the same condition as in the four-footed animals. The navel-cord, being long, is attached at the lower part to the uterus, each one hanging as though from a cotyledon, and at the embryo to the middle, where the liver is.
26| The nourishment, when it is dissected, is egg-like, even if it no longer has the yolk. A chorion and separate membranes form around each of the embryos, just as in the four-footed animals. The embryos have the head upward when they are young, but downward once they have grown stout and are mature. Males occur in the left uterus and females in the right, and in the same uterus at once both females and males. And the embryos, when dissected, just as in the four-footed animals, have those of the internal organs large which are large in the adult, for instance the liver, and full of blood. All the cartilaginous fish have at the same time, above near the diaphragm, eggs, some larger some smaller, many of them, and below, embryos already formed; hence many suppose that such fish give birth and mate every month, because they do not release them all at once, but often, over a long time. Those below, in the uterus, are concocted and brought to completion all together. Now the other dogfish-sharks both let their young out and take them back into themselves, as do the angel-sharks and the electric rays (indeed a large electric ray has been seen having about eighty embryos in itself), but the spiny dogfish alone among the sharks does not take them back in, because of its spine.
27| Among the flat ones, the stingray and the skate do not take them back in, because of the roughness of the tail. Nor does the angler-fish take its young back in, because of the size of its head and its spines; for indeed it alone of these does not bear its young live, as was said earlier. The differences among them relative to one another are of this kind, and so is their generation from eggs; the males, around the time of mating, have their ducts so full of milt that when pressed the semen flows out white. The ducts are forked, having their origin from the diaphragm and the great vein. Now around this time the ducts of the males are already clearly distinct in relation to the uterus of the females, but when it is not the season, they are less distinct, through disuse; indeed in some cases and at some times they become altogether indistinct, just as was said about the testicles in birds. The seminal ducts and the uterine ducts also have other differences from one another, in that the former are attached to the loin, while the ducts of the females are easily moved and are held together by a thin membrane. The ducts of the males, as they are, should be studied from what has been set out in the dissections. The cartilaginous fish become pregnant, and carry for the most part six months. The one called the starry dogfish gives birth most often, for it gives birth twice a month. They begin to mate in the month of Maimakterion. The other dogfish-sharks give birth twice, except the common dogfish; this one gives birth once a year.
28| Some of them give birth in spring, but the angel-shark gives birth in autumn too, toward the winter setting of the Pleiades for the later brood, and at the start of spring for the first; and of its offspring, the later brood thrives best; the electric rays give birth around autumn. The cartilaginous fish give birth near the land, coming up from the open sea and the depths, both because of the warmth and because of fear for their offspring. Now among the other fish none has been observed mating outside its own kind, but the angel-shark and the skate alone seem to do this; for there is a fish called the shark-ray; it has the head and forequarters of the skate, and the hindquarters of the angel-shark, as though it were produced from both of these. Now the dogfish-sharks and the shark-like fish, such as the foxshark and the dogfish, and the flat fish, the electric ray and the skate and the smooth-ray and the stingray, bear their young live in the manner described, having first produced eggs,
29| but the dolphin and the whale and the other cetaceans, all that do not have gills but a blowhole, bear their young live, and so too the sawfish and the ox-ray; for none of these is seen to have eggs, but immediately a fetus, from which, as it becomes articulated, the animal is formed, just as with man and the four-footed animals that bear their young live. The dolphin bears mostly one, but sometimes also two; the whale either two at most, and more than once, or one. The porpoise is like the dolphin in this too, for it is like a small dolphin, and occurs in the Black Sea. The porpoise differs from the dolphin: it is smaller in size, and broader across the back; its color is dark blue. Many say the porpoise is a kind of dolphin. All that have a blowhole breathe, and take in air; for they have lungs. And the dolphin has been observed, when sleeping, with its snout sticking up, and it snores as it sleeps. The dolphin and the porpoise have milk, and their young are suckled; and they take their young back in when they are small. The young of dolphins grow quickly; for in ten years they attain their full size.
30| The dolphin carries its young ten months. It gives birth in summer, and at no other season; and it happens that it also disappears around the rising of the dog-star for about thirty days. The young follow the mother for a long time, and the animal is fond of its offspring. It lives many years; for some have been shown to live, some twenty-five years, others thirty, since fishermen cut off the tail-fin of some and let them go, so that by this mark their ages become known. The seal is one of the animals that belong to both realms; for it does not take in water, but breathes, sleeps, and gives birth on land, and near the shore too, since it belongs among the land animals, but it spends most of its time and gets its food from the sea, and for this reason it must be discussed along with the water animals. It bears its young alive, straightaway within itself, and produces living young, and expels the afterbirth and the rest just as a sheep does. It bears one or two, and at most three. It has two teats, and is suckled by its young just as the four-footed animals are. It gives birth, like a human being, at any season of the year, but especially at the same time as the first goats.
31| It leads its young to the sea when they are about twelve days old, many times a day, accustoming them little by little; and the young are carried down the slope but do not walk, because they cannot brace themselves on their feet. The seal draws itself together and contracts itself, for it is fleshy and soft, and has cartilaginous bones. It is hard to kill a seal by force, unless one strikes it near the temple, since its body is fleshy. It emits a sound like an ox. The female also has a genital part like that of a ray, but in everything else is like a woman. Concerning the water animals, then, that bear their young alive either within themselves or outside, and the manner of their bearing, this is how matters stand.
32| Among fish, the egg-laying kinds have a uterus that is two-forked and situated below, as was said before (all the scaled fish lay eggs, for example the bass, the mullet, the grey mullet, the sea-bream, and all the so-called white fish, and the smooth-skinned ones except the eel), and their egg is crumbly. This appears to be so because the uterus is entirely full of eggs, so that in small fish it seems there are only two eggs; for on account of their smallness and thinness the uterus is not clear in them. Concerning the mating of all fish it has been spoken of before. Most fish are male and female, but about the erythrinos and the channe there is a difficulty; for all that are caught are found to have roe. Now eggs form in fish that pair and mate, but they also have eggs without mating. Some of the river fish make this clear; for the minnows, almost as soon as they are born and while still small, have roe. They shed the eggs, and, as is said, the males gulp down most of the eggs, and the rest are lost in the water; but whatever they deposit into the places into which they lay, these are preserved—
33| for if all were preserved, the stock of each kind would be enormously numerous. And even of these not many become fertile, but only those on which the male sprinkles his milt; for when the female has laid, the male follows along and sprinkles the milt over the eggs, and from all those sprinkled fry are produced, while from the rest it is a matter of chance. This same thing happens also in the case of the soft-bodied creatures; for the male cuttlefish, when the female has laid, sprinkles the eggs. It is reasonable that this should happen also with the other cephalopods, but among cuttlefish alone has it so far been observed. They lay near the land—the gobies near the stones, except that what is laid is flat and crumbly. And likewise the others too; for the places around the land are warm, and there is more food there, and it protects the roe from being eaten up by larger fish. This is why in the Black Sea, around the river Thermodon, most fish spawn; for the place is windless and warm and has fresh water. The other egg-laying fish spawn once a year, except the small wrasses—
34| these spawn twice. The male wrasse differs from the female in being blacker and having larger scales. Now the other fish lay their eggs together with a discharge of spawn and let the eggs go; but the one that some call the garfish, when the season for laying has come, splits open, and in this way the eggs come out. For this fish has a kind of slit under the belly and the lower abdomen, like the blind snakes; and when it has finished laying, this closes up again. The generation from the egg happens in the same way both for those that lay their eggs internally and for those that lay them externally; for it takes place at the tip and is enclosed in a membrane, and the first parts to become distinct are the eyes, which are large and spherical. From this it is also clear that they are not produced in the same way as those said by some to be produced from grubs; for with those the opposite happens, the lower parts becoming larger first, and the eyes and head later. When the egg has been used up, they become tadpole-like, and at first, taking in no food, they grow from the moisture that comes from the egg, but later they are nourished, until they grow, by the water of the rivers. When the Black Sea purges itself, something is carried down along the Hellespont which they call seaweed—
35| this is yellowish. Some say that this seaweed is a kind of natural flower. It occurs at the start of summer. On this both the shellfish and the small fish in these regions feed. Some of those concerned with sea creatures say that even the purple-fish gets its color from this.
36| The fish of lakes and rivers have roe, as a rule, when they are five months old in age, but they all spawn as the year comes round; and just as the sea fish do, so these too never release everything at once, neither do the females release all the eggs nor the males all the milt, but they always have more or less remaining, the females eggs and the males milt. They spawn in the appropriate season: the carp five or six times, and it makes its spawning especially at the risings of certain stars; the chalkis spawns three times, and the others once a year. All spawn in the shallows before the rivers and lakes, near the reedy places, for example the minnows and the perch. The sheatfish and the perch release their spawn continuously, like frogs; and the spawn is continuous in this way, coiled together, so much so that in the case of the perch, because of its flatness, fishermen wind it off the reeds in the lakes like thread from a spindle. Now the larger sheatfish spawn in the deep water, some even at a depth of a fathom, while the smaller ones among them spawn in the shallower water, especially near the roots of a willow or some other tree, and also near the reed and near the moss.
37| Fish sometimes mate with one another even when one is very large and the other small; and bringing together their passages, which some call navels, by which they release their offspring, one releases the egg and the other the milt. Whatever eggs come into contact with the milt at once appear whiter and larger, within a day so to speak. Later, in a short time, the eyes of the fish become visible; for this, in all fish as in other animals, is the most conspicuous feature immediately, and it appears the largest part. Whatever eggs the milt does not touch, just as with sea fish, that egg is useless and infertile. From the fertile eggs, as the little fish grow, something like a shell is shed off; this is the membrane that encloses the egg and the little fish. When the milt mixes with the egg, what forms from the two becomes very sticky, at the roots or wherever they spawn. Wherever they spawn the most, the male guards the eggs, while the female goes off after spawning. The slowest growth from eggs belongs to the glanis (sheatfish), which is why the male stays beside them for as many as forty or fifty days, so that the offspring is not eaten by fish that happen to pass by.
38| Second in slowness is the generation of the carp, though even in this case the offspring that survives escapes quickly. Of the smaller kinds, some are already little fish by the third day. The eggs that the milt touches grow, both on the same day and afterward as well. Thus the glanis's egg becomes the size of a vetch-seed, while those of carp and similar fish become the size of a millet-seed. These, then, spawn and generate in this manner; but the chalkis spawns in deep water in dense, shoaling masses, and the fish they call the tilon spawns near the shore in sheltered spots — this too is a shoaling fish. Carp, baleros, and nearly all the others, so to speak, push into the shallows to spawn, and often thirteen or fourteen males follow a single female; and as the female releases her egg and withdraws, they follow after and sprinkle the milt over it. Most of the eggs are lost, since because the female spawns while withdrawing the egg gets scattered — whatever is caught by a current and does not fall onto some solid material perishes; for none of the others guard their eggs except the glanis, unless a carp happens upon a mass of its own spawn —
39| this one, they say, does guard its eggs. All the males have milt except the eel; the eel has neither egg nor milt. Now mullets go up out of the sea into lakes and rivers, while eels do the opposite, going from these into the sea.
40| Most fish, as has been said, come from eggs. But some also come from mud and from sand — and among such kinds, some arise both from mating and from eggs — in marshes and elsewhere, as they say once happened near Cnidus, where a marsh used to dry up under the Dog Star, with all the mud cleared away, and then water would begin to form again along with the first rains. In this water, as it began, little fish would come into being. This was a certain kind of mullet, one that does not even arise from mating, the size of small sprats; it had neither egg nor milt. The same thing also happens in rivers in Asia that do not flow out into the sea: small fish, the size of whitebait, arise there in the same way. Some say that mullets in general are all spontaneously generated, but they are wrong to say so; for their females are plainly seen to have eggs and their males milt. But there is a certain kind among them that is like this, arising from mud and sand. That some things are generated spontaneously, neither from animals nor from mating, is clear from these facts. All creatures that neither lay eggs nor bear live young arise in this way, some from mud, others from sand and from the putrefaction that rises to the surface — just as the so-called aphros, the foam-fish of the anchovy, arises from sandy earth —
41| and this aphye is one that does not grow and cannot reproduce, and when a longer time passes it perishes, and another arises again in its place, so that except for a brief interval it occurs, one might almost say, throughout the rest of the year; for it persists continuously from the autumn setting of Arcturus until spring. A sign that it sometimes rises up out of the earth is this: when men are fishing, if the weather is cold it is not caught, but if the weather is calm it is caught, as though it were rising from the earth toward the warmth. And when the ground is dragged and scraped repeatedly, more of it appears, and better quality. The other kinds of aphye are inferior because they grow quickly. They occur in shaded and marshy places, whenever, in fine weather, the earth grows warm — as around Athens, at Salamis, by the Themistocleum, and at Marathon; for it is in such places that the aphros occurs. It appears in such places and in such fine weather, but it also occurs in some places whenever a great deal of water falls from the sky, forming in the foam produced by the rainwater — which is why it is called aphros, foam. And it is sometimes carried on the surface of the sea when the weather is fine, gathering together in it, just as worms gather in dung — so too the aphros gathers wherever it collects on the surface —
42| which is why in many places this aphye is brought in from the open sea. And the yield is greatest, and the largest catches are taken, whenever the year turns out wet and mild. The other kind of aphye is the offspring of fish: the kind called kobitis is the offspring of the small, worthless gobies that burrow into the ground; from the Phaleric aphye come the membrades, from these the trichides, from the trichides the trichiai, and from one kind of aphye — such as the one found in the harbor of the Athenians — come the so-called anchovies. There is also another aphye, which is the offspring of maenides and mullets. The infertile aphros is moist and lasts only a short time, as has been said before, since in the end only a head and eyes are left of it. But now the fishermen have found a way to preserve it for transport: once salted, it lasts a longer time.
43| Eels arise neither from mating nor by laying eggs; no eel has ever been caught with either milt or eggs, and when dissected they have inside them neither seminal ducts nor uterine passages; rather this entire kind, blooded though it is, arises neither from mating nor from eggs. That this is so is clear: in certain marshy lakes, when all the water has been drained off and the mud scraped away, eels form again once rainwater comes; but in droughts they do not form, nor in lakes that remain full continuously — for indeed they live and are nourished on rainwater. That they arise neither from mating nor from eggs is thus clear. But some think they do generate offspring, because little worms sometimes occur inside eels; for they suppose eels arise from these. This is not true; rather eels arise from the so-called earth's-guts, which form spontaneously in mud and in moist earth. Some eels have already been observed emerging from these, and others become visible when the earth's-guts are being torn apart and cut open. Such generation also occurs in the sea and in rivers, wherever putrefaction is greatest — in the sea, near such spots as have seaweed, and in rivers and lakes, around the edges; for there the strong heat produces putrefaction. Concerning the generation of eels, then, this is how matters stand.
44| Fish do not all give birth at the same season, nor in the same way, nor do they all carry their young for an equal time. Before mating, males and females form separate shoals; but when the time of mating and giving birth comes, they pair off. Some of these carry their young for not more than thirty days, others for a shorter time, but all in periods divided into a number of weeks. The longest carrying time belongs to those some call "marine" fish. The sargue conceives about the month Poseideon, and carries for thirty days; and the fish some call the "tortoise" among the mullets, and the myxon, mate at the same season and carry for the same length of time as the sargue. All of them suffer during pregnancy, and this is especially why they get cast up at this season; for they are driven toward the land in a frenzy. And in general they continue in constant motion throughout this time, until they have given birth; and the grey mullet does this most of all the fish; but when they have given birth, they grow quiet. For many fish there is a limit to their spawning, namely when little worms form in the belly; for small living creatures form there, which drive out the remaining spawn. Births occur for the river fish in spring, and for most fish around the spring equinox;
45| but for the others the season of the year is not the same, but for some it is summer, for others around the autumn equinox. Among such fish the atherine spawns first (and it spawns close to the shore), and the mullet last; this is clear from the fact that its offspring appears first, and the mullet's offspring last. The grey mullet also spawns among the first, and the saupe spawns mostly at the beginning of summer, though in some places in autumn. The aulopias too, which some call the anthias, spawns in summer. After these come the gilthead, the bass, the mormyrus, and in general the fish called the "runners." Last among the shoaling fish are the red mullet and the corcinus; these spawn around autumn. The red mullet spawns on the mud, which is why it spawns late; for the mud stays cold a long time. The corcinus spawns later than the red mullet, coming out onto the seaweed, because it lives in rocky places; and it carries its young for a long time. The picarels spawn after the winter solstice. Of the other fish, those that live in the open sea mostly spawn in summer; a sign of this is that they are not caught during this season. The most prolific of fish is the picarel, and among the cartilaginous fish the frogfish;
46| but these are rare because they are easily destroyed; for they spawn all at once and near the shore. In general the cartilaginous fish are less prolific because they bear their young alive, but these are preserved best because of their size. The fish called the garfish is also a late breeder, and most of them burst apart before giving birth because of their eggs; it does not have so many eggs as it has large ones. And just as with spiders, the young cluster closely around the garfish too; for it gives birth close by itself, and if anyone touches them, they flee. The atherine gives birth by rubbing its belly against the sand. Tunny also burst apart from their fat, and they live two years. Fishermen take this as a sign of it: for when the young tunny failed to appear one year, the following year the tunny too failed to appear. They seem to be a year older than the pelamyds. Tunny and mackerel mate around the end of the month Elaphebolion, and spawn around the beginning of Hecatombaion; they spawn their eggs as if in a pouch. The growth of the young tunny is rapid; for when the fish spawn in the Pontus, from the egg come what some call scordylai, and the Byzantines call auxides, because they grow in a few days, and they swim out in autumn together with the tunny, and swim back in already grown into pelamyds by spring.
47| And nearly all the other fish too grow quickly, and all of them faster in the Pontus; for even the amia grow visibly larger from one day to the next. In general one must recognize that for the same fish, the season is not the same in every place, either for mating and pregnancy or for giving birth and thriving, since indeed the fish called corcini in some places spawn around the time of the grain harvest; but what has been said is aimed at what happens for the most part. Conger eels too have spawn; but this is not equally evident in every place, nor is the spawn itself very visible, because of the fat; for it holds it long and thin, as snakes do too. But putting it on the fire makes it plain; for the fat smokes and melts away, while the eggs leap and crackle as they are squeezed out. Further, if one feels it and rubs it between the fingers, the fat proves smooth, while the egg is rough. So some conger eels have fat but no eggs at all, while others, on the contrary, have no fat but eggs such as has just been described.
48| Concerning the other animals, then, both the swimming and the flying kinds, and concerning the land animals that are egg-laying, we have spoken of nearly everything - concerning both mating and pregnancy and the other matters of the same kind; but concerning the land animals that bear their young alive, and concerning man, we must state what happens to them in the same way. Concerning mating, then, we have spoken both particularly and in common about all of them. Common to all animals is that they are most agitated in respect to desire and pleasure by the act of mating. The females are fiercest right after giving birth, but the males are fiercest around the time of mating. For horses bite other horses and knock them down and chase off their riders, and wild boars are fiercest of all, though weakest at this time, on account of mating, and they fight astonishing battles against one another, arming themselves and making their hide as thick as possible by preparation, rubbing against trees and repeatedly smearing themselves with mud and drying themselves; and they fight one another, driving each other out of the herds, so violently that often both die. In the same way too do bulls and rams and he-goats;
49| for though before this they were used to feeding together, at the season of mating each one fights, splitting off from the rest. The male camel too is fierce about mating, whether it is a man or another camel that approaches; for toward the horse it is always altogether hostile. The same holds among the wild animals too; for bears and wolves and lions become fierce toward those who approach them at this season, though they fight less with one another because none of these animals is a herding kind. Female bears too are fierce on account of their cubs, just as bitches are on account of their puppies. Elephants too grow savage about mating, which is why those in India who keep them, it is said, do not allow them to mate with the females; for becoming frenzied at these times, they overturn their dwellings, since these are poorly built, and do many other things besides. They also say that abundance of food makes them gentler; and by bringing other elephants up to them they discipline and subdue them, ordering the ones brought up to strike them. Animals that mate often, and not at one single season, such as those that live among men, pigs and dogs, appear to do this less because of the abundance of opportunity for intercourse.
50| Among females, the horse is the most driven to mate, and after her the cow. Mares suffer horse-madness; that is why people take the term as an insult, applying it, from this one animal alone, to women who are unrestrained about sex. Mares are also said to conceive by the wind at this season, which is why in Crete they do not remove the studs from among the females. When this happens to them, they run off from the other horses. The condition is the same one that in pigs is called "boaring." They run neither east nor west, but north or south. When the condition seizes them, they let no one come near, until either they give up from exhaustion or reach the sea; then they discharge something. This too is called, as with the newborn foal, hippomanes; it is like the boar's version, and it is the thing that women who deal in drugs seek out above everything else. Around the time of mating they crouch down toward one another more than before, swish their tails frequently, and give out a cry different from their usual one; and from their genitals there flows something like seed, but much thinner than the male's;
51| and some call this too hippomanes, not the growth that forms on foals; they say it is hard to collect, since it flows out little by little. They also urinate often when they are in heat, and play with one another. That, then, is how it is with horses; cows, for their part, come into "bull-madness": they become so overpowered by the condition that the herdsmen cannot control or catch them. Both mares and cows show plainly when they are eager for mating, by the swelling of their genitals, and cows, like mares, urinate frequently. Further, cows mount the bulls, and keep close by them constantly, standing beside them. In both horses and cattle it is the younger animals that come into heat earlier for mating; and when the weather is fine and their bodies are in good condition, they are more eager still. Mares, when they are shorn, become less driven by the urge and grow more subdued. Stallions recognize by scent the mares that belong with their own herd, even if they have only been together a few days before mating; and if the herds get mixed together, the stallions bite and drive the strange mares off, and each herd grazes apart, each stallion keeping his own.
52| Each stallion is given about thirty mares, or a few more. Whenever another stallion approaches, he gathers his mares together, runs around them in a circle, then advances and fights. If any mare tries to move off, he bites her and stops her. The bull, when the season of mating comes, then joins the herd and fights the other bulls, whereas in the time before that the bulls keep together with one another, which is called "deserting the herd"; often, at any rate, the bulls in Epirus are not seen together with the herd for as much as three months. In general, wild animals, or most of them, do not run with the females before the season for mating, but separate out once they reach the right age, and the males graze apart from the females. Sows too, when they are strongly driven toward mating - a condition called "boaring" - will push up even against people. In dogs this same condition is called "being in heat." Swelling of the genitals occurs in females when they are eager for mating, along with moistness in that region; mares, moreover, discharge a white fluid around this time. Menstrual-type discharges do occur, though none like those in women occur in any other animal. In sheep and goats, once the season for mating arrives, there is a sign beforehand that shows it;
53| and once they have been covered, the signs occur, then stop, until they are about to give birth. Then the sign shows again, and this is how the shepherds know which ewes are pregnant. After giving birth, there is a great discharge, at first not very bloody, but afterward quite bloody. In the cow, the ass, and the horse this discharge is greater than in sheep and goats because of their size, but proportionally much less. The cow, when the female is eager for mating, undergoes a slight discharge, about half a cotyle or a little more; and the time for mating comes chiefly around this discharge. The horse, of all four-footed animals, gives birth most easily and has the cleanest afterbirth-discharge, and lets out the least flow of blood in proportion to the size of its body. It is chiefly in cows and mares that the menstrual sign appears at intervals of two, four, and six months; but it is not easy to recognize unless one follows the animals closely and is very familiar with them, and that is why some people think it does not occur in them at all. In female mules no such menstrual discharge occurs at all, but the female's urine is thicker. In general, the residue from the bladder is thicker in four-footed animals than in humans, and in female sheep and goats it is thicker still than in the males;
54| but in the female ass it is thinner, while in the cow the female's is sharper. After giving birth, in all four-footed animals the urine becomes thicker, and more so in those that discharge less afterbirth. Milk, when the animals first begin to be covered, is pus-like; it becomes useful once they have subsequently given birth. Sheep and goats, when pregnant, become fatter and eat more; and cattle likewise, and so do all the other four-footed animals. Speaking generally, they are most driven to mate in spring; not all animals, however, keep to the same season for mating, but time it to suit the rearing of their young at the proper seasons. Domestic sows are pregnant for four months, and and they bear at most twenty piglets; but if they bear many, they cannot rear them all. As they grow older they give birth just as before, but are covered more slowly; they conceive from a single mating, but are often mounted repeatedly, because of a discharge after mating that some call "boar-caul." This happens to all of them, and some at the same time also emit seed. Whatever offspring is damaged during pregnancy and stunted in size is called a "runt";
55| this occurs wherever it happens to lie in the womb. When she gives birth, she offers her first teat to the firstborn. A sow in heat should not be mated at once, before she lays her ears down; otherwise she comes into heat again. But if she is mated while eager, one mating, as has been said, is enough. It is useful to give the boar barley when he is mating, and boiled barley to the sow after she has given birth. Some sows produce fine litters straight off only, while others, as their offspring grow, also bear good young sows. Some say that if a sow has one eye gouged out, it dies quickly in most cases. Most sows live about fifteen years, and some fall only a little short of twenty.
56| Sheep conceive after three or four matings, and if rain comes on after mating, this brings on further conception; goats are the same. Most bear two young, sometimes even three or four. Both sheep and goats carry for five months; that is why in some places, wherever the weather is mild and conditions are favorable and there is abundant food, they give birth twice. The goat lives about eight years, the sheep ten, though most live less, except the leaders of the flock, who live even fifteen. In every flock they train up a leader among the males, who goes ahead of the flock whenever he is called by name by the shepherd; they accustom him to do this from a young age. Sheep around Ethiopia live twelve and even thirteen years, and goats ten and eleven. Both sheep and goats mate and are mated as long as they live. Sheep and goats bear twins both because of good feeding and if the ram or the he-goat is himself a twin, or the mother is. Whether the offspring are female or male depends both on the water they drink (for some waters produce females, others males) and likewise on the matings: when covered in north winds they more often bear males, in south winds females.
57| Animals that bear females can also change and bear males; and one should watch them being mounted facing north. Those accustomed to being mounted early in the day, if someone mounts them late instead, will not tolerate the rams. The offspring turn out white or black according to whether there are white or black veins under the ram's tongue: white if the veins are white, black if black; if both colors are present, both colors appear in the offspring; and reddish-brown if the veins are reddish-brown. Those that drink salt water first are readier to be mounted; one should provide salted water before they give birth, again after they give birth, and again in spring. Shepherds do not appoint a leader among goats, because their nature is not steady but sharp and quick to move about. Among sheep, if the older ewes are the ones eager for mating at the appointed season, shepherds say this is a sign of a good year for the flock; but if it is the younger ones, it is a sign that the flock will fare badly.
58| Dogs come in several breeds. The Laconian bitch both mounts and is mounted at eight months old; and by about this time some of them have already begun to lift a leg to urinate. A bitch conceives from a single mating; this is most clearly seen in cases where the mating is stolen, for they fill her with one mounting. The Laconian bitch carries for a sixth of the year (that is, sixty days), give or take one, two, or three days more or one day less. Her puppies are born blind and remain so for twelve days. Once she has given birth she is mounted again in the sixth month, and not before. Some bitches carry for a fifth of the year (that is, seventy-two days), and their puppies are blind for fourteen days. Others carry for a fourth of the year (that is, three whole months), and their puppies are blind for seventeen days. A bitch is thought to be in heat for the same length of time as she carries. The menstrual discharge occurs in bitches over seven days, and at the same time there is a swelling of the genitals. During this time they do not accept mating, but do so in the seven days that follow;
59| for the whole period of heat is thought, in most cases, to be fourteen days, though in some this condition has lasted as long as sixteen days. The discharge that occurs at whelping happens together with the birth of the puppies, and it is thick and mucus-like; and the bulk of the animal, once she has finished whelping, shrinks less than one would expect relative to her body. Bitches generally begin to have milk five days before giving birth, though in some it appears as early as seven or four days before. The milk is fit for use as soon as they give birth. The Laconian bitch begins producing it thirty days after mating. At first the milk is thick, but with time it becomes thinner. In thickness, dog's milk is second only to that of the pig and the hare among the other animals. A sign also appears when they reach the age for mating: as in humans, a certain swelling comes over the nipples of the teats, and they develop a hard lump there; but this is a hard thing for someone unaccustomed to notice, since the sign has no great size. This, then, happens to the female; none of it happens to the male.
60| Males lift a leg to urinate mostly once they are six months old; but some do this later, only at eight months, and some earlier than six months — for, to put it simply, they do this once they begin to grow strong. All females urinate crouching down; though some of these too have already been seen to urinate with a leg lifted. A bitch bears at most twelve puppies, but for the most part five or six; there is even a case of one bearing just a single puppy. Laconian bitches bear eight for the most part. Females are mounted and males mount for as long as they live. A peculiar condition occurs in Laconian dogs: they are more able to mate after exertion than when idle. The male Laconian dog lives about ten years, the female about twelve; of the other breeds most live about fourteen or fifteen years, and some as many as twenty — which is why some think Homer was right to make Odysseus's dog die in its twentieth year. Among the Laconians, then, because the males exert themselves more, the females are longer-lived than the males;
61| but among the other breeds this is not very noticeable, and if anything the males are longer-lived than the females. A dog does not shed its teeth except for the ones called the canines; these it sheds at four months, females and males alike. Because these are the only teeth shed, some dispute the matter: some say dogs do not shed teeth at all, because only two teeth are shed and it is hard to catch this happening; others, once they have seen these two shed, suppose that the rest are shed as well. People judge a dog's age from its teeth: the young have white, sharp teeth, the older ones have teeth that are black and blunt.
62| The bull fills the cow from a single mating, and he mounts so forcefully that the cow's body bends beneath him; but if he misses his aim, the female waits twenty days before accepting the mating again. The older bulls do not mount the same cow more than once on the same day, unless some time has passed; but the younger ones, because of their vigor, force themselves on the same cow repeatedly and mount many cows. The bull is the least lustful of the males. The bull that wins the contest is the one that mates; but when he becomes exhausted from his lustfulness, the loser mounts, and often prevails. Males mount and females are mounted for the first time as yearlings, so that they can even breed then; but for the most part it happens at a year and eight months, and the most generally agreed-on age is two years. The cow carries for nine months and gives birth in the tenth; though some maintain, counting day by day, that she carries for ten months. Whatever is brought forth before the stated time is a miscarriage and does not survive, for its hooves are soft and undeveloped. She bears one calf at most, rarely two; and she bears and mates for as long as she lives.
63| Cows generally live about fifteen years; and so do the males, if they are castrated. Some live even twenty years or more, if their bodies are naturally sturdy; for indeed people accustom castrated cattle to work and set them up as leaders of the herd, just as with sheep, and these live longer than the others, both because they do not labor and because they graze on undisturbed pasture. A bull is at his peak mainly at five years old, which is why some say Homer was right to have made the phrase 'a male five years old' and 'of a nine-year-old ox,' since these come to the same thing. A bull sheds its teeth at two years old, and not all at once but the way a horse does; and as for its hooves, when it suffers foot-trouble it does not shed them, but its feet merely swell up badly. Its milk becomes usable once it has given birth; before that it has no milk. The milk first produced, when it curdles, becomes as hard as stone, unless one mixes it with water. Cows younger than a year old are not mounted, except in some freakish case; though there have already been cases of four-month-old cattle being mounted and mounting. Most cows begin mating around the month of Thargelion and Skirophorion;
64| Still, some cows conceive even as late as autumn. When many cows are in calf and readily accept mounting, this is thought to be a strong sign of a coming winter and of heavy rain. Habits of individual preference develop among cattle just as among horses, though less so. A male horse begins to mount at two years old, and a female begins to be mounted at two years old; but this happens in only a few cases, and their offspring are smaller and weaker. For the most part they begin to mount, and mares to be mounted, at three years old, and the offspring go on improving up to the age of twenty. A mare carries for eleven months and gives birth in the twelfth. A stallion does not always complete the covering in a fixed number of days: sometimes in one, two, or three, sometimes in more. A donkey mounting a mare completes the act faster than a stallion does. Mating is not laborious for horses the way it is for cattle. After man, the horse is the most lustful of all animals, in both the female and the male. Mating among the young occurs out of season, when there is good grazing and abundance of food. For the most part a mare bears a single foal, though sometimes she bears two at most. There has even been a case of a mule bearing two, which people class among portents. A horse can mount at thirty months, but for it to sire offspring worth having, it must wait until it has shed its milk teeth. Indeed some, they say, have got mares in foal even while still shedding teeth, provided they do not happen to be naturally sterile.
65| A horse has forty teeth in all. It sheds the first four teeth at thirty months, two from above and two from below. When a year has passed it sheds four more in the same way, two above and two below; and again when another year has passed, four more others in the same way. When four years and six months have gone by, it no longer sheds any. There has been a case of a horse shedding all its teeth at once the very first time, and another that shed them all together at the last change; but such things happen rarely. So it comes about, as a rule, that once a horse is four years and six months old it is at its most useful for breeding. Older horses are more fertile than younger ones, and males more than males of a lesser age, and females more than younger females. Horses mount their own mothers and their own daughters; and a herd of horses is considered complete precisely when the sires mate with their own offspring. The Scythians ride pregnant mares hard once the embryo has turned, and claim this makes them give birth more easily. The other four-footed animals give birth lying down, which is why in all of them the young come out sideways; but the mare, once she is close to delivering, stands upright and brings forth her foal in that position.
66| Most horses live around eighteen to twenty years, some twenty-five to thirty; and if a horse is carefully looked after, its life can be extended even to fifty. The longest life-span for most horses, as a rule, is thirty years; a mare's is, as a rule, twenty-five years, though some have already lived as long as forty. Males live a shorter time than females because of the strain of mating, and horses kept privately live a shorter time than those kept in herds. A mare reaches her full length and height at five years, a stallion at six; and after this, over another six years, it fills out in bulk of body, and continues to grow until twenty. Females reach their full development earlier than males, but in the womb it is the males that develop before the females, just as with human beings; and the same thing happens with the other animals that bear several young at a time. They say a mule is suckled for six months and thereafter is no longer let nurse, because it strains and hurts the mother; a horse is suckled for a longer time. Both the horse and the mule reach their prime after they have shed their teeth,
67| but once they have shed them all, it is not easy to tell their age. That is why people say a horse still 'has judgment' as long as it has not yet shed its teeth, and no longer has it once it has shed them. All the same, age is best recognized after the shedding by the canine tooth: in horses that are ridden, this tooth becomes small through the wearing action of the bit (since the bit is fitted against it); in those not ridden it is large but hangs loose; in young horses it is sharp and small. The male mounts at any season and as long as he lives; the female too is mounted as long as she lives, but not yet at any season, unless some restraint or other compulsion is applied to her; no particular season is excluded, by any fixed rule, from either mounting or being mounted. Still, when mating occurs at just any chance time, the parents are not able to raise properly whatever offspring result. In Opus, in a horse-herd, there was a horse that was still mounting mares at forty years old; but it needed help lifting its forelegs to do so. Mares begin to be mounted in spring. When a mare has given birth, she does not conceive again right away but lets time pass, and bears a better foal in the fourth or fifth year after the birth. She must let a full year go by without breeding at all, treating it, so to speak, like fallow ground.
68| A mare, then, bears at intervals, as has been said, whereas a donkey bears continuously. Some mares are entirely barren, while others conceive but are unable to carry to term; the sign given for such cases is that when the embryo is cut open it is found to have extra kidney-like growths around its kidneys, so that it appears to have four kidneys. When a mare has given birth, she at once eats the afterbirth, and also eats away the growth on the foal's forehead, which is called the hippomanes; it is somewhat smaller than a dried fig in size, flat, round, and black in shape. If someone gets hold of this before the mare does and she smells it, she goes wild and is driven frantic by the scent; this is why sorceresses hunt for it and gather it up. If a mare that has already been covered by a stallion is then mounted by a donkey, the donkey destroys the embryo already present. Horse-breeders do not appoint a leader for their horses, as they do for cattle, because the nature of horses is not settled but quick and easily stirred to movement.
69| A donkey mounts and is mounted at thirty months, and sheds its first teeth then; it sheds the second set in the sixth month after, and the third and fourth sets likewise; the fourth set they call the 'markers.' There has even been a case of a one-year-old female donkey conceiving, and the foal was successfully raised. When mounted, a female donkey urinates out the seed unless she is prevented; that is why after mating people at once strike her and drive her forward. She gives birth in the twelfth month. For the most part she bears one foal, since she is by nature a single-bearer, but sometimes she bears two. A male donkey mounting a mare destroys the stallion's seed already present, as has been said; but a stallion mounting a female donkey does not destroy the donkey's seed, when the female donkey has already been covered by the donkey. A female donkey has milk once she is ten months pregnant. After giving birth she is put to the male again on the seventh day, and it is on being covered on that particular day that she most readily takes the seed, though she can also conceive later. But if she has not given birth before she loses her 'marker' teeth, she no longer takes the seed nor conceives for the rest of her life at all. She refuses to give birth either while being watched by a person or in the light, but is led away into darkness whenever she is about to give birth. And she goes on bearing young throughout her life, provided she has given birth before losing her 'marker' teeth.
70| The donkey lives more than thirty years, and the female more years than the male. When a horse mounts a donkey, or a donkey mounts a horse, the female miscarries far more often than when animals of the same kind mate with each other, as when horse mates with horse or donkey with donkey. And the length of gestation, when horse and donkey are crossed, comes out according to the male — I mean, the same length of time it takes when the offspring is produced from animals of that same kind. But the size of the body, the form, and the strength of the offspring resemble the female more. If they are mated continuously and no interval of time is allowed between such matings, the female quickly becomes barren; this is why those who work at this business do not mate them continuously in this way, but let some time pass in between. Neither does the mare accept the donkey, nor the she-donkey the horse, unless the donkey happens to have been suckled by a mare; for breeders deliberately foster such donkeys on purpose, calling them "horse-suckled." These then mount and mate in the pasture, overpowering the mares by force, just as horses do.
71| The male mule mounts and mates after his first attempt, and by seven years old he also impregnates successfully — indeed a "ginnos" has already resulted when he mounted a mare — but afterward he no longer mounts. And the female mule, too, has already conceived, though not so as to carry the young to full term. But the female mules in the part of Syria above Phoenicia both mate and give birth; yet this is a different kind, though a similar one. Those called "ginnoi" arise from a mare when she falls ill during pregnancy, just as among humans there are dwarfs, and among pigs the runts; and the ginnos, like a dwarf, has large genitals. The mule lives many years; indeed one is known to have lived as much as eighty years, as happened at Athens at the time they were building the temple. This mule, though already released from work on account of old age, still joined in hauling and walked alongside the teams, spurring them on to their labor, so that the grain-dealers voted not to drive it away from their stalls. The female mule ages more slowly than the male. Some say the reason is that the female purges herself by urinating, while the male, from smelling the urine, ages faster. The generation of these animals, then, takes place in this manner.
72| Those who tend quadrupeds distinguish the young ones from the old as follows: if the skin, pulled up from the jaw, quickly falls back into place, the quadruped is young; but if it stays wrinkled for a long time, it is old. The camel is pregnant for ten months, and always bears only one; for it is a single-bearing animal. Breeders wean the offspring from the camels at a year old. It lives a long time, more than fifty years. It gives birth in spring, and has milk until it conceives again. Its meat and its milk are the sweetest of all; people drink the milk mixed with water, two parts milk to one of water, or three to one. The elephant first mates and is mated at twenty years old. When the female is mated, she carries in her womb, as some say, a year and six months, but according to others, three years; the reason the time is not agreed upon is that the mating is not easy to observe. The female gives birth crouching down on her hindquarters, and is visibly in pain. When the calf is born, it suckles with its mouth and not with its trunk, and it walks and sees as soon as it is born.
73| Wild sows mate at the beginning of winter, and give birth in spring, withdrawing to the most impassable places, especially those that are precipitous, ravine-cut, and shaded. The male stays among the sows for the most part thirty days. The number of young born and the length of gestation are the same as for domestic pigs. Their cries are similar to those of domestic pigs, except that the female cries more, and the male rarely. Among wild males, the castrated ones grow larger and fiercer, as Homer too composed: "reared a fierce, solitary wild boar; and he was not like a grain-eating beast, but like a wooded crag." They become castrated because, while still young, a disease — an itching — attacks their testicles; then, rubbing themselves against trees, they squeeze their testicles out.
74| The deer mates, as was said before, mostly by pursuit (for the female often will not submit to the male, because of his violence), yet sometimes they do submit and are mated, just as sheep are; and when they are in heat, they turn aside from one another. The male changes partners and does not stay with one, but after a brief interval approaches others. The mating occurs after the rising of Arcturus, around the months of Boedromion and Maimakterion. She is pregnant for eight months; conception occurs within a few days, and many females by a single male. For the most part she bears one, but a few have already been observed bearing two. And she gives birth beside roads, out of fear of wild beasts. The growth of the fawns is rapid. Discharge does not occur in deer at other times, but when they give birth a phlegm-like discharge occurs in them. It is their custom to lead the fawns to their lairs; this place serves them as a refuge, a rock broken off on every side with a single entrance, where the mother is even accustomed to fight off attackers. Concerning its lifespan, legend has it that it is long-lived, but nothing in what is told proves clear, and both the gestation and the growth of the fawns occur in a way inconsistent with the animal being long-lived.
75| On the mountain called Elaphoeis, which is in Asia on Arginusa, where Alcibiades died, all the deer have split ears, so that even if they wander elsewhere they can be recognized by this; and the embryos, while still in the womb, already bear this mark. The females have four teats, like cows. When the females have been satisfied, the males separate off by themselves, and because of their sexual urge each one, alone, digs pits and stinks like billy-goats; and their faces turn black from being spattered, just like those of goats. They live like this until rain comes; after that they turn to grazing. The animal does this because it is lustful by nature and because of its fatness; for their fatness becomes excessive by summer, and so they cannot run, but are caught by pursuers on foot on the second or third chase, and because of the heat and their panting they flee into water. During the season when they mate, their flesh becomes poor and foul-smelling, just as that of goats does. In winter they become thin and weak, but toward spring they are at their peak for running.
76| While fleeing, they make pauses in their running, and stop and wait until the pursuer comes close; then they flee again. They seem to do this because their insides are in pain; for their intestine is so thin and weak that if one strikes it even gently, it is cut through while the skin remains sound. Bears mate, as was said before, not by mounting but lying down on the ground. The bear is pregnant for thirty days. She bears one or two, and at most five. She bears the smallest offspring in proportion to her own body of any animal; for what she bears is smaller than a weasel's young and larger than a mouse's, and it is bare and blind, and its legs and most of its parts are practically without joints. She mates in the month of Elaphebolion, and gives birth around the time of denning. So around this time both the female and the male are at their fattest; and when she has finished rearing the cub, in the third month, they come out already in spring. The porcupine, too, dens up and is pregnant for the same number of days, and in other respects is like the bear. It is a difficult task to catch a pregnant bear.
77| That the lion mounts from behind and is a back-mounter has been said before. It mounts and gives birth not in every season, but once each year. It gives birth in spring, and for the most part bears two, though the most it bears is six; sometimes it bears only one. The story told about its casting out its womb in giving birth is nonsense, put together because lions are rare, the one who made up the story being at a loss for the real cause. For the lion's kind is rare and is not found in many places, but of all Europe only in the region between the Achelous and the Nessus rivers. And the lion gives birth to young so very small that at two months old they can barely walk. The lions in Syria give birth five times, the first time to five cubs, then always one fewer each time; after that they no longer give birth at all, but remain barren for the rest of their lives. The lioness has no mane, only the male lion does. The lion sheds only the teeth called canines, four in number, two above and two below; it sheds them at six months of age.
78| The hyena is wolf-colored, but shaggier, and has a mane running down its whole spine. As for what is said about its genitals, that it has both those of a male and those of a female, this is false. Rather, it has the male organ resembling that of wolves and dogs, while what is thought to be the female organ is below the tail and similar in shape to that of the female, but it has no passage at all; below it is the passage for the residue. The female hyena also has something resembling what is called the female genital organ, and has it, like the male, below the tail, but it has no passage there; after this comes the passage for the residue, and below that the true genital organ. The female hyena also has a womb, as do all other female animals of that kind. It is rare to catch a female hyena; at any rate one hunter said that out of eleven he caught, only one was female. Hares mount by coming together from behind, as has been said before (for it is a back-mounter), and they mount and give birth in every season, and conceive again while already pregnant, and give birth every month. They do not give birth all at once, but pause for however many days happen to intervene. The female has milk before giving birth, and mounts again immediately after giving birth, and conceives again while still nursing; the milk is similar in thickness to that of pigs. It gives birth to blind young, as do most of the many-toed animals.
79| The fox mounts by climbing on top, and gives birth as the bear does, and its young are even more unformed. When it is about to give birth it moves away to such remote places that it is rare to catch one pregnant. When it has given birth, it warms and finishes off the young by licking them with its tongue. It gives birth to at most four.
80| The wolf conceives and gives birth like the dog, both in the time required and in the number of young produced, and gives birth to blind young as the dog does; it mounts and is mounted at one particular season, and gives birth at the start of summer. There is a story told about its giving birth that is tied to a myth; for they say that all wolves give birth within twelve days of the year. They give the cause of this in the myth, saying that in that many days they escorted Leto from the Hyperboreans to Delos, she appearing as a she-wolf out of fear of Hera. Whether this really is the length of the gestation period or not has not yet been established with certainty up to now, but is only what is said. Nor does what is said appear to be true, that wolves give birth only once in their lifetime. Cats and ichneumons give birth to as many young as dogs do, and are raised on the same food; they live about six years. The panther too gives birth to blind young like the wolf, bearing at most four in number. Jackals likewise conceive like dogs, and give birth to blind young; they give birth to two, three, or four in number. In shape the jackal is long in the tail but shorter in height. It is likewise remarkable for speed, even though its legs are short, because it is supple, and it leaps a great distance.
81| In Syria there are the animals called mules, a different kind from those produced by the mating of horse and donkey, resembling them in appearance, just as wild donkeys resemble tame ones, being named from a certain resemblance. These, like the wild donkeys, differing in speed. These mules breed offspring from one another. Here is the evidence: some came to Phrygia in the time of Pharnaces the father of Pharnabazus, and they still survive there today. There are now three of them, though in ancient times there were nine, as they say.
82| The reproduction of mice is the most amazing of all animals in both quantity and speed. For once when a pregnant female was shut up in a jar of millet, when the jar was opened a little later, a hundred and twenty mice in number appeared. It is also a puzzle both how mice come to overrun certain regions and how they then die off; for in many places an untold multitude of field mice is apt to arise, so that almost the whole crop of grain is left destroyed. Their destruction happens so fast that some of those who do not farm on a large scale, having seen the day before that it was harvest time, on the next day at dawn lead out their reapers and find everything already eaten up. Their disappearance does not happen in proportion to their increase; for within a few days they vanish completely, even though in earlier times people could not get the better of them by fumigating and digging them out, nor even by hunting them and setting pigs on them, for pigs dig up their burrows. Foxes also hunt them, and wild weasels destroy them most of all when they come upon them; but even these cannot get the better of their great fertility and rapid breeding, nor can anything else except heavy rains, when these occur; then the mice disappear quickly. In a certain place in Persia, when the female is cut open, the female embryos inside are found to be already pregnant. Some also claim and insist that if mice lick salt they become pregnant without mating. The mice in Egypt have hard hair like land hedgehogs. There are also others that walk on their two hind feet, for they have small forelegs and large hind legs; these occur in great numbers. There are also many other kinds of mice.
1| Book 7. Concerning the generation of man, both the first generation in the female and its subsequent course up to old age, whatever happens to it through its own nature, the matter stands as follows. The difference between male and female, and their parts, has been discussed before; the male first begins to produce seed for the most part when it has completed twice seven years; and at the same time the growth of pubic hair begins, just as Alcmaeon of Croton says that plants first flower when they are about to produce seed. Around this same time the voice also begins to change to a rougher and more uneven quality, being no longer high nor yet low, nor uniform throughout, but appearing similar to strings that have been strained and roughened; this they call "goating." This happens more to those who attempt sexual activity; for in those who are eager about such things the voice changes into the voice of men, while in those who abstain it does the opposite; and if they even force this along further by careful practice, as some do who are devoted to choral dancing, the change persists for a long time and takes on only a very slight alteration in the end. And there occurs a swelling of the breasts and of the genitals, not only in size but also in form.
2| It happens that around this time, for those who practice handling themselves in order to bring on the emission of semen, not only pleasure arises as the semen comes out, but also pain. Around this same time, in females, both the swelling of the breasts occurs and what is called the menses bursts forth; this is blood like that freshly slaughtered. White discharges also occur in children while still quite young, more so if they use liquid food; and this hinders growth, and makes the children's bodies thin. The menses occur in most girls once the breasts have already risen about two fingers' breadth. And the voice changes in girls too around this time, toward the deeper. For in general a woman is higher-voiced than a man, and young women more than older ones, just as boys are more than men; but the voice of female children is higher-pitched than that of male children, and the girl's pipe is higher-pitched than the boy's. They need the most watching around this time; for they are most driven toward the use of sexual intercourse just as it is beginning in them, so that if they do not take careful precaution against stirring up anything further than that toward which their own bodies change even without any use of sexual intercourse, this tends to follow them into their later years.
3| For young women who have intercourse at all become more undisciplined, and so do males, whether they fail to guard against it in one direction or in both; for the passages open up, and make the flow of the body easy in that region; and at the same time the memory of the pleasure that then occurred creates a desire for the union that then took place. Some are born without pubic hair from birth and infertile, because of injury to the generative region; likewise women too are born without pubic hair from birth. Both males and females change their bodily condition as regards being healthier or more sickly, and as regards leanness and stoutness of body and good nourishment; for after puberty some grow stout from having been lean and become healthier, others the opposite; and this happens likewise in the case of girls too. For as many boys or girls as had bodies full of residue, when such residue is secreted off together with the rest — in boys in the semen, in girls in the menses — their bodies become healthier and better nourished, since what impeded health and nourishment goes out with it; but as many as have the opposite condition, their bodies become leaner and sicklier; for the secretion, in those who are in good condition, comes from nature itself, in the one case in the semen, in the other in the menses.
4| Further, in girls the condition of the breasts too comes about differently from one to another; some have quite large ones, others small. This happens for the most part in those who as children were full of residue; for while the womanly functions are still impending and not yet occurring, the more abundant the moisture is, the more it is forced to rise upward, until it bursts forth; so that the breasts, having then taken on bulk, remain so even afterward. And in males too the breasts become more conspicuous and more womanly, both in the younger and the older, in those who are moist and smooth-skinned and not veiny, and among these more in the dark-skinned than the light-skinned. So then, up to three times seven years, at first the semens are infertile; then, though now fertile, both young men and young women beget small and incomplete offspring, just as also happens with most of the other animals. Young women conceive more quickly; but if they do conceive, they suffer more in childbirth. And their bodies as a rule become less complete and age faster — both in the case of men given to sexual activity and of women who undergo many childbirths;
5| for growth seems no longer to occur after three childbirths. And those women who are undisciplined with regard to sexual intercourse become more settled and self-controlled once they have undergone many childbirths. After the three times seven years, women are now well-timed for bearing children, while men still have room for further growth. Thin semens are infertile, while those with a hail-like consistency are fertile and more apt to generate males; thin semens that do not clot generate females. And the growth of beard hair occurs in males around this same age.
6| The onset of the womanly discharge occurs around the waning of the months; hence some of those given to clever theorizing say that the moon too is female, because it happens that at the same time as one has her purification the other has her waning, and after the purification and the waning there follows a filling of both. In some women the menses come frequently, a small amount each time; in most, every third month. Those for whom it lasts a short time, two or three days, get through it more easily; those for whom it lasts many days, more painfully. For they suffer through these days; in some the purification occurs all at once, in others little by little, but in all the body grows heavy until it has passed. And in many, when the menses are stirring and about to break forth, choking sensations occur, and a noise in the womb, until it breaks forth. By nature, then, conception occurs in women after these have finished; and those in whom this does not occur remain childless for the most part. Nevertheless, even when this does not occur, some do conceive — namely those in whom there collects as much moisture as is left behind in women who have given birth, after the purification, but not so much as to go out the door as well. And even while it is still occurring, some conceive;
7| but afterward do not conceive, those whose wombs close up immediately after the purification. In some women the womanly discharge occurs continuously even while they are pregnant; it happens, however, that these bear inferior offspring, and either the offspring are not preserved so as to grow, or they turn out weak. In many women, too, because of needing intercourse, or because of youth and age, or because of abstaining for a long time, the womb comes down, and the womanly discharge occurs often three times a month, until they conceive; and then it withdraws again to its proper place above. Sometimes too, even if a woman happens to be pregnant, if she happens to be of a moist constitution, she expels the more liquid part of the semen. Of all animals, as has been said before too, the purification occurs in women more than in the other females. For in those that do not bear live young nothing of this sort shows itself, because this residue is turned instead to the body (for some females are larger than the males, and further, in some it is spent on scales, in others on shell-plates, in others on the mass of feathers), while in land-dwelling live-bearers it is spent on hair and on the body (for a human alone is smooth-skinned) and on urine (for such animals produce a thick and copious excretion of this kind);
8| but in women, in place of these, the residue is turned to the purification. And this holds likewise for males too; for a human emits the most semen relative to size of all the other animals (hence also a human is the smoothest-skinned of the animals), and among humans themselves, those who are more moist by nature and not overly fleshy do so more, and the lighter-skinned more than the dark. And it is the same way with women too; for in those of good flesh, most of the excretion goes toward the nourishment of the body. And in sexual intercourse the lighter-skinned women exude moisture more by nature than the dark ones do. Among foods, the moist and pungent kinds tend to bring on this kind of exuding intercourse more.
9| A sign that women have conceived is this: the place becomes dry immediately after intercourse. Now if the lips of the mouth of the womb are smooth, it does not want to conceive (for the seed slips off), nor if they are thick; but if, when touched with the finger, they are rougher and hold on to it, and if the lips are thin, then it is well-timed for conception. So for conceiving, the womb needs to be constructed in this way, and for not conceiving, the opposite; for if the lips are smooth, it does not conceive. This is why some women anoint the part of the womb on which the seed falls with oil of cedar, or with white lead, or with frankincense dissolved in oil. If it remains in place for seven days, it is clear that conception has occurred; for what are called discharges happen within these days. In most women the menstrual purgations continue for some time after conception has occurred—for about thirty days when the fetus is female, and about forty when it is male. And after childbirth the purgations tend to return for this same number of days, though not all women show this with equal precision. After conception and the days mentioned, the purgation no longer follows its natural course, but turns instead to the breasts and becomes milk.
10| The first sign of this is that the milk in the breasts is small in amount and web-like. When women have conceived, the sensation occurs most of all in the flanks; for in some women these become fuller right away, and this happens more noticeably in thin women. And in the groins, in the case of males the movement occurs mostly on the right side, around the fortieth day, and in the case of females on the left side, around the ninetieth day. Still, one must not suppose any precision in these matters; for in many women who bear females the movement occurs on the right, and in those who bear males on the left; but these and all such things vary, as a rule, only in the more and the less. It is around this time, too, that the fetus divides into parts; before this it is unarticulated and consists of flesh-like matter. What are called discharges are the destructions that occur up to the seventh day, and miscarriages are those up to the fortieth day; and most fetuses perish within these days. So when the male fetus comes out on the fortieth day, if one puts it into anything else it dissolves and disappears, but if into cold water it holds together as if in a membrane;
11| and when this membrane is pricked open, the embryo is visible, the size of one of the large ants, with its limbs plain to see, and everything else including the genitals, and the eyes—as in the other animals—largest of all. As for the female, whatever is destroyed within the three months appears for the most part unarticulated; but whatever survives past the fourth month becomes divided into parts and quickly takes on the rest of its articulation. Up to that point the female lags behind the male in the completion of all its parts, and females are more often carried the full ten months than males; but once born, females reach youth, prime, and old age sooner than males, and this is more true of those who bear more often, as has been said before.
12| When the womb has taken hold of the seed, it closes up immediately in most women, until seven months have passed; in the eighth it opens up, and the embryo, if it is viable, descends further down in the eighth month. Fetuses that are not viable but are stifled, women do not carry to term and deliver at eight months, nor do their embryos descend in the eighth month, nor do their wombs open at that time; rather, it is a sign that the fetus is not viable, if birth occurs without these things having taken place as described. After conception women feel heaviness throughout the whole body, and darkness comes before their eyes and pains occur in the head. In some women this happens quickly, around the tenth day, in others more slowly, depending on whether they happen to be more or less full of residue. Further, nausea and vomiting take hold of most women, and especially those of this kind, when the purgations have stopped and have not yet turned to the breasts. Some women suffer more at the beginning, others later, once the fetus is already growing more; and many women, and often, also suffer strangury toward the end. As a rule, then, women who are carrying males get through it more easily and generally keep a better complexion, while with females it is the opposite;
13| for such women are generally paler, and pass the time more heavily, and in many of them swellings and puffiness of the flesh occur around the legs; still, in some women the opposite of this happens. Pregnant women are prone to all sorts of cravings and to changing them rapidly, which some people call pica; and in the case of females the cravings are sharper, but when they are satisfied the women are less able to enjoy them. In a few women it happens that their body is actually in better condition while pregnant. They feel sickest of all when the children begin to grow hair. As for the mother's own hair during pregnancy, in some it grows thinner in its usual places and falls out, while in places where it does not usually grow, it grows thicker. And as a rule the male produces more movement in the body than the female, and is born sooner, while females are born more slowly. And the labor pain with females is continuous and more sluggish, while with males it is sharp, but much harsher. Women who have intercourse with men shortly before childbirth give birth more quickly. Women sometimes seem to be in labor when no labor is actually occurring, but because the embryo turns its head, this appears to be the beginning of labor.
14| The other animals bring their birth to completion in a single way; for one fixed time of birth is set for all of them; but man alone among animals has many. For births occur at seven months, eight months, and nine months, and most often at ten months; and some women even go into the eleventh month. Now whatever is born before seven months cannot survive in any way at all; but seven-month births are the first that are viable, though most are weak (which is why people wrap them in wool), and many even have some of their passages unopened, such as those of the ears and nostrils; but as they grow further these become articulated, and many such infants do live. Eight-month births, in Egypt and in some other places where women give birth easily and both carry and bear many children without difficulty, and where infants born can survive even if deformed—there the eight-month births live and are reared; but in the regions around Greece very few survive at all, and most perish; and because of this assumption, even if one is saved, people suppose that what was born was not really an eight-month child, but that the women were mistaken about themselves and had conceived earlier. Women suffer most in the fourth month and the eighth month, and if they miscarry in the fourth or eighth month, they themselves generally perish along with it, so that not only do the eight-month infants not survive, but the mothers too are in danger when the fetus is destroyed.
15| In the same way it seems that women are also mistaken about cases that appear to be born after more than eleven months; for in these cases too the beginning of conception escapes the women's notice. For often, when the womb has previously been in a windy condition, women who afterward have intercourse and conceive suppose that to be the beginning of the conception, because they used the same signs for it. Now as for the number of offspring at a completed birth, mankind differs from the other animals in this respect: whereas some animals bear one at a time and others bear many, the human race falls into both categories. For in most cases, and among most peoples, women bear one child; but often, and in many places, they bear twins, as for example in Egypt. They also bear three and four, in some places quite regularly, as has been said before. The largest number ever borne is five; for this has actually been observed, and in more than one case. One woman, in four births, bore twenty children; for she bore five each time, and most of them were reared. Now among the other animals, even if the twins are male and female, they are reared and survive no less than if they were both males or both females;
16| Among humans few twins survive, if one is female and the other male. Woman and mare, more than any other animals, accept mating while already pregnant. The others, once they are filled, avoid the males — those that are not naturally capable of superfetation, as the hare is. But the mare, if she conceives the first time, does not become superfetated again, but bears only one, in most cases; in the case of woman it is rare, but it has happened. Now those conceived much later come to no completion, but cause trouble and destroy along with themselves the one that already existed (for it has actually happened that, when a miscarriage occurred, as many as twelve superfetated embryos were expelled); but if the conception occurred close in time, women have carried the superfetated child to term, and they give birth as if to twins from one begetting, just as the story is told of Iphicles and Heracles. For this too has clearly happened: a woman committing adultery bore one of her children resembling her husband, and the other resembling her lover. Also, a woman already pregnant with twins once superfetated a third; and when the due time came, she bore the two that had gone their full term, and the third at five months — and this one died at once. And it happened to another woman that she first bore a seven-month child, and later bore two full-term children —
17| and of these one died, but the others lived. And some women who miscarried had conceived twins at the same time, and expelled the one and bore the other. In most women, if intercourse occurs with them while pregnant after the eighth month, the child comes out covered all over in a sticky, mucous substance. And it often appears covered too, from the foods that are taken in. And when women make more lavish use of salt, the children are born without nails. The milk that forms before the seventh month is useless; but the children become viable and the milk becomes useful at the same time. And the first milk is also salty, just as with sheep. Most women are especially sensitive to wine during pregnancy; for if they drink it, they become weak and lose their strength. For women, the beginning of being able to bear children, and for males the beginning of being able to beget, and likewise the end for both, is marked — for males by the emission of semen, for females by the menses — except that offspring are not fertile as soon as these begin, nor any longer once they become scanty and weak. The age of the beginning has been stated. In most women the menses cease around forty years; in those for whom it continues beyond this time, it persists up to fifty years, and some have even given birth at that age; but none does so for a longer time.
18| Most men beget children up to sixty years of age, and when this is exceeded, up to seventy; indeed some have already fathered children at seventy years old. It happens to many men and women that, when joined together with one another, they are unable to produce children, but when separated, they can. The same thing happens with respect to producing male or female offspring: for sometimes women and men, when together with one another, produce only female or only male offspring, but when separated the opposite occurs. And they also change according to age: when young, couples produce female offspring together, but when older, male; while for others the opposite happens in this respect too. And the same holds generally for the capacity to beget children at all: for some, none are produced while young, but are when older; while others produce children at first, but afterward produce none. There are also some women who conceive only with difficulty, but if they conceive, carry to term; while others, conversely, conceive easily but are unable to carry to term. There are also men who produce only female offspring and women who produce only male offspring, as is told in the story of Heracles, who among seventy-two children fathered only one daughter. Women unable to conceive, if they do conceive either through treatment or through some other coincidence, in most cases bear female rather than male offspring.
19| It also happens to many men that, although able to beget, they later become unable, and then are restored to the same condition again. Maimed offspring are also born from maimed parents, as lame from lame and blind from blind, and in general offspring often resemble their parents in features contrary to nature, and bear inherited marks, such as growths and scars. Something of this sort has already reappeared even across three generations: for example, a man had a birthmark on his arm; his son was not born with it, but his grandson was, having in the same place a blurred dark mark. Such cases, then, are rare; most offspring are born whole even from maimed parents, and none of these things is fixed by rule. And offspring resemble either their parents or their ancestors further back, and sometimes resemble no one at all. Resemblance also reappears across several generations: for example, in Sicily, a woman who had committed adultery with an Ethiopian — her daughter was not born an Ethiopian, but her daughter's child was. And for the most part female offspring resemble the mother more, and male offspring the father; but the opposite also occurs, females resembling the father, males the mother. And offspring also come to resemble each parent in different parts of the body. Twins have on occasion been born unlike each other, but most are, for the most part, alike; indeed a woman who had intercourse and conceived on the seventh day after giving birth later bore a child resembling the first one, as if they were twins.
20| There are also women who bear offspring resembling themselves, and others resembling the husband, just as the mare in Pharsalus called "the Just." In the emission of semen, breath leads the way first (and the manner of the emission itself shows that it occurs by means of breath, since nothing is projected to a distance without the force of breath); and when the seed takes hold of the womb and remains there for a time, a membrane forms around it. This is clear whenever it is expelled before being articulated into distinct parts: it appears like an egg enclosed in a membrane once the shell has been removed; and the membrane is full of veins. All creatures — swimming, flying, and walking — whether they bear live young or lay eggs, develop in the same way; except that live-bearing creatures have the navel-cord attached to the womb, while others have it attached to the egg, and others in both ways, as in a certain kind of fish. And in some the enclosing structures are like membranes, in others like chorions; and the animal first comes to be inside the innermost membrane, then another membrane surrounds this one, for the most part attached to the womb, but in part standing apart from it and containing fluid. Between them is a watery or blood-like fluid, called by women the "forewaters."
21| All animals that have a navel-cord grow by means of the navel-cord. The navel-cord, in those animals that have cotyledons, is attached to the cotyledon; in those whose womb is smooth, it is attached to the womb, upon a vein. As for posture in the womb, all four-footed animals lie stretched out, and footless ones lie sideways, as fish do; two-footed ones lie curled up, as the bird does, and the human being too lies curled up: the nose between the knees, the eyes upon the knees, and the ears outside. All animals alike have the head uppermost at first; but as they grow and move toward the exit they turn downward, and birth that accords with nature is, for all, head first; while a curled birth, feet first, is contrary to nature. Those of the four-footed animals, once already fully formed, also have residues — both liquid and pellets, the pellets in the lowest part of the intestine, and urine in the bladder. In those animals whose wombs have cotyledons, the cotyledons continually become smaller as the embryo grows, and in the end they disappear. The navel-cord is a sheath around veins, whose origin is from the womb — in those that have cotyledons, from the cotyledons; in those that do not, from a vein.
22| In the larger embryos, such as those of oxen, there are four blood vessels; in the smaller ones, two; and in the very small ones, such as birds, one vessel. Two of these run into the embryo through the liver, at the point called the gates, toward the great vein, and two run toward the aorta, where the aorta splits and becomes two out of one. Around each pair of vessels there are membranes, and around the membranes the navel-cord serves as a kind of sheath. As the embryo grows, these vessels increasingly come together. The embryo, as it grows stronger, moves into the cavities of the uterus, and there it can plainly be seen moving, and sometimes it rolls about near the genital region.
23| When women go into labor, the pains fix upon many different places, but in most women they fix upon one or the other thigh. Those in whom the pains become most intense around the belly give birth most quickly; those who first feel pain in the loins have a hard labor, while those who feel it in the lower abdomen give birth quickly. If the child is a boy, the discharge that comes first is watery and pale; if a girl, it is bloody, though this too is liquid. In some women, however, neither of these occurs around the time of labor. In the other animals births are not painful, but the animals show only moderate signs of distress from the labor-pains; in women the pains that occur are stronger, and especially so in women who lead sedentary lives and in those who are not deep-chested and cannot hold their breath. Labor goes worse, too, if they lose their breath partway through while straining. First, then, watery fluid comes out as the child is being born and the membranes rupture; then the embryo itself comes, as the uterus turns and the afterbirth turning its inner side outward.
24| The midwife's practice of cutting the umbilical cord is no part of thoughtless routine; for she must be able not only to give ready help in difficult births, but also to be quick-witted about what happens, including the tying-off of the navel-cord for infants. For if the afterbirth comes out along with the child, the cord is tied off from the afterbirth with wool, and cut above the tie; wherever it is tied, it grows together, and the part beyond the tie falls away. But if the knot comes undone, the child dies as the blood drains out. And if the afterbirth does not come out at once, while it is still inside and the child is already out, the cord is cut after being tied off. Often a child has seemed to be born dead, when, being weak, and before the cord was tied, its blood happened to drain out into the cord and the area around it; but some skilled midwives have pressed the blood back in from the cord, and at once the child, though it had seemed bloodless before, came back to life. And, as was said earlier, the other animals are naturally born head first, and so are children, with their arms stretched along their sides. As soon as they come out they cry, and bring their hands to their mouths.
25| Children also pass waste matter, some at once and some soon after, but all within a day; and this waste is large in proportion to the size of the child — what women call meconium. Its color is bloody and very dark, and pitch-like, but after this it already becomes milk-like, for the child at once draws at the breast. Before it comes out, the child does not cry, even if in a difficult birth its head is protruding while its whole body is still inside. In women whose purgings rush out too soon during the cleansings, they have more difficulty being delivered of their offspring. But if the purgings after birth are fewer, and occur only as a first flow and do not continue up to the fortieth day, women are stronger and conceive again sooner. As for the children, once born, for the first forty days they neither laugh nor cry while awake, though sometimes they do both at night; nor do they, for the most part, perceive being pinched, but sleep most of the time. As the child grows, it increasingly shifts toward wakefulness; and it becomes clear that it dreams, though it remembers its dream-images only later. In the other animals there is no differentiation in the bones — all are complete from birth; but in children the crown of the head is soft, and hardens only later.
26| Some animals are born already having teeth, but children begin to cut teeth in the seventh month; the front teeth come first, and in some children the upper ones come first, in others the lower. All children cut teeth faster whose nurses have warmer milk. After childbirth and the cleansings, milk increases in women, and in some it flows not only from the nipples but over much of the breast, and in some even at the armpits; and knots remain there for a later time, when the fluid is not concocted and does not come out but instead fills up — for the whole breast is so spongy that even if a hair gets into it along with drink, pain arises in the breasts (which they call having a hair), until it either comes out by itself under pressure or is drawn out by suckling along with the milk. Women have milk until they conceive again; then it stops and dries up, the same in humans as in the other live-bearing, four-footed animals. While the milk is coming, the purgings generally do not occur, though in some women who were nursing a purging did occur. In general, the flow of fluid does not happen in many directions at once — for instance, in women who have hemorrhoids the purgings that follow are worse. In some women it comes out even through the hips, when it is discharged from the loins before reaching the uterus. And women in whom, the purgings not occurring, it happens that blood is vomited up instead suffer no harm from this.
1| Convulsions are apt to seize most children, and more so the better-nourished ones, and those fed on milk that is more abundant or thicker, and by nurses who are well-fleshed. Also harmful with respect to this affliction is dark wine more than white, and wine that is not watered down, and most flatulence-producing foods, and if the bowels become blocked. Most children who die of it die before the seventh day; and this is why names are given at that point, since people already trust more in the child's survival. Children also suffer more at the full moon. It is dangerous, too, when a child's convulsions begin from the back. Book Theta.
2| This, then, is the manner of things concerning the rest of the nature and generation of animals; but their actions and ways of life differ according to their characters and modes of feeding. For in most of the other animals too there are traces of the same dispositions of soul that appear more clearly marked in human beings; for tameness and wildness, gentleness and harshness, courage and cowardice, fearfulness and boldness, spiritedness and cunning, and something resembling intelligence in matters of thought are found, in many of them, as similarities — just as we said in discussing their bodily parts. For some traits differ from those in man only by degree, and man differs from many animals in the same way (for some such traits are present more in man, others more in the other animals), while other traits differ by analogy: for as in man there is craft and wisdom and understanding, so in some animals there is some other natural capacity analogous to these. This is most evident if one looks at the age of children; for in children one can see, as it were, traces and seeds of the states of character they will later have, and the soul at this time of life differs, one might say, not at all from the soul of beasts, so that it is not at all unreasonable that some traits in the other animals are the same as in man, others closely similar, and others analogous.
3| So nature passes by small stages from lifeless things to animals, in such a way that, because of the continuity, the boundary between them and the middle ground belonging to each escapes notice. For after the class of lifeless things comes first the class of plants; and among these one differs from another in seeming to share more or less in life, while the whole class, set against the other bodies, appears more or less as if ensouled, but set against the class of animals appears lifeless. The passage from plants to animals is continuous, as was said before. For with some of the creatures in the sea one might be at a loss whether it is an animal or a plant, since they are attached and grow fast to something, and many of them, when separated, perish; for example the pinnas are attached and grow fast, while the razor-shells, when pulled up, cannot live. And in general the whole class of the hard-shelled creatures is like plants when compared with the animals that move about. And as regards perception, in some of them nothing at all is manifest, in others only faintly. The bodily nature of some of them is fleshy, for example the ones called sea-squirts and the class of the sea-nettles; while the sponge is altogether like the plants. And always, by a small difference at a time, one thing after another already appears to have more life and motion than the last.
4| And in respect of the activities of life the case is the same. For of plants no work is apparent other than, as it were, making another like itself, in the case of all that come to be through seed; and likewise of some animals too, apart from their coming-to-be, one can grasp no other work. This is why such activities are common to all; but once perception is present, their lives already differ in respect of mating, on account of pleasure, and in respect of bearing and rearing their young. Some, then, simply, like plants, complete their proper generation according to the seasons; others also labor over the feeding of their young, and when they have completed this, separate from them and form no further association; while the more intelligent, and those that share more fully in memory, deal with their offspring in a more political way. One part of their life, then, consists in the activities concerned with producing offspring, and another again in those concerned with nourishment; for it is around these two things that all their efforts, and their life, turn out to be. Nourishment differs most of all according to the matter out of which it is constituted; for growth comes to each thing by nature out of this.
5| What accords with nature is pleasant; and all things pursue the pleasure that accords with nature. Animals are divided by their places: some are land animals, others water animals. This difference is spoken of in two ways: some are called land animals or water animals by their taking in air or water; others, which do not take either in, but are naturally suited to a sufficient blending of coolness from each of these, are also called land animals or water animals, though they neither breathe nor take in water, but by making their nourishment and passing their existence in each of these media. For many creatures that take in air, and produce their offspring on land, get their nourishment from watery places and spend most of their time in the water; these alone among animals seem to be of both kinds at once, for one might class them as land animals as well as water animals. Of the creatures that take in the wet element none is a land animal or a winged one, nor does it get its nourishment from the land, though many of the land animals take in air. And some are so constituted that they cannot even live when separated from the nature of water, for example the creatures called sea-turtles, crocodiles, river-horses, seals, and among the smaller animals the freshwater turtles and the class of frogs;
6| for all these are choked if they do not breathe for some interval. And they give birth and rear their young on the dry land, while some live near the dry land but pass their existence in the wet element. Most peculiar of all animals is the dolphin, and whatever else is of that kind among the water creatures and the other whale-like creatures, such as the whale and any others of them that have a blow-hole; for it is not easy to class each of these as simply a water animal or a land animal, if land animals are to be reckoned as those that take in air, and water animals by nature as those that take in water. For the dolphin partakes of both: it takes in and lets out seawater through its blow-hole, and takes in air by its lung. For it has this part, and breathes; and this is why the dolphin, when caught in nets, is quickly choked through not breathing. And out of the water it lives for a long time, moaning and groaning, just like the other animals that breathe; and further, when it sleeps its snout projects above the surface, so that it may breathe. It is absurd to place the same creatures under both divisions, since these are opposed to one another; but it seems that the term 'water animal' still needs further definition. For some take in and let out water for the same reason for which the air-breathers take in air, namely for the sake of cooling, while others do so for the sake of nourishment;
7| for it is necessary that a creature taking its nourishment in a liquid should at the same time take in the liquid itself, and, taking it in, should have an organ by which it will expel it. Now those that use the liquid analogously to breathing have gills, while those of the blooded animals that do so for the sake of nourishment have a blow-hole. Similarly with the soft-bodied creatures and the soft-shelled creatures; for these too take in the liquid for the sake of nourishment. Water animals in the other sense, on account of the blending of their body and their manner of life, are those that take in air but live in the liquid, or those that take in the liquid and have gills, yet make their way onto dry land and take their food there. Only one such creature has so far been observed, the one called the tadpole-newt; for this has no lung but gills, yet is four-footed, as being naturally suited to walk on land as well. In all these creatures nature seems to have been, so to speak, twisted out of its straight course, just as among males some become female-like and among females some become male-like. For animals, taking on a difference in small parts, appear to differ greatly in respect of the nature of the whole body. This is shown in the case of creatures that are castrated; for when a small part is maimed the animal changes over toward the female, so that it is clear that also in the original constitution, if some minute quantity changes in magnitude, provided it is of a governing kind, the one becomes female and the other male, while if it is removed altogether neither sex results.
8| So that both being a land animal and being a water animal hold in both senses, since the change occurring in small parts results in some animals becoming land animals and others water animals. And some do not partake of both, while others do, because of sharing in some degree in the matter, in the constitution of their coming-to-be, out of which they make their nourishment; for what accords with nature is dear to each animal, as has also been said before. Animals having been divided into water animals and land animals in three ways—by taking in air or water, by the blending of their bodies, and thirdly by their nourishment—their modes of life follow along these divisions: some follow the blending and the nourishment together with the taking in of water or air, others follow the blending and the modes of life alone. Now of the hard-shelled animals, those that are motionless are nourished by the fresh water within the sea; for it filters through the dense parts of their shell, since it is thinner than the seawater as it is concocted, just as the creature also receives its original coming-to-be from it. That there is fresh water present in the sea, and that this can be filtered out, is evident; for a test of this has in fact already been made.
9| For if one shapes a thin vessel of wax, ties it round, and lets it down empty into the sea, in a night and a day it takes in a quantity of water, and this appears to be drinkable. Sea anemones feed on whatever little fish falls upon them. Their mouth is in the middle; this is clearest in the case of the large ones. And they have, as oysters do, a passage by which the food is discharged outward. This passage is above; for the sea anemone seems to be, as it were, like the fleshy inner part of oysters turned inside out, and to use the rock as an oyster uses its shell. Limpets too, when they detach themselves, move about and feed. Of the creatures capable of movement, those that eat other animals feed on small fish, as the purple-fish does; for it is carnivorous, and for that reason is also caught by bait of that kind; others feed also on the things that grow in the sea. Sea turtles graze on shellfish (for they have the strongest mouth of all creatures; whatever they seize upon, whether stone or anything else, they bite through and crush), and also, coming out onto land, graze on grass. They often suffer harm and even die when they float on the surface and are dried out by the sun; for they cannot easily get back down again. The crustaceans behave in the same way;
10| for these too eat everything: they feed on stones, mud, seaweed, and dung — for instance the rock-crabs — and they also eat flesh. Crayfish overpower even large fish, and a certain reversal of fortune happens to some of these creatures: octopuses overpower crayfish, so that if the crayfish perceive octopuses nearby in the same net, they die of fright; but crayfish overpower conger eels, since because of their roughness the eels cannot slip free of them; while conger eels devour octopuses, since the octopuses can do nothing against them because of their smoothness. All the cephalopods are carnivorous. Crayfish feed by hunting small fish near their lairs; for in the open sea such creatures occur in places that are rough and rocky, since it is in such places that they also make their lairs. Whatever they seize they bring to their mouth with their two-pronged claw, just as crabs do. By nature a crayfish walks forward, lowering its feelers sideways, when it is unafraid; but when it is frightened it flees backward and shoots itself a long way. They fight one another as rams do with their horns, raising them up and striking;
11| and they are often seen together and in a crowd, like a herd. The crustaceans, then, live in this manner. Among the cephalopods, squid and cuttlefish overpower even large fish. Octopuses feed chiefly by collecting shellfish and pulling out the flesh with these; that is why those who hunt them recognize their lairs by the shells lying there. What some people say — that the octopus eats itself — is false; but some octopuses have had their tentacles eaten away by conger eels. Fish all feed on spawn whenever the season for it comes round, but they do not all take the same other food. Some of them are carnivorous only — for instance the cartilaginous fish, conger eels, sea-bass, tunny, bass, dentex, bonito, sea-perch, and moray eels; but red mullet feed both on seaweed and shellfish and mud, and are also carnivorous; grey mullet feed on mud, the dascyllus on mud and dung, parrotfish and blacktail on seaweed, saupe on dung and seaweed. The saupe also grazes on the plant called leek-weed, and it alone among fish is caught with a bait of gourd. All fish eat one another except the grey mullet; conger eels do this most of all.
12| The grey mullet and the mullet properly so called are the only ones that do not eat flesh at all; the sign of this is that no such thing has ever been found in their stomach when caught, and that fishermen do not use the flesh of animals as bait for them, but barley-cake. Every mullet feeds on seaweed and sand. The grey mullet, which some call the 'tortoise' mullet, keeps near land, while the other kind does not; this open-sea kind grazes on the mucus given off by its own body, which is why it is always fasting. Grey mullets graze on mud, which is why they are heavy and slimy, and they do not eat fish at all; and because they spend their time in the mud they often swim up to the surface, in order to wash off the slime. None of the sea creatures eats their young, which is why they become numerous; but once they have grown, they are then eaten by the other fish, and especially by the acharnus. The mullet is the greediest and most insatiable of fish, which is why its belly becomes distended, and when it is not fasting it is in poor condition; when frightened it hides its head, as if by this it were hiding its whole body. The dentex too is carnivorous, and eats cephalopods. This fish and the sea-bass often vomit out their stomachs when pursuing smaller fish, because in fish the stomach lies close to the mouth and they have no gullet.
13| Some fish, then, as has been said, are carnivorous only, as the dolphin, the dentex, the gilthead, and the cartilaginous fish, along with the cephalopods; others for the most part feed on mud, seaweed, sea-moss, the plant called caulion, and other growing matter — for instance the wrasse, the goby, and the rock-fish; the wrasse does not touch any other flesh except that of shrimp. Often, as has been said, they also eat one another, the larger eating the smaller. A sign that they are carnivorous is that they are caught with baits of that kind. Bonito, tunny, and sea-bass are for the most part carnivorous but also eat seaweed. The sargue follows in the mullet's wake, and when the mullet has stirred up the mud and moved off (for it is able to dig), the sargue comes down after it and feeds there, and prevents weaker fish than itself from coming in with it. The fish called the parrotfish alone among fish is thought to chew the cud, as four-footed animals do. In other fish the pursuit of the weaker takes place mouth to mouth, in the direction in which they naturally swim; but the cartilaginous fish, dolphins, and all the cetaceans turn on their backs to seize their prey, since their mouth is set low down.
14| For this reason the smaller fish are the more likely to escape; otherwise they would seem to be very few indeed, so remarkable is thought to be the swiftness of the dolphin and its capacity for eating. Of eels, a few in certain places feed also on mud and on food thrown to them if one supplies it, but most feed on fresh water; and eel-keepers see to it that this is kept as clean as possible, letting it constantly flow off and flow on over flat stones, or else they plaster the eel-ponds with clay. For eels are quickly suffocated if the water is not clean, since their gills are small. That is why, when men hunt them, they stir up the water; and in the Strymon they are caught around the setting of the Pleiades, for at that time the water and mud are churned up by the contrary winds that then arise; otherwise it is better for them to keep still. Eels that have died do not rise to the surface or float upward, as most fish do, for their belly is small. Few of them have fat; most have none. They can live out of the water for as many as five or six days, more of them if the winds are northerly, fewer if southerly. And when they change over in summer from the marshes into the eel-ponds they die, but not in winter.
15| They cannot endure violent changes either, as happens with those who carry them if they dip them into cold water; for they often perish in a body from this. They are also suffocated if kept in too little water. This same thing happens with other fish as well: they are suffocated if they are always kept in the same and too little water, just as air-breathing creatures are if a small amount of air is shut in around them. Some eels live as long as seven or eight years. River fish also use as food both one another, eating each other, and plants and roots, and whatever they can get in the mud. They feed more by night, and withdraw into the deep water during the day.
16| This, then, is how matters stand concerning the food of fish. Of birds, all those that are hook-taloned are carnivorous, and cannot swallow grain even if one feeds it to them by hand, for example all the kinds of eagles, and kites, and both kinds of hawks, the dove-killer and the finch-hawk (these differ greatly from each other in size), and the buzzard; the buzzard is the size of a kite, and it is seen throughout the year. Also the lammergeier and the vulture; the lammergeier is larger than the eagle in size, and ash-colored, and of vultures there are two species, one small and whiter, the other larger and more ash-colored. Also, some of the night birds are hook-taloned, for example the night-raven, the little owl, and the eagle-owl. The eagle-owl is similar in appearance to the little owl, but in size no smaller than an eagle. Also the eleos, the aigolios, and the scops-owl. Of these, the eleos is larger than a cock, the aigolios is about the same size; both hunt jays. The scops-owl is smaller than the little owl. All three of these are similar in appearance and are all carnivorous. And among those that are not hook-taloned, some too are carnivorous, for example the swallow.
17| The grub-eaters are birds such as the finch, the sparrow, the batis, the greenfinch, and the tit. Of tits there are three species: the finch-tit is the largest (it is the size of a finch), another is the mountain-tit, so called because it spends its time in the mountains, and it has a long tail; the third is similar to these but differs in size, being the smallest. Also the fig-pecker, the blackcap, the bullfinch, the robin, the epilais, the oistros, and the tyrant-bird; this last is a little larger than a locust, has a crimson crest, and is otherwise a graceful and well-proportioned little bird. The anthos: this is the size of a finch. The mountain-finch: this is similar to the finch and close to it in size, except that it has a dark-blue neck, and it spends its time in the mountains. Also the kinglet, and the seed-picker. These birds, then, and others like them, are grub-eaters, some entirely so and some for the most part; but the following are thistle-eaters: the linnet, the thraupis, and also the bird called the goldfinch. For all of these feed on thistles, and none of them eats a grub or any living creature at all; and they sleep and feed in the same place. Others are gnat-eaters, which live chiefly by hunting gnats, such as the greater and the lesser pipo; some call both of these woodpeckers;
18| they are similar to one another and have a similar call, except that the larger one's call is louder. Both of these feed by flying up against tree trunks. Also the keleos: the keleos is the size of a turtledove, and entirely green in color; it is a very vigorous wood-pecker, and feeds mostly on trees, and has a loud call; this bird occurs chiefly in the Peloponnese. There is another called the gnat-picker, small in size, about as large as the little thistle-finch, ash-colored and speckled; it has a small voice, and it too is a wood-pecker. Others live by eating fruit and grass, such as the wood-pigeon, the ring-dove, the pigeon, the stock-dove, and the turtledove. The ring-dove and the pigeon are seen throughout the year, but the turtledove only in summer; for in winter it disappears, since it goes into hiding. The stock-dove is seen and caught chiefly in autumn; in size the stock-dove is larger than the pigeon but smaller than the wood-pigeon; and it is caught chiefly while gulping down water. They arrive in these regions already having chicks; but all the others arrive in summer and nest here, and most of them rear their young on animal food, except the pigeon-like birds. Of practically all birds, some go about on foot in search of food, others live around rivers and lakes, and others around the sea; and of these, the web-footed ones spend most of their time in the water itself, while the split-footed ones spend it around the water's edge;
19| and some of these, those that are not carnivorous, feed on creatures that dive under water, as for example, around lakes and rivers, the heron and the white heron; the latter is smaller in size than the former, and has a broad, long beak. Also the stork and the gull; the gull is ash-colored. And the reed-warbler, and the wagtail, and the pygargos; this last is the largest of these smaller birds, being the size of a thrush. All of these wag their tails. Also the skalidris; this bird is mottled, but ash-colored overall. The kingfisher family, too, lives by the water's edge. There happen to be two species of it: one utters a call, perching on reeds, while the other is silent; this latter is larger; both have a dark-blue back. And the wren. By the sea are the kingfisher and the kerylos. The crows too feed there, seizing on creatures cast up by the sea; for the crow eats anything. Also the white gull, the kepphos, the shearwater, and the plover. Of the web-footed birds, the heavier ones live around rivers and lakes, such as the swan, the duck, the coot, the grebe, and also the boskas, which resembles the duck but is smaller, and the bird called the raven;
20| this bird is the size of a stork, except that it has shorter legs; it is web-footed and swims, and is black in color; it perches on trees and nests there, alone among birds of this kind. Also the goose, and the small gregarious goose, and the fox-goose, and the aix, and the penelops. The sea-eagle spends its time by the sea, and it also strikes creatures of the marshes. Many birds are also omnivorous. The hook-taloned birds attack other animals too, whatever they can overpower, including other birds; but they do not eat one another within their own kind, as fish often do, which attack even their own kind. The whole race of birds drinks little, and the hook-taloned ones do not drink at all, except for a few kinds, and even these only rarely. The kestrel is especially of this kind. And the kite, though rarely, has been seen drinking.
21| The scaly animals, such as the lizard and the other four-footed creatures of this kind, and snakes, are omnivorous; for they are both carnivorous and eat grass. Snakes are also the greediest of animals. Now these too drink little, as do all other animals that have a spongy lung; and all animals with little blood and all egg-laying animals have a spongy lung. Snakes are also unable to control themselves around wine; that is why some people hunt vipers by setting out wine in shallow dishes among stone walls, for the snakes are caught while drunk. Being carnivorous, snakes drain dry whatever animal they take, and pass the whole of it out again in their excrement. Nearly all other such creatures do the same, for instance spiders; except that spiders drain the juice out of their prey outside their body, while snakes do it inside their belly. The snake takes whatever prey happens to be offered to it (for it eats both small birds and wild creatures, and it swallows eggs whole); once it has taken its prey, it works it back and forth until it arrives at the end and sets it straight, and then it draws itself together and contracts into a small compass, so that when it stretches out again, the thing swallowed passes down. It does this because its gullet is narrow and long. Both venomous spiders and snakes are able to live a long time without food; this can be observed from those kept by drug-sellers.
22| Among the quadrupeds that bear live young, all the wild and sharp-toothed ones are flesh-eating; except that wolves, they say, when hungry, eat a certain earth — this alone among animals. They do not touch grass at other times, but when they are sick, just as dogs also do, they eat it and then vomit and purge themselves. Wolves that hunt alone eat human flesh more than [they] do the packs. The animal that some call the glanos and others the hyena is no smaller in size than a wolf, and has a mane like a horse's, with hair that is even coarser and longer, running along the whole length of its spine. It plots against and hunts human beings, and it hunts dogs too, by vomiting, just as men do. And it digs up graves, driven by a craving for this kind of flesh-eating. The bear is omnivorous. For it eats fruit, and climbs trees because of the suppleness of its body, and it eats pulse-crops as well. It also eats honey, breaking open the hives, and crabs and ants, and it eats flesh too. For because of its strength it attacks not only deer but also wild pigs, if it can catch them off guard by falling upon them, and bulls as well; for coming face to face with the bull, it throws itself down on its back, and when the bull tries to strike it, it seizes the horns with its forelegs, and biting the bull's shoulder-blade with its mouth, brings the bull down.
23| It also walks on its two hind feet, upright, for a short time. It eats all meat only after first letting it rot somewhat. The lion is flesh-eating, like the other wild sharp-toothed animals, but it feeds voraciously, swallowing many pieces whole without tearing them apart, and then goes without food for two or three days; for it can do this because it has overfilled itself. It drinks little. It passes excrement rarely: it comes on the third day, or whenever it happens to, and it is dry and drained of moisture, like a dog's. It also emits very pungent flatulence, and its urine has a strong smell, which is why dogs sniff at trees; for it urinates lifting its leg, just like dogs. And by breathing on the things it eats it produces a heavy smell in them; indeed, when it is cut open, its insides give off a heavy vapor. Some wild quadrupeds get their food around lakes and rivers; but around the sea, none does so except the seal. Such are the animal called the beaver, and the satherion, and the satyrion, and the otter, and the one called the latax; this last is broader than the otter, and has strong teeth, for going out often by night it cuts down the poplars along the river with its teeth.
24| The otter also bites human beings, and does not let go, they say, until it hears the sound of bone breaking. The latax has coarse fur, and its appearance is between that of the seal's coat and that of the deer's.
25| Among animals, the sharp-toothed ones drink by lapping; and so do some of those that are not sharp-toothed, such as mice. Those with a continuous row of teeth drink by sucking, such as horses and cattle. The bear neither sucks nor laps, but gulps. Among birds too, the rest drink by sucking, except that the long-necked ones do so with pauses, lifting their heads, while the purple gallinule alone gulps. Horned animals, both tame and wild, and all those that are not sharp-toothed, are all fruit-eating and grass-eating, when not overcome by extreme hunger — except the pig; this animal is least of all grass-eating and fruit-eating. The pig is the most root-eating of all animals, because its snout is well-formed by nature for this work, and it is the least fussy of all animals about any kind of food. It also gains in fatness fastest of all in proportion to its size; for it fattens in sixty days, and those engaged in this business find out how much it has gained by weighing it while fasting. It fattens well if starved beforehand for three days; and pretty much all the other animals fatten well too if starved beforehand. After the three days, those who fatten pigs then feed them well. The Thracians fatten them by giving them drink on the first day, then at first leaving a gap of one day, then afterward two, then three and four, up to seven. This animal is fattened on barley, millet, figs, acorns, wild pears, cucumbers. Both these animals and the others that have a warm belly are fattened most of all by keeping still; pigs are fattened also by wallowing in mud. They prefer to graze grouped by age. The pig also fights the wolf. From the weight it carries while alive, a sixth part is lost into bristles and blood and such things. Sows too, while suckling, and all other animals as well, become thinner.
26| This, then, is how matters stand. Cattle are both fruit-eating and grass-eating, and they are fattened on gas-producing foods, such as vetch and crushed beans and green bean-shoots, and if one cuts the skin, blows air under it, and afterward gives food to the older animals; also on barley, both plain and hulled, and on sweet things, such as figs and raisins and wine and elm leaves; but sunshine and warm baths fatten them most of all. The horns of young cattle, when warmed with wax, can easily be bent wherever one wishes; and they suffer less pain in their feet if one anoints their horns with wax or pitch or oil. Herd cattle suffer more, when moved about, from frost than from snow. They grow larger when they are kept unmated for more years; this is why the people of Epirus keep the cattle called Pyrrhic ones unmated for nine years and call them apotauroi, so that they may grow larger. They say the number of these is about four hundred, the private property of the kings, and that they cannot live in any other country — and yet some have tried.
27| Horses, mules, and donkeys are fruit-eating and grass-eating, but they are fattened most of all by drink; for as the beasts of burden take to drinking the water, so too they stand with regard to their enjoyment of food, and wherever the water is less disagreeable to them, that place has the better grazing. Couch-grass makes the coat sleek when it is in seed; but when it has hard awns, it is not good. Of lucerne, the first cutting is poor, and so is that grown wherever foul-smelling water is led onto it, for the grass takes on that smell. Cattle seek out clean water to drink, but horses do as camels do; the camel drinks turbid, thick water more gladly, and does not drink from rivers until it has stirred them up. It can also hold out without drinking for as many as four days; then after that it drinks a great quantity. The elephant eats, at most, nine Macedonian medimnoi at a single meal; but so great a quantity is dangerous for it; as a rule it eats six or seven medimnoi, and five medimnoi of barley-meal, and five maris of wine (a maris is six kotylai). There has already been a case of an elephant drinking fourteen Macedonian metretai of water at one time, and then again another eight in the evening. Most camels live about thirty years, but some much longer, for they even live up to a hundred years. As for the elephant, some say it lives about two hundred years, others three hundred.
29| Sheep and goats are both grass-eaters, but they graze differently: sheep stay put and graze steadily in one place, while goats shift about quickly and only nibble at the tips of the plants. What fattens a sheep most is its drink, and that is why in summer shepherds give a medimnus of salt for every hundred sheep, every five days; this makes the flock healthier and fatter. And for this same reason they salt most of what they feed them — for instance, they put a great deal of salt on the chaff (since a thirsty sheep drinks more), and in autumn they sprinkle salt on the gourd, for this too makes them give more milk. And sheep that are kept moving about at midday drink more toward evening. And when they are salted before giving birth, their udders drop down larger. Sheep are fattened by olive-shoots, wild olive, bitter vetch, and chaff of whatever kind is available; and all of these fatten them more if sprinkled with brine. These feeds also produce more fattening when the sheep have first been starved for three days beforehand. For sheep, in autumn a north wind's water is better than a south wind's, and pastures to the west are beneficial, while travel and hardship make them lean. Shepherds can tell which of the ewes are strong, when it is winter weather, by whether they have frost on them or not; for the weak ones, moving about because of their weakness, shake it off, while the strong ones do not. In every four-footed animal the meat is worse where they graze in marshy places than where the ground is higher. Sheep with broad tails winter better than those with long tails, and short-haired sheep better than shaggy ones; curly-fleeced sheep also winter badly. Sheep are healthier than goats, but goats are stronger than sheep. In sheep that have been bitten by wolves, the fleeces and the wool, and the garments made from them, become far more prone to lice than those from other sheep.
30| Among insects, those that have teeth eat anything, while those that have only a tongue feed on liquids, sucking them out from every side with it. And of these, some eat anything (for they taste every kind of flavor), such as flies, while others feed on blood, like the horsefly and the gadfly; others live on the juices of plants and fruits. The bee alone settles on nothing rotten, and uses no food at all except what has a sweet flavor; and bees take in water most gladly where it springs up clean.
31| The kinds of animals, then, make use of the foods that have been described. All their activities concern mating and the bearing of young, and are directed toward securing an abundant food supply, and are arranged with a view to cold and heat, and to the changes of the seasons. For all animals have an innate perception of the change in hot and cold, and just as, among men, some move into their houses for the winter, while others, who hold sway over a great extent of country, spend the summer in the cold regions and the winter in the warm ones, so too do those animals that are able to change their locations. And some find their remedies right in the places they are used to, while others migrate — after the autumn equinox, fleeing the oncoming winter, away from the Black Sea and the cold regions, and after the spring equinox, out of fear of the heat, away from the hot regions into the cold ones; some make their moves from nearby places, and others, so to speak, from the very ends of the earth, as the cranes do; for they move from the plains of Scythia to the marshes above Egypt, from which the Nile flows —
32| and there they are said to make war on the Pygmies; for this is not a fable, but in truth there really is a small race, just as it is said, both the people themselves and their horses, and they live a cave-dwelling life. Pelicans too migrate, and they fly from the river Strymon to the Danube, and there they breed; they leave in a mass, the ones in front waiting for those behind, because when they fly over the mountain the ones in front become invisible to those behind. Fish, too, migrate in the same way: some move from the Black Sea and back into the Black Sea, while others, in winter, move from the open sea toward the land, pursuing warmth, and in summer move from the coastal waters into the open sea, fleeing the warmth. And the weaker birds, in winter and in frosts, come down into the plains for the sake of warmth, while in summer they withdraw up into the mountains because of the heat. It is always the weaker creatures that make the move first, at either extreme — for example, mackerel move before tunny, and quails before cranes; for the one group changes location in the month Boedromion, the other in Maimacterion.
33| All creatures are fatter when they change from the cold regions than when they change from the warm ones — quails, for instance, are fatter in autumn than in spring. This happens because they are changing from the cold regions and at the same time from the warm season. They are also more eager to mate in the spring season, and when they are changing from the warm regions. Now among birds, the cranes, as has been said before, migrate to the farthest extremes from the farthest extremes. They fly with the wind. The story about the stone is false — it is said that they carry a stone as ballast, which becomes useful for testing gold, once they have vomited it up. Wood-pigeons and rock-doves also depart and do not spend the winter, and so do swallows and turtle-doves; but common doves remain behind. Quails do the same, unless some are left behind, along with some of the turtle-doves and quails, in places with a good aspect toward the sun. Wood-pigeons and turtle-doves gather in flocks both when they arrive and again when it is time to go back. As for quails, when they land, if the weather is fair or the wind is from the north, they pair off and do well, but if the wind is from the south, they have a hard time of it because they are poor fliers —
34| for that wind is moist and heavy. That is why hunters go after them when the wind is southerly. In fair weather they do not fly, because of their weight; for their body is bulky, and that is why they fly calling out — because it costs them effort. Now when they cross over from that side, they have no leaders; but when they depart from this side, the glottis migrates along with them, and the corncrake, and the little owl, and the ortolan, which also calls them at night; and when the hunters hear its voice, they know that the quails are not staying put. The corncrake is similar in shape to the marsh birds, and the glottis has a tongue that projects a long way out. The little owl is like the owls, and has little wing-like tufts about its ears; some call it the night-raven. It is a mischievous mimic, and is caught by dancing back at it, while one of the two hunters comes around behind it, just as the owl is caught. In general, all the hook-taloned birds are short-necked, broad-tongued, and given to mimicry; for the Indian bird, the parrot, the so-called man-tongued bird, is of this kind, and it also becomes more unruly when it drinks wine. Among birds the ones that flock together are the crane, the swan, the pelican, and the small goose.
35| Among fish, as has been said, some move toward the land from the open sea and from the land into the open sea, fleeing the extremes of cold and heat. Those near the shore are better than those of the open sea, for they have more and better feeding grounds; for wherever the sun strikes, more grows, and it grows better and more tender, as in gardens. The black seaweed too grows near the land, while the other kind is like that found in the wild. Moreover the regions of the sea near the shore happen to have a good mixture of hot and cold; and that is why the flesh of fish from such places holds together better, while that of fish from the open sea is moist and loose. Fish that live near the shore include the sinodon, the black bream, the sea-perch, the gilthead, the grey mullet, the red mullet, the wrasse, the weever, the callionymus, the goby, and all the rock-fish; fish of the open sea include the sting-ray and the cartilaginous fish, and the white conger-eels, the channa, the sea-bream, and the glaucus; while the sea-bream proper, the scorpion-fish, the black conger-eels, the morays, and the gurnard live in both. There are also differences among these according to place — around Crete, for instance, the gobies and all the rock-fish become fat. And the tunny too is good again after the rising of Arcturus;
36| For it has already stopped being in heat at this season; and this is why it is inferior in summer. Many fish also occur in lagoons, for example saupes, gilthead bream, red mullet, and most of the others as well. Bonito also occur, for instance around Alopeconnesus; and in Lake Bistonis most kinds of fish are found. Most mackerel do not enter the Black Sea; they spend the summer in the Propontis and spawn there, and they winter in the Aegean. Tunny, young tunny, and bonito enter the Black Sea in spring and spend the summer there, and so do most of the migratory and shoaling fish. Most fish are shoaling. All shoaling fish have leaders. They swim into the Black Sea both for food (for the feeding ground there is both larger and better because the water is fresh) and because the large predators are fewer there; for apart from the dolphin and the porpoise there is nothing large in the Black Sea, and even the dolphin there is small, whereas as soon as one goes outside they are large. So they swim in both for food and for spawning; for there are places there suitable for giving birth, and the fresh, sweeter water nurtures the young.
37| When they have given birth and their offspring have grown, they swim out at once, right after the Pleiades. If the winter wind is southerly, they swim out later; if northerly, sooner, because the wind speeds them on their way; and at that time the small fry are caught around Byzantium, since they have not had much time to grow in the Black Sea. Now the other fish are plainly observed both swimming out and swimming in, but the sprats alone are caught swimming in and are never seen swimming out; indeed when one is caught near Byzantium, the fishermen scour out their nets, since it is not their habit to swim out. The reason is that these alone swim up into the Danube, and then, at the point where it forks, swim down into the Adriatic. A sign of this is that there the opposite happens: they are not caught swimming into the Adriatic, but are caught swimming out. Tunny swim in keeping the land on their right, and swim out keeping it on their left; some say they do this because they see more sharply with the right eye, not being naturally sharp-sighted. The migratory fish travel by day and rest and feed by night, unless there is a moon; when there is, they travel then too and do not rest. Some of those who work at sea say that when the winter solstice comes, they no longer move but stay still wherever they happen to be caught, until the equinox.
38| Mackerel, then, are caught swimming in, and less so swimming out; they are at their best in the Propontis before they spawn. The other migratory fish are caught more often coming out of the Black Sea, and are at their best then; but when they swim in, the ones caught nearest the shore are the fattest, and the further out one goes, the thinner they always are. Often, too, when a south wind blows against the mackerel and the scombers as they swim out, they are caught more further down the coast than around Byzantium. Such, then, is the manner in which they carry out their migrations. The very same thing happens with land animals in the matter of hibernation: in winter they set out for their hiding places, and leave them again when the season turns warmer. Animals make their hiding places as a defense against the extremes of both seasons. In some kinds the whole genus hibernates, in others some do and some do not. For all the testaceans hibernate, such as those in the sea — purple-shellfish, whelks, and every such kind — but in the free-moving ones the hibernation is more evident (for they hide themselves, as scallops do, while others have a covering over the surface, as land snails do), whereas in the fixed ones the change is not apparent.
39| They do not hibernate at the same season: snails hibernate in winter, purple-shellfish and whelks hibernate under the dog star for about thirty days, and scallops around the same time. Most of them hibernate both in the height of the cold and in the height of the heat. Nearly all insects hibernate, except any that live alongside humans in their dwellings, and those that perish and do not live through more than a year. These hibernate in winter. Some hibernate for many days, others only through the most wintry ones, as bees do; for bees too hibernate. A sign of this is that they are never seen tasting the food set beside them; and if one crawls out, it appears transparent, and nothing is visibly present in its stomach. It lies still from the setting of the Pleiades until spring. Animals make their hiding places by concealing themselves in warm spots, and in the places where they are accustomed to lodge.
40| Many blooded animals also hibernate, such as the scaly ones — snakes, lizards, geckos, and river crocodiles — for the four most wintry months, and during that time they eat nothing at all. The other snakes hibernate in the earth, but vipers hide themselves under rocks. Many fish also hibernate, most conspicuously the dolphinfish and the corb, in winter; for these alone are caught nowhere at all except at certain fixed times, always the same ones, whereas nearly all the rest are caught at other times as well. The moray eel, the sea perch, and the conger eel also hibernate. Rock-fish hibernate in pairs, males with females, just as they also nest in pairs — for example the thrush wrasse, the blackbird wrasse, and the perch. Tunny too hibernate in winter, in the depths, and become fattest after hibernation, and begin to be hunted from the rising of the Pleiades until, at the latest, the setting of Arcturus; for the rest of the time they lie still, hibernating. But some of these, and some of the other hibernating creatures too, are caught moving about during the time of hibernation, if the place is warm and unexpected spells of calm weather occur; for they come forward a little way from their den to feed —
41| — and at the full moon. Most creatures are at their sweetest while hibernating. Brills hide themselves in the mud; a sign of this is both that they are not caught, and that, when one is caught, it shows much mud on its back and its fins worn and pressed in. In the spring season they begin to move and come forward toward land to mate and give birth, and are caught while pregnant; and at that time they are thought to be at their best, while those caught in autumn and winter are inferior; and at the same time the males too are seen to be full of milt. So when their young are still small, they are hard to catch, but when the young are larger, many are caught because the females are in heat. Some hibernate in the sand, others in the mud, with only the mouth showing above. Most hibernate only through the winter, but the crustaceans, and among fish the rock-fish, the skates, and the cartilaginous fish, hibernate only through the most wintry days; this is shown by the fact that they are not caught when it is cold. Some fish also hibernate in summer, for example the glaucus; for it hibernates in summer for about sixty days. The hake and the gilthead bream also hibernate; and a sign that the hake hibernates for the longest time is thought to be that it is caught only after the longest interval.
42| A sign that fish also go into hiding in summer seems to be the fact that catches happen at the risings of certain stars, and especially at the rising of the Dog Star; for at that time the sea is said to be stirred up from below. This is most familiar in the Bosporus: the mud rises to the surface, and the fish are carried up with it. And they say that when the sea bottom is repeatedly disturbed, more fish are caught in the same haul the second time than the first. Also, whenever heavy rains occur, many creatures appear that had either never been seen before at all, or not often. Many birds also hibernate, and it is not the case, as some suppose, that they all withdraw to warm regions; rather, those that live near such regions, in which they remain continuously — kites and swallows, for instance — retreat there, while those that are further away from such places do not migrate but hide themselves. Indeed, many swallows have already been seen in hollows, completely plucked bare, and kites too flying out of such places when they first appear. Birds go into hiding without any distinction between the hook-taloned and the straight-taloned kinds: the stork hides, and the blackbird, and the turtledove, and the lark; and the turtledove, by common agreement, most of all — for no one, so to speak, is said to have seen a turtledove anywhere in winter. It begins its hiding while extremely fat, and it molts its feathers during the hiding, but remains fat throughout. Of the wood-pigeons, some hide and some do not, but those that do not depart at the same time as the swallows. The thrush and the starling also hide, and among the hook-taloned birds, the kite for a few days, and the owl.
43| Among the live-bearing quadrupeds, porcupines and bears hide. That wild bears go into hiding is clear; whether this is on account of the cold or for some other reason is disputed. For around this time both males and females become extremely fat, so that they are not readily able to move. The female also gives birth around this season, and stays in hiding until it is time to lead the cubs out; she does this around the third month after the winter solstice, in spring. The minimum period she hides is about forty days; of these, they say, there are twice seven days during which she does not move at all, while for the greater number of days after that she remains in hiding but does move and rouse herself. A pregnant bear has been caught by no one, or by very few. And during this time it is clear that they eat nothing at all; for they do not come out, and when they are caught, both the stomach and the intestines are found to be empty. It is also said that, because they take in nothing, the intestine nearly grows together on itself, and that for this reason, when she first comes out, she tastes wild arum in order to loosen the intestine and widen it out. The dormouse also hides, in the very trees, and becomes fattest at that time; so too the white Pontic mouse.
44| Among the hibernating animals, some shed what is called the slough — this is the outermost skin, the sheath around the areas of generation. Now among the land-dwelling, live-bearing animals, the cause of the bear's hibernation is disputed, as was said before; but of the scaly creatures, nearly all hide, and those shed the slough whose skin is soft and not shell-like, as in the tortoise (for the tortoise too belongs to the scaly kind, and so does the freshwater tortoise) — but rather, creatures such as the gecko and the lizard, and above all the snakes: these shed both in spring, when they come out, and again in autumn. Vipers too shed the slough both in spring and in autumn, and it is not true, as some say, that this kind of snake alone does not shed. When snakes begin to shed, the skin first comes loose from the eyes in every case, so that to those who do not understand the condition they seem to have gone blind; after this it comes loose from the head, and appears white all over. The whole slough is cast off in about a night and a day, beginning from the head and going down to the tail. As the shedding occurs, the parts that were inside come to be outside;
45| for the creature sheds it just as embryos come out of their membranes. In the same way insects too shed the slough, as many as do shed it — for instance the cockroach, the gnat, and the beetles, such as the dung beetle. All of these shed it after birth: for just as the membrane is shed by live-bearing creatures, and the covering is torn away for those generated as grubs, the same happens with bees and locusts. Cicadas, when they emerge, settle on olive trees and on reeds. When the covering is torn open, they come out leaving behind a small amount of moisture, and not long after they fly up and sing. Among sea creatures, crawfish and lobsters shed sometimes in spring, sometimes in autumn, after their spawning. Some crawfish that have already been caught have been found with the parts around the thorax soft, because the shell has come apart there, but the lower parts hard, because it has not yet come apart there; for they do not carry out the shedding in the same way as snakes do. Crawfish hide for about five months. Crabs also shed the slough — the soft-shelled kind, by common agreement, and they say the hard-shelled kind does too, such as the spider-crabs. When they shed, their shells become entirely soft, and crabs are then not very able to walk.
46| Such creatures shed not once but many times. So it has been said which creatures hide, and when and how, and further which creatures shed the slough and when. Animals fare well according to the seasons, but not the same ones, nor alike in every excess of weather; and further, health and disease differ by season for creatures of different kinds, and are not, on the whole, the same for all. For birds, then, dry spells are beneficial both for their general health and for their breeding, and not least for the wood-pigeons; for fish, apart from a few exceptions, rainy spells are beneficial. The opposite is harmful to each: for birds, years of heavy rain (for it is not at all beneficial for them to drink much), and for fish, dry spells. Now the hook-taloned birds, as has been said before, are, generally speaking, entirely without drinking (though Hesiod was ignorant of this — for in his narrative about the siege of Nineveh he represents the eagle, the presiding bird of prophecy, as drinking); but the other birds do drink, though they are not heavy drinkers; and likewise none of the other creatures with a spongy lung that lay eggs is a heavy drinker either. In birds, sickness becomes evident in the plumage: it becomes disordered, and does not keep the same condition it has when they are healthy.
47| Most kinds of fish thrive more, as has been said before, in years of heavy rain; for not only do they then have more food, but rainwater is in general beneficial to them, just as it is to things that grow from the earth — for vegetables, even when irrigated, nevertheless do better when rained on more. Reeds growing in marshes suffer the same thing: they scarcely grow at all, so to speak, unless rains occur. A sign of this is also the fact that most fish migrate into the Black Sea in summer; for on account of the number of rivers the water is sweeter there, and the rivers carry down much food. Further, many fish swim up into rivers, and thrive both in rivers and in marshes — the amia and the grey mullet, for instance. Gobies too become fat in rivers; and in general, well-watered regions have the best fish. Of the waters themselves, summer rains are more beneficial to most fish, and it is best when spring, summer, and autumn are rainy while winter is mild. And, generally speaking, whenever there is a good year for human beings as well, most fish also happen to fare well.
48| In cold places fish do not thrive. Those that have a stone in their head suffer most in winter storms — for example the chromis, the bass, the sciaena, the sea-bream — for on account of the stone for on account of the stone they are frozen stiff by the cold and are cast ashore. Now rain water is on the whole more beneficial to most fish, but for the grey mullet and the cephalus and the fish some call the myrinos, the opposite holds: for the majority of these go blind more quickly from the rain waters, if the rains are too excessive. This is what the cephali usually suffer, more so in the winter storms, for their eyes turn white, and at that time they are caught thin, and in the end they perish altogether. It seems that they suffer this not so much on account of the excess of rain as on account of the cold; at any rate, elsewhere too, and around Nauplia in the Argolid near the shallow lagoon, many blind ones have been caught when a strong cold spell has come on, and many have also been caught with a white appearance to their eyes. The gilthead also suffers in winter, and in summer the acharnas suffers and becomes thin. As a rule the dry years of the cycle suit the corocinus more than they do other fish, and this too because warmth results more in times of drought. Different places suit different fish for thriving: whatever fish are by nature inshore or open-sea fish thrive in each of these respectively, and whatever fish do both thrive in both;
49| and there are also particular places special to each kind, in which they thrive. Speaking generally, weedy places suit fish well: at any rate fatter fish are caught in such places, both those that graze on all sorts of ground — for the weed-eaters find food in plenty, while the flesh-eaters meet with more fish there to prey on. Fish also differ as between the north-facing and the south-facing waters: the long-bodied kinds thrive better in northern waters, and in summer in summer, in the same locality and with north winds, more of the long-bodied kinds are caught than of the flat. Tunny and swordfish are afflicted with a gadfly-sting around the rising of the dog star; for both of them at that time have, beside their fins, a kind of little worm called the oestrus, resembling a scorpion, about the size of a spider. These cause them such distress that the swordfish sometimes leaps no less high than the dolphin, and for this reason they often fall into boats. Tunny of all fish delight most in warmth, and they come in close to the sand near the shore for the sake of the warmth, because they are warmed there, and they rise to the surface. The small fry survive because they are overlooked, for the big fish pursue the bigger prey. Of the eggs and the spawn a great part is destroyed by the heat;
50| for whatever the heat touches, all of this it spoils. Fish are caught above all before sunrise and after sunset, and in general around the setting and rising of the sun; for these are said to be the favorable casts, and this is why fishermen haul up their nets at this hour. For it is above all at these times that fish are deceived through their sight: during the night they lie still, but as the light increases they see better. No plague-like disease appears to fall upon fish, of the sort that often happens among men and among the live-bearing quadrupeds — horses and cattle — and among some other animals, both tame and wild; still, they do seem to fall ill. Fishermen judge this from the fact that some are caught thin and resembling weakened animals, having changed color, in many cases, having been taken among many fat specimens of the very same kind. This, then, is how matters stand with the sea fish.
51| As for the river and lake fish, no plague-like disease occurs among these either, but particular diseases fall upon some of them. For example the sheatfish, especially around the rising of the dog star, because it swims near the surface, becomes star-struck and is stunned by a violent thunderclap. The carp too sometimes suffers this, though less. Sheatfish in shallow water are also killed in large numbers when struck by the dragon-serpent. In the ballerus and the tilon a worm that develops in them around the rising of the dog star drives them to the surface and weakens them; and having come to the surface, the fish perishes from the heat. On the chalcis a violent disease falls: lice that form under the gills kill many of them in great numbers. None of the other fish has any such disease. Fish are killed by mullein; and this is why some hunters catch fish in rivers and lakes by poisoning the water with this substance, while the Phoenicians do the same even with fish in the sea. Some also carry out two other kinds of fish-hunting. Because fish flee the deep parts of rivers in winter (and in any case fresh water is cold), hunters dig a trench into the river through dry ground; then, having roofed this over with brushwood and stones, they make a kind of lair, with an outlet into the river;
52| and when the water freezes over, they hunt the fish out of this lair with a wicker trap. And they carry out another kind of hunting too, alike in summer and winter: in the middle of the river they fence off an area with brushwood and stones, leaving only a mouth-like opening; into this they place a wicker trap and hunt the fish, then remove the stones. Among the shelled creatures, rainy years suit the rest well, except the purple-shellfish. Here is the sign: when a purple-shellfish is placed where a river discharges into the sea, and they taste the water, they die that very day. And the purple-shellfish, once caught, lives about fifty days. They feed on one another, for something like seaweed and moss grows on their shells. What people throw in as food for them is said, they claim, to serve the purpose of weight, so as to make them draw in more. For the other shelled creatures droughts are unfavorable: they become fewer and inferior, and the scallops turn more reddish at such times. Once, in the strait at Pyrrha, the scallops died out — not only because of the instrument with which people scraped them up in hunting them, but also because of the droughts. For the other shelled creatures too, rainy years are favorable, because the sea becomes sweeter. In the Black Sea, because of the cold, they do not occur at all, nor in the rivers, except a few of the two-shelled kind;
53| the single-shelled kind get frozen fast especially in the ice. This, then, is how matters stand concerning the water-dwelling animals. Among the quadrupeds, pigs suffer from three diseases. One of these is called quinsy, in which above all the parts about the throat and the jaws become inflamed. It can occur wherever it happens to strike on the body, for often it takes hold in the foot, and sometimes in the ear. The part next to it at once becomes putrid, until it reaches the lung — at which point the animal dies. It spreads quickly, and the animal eats nothing at all once the affliction has begun, however slight. Swineherds cure it, when they notice it while it is still small, in no other way than by cutting the whole thing out. There are two other diseases, and both are said to be called kraura: of these, one is a pain and heaviness in the head, which is what carries off most of the pigs it strikes, and the other is that the bowels run. This latter is considered incurable, while for the former they help the animal by applying wine to the nostrils and flushing the nostrils with wine. Even this one is hard to escape, for it kills within three or four days. Pigs suffer quinsy most when the summer has turned out fine and they have grown very fat; mulberries given as food help, and so does a bath, if it is copious and hot, and if one lances beneath the tongue.
54| Pigs that are moist-fleshed are prone to measles around the legs and around the neck and the shoulders — the parts in which measles also occur most. If a pig has few, its flesh is sweeter; but if many, it becomes too moist and juicy. Measly pigs are easy to detect: they have the measles especially under the tongue, and if one plucks hairs from the mane, the skin appears bloodshot. Further, measly pigs cannot keep their hind legs still. They have no measles as long as they are only sucklings. They expel the measles by rubbing themselves, which is also useful for their feeding. Chickpeas and figs are best for fattening and nourishing them, but on the whole one should not give a single kind of food but a varied one, for pigs enjoy change just as other animals do; and they say that of what is given, one kind puffs them up with wind, another builds flesh, and another fattens; that they eat acorns gladly, but acorns make the flesh moist; and that if pregnant sows eat many of them, they miscarry, as sheep also do — for sheep suffer this more conspicuously, because of acorns.
55| Of the animals we know, only the pig gets measles. Dogs suffer from three diseases: these are called rabies, quinsy, and gout. Of these, rabies produces madness, and when a rabid dog bites, everything it bites goes rabid except man; and this disease kills both the dogs themselves and anything bitten by a rabid dog, except man. Quinsy also kills dogs, and few escape from gout as well. Rabies also afflicts camels. They say elephants are immune to other ailments but are troubled by wind. Herd cattle suffer two diseases, one called gout, the other called krauros. In gout their feet swell, but they do not die, nor do they lose their hooves; they fare better if their horns are smeared with hot pitch. When they have krauros, their breath becomes hot and rapid; and what fever is in humans, krauros is in cattle. A sign of the sickness: they droop their ears and cannot eat. They die quickly, and when opened up, the lung is found to be rotten.
56| Of horses, the pastured herds are free from other ailments except gout; this they do suffer, and sometimes they shed their hooves; but when they shed one, another grows in its place at once, for the loss of one hoof occurs at the same time as the other is growing beneath it. A sign of the sickness: the right testicle twitches, or else, a little below the nostrils, midway, a hollow, wrinkled place forms. Stabled horses suffer from the most ailments. They also get colic; a sign of the sickness is that they drag their hind legs up under their forelegs and shuffle them along, so that they nearly knock them together. If a horse has gone without food for the preceding days and then becomes frantic, one helps it by bleeding it and by lancing it. They also get tetanus; a sign of this is that all the veins are drawn taut, along with the head and neck, and the horse walks with its legs held straight and stiff. Horses also develop internal abscesses. Another affliction also takes hold of them, called krithian; a sign of this sickness is that the palate becomes soft and the breath is hot. These are incurable, unless they resolve of themselves. There is also what is called being nymph-struck, in which the horse is held motionless whenever someone plays the pipe, and being downcast-eyed; and whenever someone mounts it, it trots along, until it is on the point of breaking into a run over a certain course;
57| and it is always dejected-looking, even if it should break into a wild run. A sign of this too: it lays its ears back against its mane and then stretches them forward again, and it collapses, and pants. The following are also incurable: if the horse suffers pain in the heart (a sign of this is that its flanks are hollow while it is in pain), and if the bladder is displaced (a sign of this too is being unable to urinate, and dragging its hooves and haunches). Also if it snaps up a staphylinus; this is about the size of a sphondyle. The bites of the shrew are also dangerous for the other draft animals; blisters form. The bite is more dangerous if a pregnant shrew bites; for then the blisters burst, but otherwise they do not. Biting, the creature called by some the chalkis and by others the zignis also kills or causes severe pain; it resembles the small lizards, but in color resembles the blind snakes. On the whole, experienced people say that a horse and a sheep suffer from almost all the same diseases a man does. Both a horse and every draft animal are destroyed by the poison sandarach; it is given dissolved in water and strained. A pregnant mare also miscarries at the smell of a lamp being put out; this happens to some pregnant women too. This, then, is how matters stand concerning the diseases of horses. As for what is called hippomanes, it grows, as is said, on foals, and mares lick it off and clean it away by biting it off;
58| but the further stories told about it are fabrications, made up rather by women and by those concerned with incantations. It is agreed, however, that mares also expel what is called the polion before the foal itself. Horses also recognize, on hearing it, the voice of horses they happen to have fought with. Horses delight in meadows and marshes; indeed they drink muddy water, and even when it is clean, horses stir it up with their hooves and then, having drunk, bathe in it. For the animal is altogether fond of bathing and fond of water; and this is also why the nature of the river-horse is constituted as it is. The ox is the opposite of the horse: unless the water is clean and cold and unmixed, it will not drink. Donkeys suffer especially from one disease, which they call melis. It occurs first around the head, and thick, reddish-yellow mucus runs from the nostrils; if it descends to the lung, it kills; but what stays confined to the head at first is not fatal. Of such animals, the donkey is the least able to endure cold; and that is also why donkeys are not found around the Pontus and Scythia.
59| Elephants suffer from flatulent diseases, and because of this they can pass neither their liquid residue nor that of the bowels. And if an elephant eats earth, it is weakened, unless it does so continually; but if continually, it is not harmed at all. It sometimes also swallows stones. It is also seized by diarrhea; when this happens, they treat it by giving it warm water to drink and by dipping its fodder in honey and giving it to eat, and each of these checks it. When elephants grow weary from lack of sleep, their shoulders are restored by rubbing them with salt and oil and warm water. And when an elephant's shoulders hurt, they roast pork and apply it, and this helps them. Some elephants drink oil, others do not; and if it happens that some piece of iron is lodged in the body, the oil expels it when they drink it, so they say; for those that do not drink it, they boil a root in oil and give that to them.
60| This, then, is how matters stand concerning four-footed animals. Most insects thrive in the very season in which they are also born, when the year is like spring — moist and warm. In bees' hives creatures arise that damage the combs: the little spider-like worm that damages the combs (it is called kleros, though some call it pyraustes; it lays in the comb something resembling a spider's web like itself, and it makes the hive sick), and another creature, like the moth that flies around the lamp; this one lays something full of down, and it is not stung by the bees but only flees when smoked. Caterpillars also arise in the hives, which they call teredones; the bees do not fight these off. Bees fall sick most of all when the vegetation bears blighted flowers, and in dry years. All insects die when oiled; most quickly, if one smears their head with oil and sets them in the sun.
61| Animals also differ according to their places. For just as in some places certain animals do not occur at all, so in other places they occur, but fewer and shorter-lived, and do not thrive. And sometimes the difference in such things occurs even in neighboring places, as in the territory of Miletus, in places bordering one another, in one place cicadas occur, in the other they do not; and in Cephallenia a river divides the land, on one side of which cicadas occur, on the other they do not occur. And in Pordoselene a road divides the land, on one side of which the marten occurs, on the other it does not occur. And in Boeotia moles occur in great numbers around Orchomenus, but in neighboring Lebadia there are none, nor, even if one is brought there, will they consent to dig. And in Ithaca the hares, if one brings them and lets them go, cannot live, but are found dead, turned toward the sea, in whatever direction they were brought in. And in Sicily there are no horse-ants, and in Cyrene the frogs that croak did not formerly exist. And in the whole of Libya there is neither wild boar, nor deer, nor wild goat; and in India, as Ctesias says (who is not trustworthy), there is neither wild nor tame swine, but the bloodless animals and all the burrowing creatures are large.
62| And in the Pontus neither the soft-bodied creatures nor the shelled creatures occur, except in a few places and in small numbers; but in the Red Sea all the shelled creatures grow to an enormous size. And in Syria the sheep have tails a cubit in breadth, and the goats have ears a span and a palm's-breadth long, and some let their ears hang down to the ground; and the cattle, like the camels, have manes on their shoulders. And in Lycia the goats are shorn, as sheep are among other peoples. And in Libya the horned kinds of ram grow horns straight away at birth, not only the lambs, as Homer says, but the others too; but in the Pontus around Scythia the opposite happens, for they grow up hornless. And in Egypt some animals are larger than in Greece, such as the cattle and the sheep, and some are smaller, such as the dogs and wolves and hares and foxes and ravens and hawks, and some are about the same, such as crows and goats. The cause given is their food, since for some it is abundant, for others scarce — for example for the wolves and hawks, and for the flesh-eating birds generally the supply is small,
63| for small birds are scarce; and for the hares, and for all that do not eat flesh, the cause is that there are neither nuts nor fruit lasting through the season. In many places the climate too is a cause, as in Illyria and Thrace and Epirus the donkeys are small, while in Scythia and Celtica they do not occur at all, for these regions have harsh winters. In Arabia lizards more than a cubit long occur, and mice much larger than field mice, having front legs a span long, and hind legs reaching as far as the first joint of the fingers. In Libya the size to which snakes grow is boundless, as indeed is reported; for some men say that on sailing up they have seen the bones of many cattle, which it was clear to them had been devoured by snakes; for as they were putting out to sea, the snakes quickly gave chase to the triremes, and some of them capsized a trireme and attacked those aboard. Further, lions occur more in Europe, and within Europe in the region between the Achelous and the Nessus; but leopards occur in Asia, and do not occur in Europe. In general the wild animals are wilder in Asia, and more courageous everywhere in Europe, and most varied in form in Libya;
64| and there is indeed a proverb that says, "Libya always bears something new." For on account of the lack of rain, it seems, animals not of the same kind meet and mate at the watering-places, and produce offspring from those whose periods of gestation are the same and whose sizes do not differ much from one another; and they become gentle toward one another because of their need for drink. For indeed they need to drink, contrary to other animals, more in winter than in summer; for because it is not customary for rain to fall there in summer, drinking is unfamiliar to them at that time. And the mice, whenever they do drink, die. Other kinds too arise from the mating of animals not of the same kind, just as in Cyrene the wolves mate with the dogs and produce offspring, and the Laconian hounds come from a fox and a dog. And they say that the Indian hounds come from a tiger and a dog, not straightaway but at the third mating; for they say the first offspring born is savage. When they lead the dogs, they tie them up in the wilderness, and many are devoured, unless the wild beast happens to be in heat for mating.
65| The places also make differences even in character, as animals living in mountainous and rugged country differ from those living on flat and soft ground; for they are wilder in appearance and more valiant, as with the swine on Athos, whose males will not even tolerate the females of the lowland swine. And with regard to the bites of wild creatures, regions differ greatly; for instance around Pharos and other places the scorpions are not dangerous, while in other places, and in Caria, they occur many and large and dangerous, and if they strike a man or an animal, they kill it, and they kill swine too, which are least sensitive of all animals to bites of other kinds, and among swine they kill the black ones more readily; and swine that have been struck die most quickly if they go into water. Snake bites too differ greatly. For the asp occurs in Libya, from which snake they make the poison used for putrefying, and its bite is otherwise incurable. There also occurs in silphium a certain small snake, for which there is said to be a remedy, a certain stone which men take from the tomb of an ancient king and, having dipped it in wine, drink. In certain places in Italy even the bites of geckos are fatal. Of all bites the most dangerous are those of the venomous creatures, if they happen to have eaten one another, for example a scorpion that has eaten a viper. Human spittle is hostile to most of them. There is also a certain small snake, which some call sacred, which even the very largest snakes flee; the largest it grows to is a cubit, and it is shaggy to look at; whatever it bites immediately putrefies all around. There is also in India a certain small snake for which alone they have no remedy.
66| Animals also differ in thriving or the opposite with regard to pregnancy. For the shelled creatures, such as scallops and all the oyster-like and soft-shelled crustacean kinds, are at their best when pregnant, as with the lobster-like creatures. Pregnancy is spoken of even in the case of the shelled creatures; for the soft-shelled crustaceans are seen both mating and giving birth, but none of the shelled creatures are seen doing so. The soft-bodied creatures too are at their best when pregnant, such as squid and cuttlefish and octopuses. Fish, when they first begin to be pregnant, are nearly all good to eat, but as the pregnancy advances, some remain good and some do not. The picarel, then, is good when pregnant; and the shape of the female is rounder, while the male is longer and broader; and it happens that when the female begins to be pregnant, the males take on a black and more mottled color, and are worst to eat; and around this time some call them "billy-goats." The creatures called blackbirds and thrushes, and the shrimp, also change color according to the seasons, as do some of the birds; for in spring they become black, and then after spring white again. The wrasse also changes its color; for the rest of the time it is white, but in spring it is mottled.
67| This fish alone among the sea fish makes itself a spawning-bed, as they say, and gives birth in the bed. The picarel also changes color, as has been said, and so does the smaris: from being whiter they turn dark again in summer, and this is most noticeable around the fins and gills. The corcinus, too, is best when full of roe, as is the picarel. But the grey mullet, the bass, and the rest of the free-swimming fish are almost all inferior when carrying roe. Not a few are alike whether roe-bearing or not, for example the glaucus. Old fish are also inferior, and old tunnies in particular are poor for salting, since a great part of their flesh wastes away. The same thing happens with the other fish as well. The old ones among them are recognizable by the size of their scales and by their hardness. An old tunny has actually been caught whose weight was fifteen talents, and the span of its tail was five cubits and a span. River fish and lake fish are best after they have shed their spawn and milt, once they have built themselves back up; some are good while carrying roe, such as the saperdis, others poor, such as the sheatfish. Now in all the other fish the males are better than the females, but in the sheatfish the female is better than the male.
1| And among eels too, those they call 'females' are the better ones; but they are not actually females—people call them that, though they differ only in appearance. The characters of animals are less apparent to us through perception in the case of the more obscure and shorter-lived kinds, and more apparent in the longer-lived ones. For they show a certain natural capacity with respect to each of the affections of the soul—with respect to practical wisdom and good nature, courage and cowardice, gentleness and harshness, and the other states of this kind. Some also share, to some degree, in both learning and being taught—some from one another, others from human beings as well—namely all those that have some share of hearing, and this not only with respect to sounds but also as many as can perceive differences among signs. In all the kinds that have a female and a male, nature has, in much the same way, set the character of the females apart from that of the males. This is most evident in human beings, in the animals of some size, and in the live-bearing quadrupeds; for the character of the females is softer, they are tamed more quickly, they accept the hand more readily, and they are more apt to learn—for example, the female Laconian dogs are better-natured than the males. As for the breed of dogs in Molossia, the hunting kind does not differ at all from the kind found among other peoples, but the kind that follows the flocks is distinguished by its size and by its courage against wild beasts.
2| Those bred from both stocks—from the dogs found in Molossia and from the Laconian dogs—excel in courage and in willingness to work. All females are less spirited than the males, except in the case of the bear and the leopard; in these the female is thought to be more courageous. In the other kinds the females are softer, more given to mischief, less straightforward, more impulsive, and more attentive to the rearing of their young, while the males, on the contrary, are more spirited, wilder, more straightforward, and less scheming. Traces of these characters exist in almost all animals, so to speak, but they are more evident in those that possess more character, and most of all in man; for man has his nature most fully realized, so that these states too are more evident in him. That is why woman is more compassionate than man and more given to tears, and also more envious, more prone to complain, more given to abuse, and more prone to despair; and the female is more shameless and more given to falsehood, but more easily deceived and more retentive in memory; further, the female is more wakeful, more reluctant to act, and altogether more given to inactivity than the male, and requires less food. The male, as has been said, is readier to come to help and more courageous than the female, since even among the soft-bodied sea creatures, when the cuttlefish is struck by the three-pronged spear, the male comes to the female's aid, while the female flees when the male is the one struck.
3| There is war, then, between animals wherever they occupy the same places and get their living from the same sources; for if food is scarce, animals of the same kind fight one another too, since they say that seals living around the same place fight one another, male against male and female against female, until one kills the other or is driven off by it; and all their cubs do likewise. Further, all animals are at war with the flesh-eaters, and these in turn are at war with the others, since their food comes from the other animals. This is also why diviners take note of birds sitting apart and birds sitting together, counting as 'apart' those that are hostile to one another, and as 'together' those that are at peace with one another. It is likely that, if food were abundant, the animals that now fear and turn savage toward human beings would behave tamely toward them, and toward one another in the same way. The care given to animals in Egypt makes this clear; for because food is available there and they are not at a loss for it, even the wildest animals live together with one another, since they are tamed by the benefits they receive—for example, in some places the crocodile is tame toward its priest, because of the care taken over feeding it.
4| This same thing can be seen happening in other regions too, and in parts of these regions. The eagle and the serpent are enemies, for the eagle makes snakes its food. So too the ichneumon and the venomous spider, for the ichneumon hunts these spiders. Among birds, the spotted warblers, the larks, the piper-bird, and the greenfinch are enemies, for they eat one another's eggs. So too the crow and the owl: the crow, at midday, because the owl does not see sharply by day, snatches and eats its eggs, while the owl at night eats the crow's eggs, so that the one has the advantage by day and the other by night. The owl and the wren are also enemies, for the wren too eats the owl's eggs. By day the other small birds also fly around the owl—this is called 'mobbing'—and, swooping in, pluck at it; that is why fowlers use the owl to catch small birds of every kind. The bird called the presbys is also at war with both the weasel and the crow, for they eat its eggs and its young. So too the turtledove and the pyrallis, for their feeding-ground and way of life are the same. So too the celeus and the libyus. The kite and the raven are enemies too;
5| for the kite snatches away from the raven whatever it has, since it is superior in claws and in flight, so that food makes enemies of these two as well. Further, those that live off the sea are enemies to one another, for example the brenthus, the gull, and the harpe. The buzzard is an enemy of both the toad and the snake, for the buzzard eats them. The turtledove and the greenfinch are enemies, for the greenfinch kills the turtledove, and the crow kills the bird called the typanon. The horned owl and the other hook-clawed birds eat the calaris, which is why they are at war with it. There is also war between the gecko and the spider, for the gecko eats spiders. So too between the pipo and the heron, for the pipo eats the heron's eggs and its young. There is war between the aegithus and the donkey, because the donkey, in passing, rubs its sores against the thorn-bushes; for this reason, and also if it brays, it throws the eggs and the chicks out of the nest, since they fall out in fright; and because of this harm the bird flies at the donkey and pecks at its sores. The wolf is an enemy of the donkey, the bull, and the fox, for being a flesh-eater it attacks cattle, donkeys, and the fox. The fox and the circus-hawk are enemies for the same reason;
6| For being hook-clawed and a raw-flesh-eater, it attacks and makes wounds by striking. The crow, too, is an enemy to the bull and the ass, flying at them and pecking at their eyes. The eagle and the heron are also at war: the eagle, being hook-clawed, attacks, and the heron dies defending itself. The merlin is an enemy to the vulture, and the crake to the marsh-bird, the blackbird, and the golden oriole, which some tell a story of as having come from a funeral pyre; for the crake harms these birds and their young. The nuthatch and the wren are enemies to the eagle; for the nuthatch breaks the eagle's eggs, and the eagle, both for this reason and because it is a raw-flesh-eater, is at war with all. The 'anthus' is an enemy to the horse, for the horse drives it from its pasture, since the anthus feeds on grass, and it is dim of eye and not sharp-sighted; for it mimics the horse's voice and frightens it by flying at it and drives it off, but when it catches it, it kills it. The anthus lives by rivers and marshes, has a beautiful color, and is a good survivor. The ass is an enemy to the wall-lizard, for the lizard sleeps in the ass's manger and stops it from eating by crawling into its nostrils. Of herons there are three kinds: the dusky, the white, and the one called the star-heron.
7| Of these, the dusky heron mates and lays with difficulty; for it screams and, as they say, releases blood from its eyes while mating, and it gives birth badly and painfully. It makes war on those that harm it: the eagle (for it seizes it), the fox (for it destroys it by night), and the lark (for it steals its eggs). The snake is an enemy to the weasel and to the pig — to the weasel, when both live about the same house, since they live off the same things; and the pig eats snakes. The merlin, too, is an enemy to the fox; for it strikes and plucks it, and kills its young, since it is hook-clawed. The crow and the fox are friends to one another; for the crow makes war on the merlin, and so it comes to the fox's aid when the fox is being struck. The vulture and the merlin are also enemies to each other, for both are hook-clawed. The vulture and the swan also fight the eagle; and the swan often prevails. Swans, moreover, are the most given of birds to devouring one another. Among wild animals, some are always at war with one another, others, like men, only when it happens so. The ass and the linnets are enemies; for the linnets live off thistles, and the ass, while the thistles are still tender, eats them up. And the anthus, the linnet, and the titmouse are also enemies —
8| for it is said that the blood of the titmouse and of the anthus will not mix with one another. The crow and the heron are friends, as are the reed-warbler and the lark, and the rock-dove and the green woodpecker; for the green woodpecker lives by rivers and in thickets, while the rock-dove lives among rocks and mountains, and each is fond of the place it inhabits. The bee-eater, the hawk, and the kite are friends, as are the fox and the snake (for both are burrow-dwellers), and the blackbird and the turtledove. The lion and the jackal are enemies to one another; for being raw-flesh-eaters, they live off the same things. Elephants, too, fight violently with one another, and strike each other with their tusks; and the one that is beaten becomes thoroughly enslaved and cannot bear the voice of the victor. Elephants differ from one another in courage to an astonishing degree. The Indians use war-elephants, both males and females alike; the females, however, are smaller and much less spirited. The elephant knocks down walls by charging with its great tusks; palm trees it fells with its forehead, until it lays them down, and then, treading on them with its feet, stretches them out on the ground. The hunting of elephants is carried out as follows: mounting certain tame and courageous elephants, men chase the wild ones, and when they overtake them, they order the tame ones to strike, until the wild ones are exhausted;
9| then the elephant-driver leaps upon it and controls it with a curved blade. Quickly after this it becomes tame and obedient. So long as the elephant-driver is mounted, all elephants are gentle, but when he dismounts, some are and some are not; those that turn wild have their forelegs bound with ropes, so that they stay quiet. Hunting takes place both when the elephants are already grown and when they are still foals. The friendships and wars among these animals, then, come about on account of their food and their manner of life.
10| Of fish, some flock together with one another and are friends, while those that do not flock together are enemies. Some flock together when pregnant, others when they have given birth. In general the following are schooling fish: tunny, sprats, gobies, boops, horse-mackerel, corax-fish, dentex, red mullet, barracuda, anthias, elegini, sand-smelt, sargue, garfish, squid, rainbow-wrasse, pelamyds, mackerel, chub-mackerel. Some of these are not only schooling but also pair-bonding; for the rest all pair off, but form schools only at certain seasons, as has been said, when they are pregnant, and some also when they have given birth. The bass and the grey mullet, though most hostile to one another, at certain seasons flock together with one another; for often not only fish of the same kind school together, but also those that share the same or a similar feeding-ground, if it is not in short supply. Mullets often live with their tails bitten off, and conger-eels up to the vent through which waste passes; the mullet is eaten by the bass, the conger by the moray eel. War exists between the stronger and the weaker; for the stronger devours. So much, then, for the creatures of the sea.
11| The characters of animals, as has been said before, differ in cowardice and gentleness, courage and tameness, and in intelligence and lack of intelligence. The character of sheep, as is said, is simple-minded and foolish; for it is the worst of all four-footed animals, and it wanders off into desolate places for no reason, and often, when it is winter, it goes out from shelter, and when caught by a snowstorm, if the shepherd does not stir them, they will not go back, but perish where they are left, unless the shepherds bring in the rams; then they follow. Among goats, when someone takes hold of the tip of one goat's chin-tuft (a thing like a hair), the others stand as if stupefied, staring at that one. Sheep are colder for sleeping-purposes than goats; for goats keep stiller and come closer to people, yet goats are more sensitive to cold than sheep. Shepherds teach their sheep to run together when there is a noise; for if, when thunder sounds, one is left behind and does not run with the rest, it miscarries, if it happens to be pregnant; hence, if there is a noise, they run together in the fold out of habit. Bulls, too, perish when, having strayed from the herd in disgrace, they wander off alone, killed by wild beasts. Sheep and goats lie down in a huddle by kinship; and when the sun turns toward setting, shepherds say the goats no longer lie facing one another, but turned away from each other.
12| Cattle graze in companies and by habitual association, and if one strays off, the others follow; hence herdsmen, if they fail to find one, at once search for all of them. Among horses, when one of a pair that graze together dies, the survivor raises the other's foal along with its own. And in general the horse's kind seems by nature to be affectionate. Here is a sign of it: barren mares, when their foals are taken from their mothers, often come to love them themselves, but because they have no milk, they destroy them.
13| Among the wild four-footed animals, the deer seems to be not the least intelligent, both because it gives birth beside roads (for the wild beasts do not approach on account of the presence of men), and because, once it has given birth, it eats the afterbirth first. And the deer also run to the plant seselis, and after eating it they come back to their young in this way. Further, the mother leads the young to their stations, accustoming them to the place where they must make their escapes; this is a broken-off rock with a single entrance, where in fact they say the deer will even stand its ground and defend itself. Further, when the male becomes fat (and he grows very fat when the fruit season is on), he makes himself visible nowhere but goes off to remote places, since because of his fatness he is easy to catch. They also shed their antlers in difficult and hard-to-find places; hence the proverb has arisen, "where the deer shed their antlers"; for just as if they had thrown away their weapons, they take care not to be seen. And it is said that no one has ever yet seen the left antler; for they hide it, since it is supposed to have some medicinal power. Now the yearlings do not grow antlers, except a kind of beginning, as it were, for a mark; and this is short and shaggy. In their second year they first grow their antlers straight, like stakes;
14| hence at that stage they are also called "stake-bearers." In the third year they grow a forked antler, and in the fourth a rougher one; and in this manner they continue to increase up to six years. After this they always grow similar antlers, so that one can no longer tell their age from the antlers, but people recognize the old ones especially by two signs: some have no teeth and others have few, and they no longer grow their "defenders." The parts of the growing antlers that bend forward are called "defenders," with which the animal wards off attack; the old ones do not have these, but the growth of their antlers goes straight up instead. They shed their antlers every year, and they shed them around the month Thargelion. When they have shed them, they hide themselves during the day, as has been said; they hide in thickets, being wary of flies. During this time they graze by night, until they grow their antlers out again. The antler first grows as though within a skin, and it is shaggy; but when it has grown, they sun themselves, so as to ripen and dry out the antler. And when they no longer feel it painful to rub the antlers against the trees, then they leave these places, because they are now confident, having something with which to defend themselves.
15| Before now a stag of the achaines kind has been caught with a great deal of green ivy grown on its antlers, as though the antlers, being soft, had grown into it as into green wood. When deer are bitten by a phalangion or some such creature, they gather crabs and eat them; and it is thought good for a man too to drink a preparation of this, but it is unpleasant. When female deer give birth, they immediately eat up the afterbirth, and it is not possible to get hold of it; for before they let it fall to the ground, they themselves seize it; and this is thought to be a medicine. Deer are caught in hunting by whistling and singing, and they lie down under the spell of the pleasure. When there are two hunters, one openly sings or whistles, while the other shoots from behind, when this one gives the signal for the right moment. Now if it happens that the deer's ears are pricked up, it hears sharply and cannot be caught unawares; but if it happens to have them lowered, it is caught off guard.
16| Bears, when they flee, push their cubs on ahead and, catching them up, carry them; but when they are being overtaken, they leap up into the trees. And when they come out of their den, they first eat the plant arum, as has been said before, and they gnaw wood as though they were cutting new teeth. Many of the other four-footed animals too act intelligently for their own help, since in Crete they say the wild goats, when they have been shot with an arrow, seek out dittany; for this is thought to be effective at expelling arrows lodged in the body. And dogs too, when they are in some distress, induce vomiting by eating a certain grass. The leopard, when it has eaten the poison called leopard's-bane, seeks out human dung; for this helps it. This same poison also destroys lions. Hence hunters hang the dung in a vessel from a tree, so that the animal will not go far away; for the leopard, leaping up at it again and again in hope of getting it, dies on the spot. It is also said that the leopard, having observed that wild animals delight in its scent, hides itself and hunts by that means; for they come close to it, and it catches even deer in this way. The mongoose in Egypt, when it sees the snake called the asp, does not attack it until it has called together other helpers;
17| and against blows and bites they plaster themselves with mud; for having first wetted themselves in water, they then roll in the earth. When crocodiles gape open their mouths, the plover-birds fly in and clean their teeth; they thereby get food for themselves, and the crocodile, benefiting, is aware of it and does it no harm, but when it wants to close its mouth, it moves its neck first, so as not to bite the bird along with it. The tortoise, when it has eaten a viper, eats marjoram afterward; and this has been observed. Indeed someone, having seen it do this many times, once, when it went off again to get some marjoram to go back to the viper, plucked out the marjoram; and when this happened, the tortoise died. The weasel, when it does battle with a snake, eats rue beforehand; for the smell is hostile to snakes. The dragon-serpent, when it eats fruit in season, sips up the juice of wild lettuce, and it has been seen doing this. Dogs, when they have worms, eat the standing wheat crop. Storks and other birds, when they get wounded in fighting, apply marjoram to the wound. Many have also seen the locust, when it fights with snakes, seize the snake by the neck. The weasel, too, seems to master birds by cunning;
18| for it slaughters them just as wolves do sheep. And it fights especially with the snakes that are mouse-hunters, because this creature itself hunts the same prey. Concerning the perception of hedgehogs, it has been widely observed that when north winds shift to south winds, those living in the ground change the openings of their burrows, and those kept in houses shift to a different side of the wall; so that in Byzantium, it is said, a certain man got a reputation for prediction from having observed the hedgehog doing this. The ferret is about the size of the small Maltese lap-dogs, and in its shagginess, its appearance, the white patch underneath, and the maliciousness of its character it resembles the weasel, and it becomes quite tame, though it does mischief to beehives, for it delights in honey. It is also a bird-eater, like cats. Its male member, as has been said, contains a bone, and this, from the male, is thought to be a medicine for strangury; they administer it by scraping shavings from it.
19| In general, one could observe many imitations of human life in the ways of living of the other animals, and one might see the precision of their thinking more in the lesser creatures than in the greater; for example, first among birds, the nest-building of the swallow. For in the way it mixes chaff with mud, it follows the very same procedure as men do. It weaves mud together with straws; and if it lacks mud, it wets itself and rolls its feathers in the dust. Further, it makes its bedding just as men do, laying the hard materials down first and making the whole proportionate in size to itself. Both parents work hard over feeding the young; each gives food to the young in turn, keeping track by some regular habit of which one has already received, so that no one gets fed twice. And at first the parents themselves remove the droppings, but when the young have grown, they teach the chicks to turn around and eject them outside the nest. Concerning pigeons there are other facts of this same kind to observe; for they are unwilling to mate with more than one partner, nor do they abandon the partnership first, except when one becomes widowed. Further, in labor the male's attentiveness and shared distress are remarkable; if the female becomes too weak to enter the nest on account of the difficult labor, he strikes her and forces her to go in.
20| When the chicks are hatched, he chews earth that is as salty as possible and spits it into the chicks, opening their mouth, preparing them beforehand for feeding. When he is about to lead them out of the nest, the male mounts them all. So for the most part they are attached to each other in this way, but sometimes some of those that have males also mate on the side. The creature is combative, and they trouble one another, and they slip into each other's nests, though rarely; for even if this happens less at a distance, near the nest itself they fight to the utmost. It seems peculiar to pigeons, and to ring-doves and turtle-doves, that they do not lift their heads while drinking, unless they have drunk their fill. The turtle-dove and the ring-dove keep the same male, and will not accept another; and both the male and the female sit on the eggs. It is not easy to distinguish the female from the male, except by the internal parts. Ring-doves live a long time; some have been observed at twenty years, some at thirty-five, and some even at forty years. As they grow older their claws grow long; but those who keep them cut them off. In no other way are they visibly harmed as they age.
21| Turtle-doves and pigeons that have been blinded by those who keep them as decoys also live as long as eight years. Partridges live about fifteen years. Both wood-pigeons and turtle-doves always nest in the same places. In general the males live longer than the females, but among these birds some say that the males die before the females, judging from the decoy-birds kept in households. Some also say that among sparrows the males live only one year, taking as their evidence that in spring the birds are not seen with black markings around the beak right away, but acquire them later, as though none of the earlier ones had survived. They say the females of sparrows are longer-lived than the males; for these are caught while still young, and are recognizable by having hard skin around the beak. Turtle-doves spend the summer in cold regions and the winter in warm ones, while finches spend the summer in warm regions and the winter in cold ones.
22| The heavy birds do not build nests (for this does not suit birds that are poor fliers), such as quails and partridges and the other birds of this kind; but when they have made a dust-bath on level ground (for it lays in no other kind of place), sheltering behind some thorn-bush or brushwood for protection against hawks and eagles, there they lay and sit on their eggs. Then, as soon as they have hatched, they lead the chicks out at once, because they cannot supply them with food by flying. Both quails and partridges shelter their chicks under themselves as they lead them about, just as hens do. And they do not lay and sit on the eggs in the same spot, so that no one may notice the place by their sitting there too long. When a hunter comes upon the nest, the partridge rolls about in front of the hunter as though she were easily caught, and draws him on as if he were about to catch her, until each of the chicks has made its escape; after this she flies up herself and calls them back again. The partridge lays not fewer than ten eggs, and often sixteen; as has been said, the bird is malicious and cunning. In spring they separate out from the flock in pairs by singing and fighting, each taking whatever female he wins.
23| Because they are lustful, so that the female may not sit on the eggs, the males roll the eggs about and break them, if they find them; but the female, contriving against this, runs off to lay, and often, because she is impatient to lay, drops the eggs wherever she happens to be, if the male is not present; and so that they may be kept safe all together, she does not go near them afterward. And if she is seen by a man, just as with the chicks, so too she leads him away from the eggs, appearing before the man's feet, until she has drawn him off. When she has slipped away and is sitting on the eggs, the males cry out and come together and fight; these birds are called 'widowers.' The one defeated in the fight follows the winner, and is mounted by him alone. And if one is overpowered by the second-ranked bird, or by whichever bird it may be, he too is mounted in secret by the strongest one. This does not happen always, but at a certain season of the year; and the same is true of quails. Sometimes this also happens among roosters; for in temples, where roosters are kept dedicated without hens, all the others naturally mount the newly dedicated one. And among partridges, the tame ones mount the wild partridges, and taunt them, and abuse them. The leader of the wild partridges rushes at the decoy partridge, singing back at it as though about to fight.
24| When this one has been caught in the nets, another comes forward in turn, singing back in the same way. So if the decoy doing the hunting is a male, this is what happens; but if the decoy hunting is a female and singing, and the leader sings back to her, the other males gather together and strike him and drive him away from the female, because he is going to her and not to them. So often, because of this, he approaches in silence, so that another, hearing his voice, will not come to fight him. Those experienced in this say that sometimes, when the male is approaching, the female quiets him down, so that he will not be forced to fight the other males if they hear him. The partridge does not only sing, but also gives out a squeaking sound and other cries. Often, too, the female sitting on her eggs gets up when she perceives that the male is paying attention to the decoy female that is hunting, and she sings back and waits, so that she may be mounted and draw him away from the huntress. Partridges and quails are so violently excited about mating that they fall right upon the hunters, and often perch on their heads. Such, then, are the things that happen with regard to the mating and hunting of partridges, and with regard to the rest of their cunning character. Both quails and partridges nest on the ground, as has been said, and so do some of the other flying birds.
25| Further, among such birds, the lark, the woodcock, and the quail do not perch on trees, but on the ground, while the woodpecker does not perch on the ground; it pecks at oaks for the sake of the grubs and gnats, so that they may come out. For it picks them up with its tongue once they have come out; and its tongue is broad and large. And it moves quickly on trees in every way, even upside down, like geckos. It also has claws better formed than a jackdaw's for the security of its perch on trees; for it moves by fixing these into the bark. There is one kind of woodpecker smaller than a blackbird, which has small reddish markings, and another kind larger than a blackbird. The third kind of them is not much smaller than a hen. It nests in trees, as has been said, both in other trees and in olive trees. It feeds on ants and on the grubs found in trees. In hunting for the grubs, they say, it hollows out the wood so violently that it brings the trees down. And a tamed one has already been observed to put an almond into a crack in a piece of wood, so that once fitted in it would hold still for its blows, and on the third blow it split it open and ate the soft part.
26| Many intelligent things also seem to happen with cranes; for they migrate over great distances, and fly high up so as to see far ahead, and if they see clouds and stormy weather, they fly down and stay still. Further, they have a leader, and birds calling out at the rear, so that the call can be heard throughout the flock. When they settle down, the rest sleep with their heads tucked under a wing, standing on one foot in turn, but the leader, keeping his head bare, keeps watch ahead, and when he perceives something, he signals by crying out. Pelicans that live on rivers swallow large, smooth shellfish; and when they have partly digested them in the region just before the stomach, they vomit them up, so that once the shells gape open they can pull out the flesh and eat it.
27| Among wild birds, both their dwellings are contrived with a view to their ways of life and the safety of their young. Some of them are prolific and careful of their young, others the opposite, and some are resourceful as regards their livelihood, others less resourceful. As for their dwellings, some make them around ravines and holes and rocks, for instance the bird called the charadrios. The charadrios is poor both in color and in voice; it appears by night, but hides by day. The hawk too nests on sheer cliffs; and though it eats raw flesh, of whatever birds it overpowers it does not eat the heart. This some have observed both in the case of the quail and of the thrush, and others in the case of other birds. Further, hawks also change their habits in hunting; for they do not seize prey in the same way in summer. Of the vulture it is said by some that no one has ever seen either a chick or a nest. For this reason Herodorus, father of Bryson the sophist, said that the vulture itself comes from some other land, high up and far off, citing as evidence for this both the fact that many appear suddenly, while it is clear to no one where from. The cause of this is that it lays its eggs on inaccessible rocks; and the bird is not native to many places. It lays one egg, or two at most. Some birds live in the mountains and the woods, for instance the hoopoe and the brenthos; this bird thrives well and is a songbird. The trochilus lives both in thickets and in holes; it is hard to catch and elusive, and weak in disposition, but thrives well and is skillful. It is called "elder" and "king"; for this reason they say the eagle makes war on it.
28| There are some birds that live by the sea, for instance the kinklos. In character the kinklos is cunning and hard to hunt, but once caught, it is very tame. It also happens to be crippled; for it has no control over its hindparts. All the web-footed birds live by the sea and rivers and lakes; for nature itself seeks what is suitable. Many of the split-footed birds also live around waters and marshes, for instance the anthos near rivers; it has a beautiful color and thrives well. The catarractes lives by the sea, and when it plunges itself into the deep, it stays under no less time than it would take someone to cover a plethron; the bird is smaller than a hawk. Swans too are among the web-footed birds, and they live around lakes and marshes; they thrive well, are good-natured, prolific, and live to a good old age, and if the eagle starts a fight, they defend themselves and win, though they themselves never start the fight. They are songbirds, and they sing most of all around the time of their death; for they fly out even onto the open sea, and some who were sailing along Libya have come upon many of them at sea singing with a mournful voice, and they saw some of these dying.
29| The kymindis appears rarely (for it lives in the mountains); it is black, and the size of the hawk called the "pigeon-killer," and in shape long and slender. The Ionians call it kymindis; Homer too mentions it in the Iliad, saying the gods call it chalkis, but men call it kymindis. The hybris — some say this is the same bird as the ptynx — appears by day, since it does not see sharply, but hunts by night, as eagles do. And they fight against the eagle so fiercely that both are often caught alive by shepherds. It lays two eggs, and this bird too nests in rocks and caves. Cranes too are so fiercely combative toward one another that they are even caught while fighting, for they hold their ground. The crane lays two eggs.
30| The jay changes its calls very often (for it lets out, so to speak, a different one each day), and it lays about nine eggs; it builds its nest in trees out of hair and wool. When acorns run short, it hides them away and stores them. Now concerning storks, that they are fed in return by their young, this is repeated by many people. Some say that bee-eaters do this same thing too, and are fed in return by their offspring not only when they grow old but immediately, as soon as the offspring are able; and the father and the mother stay inside. As for the appearance of the bird's feathers, those underneath are yellowish, those above are dark blue like the kingfisher's, and those at the tips of the wings are red. It lays about six or seven eggs toward late summer, in soft cliffs, and it burrows in as much as four cubits. The bird called the chloris, because its underparts are yellowish, is about the size of a lark, and lays four or five eggs; it makes its nest by pulling up comfrey by the root, and lays down hair and wool as bedding underneath. The blackbird and the jay do this same thing too, and make the inside of the nest out of these materials. The nest of the akanthyllis is also skillfully made; for it is woven like a ball of linen, with a small entrance. People from those regions also say that the "cinnamon bird" exists, and that this bird brings what is called cinnamon from somewhere and makes its nest out of it. It nests on tall trees and among the branches of the trees; but the natives, attaching lead to their arrows, shoot the nests down, and in this way gather the cinnamon from the debris.
31| The kingfisher is not much bigger than a sparrow, and its color is dark blue, green, and somewhat purple. The whole body is colored this way in a mixed fashion, both the wings and the parts around the neck, the colors not being separate each on its own. The beak is somewhat greenish, but long and slender. Such then is its appearance; its nest resembles the sea-balls and the so-called "sea-scum," except in color; the nests have a somewhat reddish color, and their shape is similar to gourds that have long necks. Their size is greater than that of the largest sponge; for some are bigger and some smaller. They are enclosed, and have a considerable amount both of solid material and of hollow space. It is not quickly cut through when struck with a sharp iron tool, but when struck and at the same time broken apart by the hands, it shatters in a lump, like the sea-scum. The opening is narrow, just enough for a small entrance, so that not even if the sea should turn it over does water get in. Its hollow parts are similar to those of sponges. It is a puzzle out of what material it builds the nest, but it seems most likely to be out of the spines of the belonē; for it lives on a diet of fish. It also goes up rivers. It lays about five eggs at most. It breeds throughout its life, and begins at four months old.
32| The hoopoe builds its nest mostly out of human dung. It changes its appearance in summer and winter, as do most of the other wild birds too. The aigithalos lays a very great number of eggs, as they say. Some say that the bird called the melankoryphos lays the most eggs after the ostrich in Libya; it has been observed with as many as seventeen, but it lays even more than twenty. It always lays an odd number, as they say. This bird too nests in trees, and feeds on grubs. A peculiarity of this bird and of the nightingale, as against the other birds, is that they do not have the pointed part of the tongue. The aigithos thrives well and is prolific, but it is lame in the foot. The chlorion is good at learning and resourceful in gaining its livelihood, but a poor flier, and has an unattractive color. The elea, like some other birds, thrives well, and in summer it perches in a place sheltered from the wind and shaded, but in winter in a sunny and sheltered spot, among the reeds around the marshes. It is small in size, but has a good voice. And the bird called the gnaphalos also has a good voice and is beautiful in color, and resourceful, and handsome in appearance. It seems to be a foreign bird; for it rarely appears in places that are not its own.
33| The corncrake is combative in character, and resourceful in intelligence as regards its livelihood, but otherwise an ill-fated bird. The bird called the nuthatch is combative in character, and quick-witted, skillful, and good at making a living, and it is said to be a sorceress, because it is so knowing; it is also prolific and raises its young well, and it lives by pecking at wood. The little owl called the aigolios is a night-forager and rarely appears by day; it too lives among rocks and caves, for it is dithallos (of doubtful sense), and in intelligence it is good at making a living and resourceful. There is a certain small bird called the treecreeper: it is bold in character, and lives around trees, and feeds on woodworms, and in intelligence is good at making a living, and it has a bright voice. The linnets have a poor livelihood and a poor color, but they do have a clear, ringing voice.
34| Of the herons, the black heron, as has been said, mates only with difficulty, but is resourceful, brings food to its mate, and is a good hunter, and it works during the day; its color, however, is poor and its belly is always wet. Of the remaining two (for there are three kinds of them), the white heron has a fine color, mates without harm, and nests and lays well up in trees, feeding in marshes, lakes, plains, and meadows. The one called the starry heron, the ocnos, is fabled to have arisen long ago from slaves, and true to its name is the most sluggish of them. Such, then, is the manner of life of the herons; but the bird called the phoyx has a peculiarity beside the rest, for it is the greatest eye-eater among the birds. It is an enemy to the harrier-hawk, for that bird too lives in a similar way. Of blackbirds there are two kinds: one is black and found everywhere, the other is whitish, equal to the first in size, and with a voice much like it; this one is found at Cyllene in Arcadia, and nowhere else. Of these, the one called the laios is like the black blackbird, though slightly smaller in size; it makes its haunts on rocks and on roof-tiles, and its beak is not red as the blackbird's is.
35| There are three kinds of thrush: one eats mistletoe, feeding on nothing but mistletoe-berries and resin, and is about the size of a jay. Another is the trichas; it has a sharp cry, and is about the size of a blackbird. Another, which some call the iliad-thrush, is the smallest of these and less variegated in color. There is a certain rock-dwelling bird whose name is the cyanos; this bird is found chiefly on Nisyros, and makes its haunts on the rocks. In size it is smaller than a blackbird but a little larger than a finch. It has large feet, and climbs up the rocks. It is entirely blue; its beak is thin and long, and its legs are short, like those of the woodpecker. The golden oriole is entirely yellow-green; it is not seen in winter, but becomes especially visible around the summer solstice, and departs when Arcturus rises. In size it is about that of a turtledove. The soft-headed bird always settles in the same spot, and is caught there. In appearance it has a large, thick-set head, and is a little smaller than a thrush; its mouth is stout, small, and round; its color is entirely ash-gray; it has good feet but poor plumage. It is caught chiefly using owls as decoys.
36| There is also the pardalos. This bird is for the most part gregarious, and is not seen singly; its color is entirely ash-gray, its size close to those just mentioned, it has good feet and is not poor in plumage, and its voice is loud and not deep. The kollyrion eats the same things as the blackbird; its size too is the same as those mentioned before; it is caught chiefly in winter. All these birds are visible throughout every season. Further, there are those accustomed to live especially about cities, the raven and the crow; for these too are always visible, and do not shift their locations nor go into hiding. There are three kinds of jackdaw: one is the korakias; this is as large as a crow, and red-billed; another is the one called the wolf-jackdaw; and further the small one, the buffoon-jackdaw. There is also another kind of jackdaw around Lydia and Phrygia, which is web-footed. There are two kinds of lark: one lives on the ground and has a crest, the other is gregarious and does not scatter as the first does, though it has a color similar to the other's, but is smaller in size; it has no crest, and is eaten.
37| The woodcock is caught in gardens with snares; it is about the size of a hen, its beak is long, its color like the francolin's; it runs fast, and is fairly tame toward humans. The starling is variegated in color, and is about the size of a blackbird. The ibises in Egypt are of two kinds, some of them white, others black. In the rest of Egypt the white ones are found, except that they do not occur at Pelusium; the black ones are not found in the rest of Egypt, but are found at Pelusium. Of scops owls, some are present at every season without fail, and are called ever-scops, and are not eaten because they are inedible; others appear occasionally in autumn, showing themselves for a day or two at most, and are edible and highly prized. They differ from the so-called ever-scops in almost nothing else, one might say, except in plumpness; and these are voiceless, while the others utter sounds. As for their origin, nothing has been observed, except that they appear with the west winds; this much is plain.
38| The cuckoo, as has been said elsewhere, builds no nest of its own, but lays in the nests of other birds, chiefly those of the ring-dove and of the hypolais and the lark on the ground, but on a tree in the nest of the bird called the chloris. It lays one egg, and does not brood it itself, but the bird in whose nest it has laid hatches it out and rears it, and, as they say, when the cuckoo's chick grows, it throws out the other's own chicks, and so they perish. Others say that the foster-mother herself kills her own chicks and gives them to the cuckoo-chick to eat, because, on account of the cuckoo-chick's fine appearance, she rejects her own. Now most of these facts are agreed upon by people who have themselves been eyewitnesses; but about the destruction of the bird's own chicks not everyone speaks the same way — some say that the cuckoo itself comes and eats up the chicks of the bird that took it in, others that because the cuckoo's chick is larger, it snatches up the food brought to the nest before the others can get it, so that the other chicks die of starvation, and others say that, being stronger, it kills them as it grows up with them. The cuckoo seems to manage its breeding shrewdly: because it is aware of its own cowardice, and that it would be unable to defend its young, for this reason it makes its own chicks, as it were, foundlings placed with others, so that they may survive. For this bird exceeds all others in cowardice: it is plucked at by the little birds, and flees from them.
39| As for the footless birds, which some call kupseloi (swifts), it has been said earlier that they resemble swallows; for it is not easy to tell one from the swallow, except that the swift has a shaggy leg. These build their nests in long clay structures molded just wide enough for entry. They make their nests in a sheltered spot, under rocks and in caves, so as to escape both wild animals and men. The bird called the aigothelas (goatsucker) is a mountain bird, in size a little bigger than a blackbird, smaller than a cuckoo. It lays two eggs, or three at most, and its character is sluggish. It sucks the milk of goats by flying up to them, and this is where it gets its name; and they say that after it has sucked the udder, the udder dries up and the goat goes blind. It is not sharp-sighted by day, but sees by night. Crows in small territories, and wherever there is not enough food for more, produce only two young; and when their own chicks are already able to fly, they first drive them out, and later chase them out of the area entirely. The crow lays as many as four or five eggs. Around the time when the guest-friends of Medius perished at Pharsalus, there was a total absence of crows in the region around Athens and the Peloponnese, as though they had some perception of what was being reported among one another.
40| Of eagles there are several kinds. One is the so-called pygargos (white-tail); this one is found on the plains and in groves and around cities; some call it the neubrophonos (fawn-killer). It flies also into the mountains and into the woodland, because of its boldness; the remaining kinds seldom visit plains and groves. Another kind of eagle is the one called the plangos, second in size and strength; it lives in ravines, glens, and by lakes, and is also called the nettophonos (duck-killer) and the morphnos; Homer mentions this one in the passage on Priam's departure. Another is black in color and smallest in size, but the strongest of these; this one lives in mountains and woodlands, and is called the melanaetos (black eagle) and the lagophonos (hare-killer). This is the only one that fully rears and leads out its young. It is swift-striking, resourceful, ungrudging, fearless, warlike, and of good omen; for it neither whines nor screeches. There is yet another kind, the perknopteros: white-headed, largest in size, with very short wings and an elongated rump, resembling a vulture; it is called the oreipelargos (mountain-stork) and the hypaetos (sub-eagle). It lives in groves, having the same faults as the others but none of their good qualities; for it is caught and chased off by crows and by the rest.
41| For it is heavy and lives miserably, feeds on carrion, and is always hungry and cries out and whines. There is another kind of eagle, the so-called sea-eagles (haliaetoi). These have a large, thick neck and curved wings, and a broad rump; they live around the sea and shores, and when seizing prey, being often unable to carry it, they are frequently dragged down into the depths. There is yet another kind of eagle, the so-called true eagles (gnesioi). They say that these alone, of all birds, are true-born; for the other kinds are mixed and have been produced by cross-breeding with one another, both among the eagles and among the hawks and the smallest birds. This one is the largest of all eagles, larger than the vulture, and half again as large as the other eagles, tawny in color. It appears rarely, like the bird called the kymindis. The season for the eagle's activity and flight is from breakfast-time until late afternoon; for from dawn it sits until the market fills up. As eagles age, their beak grows, curving ever more sharply upward, and in the end they die of starvation. A myth is also told, that this happens to it because it was once a man who wronged a guest-friend. It sets aside the food left over for its chicks;
42| for since it is not easy to procure food fresh every day, at times they have none to bring in from outside. They strike with their wings and tear with their talons if they catch anyone tampering around their nests. They make their nests not in low-lying places but in high ones, especially on sheer cliffs, though also sometimes in trees. They feed their chicks until they are able to fly; then they drive them out of the nest and chase them away from the whole area around it. For a single pair of eagles holds a large territory; hence it does not allow others to roost near them. It does not hunt in the areas close to the nest, but flies off a good distance. When it has hunted and taken something, it sets it down and does not carry it off at once, but first tests the weight before picking it up. Nor does it seize hares at once, but lets them run out into open ground first; and it does not descend to the ground at once either, but always comes down from a greater height to a lesser, little by little. It does both these things for safety, so as not to be ambushed. And it perches on high places because it rises slowly from the ground.
43| It flies high so as to see over the greatest possible area; and this is why people say it is the only bird that is divine. All the hook-taloned birds perch least of all on rocks, because the hardness of the rock is an obstacle to their curved claws. It hunts hares, fawns, foxes, and the rest, whatever it is able to master. It is long-lived; this is clear from the fact that its nest remains in use for a long time. Among the Scythians there is a kind of bird no smaller than the bustard; this lays two chicks, but does not sit on them, but hides them wrapped in the skin of a hare or fox; it keeps watch at the top of a tree when it does not happen to be hunting; and if anyone climbs up, it fights and strikes with its wings, just as eagles do.
44| Owls and night-ravens, and all the other birds that are unable to see by day, procure their food by hunting at night, though not through the whole night, but up to evening and around dawn; they hunt mice, lizards, beetles, and other small creatures of that sort. The bird called the phene (osprey/bearded vulture) is a good parent, lives well, brings food to its young, and is gentle, and rears its own chicks as well as the eagle's. For when the eagle throws its chicks out, the phene takes them up and rears them; for the eagle throws them out before their time, while they still need care and are not yet able to fly. The eagle seems to throw out its chicks out of envy; for it is by nature grudging and sharply hungry, and moreover quick to seize. It takes a large prey when it does take one. So it grudges its chicks as they grow strong, because they become good at eating, and it tears at them with its talons. The chicks also fight among themselves over their place and their food; and the parent throws them out and strikes them; and the ones thrown out cry out, and in this way the phene takes them up. The phene is bleary-eyed and impaired in its sight; but the sea-eagle is the sharpest-sighted of all, and forces its young, while still unfledged, to look at the sun, and strikes and turns about the one that is unwilling, and whichever of the two has its eyes water first, that one it kills, and rears the other. It spends its time by the sea, and lives by hunting the birds that live around the sea, as has been said. It hunts by taking them one at a time, watching for one to come up out of the sea. When the bird sees the sea-eagle looking up, it dives back down again in fear, meaning to come up somewhere else; but the eagle, because of its sharp sight, keeps flying above until it drowns it or catches it in the air. For it does not attack them in flocks; for when massed together they beat it off with their wings and spray it.
45| Petrels (kepphoi) are caught by means of foam; for they gulp it down, and so people catch them by sprinkling it about. Their flesh is fragrant throughout, except that the rump alone smells of sand. They grow fat.
46| Of the hawks the best is the triorches (buzzard), second the aisalon (merlin), third the kirkos (harrier). The asterias and the phassophonos ("dove-killer") and the pternis are different kinds again. The broader hawks are called hypotriorchai, others perkoi and spizai ("sparrow-hawks"), others leioi and phrynologoi ("toad-catchers"); these live easiest and fly low. Some say there are no fewer than ten kinds of hawks, and they differ from one another: some of them strike the dove as she sits on the ground and seize her, but do not touch her when she is flying; others hunt her when she is sitting on a tree or on something else, but do not touch her when she is on the ground or in the air; others do not touch her sitting either on the ground or on anything else, but try to catch her in flight. And they say the doves know each of these kinds, so that when one comes flying at them, if it belongs to the kind that hunts in the air, the doves stay wherever they happen to be sitting, but if the one coming at them belongs to the ground-striking kind, they do not stay put but fly up. In Thrace, in the place once called Cedar-city, men hunt the little birds in the marsh together with hawks: some of the men, holding sticks, beat the reed-bed and the brush so that the birds fly up, and the hawks, showing themselves from above, chase them down; and the birds, frightened, fly back down toward the ground again; and the men, striking with their sticks, catch them, and share the catch with the hawks — for they throw some of the birds to them, and the hawks catch them in the air. And around Lake Maeotis they say the wolves are on familiar terms with the men who fish there for a living: when the men do not share their catch, the wolves tear up their nets as they lie drying on the ground. This, then, is how matters stand with birds.
47| Among sea creatures too there is much skillful behavior to observe, suited to the way each of them lives. For what is commonly said about the fish called the fishing-frog is true, and so is what is said about the torpedo. The fishing-frog, by means of the filaments that hang down in front of its eyes — of which the length is hair-like and the tip round, as though set on the end of each for the sake of bait — whenever it stirs up sand or mud and hides itself, raises these hair-like filaments, and as the little fish strike at them it draws them in, until it brings them right to its mouth. And the torpedo, numbing whatever fish it means to overpower, by the manner in which it takes them in its mouth, feeds on these; it hides itself in sand and mud, and seizes the fish swimming over it, as many as it numbs as they come near; and some people have actually seen this happen with their own eyes. The sting-ray also hides itself, though not in the same way. A sign that they live in this manner is this: they are caught holding mullets in their mouths, though they themselves are among the slowest of fish and the mullet is the fastest. Further, the fishing-frog, once it no longer has the growths on its filaments, is caught thinner than before; and the torpedo plainly shows its power, since it even makes men go numb.
48| The fish called onos, and the skate, and the flatfish, and the angel-shark bury themselves, and once they have made themselves invisible, they then fish with the barbels in their mouths, which fishermen call "little rods"; and the small fish approach them as though approaching seaweed, on which they feed. Wherever an anthias is seen, there is no dangerous creature there — a sign the sponge-divers rely on when they dive down at that spot, and they call these fish "sacred fish"; but this seems to be mere coincidence, just as wherever there is a snail there is no boar and no partridge — for both eat snails. The sea-snake is close to the conger eel in color and in body, except that it is darker and more vigorous; if it is caught and let go, it quickly burrows into the sand, boring through with its snout; and its mouth is sharper than that of land snakes. The creature they call the sea-scolopendra, when it swallows the hook, turns its insides out, until it ejects the hook; then it turns itself right side in again. Sea-scolopendrae move toward things that smell of fat, just as the land kind do. They do not bite with the mouth, but sting over the whole body by touch, like the creatures called sea-nettles. Among fish, those called foxes, when they perceive that they have swallowed the hook, help themselves against it just as the scolopendra does —
49| for running up a long way along the fishing-line, they bite it through; for they are caught in some places on lines with many hooks, in places with currents and depths. The amiae also draw together when they catch sight of some predator, and the largest of them swim round the rest in a circle, and if it touches any one of them, they fight it off; they have strong teeth, and there has even been seen a lamia that had fallen upon them and come away torn open. Among river fish, the male sheatfish takes great care over its young: for the female, once she has spawned, goes off, but the male stays wherever the greatest mass of spawn has gathered, guarding the eggs, and gives no other help except keeping off the other little fish so they do not tear the brood apart; and he does this for forty days and even fifty, until the brood has grown enough to be able to get away from the other fish. He is recognized by fishermen wherever he happens to be guarding eggs, for in driving off the little fish he darts about and makes a noise, a sort of grunting. And he stays by the eggs so devotedly that the fishermen, whenever the eggs are attached to roots in deep water, haul them up as far as they can into the shallows; and he likewise does not abandon the brood, but if it so happens, he is quickly caught on the hook because he snatches at the little fish that come near, while if he is experienced and wise to hooks, he still does not leave the brood even so, but bites through the hooks with his very hard tooth and destroys them.
50| All creatures, both the free-swimming and the stationary, feed in those places where they were born, and in places like them; for the food proper to each is found there. Those that wander most are the flesh-eaters; and nearly all fish are flesh-eaters except a few, such as the mullet, the saupe, the red mullet, and the chalkis. In the fish called the pholis, the mucus it releases plasters itself around the fish and becomes like a little chamber. Among the shelled and footless creatures, the scallop moves the most and travels furthest under its own power by swimming; the purple-shell advances only a very little, and creatures like it do the same. From the strait at Pyrrha the fish swim out in winter, except for the goby, because of the cold (for the strait is colder), and with the coming of spring they swim back in again. Neither the parrotfish nor the shad nor any of the spinier fish is found in the strait, nor dogfish, nor spiny dogfish, nor crayfish, nor octopuses, nor musk-octopuses, nor certain others; and among the fish that grow up in the strait, the white goby is not a fish of the open sea. Among fish, the egg-bearing kinds are at their peak in spring, until they have spawned, while the live-bearing kinds are at their peak in autumn, and along with these the mullets and red mullets and all others of that sort.
51| Around Lesbos, all the open-sea fish and the strait-dwelling fish spawn in the strait: for they mate in autumn, but spawn in spring. The cartilaginous fish, too, in autumn mate with the males mixed indiscriminately among the females, but in spring they swim in separated by sex, until they have spawned; and during mating many are caught joined together in pairs. Among the soft-bodied creatures the most cunning is the cuttlefish, and it alone uses its ink for the sake of concealment, and not only out of fear; the octopus and the squid release their ink only out of fear. None of these ever releases all its ink at once, and whenever it releases some, the supply grows back again. The cuttlefish, as has been said, often uses its ink for the sake of concealment, and after showing itself in front, turns back into the ink-cloud; further, it hunts with its long arms stretched out, catching not only small fish but often mullets as well. The octopus is stupid — for it will even walk right up to a hand let down toward it by a person — but it is a good household manager: it gathers everything into the den where it happens to live, and once it has used up what is most useful, it throws out the shells and the husks of crabs and shellfish, and the spines of little fish —
52| And it hunts fish by changing its color and making itself like whatever rocks it is near. It does this same thing also when frightened. Some say that the cuttlefish does this too, for they say its color becomes similar to that of the place where it spends its time. Among fish, only the angel-fish does this: it changes its color just as the octopus does. Now most kinds of octopus do not live two years, for by nature the octopus is prone to wasting away; and here is a sign of it: when squeezed it always lets something go, and in the end it disappears altogether. The females suffer this more after giving birth, and become sluggish, and do not even notice when tossed about by the waves, so that it is easy for someone who dives down to take hold of them by hand; they become slimy, and no longer hunt even while lying in wait. The males become leathery and tough. It seems to be a sign that they do not live two years, that after the birth of the little octopuses, in summer and toward autumn, it is no longer easy to see a large octopus, though shortly before this time the octopuses are at their largest. They say that once they have hatched their eggs, both parents grow so old and weak that they are eaten by little fish and can easily be dragged out of their lairs;
53| whereas before this they suffer nothing of the kind. They also say that the small, young octopuses suffer nothing like this after birth, but are stronger than the larger ones. Cuttlefish likewise do not live two years. Of the soft-bodied creatures, only the octopus comes out onto dry land; it moves over rough ground, and avoids smooth ground. In other respects the animal is strong, but its neck is weak when squeezed. This, then, is how matters stand concerning the soft-bodied creatures. As for shellfish, they say that the thin, rough ones make around themselves a kind of hard breastplate, and that this grows larger as they themselves grow larger, and that they go out of it as if out of a lair or a house. The nautilus too is an octopus, remarkable both in its nature and in what it does: it swims on the sea, rising up from the depths below, and it rises with its shell turned upside down, so that it may come up more easily and sail while still empty of water, but once it has surfaced it turns the shell back over. Between its tentacles it has a webbed membrane, like the webbing between the toes of web-footed birds, except that in their case it is thick, while in this creature it is thin and cobweb-like.
54| It uses this membrane as a sail whenever there is some wind, and lets down its tentacles alongside in place of rudders; and if it takes fright, it dives down, filling its shell with sea-water. Concerning the origin of the shell and how it grows along with the animal, this has not yet been observed with precision, but it seems not to come about from mating, but to grow naturally, as with the other shellfish. Nor is it yet clear whether the creature can live after shedding its shell. Among insects, the hardest-working — indeed comparable to almost all other animals as well — are the kind of ants and the kind of bees, and further hornets and wasps and, one might say, all creatures akin to these. Among spiders too there are those most skillful, most refined, and most resourceful in their way of life. Now the industry of ants is plain for anyone to see: how they always all travel along a single path, and how they store away and manage their food; for they work even on nights of the full moon.
55| Of spiders and venomous spiders there are many kinds. Of the biting kind there are two: one is like the so-called wolf-spiders, small, mottled, quick, and given to jumping — it is called the flea-spider; the other is larger, black in color, with long front legs, sluggish in movement, walking quietly, not vigorous, and not given to jumping. All the other kinds that drug-sellers display produce a bite that in some cases has no effect at all, in others only a mild one. There is also another kind of the so-called wolf-spiders. The small one does not weave a web, but the larger one weaves one that is rough and shoddy, close to the ground and against stone walls; it always makes its web at the mouth of its lair, and keeping the starting-threads inside, it watches until something falls in and stirs; then it comes forward. The mottled kind makes a small, shoddy web beneath trees. There is a third kind besides these, the cleverest and most skillful: it weaves first by stretching threads out on every side to the outer boundary, then lays down threads from the center — and it fixes the center accurately — and onto these it throws in threads like the weft of a loom, and so weaves the whole together.
56| It makes its resting-place and its store of prey elsewhere, but keeps watch for prey at the center of the web. Then, whenever something falls in and the center is set moving, it first binds the creature round and wraps it in its threads, until it has rendered it helpless, and after this it lifts it up and carries it off; and if it happens to be hungry, it sucks out the juice — for this is its enjoyment — but if not, it sets out again after prey, first repairing what has been torn. And if something else falls in meanwhile, it first goes to the center, and from there sets out again toward the new catch, as if starting over from the beginning. If someone damages the web, it begins weaving again as the sun is going down or coming up, since it is at these hours above all that creatures fall in. It is the female that works and hunts; the male shares in the enjoyment. Among the skillful spiders that weave a dense web there are two kinds, one larger, one smaller. The longer-legged one keeps watch hanging below the web, so that creatures, not taking fright, will not be wary but will fall in from above — for on account of its size it cannot easily hide — while the more moderate-sized one shades itself from above by means of a small opening in the web. Spiders are able to send out their thread as soon as they are born, not from within as a kind of residue, as Democritus says, but from the body, like a kind of bark, or like creatures that shoot out their quills, such as porcupines.
57| It is applied and wound around even larger animals: it will cast itself onto a small lizard, run around its mouth, and let out its thread, until it has bound the mouth shut; only then does it come up and bite. This, then, is how matters stand concerning these animals. There is a kind of insect that has no single name, but all of whose members share a kindred form: these are all the comb-making creatures, such as bees and those like them in form. Of these there are nine kinds, of which six are gregarious: the bee, the kings of the bees, the drone that lives among the bees, the annual wasp, and further the hornet and the tenthredon; three are solitary: the small seiren, gray in color; another, the larger seiren, black and mottled; and a third, the so-called bombylios, the largest of these. Now ants hunt nothing at all, but gather up things already made; spiders make nothing and store nothing away, but only hunt their food; of the nine kinds just named, the rest will be discussed later. Bees hunt nothing at all; they make their own food and store it away, for honey is their food. They make this clear whenever beekeepers attempt to remove the combs: for when they are being smoked and suffering badly from the smoke, it is then above all that they eat the honey, whereas at other times they are not much seen doing this, since they are sparing with it and store it away for future food. They have also another kind of food, which some call kerinthos;
58| This is inferior stuff, with a fig-like sweetness, and they carry it on their legs just as they do wax. There is great variety in their work and in their way of life. For when a clean hive has been given over to them, they build the combs, bringing the tears from the other flowers and also from trees—willow and elm and the other most gluey trees. With this they also smear the floor, to keep out other creatures; the bee-keepers call this substance "propolis-dust." They also build up around the entrances, if these are wide. They mold combs first, the ones in which they themselves are produced, then the ones in which the so-called kings and the drone-cells are produced. Their own cells they always mold; those of the kings they mold when there is abundant breeding, and the drone-cells when a plentiful supply of honey shows itself. They mold the kings' cells next to their own (these are small), and the drone-cells next to these; these are smaller in size than the cells of the ordinary bees. They begin their combs from above, from the roof of the hive, and work down, making many combs woven together as far as the floor. The openings, both of the honey-cells and of the brood-cells, are double-mouthed;
59| for around a single base there are two openings, like those of a two-handled cup, one facing inward, the other outward. The joins at the beginnings of the combs, where they attach to the hive, run around in a circle for about two or three rows, and are shallow and empty of honey; the combs are fullest where they are most thickly plastered with wax. Around the mouth of the hive, the first part one enters through is smeared all over with a substance called "mitys"; this is quite black, a kind of purging left over from their wax, and its smell is sharp; it is a remedy for bruises and suppurations of that kind. The coating continuous with this is pitch-wax, which is blunter and less medicinal than mitys. Some say that the drones mold combs by themselves, both in the same hive and, sharing a single comb, apportioned alongside the bees, but that they do none of the work of bee-craft, and that both they and their young are fed on what belongs to the bees. The drones spend most of their time indoors, but if they fly out, they dart straight upward toward the sky, wheeling themselves around as though exercising; and when they have done this, they go back in again and feast. The kings do not fly out except with the whole swarm, neither to pasture nor otherwise.
60| They say too that if the swarm goes astray, the bees track and pursue it until they find their leader by scent. It is also said that he is carried along by the swarm when he is unable to fly, and that if he is lost, the departed swarm perishes; and that if the bees do hold out for some time and make combs, no honey forms in them, and they themselves quickly perish. Bees take up the wax by darting quickly at the buds with their front feet; they wipe these off onto their middle feet, and the middle feet onto the curved parts of their hind feet; and when loaded in this way they fly off, and are visibly weighed down. On each flight a bee does not go from one kind of flower to a different kind—for example, from violet to violet—and it touches nothing else until it flies back into the hive. When they arrive at the hive, they shake themselves off, and three or four bees attend on each one. What is taken from them is not easy to see; nor has the manner in which they do their work been observed; but the taking up of the wax has been observed on olive trees, because of the density of their leaves, on which the bees stay in the same spot for a longer time. After this they build their brood-cells. There is nothing to prevent brood, honey, and drones from being in the same comb.
61| If the leader is alive, they say, the drones are produced separately, but if not, they are bred by the bees in the bees' own cells, and these become more spirited; that is why they are also called "stingers"—not because they have a sting, but because they want to strike and cannot. The drones' cells are larger. Sometimes the bees mold the drones' combs by themselves, on their own, but for the most part within the bees' own combs; that is why they cut them out. There are several kinds of bees, as has been said before: two kinds of leaders, the better one reddish, the other black and more mottled, twice the size of the good bee; the best worker-bee is small, round, and mottled; another is long, like the hornet. There is another called the "thief," black, flat-bellied. And further, the drone: this is the largest of all, stingless and sluggish. The bees produced differ according to whether they feed on cultivated land or on hill country; those from the wooded pastures are hairier, smaller, more industrious, and fiercer. The good bees, then, make combs that are even, with the whole covering on the surface smooth, and further, a single kind of comb throughout—the whole of it, for example, either honey, or brood, or drones;
62| but if it happens that they make all of these in the same comb, there will be one kind of work done in succession, as by a pump. The long bees make combs that are uneven, with the covering swollen up, like that of the hornet's comb; and further, the brood and the rest are not arranged in order but as they happen to fall out; from these are produced the bad leaders and many drones and the so-called thieves, and honey either very little or none at all. The bees sit on the combs and ripen them together; if they do not do this, they say, the combs decay and become cobwebbed. And if they are able to keep control of the rest by sitting on it, this becomes like a kind of scrap eaten away, but if not, the whole is lost. Little grubs form in the decaying parts, which grow wings and fly off. The bees also right the combs that fall, and set supports underneath, so that they can get beneath them; for when they have no path by which to approach, they do not settle on them, and then they become cobwebbed. When the thief and the drone are produced, they do no work, and they harm the work of the others. When caught they are killed by the good bees. These kill off very many of the leaders too, and especially the bad ones, so that being numerous they do not tear the swarm apart.
63| They kill them especially when the hive is not producing much brood and swarms are not about to be sent off; for at these times they also destroy the cells of the kings, if these have been prepared, on the ground that they would lead swarms away. They also destroy the drones' cells if a shortage of honey begins to show itself and the hives are not producing honey well; and it is then that they fight hardest with those who take away the honey, and drive out the drones already present, and are often seen sitting apart outside at the entrance. The small kind fights hard against the long kind, and tries to drive it out of the hives; and if they prevail, this is thought to make for an extraordinarily good hive. But if the other kind gets the hive to itself, they are idle and do nothing good at all, and they too perish before autumn. As for those the good bees kill, they try to do this outside the hive; but if one dies inside, they carry it out all the same. The so-called thieves do harm even to the combs of their own hive, but they also enter, if unnoticed, into those of others; and if caught, they are killed. It is hard work to go unnoticed: for at each entrance there are guards, and even if the thief himself gets in unnoticed, because he has gorged himself he cannot fly, but rolls about in front of the hive, so that it is hard work for him to escape.
64| The kings themselves are never seen outside except at a swarming. And in a swarming the other bees appear coiled together around him. When a swarming is about to occur, a distinctive solitary sound arises for some days beforehand, and two or three days before it a few bees fly around the hive; and if the king is among these, it has not been observed to be easy to tell. When they have gathered, they fly off, and the other bees separate off, each group with its own king; and if it happens that a few bees are settled near a great many, the few move over to join the many, and if the king they left behind follows along with them, they kill him. This, then, is the manner in which the leaving and the swarming occur. The bees are assigned, each to one of the various tasks: some gather flowers, others carry water, others smooth and set right the honeycombs. A bee carries water when it is rearing young. No bee settles on flesh, nor does it eat cooked food. There is no fixed season from which they begin to work; but if they have the necessary supplies and are faring well, they set to work rather according to the time of year, and whenever the weather is fair they work continuously.
65| And a young bee, as soon as it has emerged from the cell, works on the third day, if it has food. And when a swarm is about to settle, some bees turn aside to feed and then come back again. In hives that are flourishing, the brood of bees fails only for about forty days, those after the winter solstice. When the young are grown, the bees set food beside them and smear it on; and when a young bee is strong enough, it splits open the covering itself and comes out. As for the creatures that arise in the hives and damage the honeycombs, the good bees clean them out, while the other, worthless bees, out of laziness, let the works be destroyed. When the beekeepers remove the honeycombs, they leave the bees food for the winter; and if this is sufficient, the hive is preserved, but if not, then if it is winter they die on the spot, while if the weather is fair they abandon the hive. As food they use honey both summer and winter; they also lay in another food resembling wax in hardness, which some call sandarach. Their worst enemies are wasps and the birds called titmice, and also the swallow and the bee-eater. The frogs of the marshes also hunt them as they come to the water;
66| and for this reason the beekeepers hunt these frogs out of the marshes from which the bees draw their water, and they also destroy the wasps' nests and the swallows' nests near the hives, and the nests of the bee-eaters. Bees flee from no creature except themselves. Their fighting is both against each other and against the wasps; and outside the hive they do no wrong either to each other or to any other creature, but near the hive they kill whatever they get the better of. Bees that sting die because they cannot draw out the sting without the intestine along with it; for often a bee is saved if the person stung takes care to press out the sting, but a bee that has lost its sting dies. They kill even large animals by stinging them, and a horse has before now died from bees. The leaders are least prone to anger and to stinging. Bees that die are carried outside. The creature is also in other respects extremely clean; and this is why they often void their waste while flying, because it has a bad smell. They are troubled, as has been said, by foul smells and by the smell of perfumes; that is why they sting people who use them. They perish from various other mishaps, and also whenever the leaders become numerous and each of them leads off a portion of the hive.
67| The toad also destroys bees; for it comes to the entrances and puffs itself up, and watching for them as they fly out, devours them; it can suffer no harm from the bees, but the person who tends the hives kills it. As for the type of bee said to make poor and rough honeycombs, some beekeepers say that it is above all the young bees that do this, through lack of skill; the young bees are those of the current year. Nor do the young sting in the same way; that is why swarms are easy to carry off, since they consist of young bees. When the honey runs low, they drive out the drones, and set figs and sweet things before the bees. Among the bees, the older ones work inside, and are shaggy from staying inside, while the young ones bring in supplies from outside and are smoother. They also kill the drones, whenever there is no longer room for them while the bees are at work; the drones are in the innermost part of the hive. Once, when a certain hive fell sick, some bees came to attack another hive, and fighting and winning, carried off the honey; but when the beekeeper killed them, the other bees then sallied out and defended themselves, without stinging the man. Diseases fall chiefly upon hives that are flourishing, including the one called kleros;
68| this arises as small grubs in the floor of the hive, and as these grow, something like cobwebs takes hold of the whole hive, and the honeycombs rot. Another disease is a kind of sluggishness that comes over the bees, along with foulness of smell in the hives. The pasture of bees is thyme; the white kind is better than the red. The location should not be warm during the stifling heat, but should be warm in winter. They fall sick most of all when they work on mildewed material. When there is a strong wind, they carry a stone on themselves as ballast against the gusts. If a river is nearby, they drink from nowhere else but there, first setting down their load; but if there is none, they drink elsewhere and then bring up the honey, and go straight off to work. There are two seasons for the production of honey, spring and autumn; the spring honey is sweeter and whiter and altogether finer than the autumn honey. Honey is finer when it comes from new wax and from a young comb; the reddish honey is inferior because of the comb, for it spoils like wine does from its container; that is why it must be dried out. When the thyme is in bloom and the comb becomes full, this honey does not set.
69| The gold-colored honey is fine; the white kind does not come from pure thyme, but is good for the eyes and for sores. Of the honey, the weak part always rises to the top and must be removed, while the pure part is below. When the vegetation is in bloom, the bees produce wax; that is why the wax must then be removed from the hive, for they set to work on it at once. The plants from which they gather are the following: safflower thistle, melilot, asphodel, myrtle, reed-grass, chaste-tree, and broom. When they work on thyme, they mix in water before leaving the comb. All bees void their waste either while flying, as has been said, or into a single comb. The small bees are better workers than the large ones, as has been said, and their wings are worn away and their color is black, as though scorched; the bright, shining ones are idle, like idle women. Bees also seem to delight in clattering noises, which is why people say that by clattering with potsherds and pebbles they gather them into the hive; it is, however, entirely unclear whether they hear at all, and whether they do this out of pleasure or out of fear. Bees also drive out the idle ones and those that do not spare themselves. The tasks are divided, as has been said before, and some bees work on the honeycombs, some on the honey, and some on bee-bread;
70| Some of the bees mold the combs, others carry water to the cells and mix it with the honey, and others go out to work. In the early morning they are silent until one bee wakes them by buzzing twice or three times; then they fly out to work all together, and when they come back they make a din just as at first, but little by little less, until one bee, flying around, buzzes as if signaling them to sleep; then suddenly they fall silent. A hive is recognized to be strong by the fact that the noise is great and there is much movement of bees going out and coming in, for it is then that they are producing brood-cells. They are hungriest just when they are beginning to come out of the winter. They become lazier if a beekeeper, in taking the honey, leaves behind too much of it; but one should leave the combs in proportion to the size of the swarm, for they work with less spirit if too little is left them. They also become lazier if the hive is large, for then they labor with less spirit. A hive is stripped of a full jar of honey or three half-jars, and thriving hives of two jars or five half-jars; three jars is rare. The sheep is an enemy to bees, and so are wasps, as has also been said before; and beekeepers hunt down these wasps by setting out a dish with meat thrown into it, and when many have fallen in, they put a lid on it and set it over the fire.
71| A few drones present in the hive benefit it, for they make the bees more industrious. Bees also foreknow both storm and rain; the sign of this is that they do not fly out but curl up within the hive even in fine weather, by which beekeepers know that they are expecting a storm. When they hang from one another within the hive, this is a sign that the hive will be abandoned. But beekeepers blow sweet wine into the hive when they perceive this happening. It is useful to plant around the hives wild pears, beans, Median grass, Syrian grass, vetches, myrtle, poppy, thyme, and almond. Some beekeepers recognize their own bees in the pasture by sprinkling flour on them. If the spring comes late, or there is drought, or there is blight, the bees produce less brood. This, then, is how matters stand with bees,
72| and of wasps there are two kinds. Of these, the wild ones are rare, and occur in the mountains, and they do not breed in the ground but in oak trees; in shape they are larger and more elongated and darker-skinned than the others, and all of them are mottled and stinged and more vigorous, and their sting is more painful than that of the others, for their stinger too is proportionately larger. These live two years, and are seen flying out of oaks even in winter when the wood is being cut, and they live through the winter in hiding, spending their time in the wood. Among them, as among the tamer kind, some are mothers and some are workers; but what the nature of the worker and the mother is will become clear from the tamer kind. For among the tame wasps too there are two kinds, the leaders, whom they call mothers, and the workers. The leaders are much larger and gentler. The workers do not live two years but all die when winter falls (this is evident, for as winter begins their workers grow sluggish, and around the solstice they are not seen at all), while the leaders called mothers are seen throughout the whole winter and lie hidden underground;
73| for people plowing and digging in winter have often seen mothers, but no one has ever seen a worker. The generation of wasps is as follows. When the leaders, as summer comes on, take up a well-placed spot, they mold combs and put together what are called small wasp-nests, with about four openings or thereabouts, in which wasps are produced but not mothers. When these have grown, other larger nests are put together after them, and again when these have grown, still others, so that toward the end of autumn the wasp-nests become most numerous and largest, and in these the leader, the so-called mother, no longer produces wasps but mothers. These are produced above, on the surface of the nest, as larger grubs in four continuous cells or a few more, in a manner similar to that of the leaders in the combs. When the worker wasps have been produced in the combs, the leaders no longer work, but the workers bring them their food; this is evident from the fact that the leaders no longer fly out along with the workers but stay inside and remain quiet. Whether the previous year's leaders, when they have produced new leaders, are killed by the young wasps, and whether this regularly happens, or whether they can also live for a longer time, has not yet been observed;
74| nor has anyone yet observed old age either in mothers or in wild wasps, nor any other such affliction. The mother is flat and heavy, and thicker and larger than the wasp, and because of her weight not very strong for flight; nor can they fly far; hence they always sit in the nests, molding and managing what is within. In most wasp-nests the so-called mothers are present. It is disputed whether they have stings or not; they seem, like the leaders of bees, to have them but not to put them out or to sting. Of wasps, some are without stings, like drones, and others have a sting. The stingless ones are smaller and feebler, and do not defend themselves, while those with stings are larger and vigorous; and some call these males, and the stingless ones females. Toward winter many of those with stings seem to shed them; but we have not yet met an eyewitness of this. Wasps occur more in droughts and in rough country, and they occur underground, and they mold their combs out of debris and earth, each starting from a single point as if from a root.
75| For food they use both certain flowers and fruits, but for the most part they feed on flesh. Some of the others too have already been observed mating; but whether both are stingless, or both have stings, or one has and the other not, has not yet been observed. Among the wild ones too mating has been observed, and one of the pair has a sting; about the other it has not been observed. The brood does not seem to arise from this mating, but to be already larger than could be the offspring of a wasp. If one takes hold of a wasp by the feet and lets it buzz with its wings, the stingless ones fly toward it, but those with stings do not fly toward it; some use this as evidence that the former are males and the latter females. In winter they are caught in caves, some having stings and some not. Some make small and few nests, others many and large ones. The so-called mothers are caught when the season turns, most of them around elm trees, for they collect the sticky, gum-like matter there. A great abundance of mothers has occurred in a given place when there had been many wasps and much rain the previous year. They are hunted around cliffs and in the fissures of the earth that run straight up, and all of them appear to have stings.
76| This, then, is how matters stand with wasps, and hornets do not live by gathering from flowers as bees do, but for the most part by eating flesh (hence they also spend their time around dung, for they hunt large flies, and when they catch one, they remove its head and fly off carrying the rest of the body), but they also touch sweet fruit. They use the food mentioned, then, and they have leaders as bees and wasps do; and these leaders are larger in size relative to hornets, proportionately, than the wasps' leader is to wasps or the bees' leader is to bees. This leader too stays inside, like the leader of the wasps. Hornets make their hive underground, carrying out the earth as ants do; for no swarming-off occurs, as it does among bees, either for these or for wasps, but ever-younger ones being added remain there and make the hive larger by carrying out the soil. The hives grow large; for already, when a hive is thriving, three or four baskets of comb have been taken out of it. Nor do they store up food as bees do, but they lie hidden through the winter, and most of them die; but whether all of them do is not yet clear.
77| In a nest of hornets there is never more than one leader, as there is among bees, and hornets tear apart the nests of bees. When some of the hornets wander off from the nest, they gather together at some piece of wood and build combs, the sort that are often seen lying on the surface, and in this comb they produce a single leader. When he emerges and grows up, he takes charge and leads the others off and settles them with himself into a nest. As for the mating of hornets, nothing has yet been observed, nor where their offspring comes from. Now among bees the drones and the kings are stingless, and among wasps too some are stingless, as has been said before; but all hornets are seen to have a sting. The leader, though, needs further examination, to see whether he has a sting or not. The bombylii lay their eggs under a rock, on the ground itself, with two openings or a few more; and in these one finds the beginning of a coarse sort of honey. The tenthredon closely resembles the hornet, but is mottled, and in breadth is like the bee; being greedy, it flies alone toward kitchens and fish and enjoyments of that sort; it lays its eggs in the ground like wasps, and is very prolific, and its comb is much bigger than that of wasps and more elongated. This, then, is the manner in which the work and way of life of bees and wasps and other such creatures stands.
78| As for the characters of animals, as has been said before too, one can observe differences chiefly with respect to courage and cowardice, and then also with respect to gentleness and wildness, and among the wild animals themselves. For the lion is fiercest when eating, but when not hungry and having already eaten, is gentlest of all. His character is not suspicious of anything nor wary of anything, and toward those raised and familiar with him he is very fond of play and affectionate. When seen while being hunted he never flees or cowers, but if he is compelled by the number of hunters to give ground, he withdraws step by step, walking, turning around little by little; if, however, he reaches thick cover, he flees quickly, until he comes into the open again, and then again he withdraws walking. In open country, if he is ever forced by the number of hunters to flee into the open, he runs at a stretched-out pace and does not leap. His running gait is continuous like a dog's, stretched out; but when pursuing, he hurls himself forward once he is near. What is said of him is true too — that he fears fire most of all, as Homer also composed: 'the blazing torches, though eager, he shrank from them'; and that he watches for the one who struck him and rushes at that man;
79| but if someone does not strike him but only troubles him, if he rushes on him and seizes him, he does him no wrong and does not injure him with his claws, but shakes him and frightens him and then lets him go again. Lions come especially toward cities and do wrong to people when they grow old, because through old age they are unable to hunt and because their teeth have grown worn. They live many years, and a lame lion that was caught had many of its teeth broken, which some used as evidence that lions live many years; for this could not have happened to one that was not long-lived. There are two kinds of lions: of these, the rounder and more curly-haired kind is more cowardly, while the longer kind with straight hair is braver. They sometimes flee with the tail stretched out, like dogs. A lion has even been observed about to attack a boar, and when he saw it bristle back at him, fleeing. Against blows he is weak in the hollow parts of the body, but on the rest of the body he takes many blows and has a strong head. Whatever he bites or tears open with his claws, from those wounds there flow very yellow discharges, which cannot be washed away by anything, not by bandages or sponges; the treatment for them is the same as for wounds bitten by dogs.
80| Jackals too are friendly to man, and they neither wrong people nor fear them greatly, but they make war on dogs and on lions; for this reason they are not found in the same place as those. The small jackals are the best. Some say there are two kinds of them, others three; but there do not seem to be more, but rather, just as with some fish and birds and four-footed animals, jackals too change according to the seasons, and have one color in winter and another in summer, and in summer they become smooth-coated, in winter shaggy.
81| The bonasus occurs in Paeonia on Mount Messapion, which marks the boundary between the Paeonian and Maedian territory; the Paeonians call it the monapos. In size it is as large as a bull, and it is bulkier than an ox, for it is not elongated in shape. Its hide, stretched out, covers seven dining couches. In its other features it resembles an ox, except that it has a mane reaching down to its shoulder-blades, like a horse; but its hair is softer than a horse's, and lies flatter. The color of its coat is tawny; the mane is deep, reaching down as far as the eyes, and thick. Its color is something between ash-gray and fiery red, not like the horses called dun, but its hair is coarser, and woolly underneath; they are never wholly black or wholly fiery red. Their voice is like that of an ox, and their horns are curved, bent toward each other and useless for self-defense, about a span in size or a little more, and thick enough that each could hold not much less than half a pint; the black color of the horn is handsome and glossy. The forelock reaches down over the eyes, so that the animal looks sideways rather than straight ahead.
82| It has no upper teeth, just as no ox does nor any other horned animal, and its legs are shaggy; and it is cloven-hoofed; its tail is smaller than its size would suggest, similar to that of an ox. It throws up dust and paws the ground like a bull. Its hide is strong against blows. Its meat is sweet, which is why it is hunted. When struck, it flees, and stands its ground only when its strength gives out. It defends itself by kicking and by voiding dung behind it, hurling it as far as four fathoms from itself; it does this readily and often, and the dung burns so that it singes the hair off dogs. This is what its dung does when the animal is disturbed and frightened, but when it is undisturbed it does not burn. Such, then, is the appearance and nature of this beast; and when the season for giving birth comes, they give birth all together in the mountains. Around the spot, before giving birth, they first void dung, and make a kind of enclosure; for the animal discharges a great quantity of this excrement.
83| Of all wild animals the elephant is the most tame and gentle; for it can be trained in many things and understands a great deal, since elephants are even taught to do obeisance to the king. It is also highly perceptive and surpasses other animals in intelligence generally. Once a male has mated with a female and made her pregnant, he does not touch her again. Some say the elephant lives two hundred years, others a hundred and twenty, and that the female lives about as long as the male; that it reaches its prime around sixty years of age; and that it is intolerant of cold, both winter weather and low temperatures generally. The animal lives near rivers, but not in them. It does cross through water, but only advances as far as its trunk stays above the surface; for it blows air out through the trunk and breathes by means of it. It cannot really swim, because of the weight of its body. Camels will not mount their mothers, and even if someone forces the issue, they refuse. There was once a case where, no other male being available, the keeper covered the mother's face and let her own colt mount her; and when, after he had mounted her, the covering fell off, he did then complete the mating; but a little later he bit the camel-driver and killed him. It is also said that the king of the Scythians had a thoroughbred mare, from whom all his good horses were bred; wanting to breed from the best of these out of the mother herself, he brought the son to her so that he would mate with her, but the horse refused. When she was covered, however, he mounted her without realizing it. But when, after he had mated with her, the mare's face was uncovered, the horse, seeing it, fled and threw himself off a cliff.
85| Among sea creatures the most signs of gentleness and tameness are reported of dolphins, including cases of affection and desire toward boys, both around Tarentum and Caria and other places. In Caria, when a dolphin was caught and wounded, a great crowd of dolphins is said to have come all at once into the harbor and stayed until the fisherman released it; then they all departed together again. And one of the larger dolphins always accompanies the small ones, to guard them. A school of large and small dolphins together has actually been observed; two of them, falling not far behind the rest, were seen swimming under a small dead dolphin calf as it was being carried down into the depths, and lifting it up on their backs, as if out of pity, so that it would not be devoured by some other creature. Unbelievable things are also said about the speed of this creature; for it seems to be the swiftest of all animals, both of the water-dwellers and of the land-dwellers, and dolphins leap clear over the masts of large ships. This happens most of all when they are chasing some fish for food; for then, if it flees, they follow it down into the depths because of their hunger, and when the turn back up takes a long time, they hold their breath as if calculating it, and, drawing themselves together, they shoot up like an arrow, wanting to cover the distance by their speed in order to breathe, and they leap clear over the masts, if a ship happens to be nearby. Deep-sea divers do the same thing when they let themselves go down into the depths; for they too, according to their own strength, come back up by drawing themselves together. The males stay together with the females in pairs. It is a matter of puzzlement why they run themselves aground on land; for they are said to do this sometimes, as it happens, for no reason at all.
86| Just as it happens that all animals perform their actions according to their affections, so too, conversely, their characters change according to their actions, and often even some of their bodily parts change, as happens in the case of birds. For hens, when they defeat the males, crow in imitation of the males and attempt to mount, and their comb grows up and their tail-feathers too, so that it would not be easy to recognize that they are female; and in some of them small spurs even grow out. Some males, too, have been observed, when the female has died, taking on the female's role of caring for the chicks themselves, leading them about and rearing them, to the point that they no longer crow or attempt to mate. There are also some birds that are effeminate from birth, to such a degree that they even submit to males that try to mount them.
87| Some animals change not only in form and character according to age and season, but also when they are castrated. Every animal that has testicles can be castrated. Birds have their testicles inside, near the loins, as do the egg-laying quadrupeds; but the live-bearing land animals have them mostly outside, though some have them inside — in all cases, though, near the end of the belly. Birds are castrated at the rump, at the point where they come together when mating; for if one cauterizes it there with two or three irons, then, if the bird is already full-grown, its comb turns pale and it no longer crows or attempts to mate; and if it is still a chick, none of these changes happen at all as it grows up. The same holds for human beings: if one mutilates boys while they are still children, neither do the later-growing hairs appear nor does the voice change, but it stays high-pitched; but if they are already past puberty, the later-growing hairs fall away, except for those on the pubic region (these become fewer but remain), while the hairs present from birth do not fall away; for no eunuch goes bald. The voice also changes toward the female pattern in all castrated quadrupeds.
88| Other quadrupeds, if they are not castrated while young, are ruined by it; but with boars alone it makes no difference. In every case, if they are castrated young, they grow larger and more sleek than uncastrated animals; but if they are already fully formed, they no longer grow any further. As for deer, if they are castrated before they have yet grown horns because of their age, they never grow horns at all; but if one castrates them once they already have horns, the horns stay the same size and are not shed. Calves are castrated at one year old; otherwise they grow up uglier and smaller. Young bulls are castrated in this way: they lay the animal down, cut into the bottom of the scrotum, and squeeze out the testicles; then they push the roots back up as far as possible, and stuff the incision with hairs so that the discharge can flow out; and if it becomes inflamed, they cauterize the scrotum and dust it. If full-grown, uncastrated bulls are castrated, the effects show plainly. Female pigs also have their organ of desire cut out, so that they no longer need mating but fatten quickly. The sow is operated on after fasting for two days, when they hang her up by the hind legs. They cut the lower belly, at the point where the testicles chiefly grow in males; for it is there, attached to the womb, that the organ of desire grows, and they cut off a small piece of it and sew the wound back up.
89| Female camels, too, are spayed, when men want to use them for war, so that they will not become pregnant. Some peoples of the upper regions own as many as three thousand camels; and when they run, they run far faster than Nisaean horses, because of the length of their stride. In general, castrated animals grow taller than uncastrated ones. Animals benefit and take pleasure in this; and the ones that chew the cud do so as if they were eating. Animals that do not have teeth in both jaws chew the cud, such as cattle, sheep, and goats. Among wild animals this has not yet been observed in any that are not sometimes raised alongside domestic ones, such as the deer; and the deer does chew the cud. All of them chew the cud more when lying down. They chew the cud most in winter; animals kept at home do this for about seven months; but herd animals chew it less, and for a shorter time, because they graze outdoors. Some animals with teeth in both jaws also chew the cud, such as the Pontic mice, and certain fish, including one that some people call, from this very habit, the 'ruminant.' Long-legged animals have loose bowels, while broad-chested ones tend more to vomit, and this holds, for the most part, among quadrupeds, birds, and humans alike.
90| [chapter 49b] Many of the birds change both their color and their voice with the seasons — the blackbird, for instance, turns yellow instead of black, and its voice becomes different too: in summer it sings, but in winter it clatters and makes a noisy sound. The thrush also changes color: in winter it has a dusky look, but in summer the feathers around its neck become mottled; its voice, however, does not change at all. The nightingale sings continuously for fifteen days and nights once the mountain is already thick with foliage; after this it still sings, but no longer continuously. As summer goes on it puts forth a different note, no longer of every kind, nor harsh and wavering, but simple, and it changes its color, and in Italy at least it is called by a different name around this season. It appears for only a short time, since it goes into hiding. The robins and the birds called redstarts also change into one another: the robin is the winter form, the redstarts the summer form, and they differ from one another, one might say, in nothing except color alone. The same holds for the fig-peckers and the blackcaps, for these too change into one another.
91| The fig-pecker appears around the time of late summer fruit, the blackcap immediately after autumn. These too differ from one another in nothing except color and voice. That it is the same bird has already been observed, each of these two kinds caught in the process of the change, not yet having changed completely nor yet being in the other form. And it is nothing strange if in these cases the voices or the colors change, since the ring-dove too does not call at all in winter (except that once, when a fair spell came on after a violent winter, it did call, and this was marveled at by those with experience), but when spring comes, then it begins to call. And in general birds send forth the most calls, and the greatest variety of them, when they are about the time of mating. The cuckoo too changes color and does not make its call clearly when it is about to disappear; it disappears at the rising of the dog-star, and becomes visible starting from spring until the rising of the dog-star. Also the bird some call the wheatear disappears when Sirius rises, and appears when it sets; it flees now the cold, now the heat. The hoopoe too changes its color and its form, as Aeschylus has represented in these lines.
1| "This one he made a watcher over his own troubles, and marked him out — the hoopoe, a bold bird of the rocks, in full armor, who at the shining of spring shakes out the wing of a pale falcon. For he will show two forms, that of a boy and his own, from a single womb. But when at the new harvest the ear of corn grows yellow, a speckled wing again enfolds him. And ever in hatred of these he will remove himself to another place, to lonely thickets and crags." Among birds some are dust-bathers, some are water-bathers, and some are neither dust-bathers nor water-bathers. Those that are not fliers but ground-dwellers are dust-bathers — for example the hen, the partridge, the francolin, the lark, the pheasant; and of the straight-taloned birds some, and all those that spend their time around a river or marshes or the sea, are water-bathers; others do both, both dust-bathe and water-bathe, for example the pigeon and the sparrow; but of the hook-taloned birds most do neither. This, then, is how these matters stand. It is peculiar to some small birds to make a sound by passing wind, as the turtle-doves do; such birds also make a vigorous movement about the seat together with the call. K.
2| As a man and a woman advance in age, the cause of their failing to produce offspring when they come together is sometimes present in both, sometimes in one of the two only. First, then, one must examine in the case of the female how things stand with respect to the womb, so that if the cause lies in it, it may receive treatment, and if not there, the attention may be directed toward some other of the causes. Now, just as with any other part, it is evident whether it is healthy when it performs its own work sufficiently, is free of pain, and is unwearied after its activities — an eye, for instance, when it produces no discharge, sees, and is not disturbed after seeing nor rendered unable to see again. So too a womb that causes no pain, and performs what is its own work sufficiently, and after its activities is not incapacitated but unwearied, is a healthy one. It is also said that a womb which is not in good condition can nevertheless be well and painlessly disposed toward its own work, provided its work is not worse than this condition would allow, just as nothing prevents an eye from seeing accurately even though the eye does not have all its parts in good condition, or if there is some growth on it.
3| Likewise too a womb, if it is well positioned in the relevant place, would not be harmed with respect to this at all. Now a womb that is in good condition must, first, not be now in one position and now in another with respect to its place, but remain similarly situated; except that a movement to a somewhat farther position may occur without any affection or pain, and the womb must be no less sensitive when touched. This is not hard to judge. That wombs must be of this kind is clear from the following. For if they do not draw near closely, they will not be capable of contracting at the same time, since the place from which they need to draw material back will be far off for them. And if they do not remain close, and are not able to go back farther, they will be duller in sensation. They must always be capable of being touched throughout, so as not to open quickly — they must do this very readily, and be keen of perception. These, then, are the conditions that must hold; and those in which they do not hold are in need of some treatment. Also the menses must occur properly, that is, at equal intervals and without irregularity, when the body is healthy. For their occurring in this regular way indicates that it is in good condition for opening and receiving the moisture from the body, whenever the body yields it. But whenever they are released too often, or too seldom, or irregularly, while the rest of the body is not a contributing cause but is healthy, this must be happening on account of the womb itself.
4| And on account of dullness of sensation they do not open at the proper times, so that they receive little, or rather they draw the moisture to themselves more forcibly on account of some inflammation in them, so that they show signs of needing treatment, just as the eyes too, and the bladder and the stomach and the rest — for all inflamed places draw to themselves moisture of the kind that is naturally excreted into each place, but not of that particular kind or amount. Likewise too the womb, when it gives off more, indicates some phlegmatic affection, if what it gives off is similar in kind but greater in amount. But if what comes forth is unlike the normal discharge and more putrid than what occurs in healthy women, this is already an affection and becomes plainly evident, for it is necessary that certain pains also mark that the womb is in a condition it should not be in. In healthy women the discharge that comes forth is white and somewhat corrupted in smell, in some at the beginning, but in most as the menses are ending. Those, then, in whom the discharge is more corrupted than in healthy women, or irregular, whether greater or less in amount, need treatment more, since these conditions are impediments to childbearing. Those in whom only the timing is uneven and not at equal intervals are less hindered by the affection, though it does show that the condition of the womb is shifting and not remaining constantly the same. This affection is of a kind that can harm women who are well suited for conception, yet it is not a disease, but rather the sort of affection that can also settle down without treatment, provided the woman does not further aggravate it herself.
5| But if they change in order or in quantity, while the rest of the body is not in the same condition but at one time is moister, at another drier, the womb is not at all responsible for this; rather it must follow the condition of the body, receiving and releasing in due proportion. Now if the body is healthy but changing, and they do this, the wombs themselves need no treatment at all; but if the body is diseased, either the discharge returns less because the residue is being used up elsewhere, or the body itself is ailing. And if they release more because the body is discharging itself this way, this too does not indicate that the wombs themselves need treatment, but that the body does. The fact that in all women the menses change together with the conditions of the body shows that nothing responsible lies in the wombs, since the wombs themselves continue to be healthy. They are at one time weaker, at another stronger in themselves, and at one time moister, at another drier. And the discharge comes to them more when the body itself has more, less when it has less; and if the body is moist, the discharge is more watery, if dry, more full of blood. And the discharges begin from white, milk-like matter, which remains without odor; but toward the end they are red, and finally whiter again, at the last mixing. These white discharges have an odor not of putrefaction, but one that is sharper and heavier, and not of pus—
6| —and without any dissolving, though with warmth, when this is the manner of the signs. So for those women in whom this happens in this way, the matters concerning the womb stand as they should for childbearing. And first these things must be examined, whether they are in good condition, and after that how the mouth of the womb is disposed. For it must stand straight; otherwise the wombs will not draw the seed into themselves. For the woman too emits toward the front of the womb, as is clear whenever women have complete emissions in sleep; for then this place needs attention, having become moist, just as if she had had intercourse with a man—since what comes from the man too is emitted there, into the same place, and not inward into the womb itself. But whenever the emission happens there, from there the wombs draw it in with the breath, as the nostrils draw in air, and so draw in the seed. That is why women conceive having intercourse in any position whatever, because the emission of seed for both women and men happens when the mouth of the womb is turned entirely to the front; but if it were emitted into the womb itself, they would not conceive whatever the position of intercourse. But if the wombs do not look straight but toward the hips or the lower back or the lower abdomen, it is impossible to conceive, for the reason already stated, because they would not be able to take up the seed. Now if they are disposed this way strongly, either by nature or through disease, the condition is incurable—
7| —but if it is a rupture, either by nature or through disease, caused by an inflammation that has drawn it to one side, the condition inclines to that side. For women who are going to become pregnant it is necessary, as has been said, that the mouth stand straight, and besides this, that it open well. By 'well' I mean this: that when the menses begin, the mouth, when touched, will be softer than before, and not obviously gaping open. But if it is in this state, let the first signs that appear be the white ones. But whenever the signs are more flesh-colored in hue, the mouth will clearly be open without pain, whether touched or not touched, and neither numb nor otherwise different from its own usual state. When the menses have ceased, let the mouth be wide open and dry, but not hard, for a day and a half or even two days. For these things, occurring in this way, indicate that the wombs are in good condition and are doing their own work: by not opening at once but by the mouth becoming soft first—because they loosen together with the rest of the body as it loosens, and do not obstruct, and release first what comes from the mouth itself—and whenever the body discharges more, they open fully; which is a sign of a mouth in a healthy state. And when the signs, on ceasing, do not close up at once, this indicates that, if the woman should fail to conceive, the wombs become empty and dry and thirsty, and have no residue left around the passage.
8| So being of a drawing, retentive nature, the wombs indicate that they are in good condition for conceiving once the man has approached, whenever they are in this state without pain and with loss of sensation. And it is a good sign for the body not to be otherwise different than usual; for this too indicates that nothing prevents the wombs from closing together whenever they should. Concerning the mouth of the womb, then, the inquiry proceeds from these signs, as to whether it is as it should be or not. Concerning the womb itself, the following must occur after the purification: first, in sleep, that she seems to have intercourse with a man and to emit, as though she were actually consorting with him, easily; if this appears to happen to her more often, it is better. And on rising, that she sometimes needs the same treatment as when she has had intercourse with a man, and at other times needs drying; and let this dryness not be continuous, but afterward, following the waking, let it become moist again, sometimes sooner, sometimes later, this lasting up to about half the day after a short interval has passed. And let the moisture be of the same kind as when she has had intercourse with a man. For all these things indicate that the womb is receptive of what is given to it, and that the cotyledons are of a drawing nature, and retentive of what they take, and, on sensing it, release it. Further, that gases arise in it without any disorder, just as in the stomach, and are released, and become larger and smaller in themselves, without disease; for these things too show clearly that the wombs are no more rigid than they should be, and are numb neither by nature nor by disease, but are able, according to what they receive, to give room to what is growing within. They also have the capacity to stretch. But whenever this does not happen, they are either too dense or too insensate, either by nature or by disease.
9| That is why such wombs cannot nourish the embryos, but even destroy them: if they are extremely so, while the embryos are still small; if less so, when they are already bigger; but if only slightly so, they raise the offspring to be inferior, as though the offspring had been nourished in a poor vessel. Further, when touched, the right and left parts of the womb should be even, and everything else likewise. And during intercourse with a man, it should become moist in between, but not often nor excessively. This condition is like a sweating of the place, just as the mouth produces saliva in many circumstances—both in connection with the passage of food, and when we talk and work hard ourselves; and our eyes shed tears when we look at brighter things, and under stronger cold or heat, which these parts master whenever they happen to be in a moister condition. So too the wombs become moist when working, whenever they happen to be in a moister disposition. And this happens even to wombs very well formed by nature. That is why women always need attention, whether more or less, just as the mouth needs to spit. But in some women so much moisture arises that they cannot draw up the man's seed in pure form, on account of its mixing with the moisture arising from the woman.
10| In addition to these conditions, this too must be considered: whether it happens that, whenever she seems in sleep to have had intercourse with a man, one notes how she rises from it—for instance, whether she is weaker, and whether this is always so, not sometimes so and sometimes not, or whether she is sometimes even stronger; and whether she is not drier at first and then becomes moist afterward. For these things must happen in the fertile woman. For becoming enfeebled indicates that the body is disposed always to emit seed, and this makes the woman fertile; and among fleshy women it is weaker. And that this happens without disease is a sign that the discharge of this occurs according to nature and in the manner it should; for if not, the weakness would be a diseased one. And sometimes becoming stronger, with the womb dry and then becoming moist afterward, is a sign that the whole body is taking in and dissipating the seed, and not the womb alone, and that the body too is strong. For the womb draws in with the breath what has come to it from outside, as has been said before. For the seed is not emitted into the womb itself, but into the place where the man too emits. And whatever is done by means of breath is all done with strength. So it is clear that the body too draws toward such emission. There are some women who suffer something of this sort, which they call 'being wind-blown'—
11| This too must not happen to her. This is the affection in question: when women have intercourse with a man, they neither visibly emit seed nor conceive, and for this reason it is called a windy discharge. The cause of the affection is the womb, when it is excessively dry; for it draws the moisture to itself and then releases it outward, and this moisture wastes away, and becoming a small thing out of itself, falls away and escapes notice on account of its smallness as it exits. And when the womb is affected by this severely and becomes extremely dry, it quickly casts off the seed, and it quickly becomes clear that the woman is not pregnant. But if it does not do this very quickly, in the intervening time she seems to be pregnant, holding whatever she has within herself, until she casts it off. And the same affections happen to these women quickly as happen to women who are truly pregnant, and if a long time passes, the womb rises up, so that she plainly seems to be pregnant, until it falls away; then the womb becomes again as it was before. People attribute this affection to a divine cause; but it is curable, unless the woman is by nature such as to be affected severely in this affected part. A sign that women are not of this kind is if they are seen not to emit seed, whenever they receive it from the man and do not conceive.
12| Women are also prevented from conceiving if their wombs have a spasm. Spasms occur in the wombs either through inflammation, when the womb is stretched, or in childbirth, when a great mass suddenly falls upon it and the mouth does not open; then a spasm occurs from the stretching. A sign that a woman does not have a spasm is if the womb does not appear to come to inflammation in the course of its own workings; for a womb that has a spasm would sometimes become inflamed. Further, if there is a growth on the mouth of the womb, since it has become much ulcerated, it hinders conception. And a sign that women do not have these conditions is if the womb appears to open well and to close again, whenever their menstrual discharge and their intercourse with a man occur. Further, there are women in whom the mouth of the womb is somehow grown together, in some from birth, in others through disease. This happens and is sometimes curable, sometimes incurable. This is not hard to recognize, if it is present; for it is not possible either to receive anything that is needed or to emit anything. If, then, a woman appears both to receive from the man and to emit, it is clear that this would be a test against the affection. As for those women for whom none of these things is an obstacle, but who are as has been said, if the man is not responsible for the childlessness, or if both are able to produce children but are not matched with one another in emitting seed at the same time but differ greatly, these people will [not] have children.
13| As to whether the causes lie with the man, there are other signs one might take as well; but the easiest to observe would be his approaching other women and begetting children by them. But if a couple are not in step with one another, though everything mentioned is present, they do not beget children. For this shows that this alone is the cause. For if the woman too contributes to the seed and to generation, clearly both partners must run their course together. If, then, the one completes quickly and the other slowly (for women are for the most part slower), this prevents conception; this is why some couples, once paired together, do beget children with one another; while others, who fail to beget together, do run in step in intercourse whenever they happen upon other partners. For if the woman is aroused and prepared and has suitable thoughts, while the man has been previously distressed and chilled, they will necessarily then run out of step with one another. Further, sometimes it happens that women who have had erotic dreams and men who have had intercourse become more vigorous afterward, not in strength but in health. This happens whenever much seed has been collected at the place from which it is emitted. If, then, it departs at that time, the women become no weaker; for they are not always weakened by its departure, when what remains is sufficient — no more than they would be if that seed were both useless and burdensome, as when they are relieved of a surplus;
14| that is why they become more vigorous not in strength but in lightness of body. But when what departs comes from as much as the body needs, then it makes them weaker. And this weakness quickly ceases, if the body is otherwise healthy and the woman is of an age which quickly produces seed again; for this is characteristic of bodies that are growing and of things that are still increasing. And it is precisely then that women most often fail to notice that they have conceived. For they do not think they have conceived unless they perceive it. But those who emit happen to suppose that both must coincide at the same moment, both from the woman and from the man. And it escapes notice most of all in those women who think it impossible to conceive unless the seed is dried up and what was given plainly disappears. But it sometimes happens that both the woman herself and the man emit more than can disappear, more than is sufficient. So whenever a sufficient amount is drawn in but much is left over, then women fail to notice that they have conceived. That such a thing can occur, and that this affection does not arise from the whole of the seed, is shown by all those animals that bear many young from a single mating, and by the generation of twins, when they come from a single mating; for it is clear that they did not come from the whole of it, but a certain place took a part of it, while many times that amount was left over. Further, if many offspring come from a single mating, as is seen sometimes happening among pigs and among twins, it is clear that the seed does not come from the whole of the body, but was apportioned by each kind.
15| For it is possible for a part to be separated off from the whole, and the whole to be divided into many parts. So that it is impossible for it to come both all at once and part by part. Further, the woman emits toward the front of the mouth of the womb, at the same place as the man does, whenever he approaches her. For she draws from there by means of breath, just as with the mouth or the nostrils. For everything that is not brought forward by organs, and does not have an inward growth from above while being hollow, is drawn by breath from this place. That is why women take care that this place become dry in this way, just as it was before this happened. This is the natural character of the passage through which it comes, in women. They have a stalk, just as men have the genital member. But it is at the mouth that they breathe out, for this reason, through a small passage somewhat higher up, by which women urinate. That is why, whenever they are aroused for intercourse, this place is not in the same condition as before they are aroused. Now from this stalk a discharge occurs, and the front part of the womb is much larger than the passage by which it falls into that place. This is, in this respect, similar to the case of the nostrils; for the nostrils have, on the inside, a certain passage toward the throat and toward the outer air; in the same way that organ also has, toward the outside, a passage that is very small and narrow, only enough for the exit of breath, but the passage toward the front of the womb is wide and free-flowing, just as the nostrils have the passage toward the air larger than the one toward the mouth and throat.
16| In the same way, women too have a larger passage toward the front of the womb, and the outer one is wider. Whatever contributes to this produces the same effects, because the woman too emits fertile seed. And these same causes are what occur in her case. For indeed, in the case of those for whom the cause of a disease or of death seems to belong to something else, people look at the last stage in relation to the starting-points, which is what one ought to look at. For in some women these are the primary causes, in others none of them are, and in others some are and some are not. The outcomes, then, correspond in due proportion; and for some it happens that they pass through all of these same affections, for others through many, for those with many causes; for others through few, and for others through none at all, for those who have none.
17| Animals become evident whenever they need to be mated. For they pursue the males — hens, for instance, pursue the male and crouch down themselves, if the male is not eager. Other animals do this too. If then the same affections appear in all animals with regard to intercourse, it is clear that the causes too are the same. But indeed the hen has a desire not only to receive but also to release. Here is a sign of this: if the male is not present, another hen goes under her, and she becomes pregnant, and lays wind-eggs, as though she desires to release her own seed on that occasion too, and does release it, just as when a male copulates with her. Other animals do this as well, since someone has already tested it by rearing singing locusts, taking them while they were still young; and they became pregnant of their own accord. From these facts it is clear that every female contributes to the seed, if indeed this is seen to happen even in a single kind alone, without the male. For the wind-egg creature differs in nothing from a fertile one, except in not generating an animal. And this — that a fertile egg does generate an animal — is because it came from both parents. That is why not everything that comes from the male appears fertile either, but some of it is infertile, whenever what comes from both is not properly fitted together.
18| Further, women too have erotic dreams, and the same affections occur in them after the dream-emission as when they have intercourse with a man: a loosening and a loss of strength. It is clear, then — if they appear to emit seed in the dream-emission — that they contribute to generation on that occasion too, because after the dream-emissions that same place is moistened, and they themselves need the same care for themselves as when they have intercourse with a man. So it is evident that emission of seed occurs from both, if the offspring is to be fertile. The womb does not emit into itself, but outward, to the same place as the man does; then from there it draws the seed in to itself. Of females, some generate offspring from themselves alone — the hen, for instance, generates wind-eggs — but others generate nothing at all, as mares and ewes do not. Or is it rather because the hen emits directly into the womb, and there is no outer place into which she — or the male either — releases seed? That is why, if the cock does not happen to be mating, he pours his seed out onto the ground. But for the four-footed animals there is a separate outer place, into which both the female and the male emit; and in the other animals this female emission is mixed together with the other fluids and does not form a mass in the womb, because it does not pass inside, whereas in hens the womb receives it and concocts it together into a body resembling the true product in other respects, except that it is not an animal.
19| Hence the animal must come from both parents. But one can raise an objection here, if women speak truly when they claim that they rise up dry after a dream-emission. For it is clear that the womb draws the seed upward from below; so why then do females not generate offspring by themselves, since the womb draws in the male's seed too once it is mixed in? Why do not goats likewise draw in their own seed, which extends out to the outside? In goats this condition occurs, and they remain pregnant for many years. For they bear what is called a "mole," as also happened to a certain woman. After she had had intercourse with her husband and believed she had conceived, the mass of her womb grew, and at first the other signs proceeded normally. But when the time for delivery came, she neither gave birth nor did the mass grow smaller; instead she continued in this state for three or four years, until, when dysentery struck and she was in danger, she gave birth to a large mass of flesh, which they call a "mole." In some women the condition even grows old along with them and dies with them. Does this condition arise because of heat, whenever the womb happens to be hot and dry and, on account of this, contracts and draws in toward itself, and does so to such a degree that it is able to take up the seed and hold it fast to itself? For in women so disposed, if what results is not a mixture from both parents, but instead — as with the wind-egg — the womb receives something from one parent alone, then what is called a "mole" occurs: neither an animal, because it does not come from both, nor lifeless, because what was received was itself living, as with wind-eggs.
20| It remains in place for a long time both because of the condition of the womb, and because the hen, laying many eggs into herself, has her womb affected by them one after another, bringing each forward and laying it; and once the womb has opened once, even the last egg comes out. For there is nothing holding it back; rather, once the body has become disposed to release, when it was full it no longer makes the womb resistant to release. In animals that bear live young, because the growing embryo's power keeps changing and needs different nourishment at different times, the womb becomes somewhat inflamed and this brings about birth in the same way. But the flesh of the mole, because it is not an animal, always remains among the undifferentiated things. For one should not suppose that whatever burdens the womb causes any inflammation at all. Hence in some women the condition even dies along with them, unless by the good fortune of some illness it happens otherwise, as with the woman seized by dysentery. Does the condition arise, as has been said, because of heat, or rather because of moisture, in that the mass, so to speak, seals itself shut — or does it arise whenever the womb is neither so cold as to release the mass, nor so hot as to concoct it? That is also why the condition is long-lasting, just as things being boiled that take a long time remain unfinished for a long while. But things properly boiled reach completion, and quickly. Wombs of this sort, being at an extreme, make the time long.
21| Further, its not being an animal — since it does not move — is why it produces no labor pains. For labor pain is a movement of the connective tissues, which the embryo brings about because it is alive. And the hardness that develops in the mass is the result of this obstruction. For it becomes so hard that people cannot cut through it even with an axe. Now boiled things, and everything properly concocted, become soft, while things cut off unconcocted are hard. Many doctors, being ignorant, say — because of the resemblance — that the condition is a "mole," if they merely see the belly swelling without dropsy, together with a withholding of the monthly discharge, whenever this condition becomes prolonged. But this is not so; true moles occur only rarely. At times there is a confluence of cold, moist, watery residues, at other times of thicker ones, into the region around the belly, if a woman's nature or bodily state is of that sort. For these produce neither pain nor heat, on account of their coldness. Having grown, some larger and some smaller, they bring on no other disease beyond themselves, but lie quiet like a kind of deformity. The cessation of the monthly discharge occurs because the residues are used up in this direction instead, just as also happens when women are nursing;
22| for in nursing women too, either it does not occur, or only a little does. And sometimes what flows together out of the flesh into the place between the womb and the belly seems to be a "mole," though it is not. It is not difficult to tell, by touching the womb, whether it is really a mole. For if the womb is compact and shows no enlargement, it is clear that the condition is not in it. But if it is in the state it is in when it holds a child, because it has a mole, it will be hot and cold and dry by turns, because the fluids have turned inward, and its mouth will be in the same state as when women are pregnant. But if the mass is something else, the womb will feel cold to the touch and not dry, and its mouth will always remain unchanged.
1| On the Parts of Animals, Book 1. [section 1] Concerning every study and method, whether more humble or more honorable, there appear to be two kinds of competence: one it is proper to call knowledge of the subject, the other something like an education in it. For it belongs to a person educated in this way to be able to judge shrewdly whether what a speaker sets forth is well done or not well done. For we think that the person educated in general is of just this sort, and that being educated is being able to do what has been said. Except that we consider such a person a critic of virtually everything, being one in number, while the other is a critic concerning some definite nature — for there might be some other person disposed in the same way as the one described, but with respect to a part. [section 2] So it is clear that for the inquiry concerning nature too there must be certain standards of this kind, in reference to which one will accept the manner of the things being demonstrated, apart from how the truth stands, whether it is this way or that. I mean, for example, whether one ought to take up each single substance and mark it off concerning itself — treating in turn, say, the nature of man or of the lion or of the ox or of some other thing, each by itself — or whether one ought to posit first the attributes that belong to all of them in common, according to some common feature. For many of the same attributes belong to many genera that are different from one another — for instance sleep, respiration, growth, decay, death, and
2| and, in addition to these, all such of the remaining affections and states as are of this kind; for it is unclear and undefined to speak of these now. [section 3] It is evident too that if we speak part by part concerning many animals we shall often say the same things repeatedly; for each of the things mentioned belongs to horses and dogs and men alike, so that if one speaks of each of the attributes individually, one will often be forced to speak about the same things — as many as belong alike to animals differing in species, while themselves admitting no differentia. But there are perhaps other things for which it holds that they fall under the same category, yet differ by a differentia of species — for example the locomotion of animals; for this does not appear to be one in species, since flying, swimming, walking, and crawling differ from one another. [section 4] For this reason one must not fail to notice how the inquiry is to be conducted — I mean, whether one should treat first what is common by genus, and only afterward consider the properties peculiar to each, or take up each thing individually straightaway. For at present this has not been determined, nor has what is now about to be said. For example, whether, just as the mathematicians demonstrate the facts about astronomy, so too the student of nature ought first to study the observed facts concerning animals and the parts belonging to each, and only then go on to state the reason why and the causes, or proceed in some other way. Furthermore, since we see that there are several causes at work in natural generation — for instance that for the sake of which, and that from which the principle of motion arises — we must determine, concerning these too, which is naturally first and which second.
3| [section 5] The first appears to be the one we call for the sake of something; for this is an account, and the account is a principle alike in things constituted by craft and in things constituted by nature. For whether by thought or by perception, the doctor, having marked out health, and the builder, having marked out the house, render the accounts and the causes of each thing they make, and why it must be made in this way. And the that-for-the-sake-of-which, and the fine, are present more in the works of nature than in those of craft. But necessity does not belong in the same way to all things that are according to nature — the thing to which almost everyone tries to reduce their accounts, without having distinguished in how many senses the necessary is spoken of. [section 6] One kind belongs simply to eternal things, the other, the necessity that follows from a hypothesis, belongs also to all things that come to be, just as in things made by craft — for instance a house and anything else of this sort. For if there is to be a house, or any other end, it is necessary that the matter be of a certain kind; and this must come to be and be moved first, then this, and in this way in succession up to the end and that for the sake of which each thing comes to be and is. And it is the same way too in things that come to be by nature. But the manner of demonstration and of necessity is different in natural science from that in the theoretical sciences. This has been discussed elsewhere.
4| [section 7] For the principle is, in the one case, the thing that is, in the other, the thing that will be. For since health, or man, is of such-and-such a kind, it is necessary that this exist or come to be — but it is not the case that, because this exists or has come to be, that other thing exists or will exist of necessity. Nor is it possible to fasten the necessity of such a demonstration onto something eternal, so as to say, because this is, that this is. These matters too have been determined elsewhere — both to what things this necessity belongs, and which cases convert, and for what cause. [section 8] One must also not fail to notice whether it is fitting to speak, as those before us conducted their inquiry, of how each thing is naturally constituted to come to be, rather than of how it is. For this differs from that by no small amount. It seems that one must begin from this point, just as we said before, that first the observed facts about each kind must be grasped, and only then must the causes of these be stated, along with the facts about their coming-to-be; for this holds even more in the case of building — for this holds in the case of house-building too: it is rather that these things come about because the form of the house is of such-and-such a kind, than that the house is of such-and-such a kind because it comes to be in this way. [section 9]
5| For coming-to-be is for the sake of substance, and not substance for the sake of coming-to-be. This is why Empedocles was not right when he said that many things belong to animals because it happened that way in their coming-to-be — for instance, that the spine is as it is because it happened to be broken when the embryo was twisted. He failed to notice, first, that the seed once formed must already possess the appropriate capacity, and second, that the thing which produced it existed earlier, not only in account but also in time; for man begets man, so that it is because that parent is of such-and-such a kind that this offspring's coming-to-be turns out as it does. [section 10] The same holds too for things that seem to come about spontaneously, just as for things made by craft; for some things come about spontaneously that are the same as things that come about by craft — health, for example. Now in the case of some of these, the productive cause pre-exists and is similar in kind, as with statue-making; for a statue does not come about spontaneously. But craft is the account of the product, existing apart from the matter. And things that come about by chance come about in the same way as things that come about by craft; for they come about just as craft would have them. Hence it is best of all to say that, since this was what it is to be a man, therefore these parts belong to him — for it is not possible for him to exist without these parts. But if not that, then at least that it is nearest to this, and either that it is altogether impossible otherwise, or that it is well for it to be so. And these things follow. And since a thing is of such a kind, it is necessary that its coming-to-be occur in this way and be of this sort. This is why, among the parts, this one comes to be first, then this one. And this holds in the same way, alike, for all things constituted by nature.
6| [section 11] Now the ancients, the first to philosophize about nature, inquired into the material principle and cause of this kind — what it is and of what sort, and how the whole comes to be out of it, and by what moving cause, such as strife or love or intellect or spontaneity, while the underlying matter has of necessity a certain nature — fire, for instance, being hot, and earth cold, and the one light, the other heavy. For it is in this way that they generate the world-order as well. [section 12] And they speak likewise about the coming-to-be of animals and plants — saying, for example, that as water flowed in the body, a stomach cavity came to be, along with every receptacle for nourishment and residue, and that as breath passed through, the nostrils were broken open. Air and water are the matter of bodies; for it is out of bodies of this sort that everyone constitutes nature. But if man and the animals and their parts exist by nature, then one would need to speak about flesh and bone and blood and all the uniform parts. [section 13]
7| Similarly too with the non-uniform parts, such as the face, the hand, the foot: we must state both what each of them is and by what capacity. For it is not enough to say what they are made of, for instance fire or earth, just as, if we were speaking about a bed or something else of that kind, we would try rather to define its form than its matter -- the bronze or the wood -- or if not that, at least the form of the composite; for a bed is this form in this matter, a thing of such-and-such a kind, so that we would have to speak also about its shape, and what sort its figure is. For the nature that accords with the shape is more authoritative than the material nature. [section 14] If, then, each of the animals and their parts were what it is by shape and color, Democritus would be right; for he appears to have supposed just this. At any rate he says it is plain to everyone what sort of shape a human being has, since a human being is recognizable by shape and color. And yet a corpse too has the very same shape and form, but all the same it is not a human being. [section 15] Further, it is impossible for a hand to be in just any condition whatever -- say, made of bronze or of wood -- except homonymously, like a painted doctor. For it will not be able to perform its own function, just as stone flutes cannot perform their function, nor can a painted doctor perform his. In the same way, none of the parts of a dead body are any longer parts of that kind either -- I mean, for example, an eye or a hand. So the statement was made far too simply, in the same way as if a carpenter were speaking about a wooden hand.
8| [section 16] For this is just how the natural philosophers, too, speak of the comings-to-be and the causes of shape -- by what capacities the things were fashioned. But perhaps the carpenter will name the axe or the drill, while the natural philosopher names air and earth; yet the carpenter's answer is better. For it will not be enough for him to say only this much, that when the tool struck, one part became hollow and another flat; rather he must say why he made the blow of that kind, and for the sake of what -- he will state the cause, namely so that the shape might come to be such-and-such. It is plain, then, that they do not speak correctly, [section 17] and that we must speak of the animal as being of such-and-such a kind, and speak about that, both what it is and of what sort it is, and likewise about each of its parts -- just as we must about the form of the bed. If, then, this is soul, or a part of soul, or not without soul (at any rate, once the soul has departed, it is no longer an animal, and none of the parts remains the same, except in shape only, just as the things told of in myth are turned to stone) -- if, then, this is so, it would belong to the natural philosopher to speak of and know about the soul, and if not about all soul, at least about that very part of it in virtue of which the animal is of such a kind; and to know what the soul is, or this part of it, and about the attributes that belong in accordance with such a substance of it -- especially since nature is spoken of and exists in two senses, the one as matter, the other as substance. And this is so both as the mover and as
9| the end. And that which is of this kind for the animal is either the whole soul or some part of it. So that on this account too the student of nature would have to speak about the soul rather than about the matter, inasmuch as the matter is nature because of the soul rather than the reverse. For indeed wood is a bed and a tripod because it is these things potentially. [section 18] One might raise a difficulty on looking at what has just been said, whether it belongs to natural science to speak about the whole soul or only about some part of it. For if about the whole, then no philosophy at all is left outside natural science. For intellect is of the objects of intellect. So that the knowledge of nature would be about all things; for it belongs to the same science to study intellect and the object of intellect, if indeed they are correlative, and the same inquiry covers all things that are correlative, just as also with perception and the objects of perception. Or is it rather that not every soul is a principle of motion, nor are all its parts, but the principle of growth is that part which belongs also to plants, of alteration the perceptive part, and of locomotion something else again, and not the intellective part? For locomotion belongs also to other animals, but thought to none of them.
10| [section 19] It is plain, then, that we should not speak about the whole soul; for not even the whole soul is nature, but some one part of it, or more than one. Further, natural science cannot be a study of anything arrived at by abstraction, since nature does everything for the sake of something. For it appears that, just as art is present in the things made by art, so in the things themselves there is some other principle and cause of that kind, which we have in the way we have hot and cold from the universe. That is why it is more reasonable that the heavens, if they came to be, came to be by such a cause, and exist because of such a cause, rather than the mortal animals do; for what is ordered and determinate appears far more in the heavenly things than around us, while what is now one way and now another, and as it happens, appears more among mortal things. [section 20] But some say that each of the animals exists and came to be by nature, while the heavens were constituted as they are by chance and spontaneity -- and yet in the heavens nothing whatever appears to result from chance and disorder. But everywhere we say that this is for the sake of that, wherever some end appears toward which the motion proceeds when nothing hinders it. So it is plain that there is something of this kind, which we in fact call nature. For it is certainly not the case that just anything comes to be from a given seed, but this from this; nor is just any seed from just any body.
11| [section 21] The seed, then, is a principle and productive of what comes from it. For these things exist by nature: at any rate, the thing grows from this. But further, prior even to this is that from which the seed itself comes; for the seed is a coming-to-be, but the end is a substance. And prior to both is that from which the seed is derived. For seed is spoken of in two ways, as "from which" and "of which": for it is the seed of that from which it departed -- for instance, of a horse -- and also of that which will come from it -- for instance, of a mule -- though not in the same way, but in the way stated for each. [section 22] Further, the seed is something potential; and we know how a potentiality stands in relation to actuality. There are, then, these two causes, the that-for-the-sake-of-which and the from-necessity; for many things come to be because it is necessary. Perhaps one might raise a difficulty as to what kind of necessity those mean who speak of things coming to be from necessity: for neither of the two ways distinguished in works on philosophy can apply here. But there is, at least among things that undergo coming-to-be, a third way; for we say that food is necessary in neither of these two ways, but because it is impossible to exist without it. This is necessity as it were from a hypothesis: just as, since one must split wood with an axe, the axe must be hard, and if hard, then of bronze or iron, so too, since the body is an instrument (for each of the parts exists for the sake of something, and similarly
12| ...and also the whole), it is necessary that it be of such a kind and made of such materials, if that end is to come about. [section 23] That there are, then, two modes of causation, and that those who speak of them must try to give both if possible, or failing that, must at least try to make this clear, and that all who fail to state this say virtually nothing about nature—for nature as a principle is more truly form than matter. Empedocles too, in places, stumbles onto this, drawn on by the truth itself, and is forced to say that substance and nature are the account, as when he tells what bone is: for he does not call it any one of the elements, nor two nor three, nor all of them, but the ratio of their mixture. [section 24] It is clear, then, that flesh too is of the same character, and likewise each of the other such parts. The reason the earlier thinkers did not arrive at this approach is that essence and the defining of substance did not yet exist; Democritus was the first to touch on it, though not because it was necessary for the study of nature, but because he was carried along by the subject itself. Under Socrates this was advanced further, but the inquiry into nature ceased, and those who pursued philosophy turned instead toward useful virtue and political matters.
13| [section 25] The demonstration must be given in this way: for instance, that respiration is for the sake of such-and-such, and that this comes about of necessity through such-and-such causes. Necessity sometimes means that, if that which is for the sake of something is to be, these things are necessary for it to have; and sometimes it means that things simply are so and are naturally constituted so. For it is necessary that the hot go out and then come in again by striking back, and that the air flow in. This last point is already a matter of necessity. As the internal heat strikes back in the process of cooling, the entry and exit of the outside air follow. This, then, is the manner of the method, and these and things like them are the matters concerning which one must grasp the causes. [section 1] 2 Some thinkers try to grasp the particular by dividing the genus into two differentiae. This is in one respect not easy, and in another impossible. For of some genera there will be only one differentia, and the rest superfluous—for example footed, two-footed, cleft-footed, footless: for this alone is the governing one. If not, the same thing must often be said twice over. Further, it is proper not to tear apart any single genus, as for instance putting some birds in this division and others in another, the way the published divisions do; for there it happens that some are divided off together with the water animals,
14| [section 2] 2 and others in a different genus. Now by this one resemblance the name 'bird' is given, by another 'fish.' But there are other resemblance-classes that are nameless—for instance the blooded and the bloodless—for on neither of these has a single name been imposed. If, then, none of the things of the same kind ought to be torn apart, division into two would be futile: for those who divide this way are forced to separate and tear apart—for instance, of the many-footed creatures, some fall among the land animals and others among the water animals. [section 1] 3 Further, it is necessary to divide by privation, and those who divide by dichotomy do so divide. But there is no differentia of privation as privation: for it is impossible for there to be species of what is not, such as of footlessness or of winglessness, as there are of having wings and having feet. But there must be species of the universal differentia; for if there will not be, why would it belong to the universal class and not to the particular? Now of differentiae, some are universal and have species, such as featheredness: for one kind of feather is unsplit and another is split. And footedness likewise: one kind is many-cleft, another two-cleft, as in the cloven-hoofed, and another uncleft and undivided, as in the single-hoofed.
15| [section 2] 2 It is difficult, then, to distinguish differentiae of this kind, of which there are species, in such a way that any given animal falls under them and not under several at once—for instance winged and wingless (for both belong to the same animal, as in the ant, the glow-worm, and certain others)—but hardest of all, or impossible, in the case of the bloodless animals. For it is necessary that each of the particular differentiae belong to some one of them, and so also its opposite. [section 3] 3 But if it is not possible for a single, indivisible species of substance to belong to things that differ in species, but it will always have a differentia—as bird differs from man (for two-footedness is different and distinct in each)—then even if both are blooded, the blood is different; or else blood must be posited as no part of the substance. But if it is as I said, one differentia will belong to two distinct animals. And if this is so, it is clear that privation cannot be a differentia. The differentiae will be equal in number to the indivisible animals, if these are indivisible and the differentiae are indivisible, and none is common to more than one. But if it is possible for a differentia to belong without being common, yet still be indivisible, it is clear that, at least in respect of the common one, animals that differ in species fall under the same thing. So it is necessary, if the differentiae are proper to the classes under which all the indivisible animals fall, that none of them be common. Otherwise, being different animals, they will fall under the same one.
16| [section 4] 4 It is necessary that the same indivisible thing not fall under one differentia and another among those divided off, nor that different things fall under the same one, while all fall under the same set. It is clear, then, that it is not possible to grasp the indivisible species in the way that those who divide the animals, or any other genus, into two do. For according to their method it is necessary that the ultimate differentiae be equal in number to all the animals indivisible in species. For if there is some genus whose first differentiae are the white things, and of each of these there are others, and so on forward to the indivisible ones, the last differentiae will amount to some multiple obtained by repeated doubling from one; and the species will be just as many. [section 5] 5 The differentia is the form in the matter. For no part of an animal exists without matter, nor does matter alone make one; for not everything that has a body will be an animal, nor will any of its parts, as has often been said. Further, one must divide by what is in the substance, and not by what is accidental in its own right—for instance, if someone were to divide figures on the ground that some have angles equal to two right angles, and others to more;
17| [section 6] 6 for having angles equal to two right angles is an accident of the triangle. Further, one must divide by opposites. For opposites differ from one another, such as whiteness and blackness, and straightness and curvedness. If, then, one set of things is distinct by one differentia, one must divide by the opposite, and not divide the one by inclination and the other by color. Besides these, ensouled things must be divided by the functions common to body and soul, as, for instance, among those mentioned, walking and flying: for there are certain genera to which both belong, which are both winged and wingless, as the genus of ants. Nor should one divide by the wild and the tame: for it would seem that in doing so one is dividing the same species twice over, since practically all the tame animals happen also to be wild, such as men, horses, cattle, dogs in India, pigs, goats, sheep. Of each of these, if the name is used equivocally, it has not been divided apart at all; but if these are one in species, then wild and tame cannot be a differentia. [section 7] 7 In general, it is necessary that this happen to anyone who divides by a single differentia at a time. Instead, one must try to grasp the animals by genera, as the many who have marked off the genus of bird and of fish have indicated. Each of these has been settled by many differentiae, not according to dichotomy. For in that way either it is not possible to grasp them at all (since the same thing falls under several divisions, and opposites fall under the same one), or there will be only a single differentia, and this either simple, or, in the last case, formed by combination
18| ...will be the species. [section 8] But if one does not take a differentia of a differentia, then, just as one makes the account one by a connective, so too one must make the division continuous. I mean, for example, what happens to those who divide: featherless on one side, feathered on the other; and of the feathered, tame on one side, wild on the other, or white on one side, black on the other -- for tame is not a differentia of feathered, nor is white, but each is the starting point of a different differentia; there it is accidental. That is why one must immediately divide the one thing into many, as we say. For in this way the privations will produce a differentia, but in the dichotomy they will not. [section 9] That it is not possible, when dividing the genus in two, to arrive at any of the species taken individually, as some have supposed, is clear also from the following. For it is impossible for there to be a single differentia of things divided individually, whether one takes them as simple or as compounded. By simple I mean whether it has a differentia or not, for example many-toed as opposed to cloven-footed; by compounded I mean, for example, cloven-footedness. For this is what the continuity of the differentiae taken from the genus in the course of the division aims at, that the whole be some one thing. But it happens, because of the way we speak, that only the last differentia seems to be the differentia -- for example many-toed or two-footed -- while footed and many-footed seem superfluous.
19| [section 10] That there cannot be several such differentiae is clear: for one who proceeds always arrives at the last differentia, but not at the final one and the species. This last differentia is either cloven-footed alone, or the whole complex, if one is dividing to reach man -- for example if one puts together footed, two-footed, cloven-footed. If man were cloven-footed alone, this would then be a single differentia. But since he is not, there must be many differentiae, not falling under a single division. But indeed it is not possible for several such to fall under a single dichotomy of the same thing -- rather one must end at one point along one line of division. So it is impossible to grasp any of the individual animals by dividing in two. [section 1] One might raise the difficulty why people did not, from the start, gather both kinds under one name and call them a single genus, embracing both the water animals and the winged animals -- for there are some affections common to these and to all the other animals as well. But all the same, the division has been made correctly in this way. For whatever genera differ from one another by excess and by the more and the less are yoked together under one genus, while whatever have the analogous feature are kept apart. I mean, for example, one bird differs from another bird by the more, or by excess (one has long feathers, the other short), but fish differ from birds by analogy (what feather is to the one, scale is to the other). But it is not easy to do this in every case, for most animals undergo the same thing only by analogy.
20| [section 2] Since substances are the last species, and these are undifferentiated in species -- for example Socrates, Coriscus -- one must state what belongs to them universally before saying the same thing many times over, as has been said. Universals are common, for we call universal what belongs to several things. There is a difficulty as to which of the two one ought to treat. For insofar as substance is what is indivisible in species, it would be best, if one were able, to study the individuals and what is indivisible in species separately -- as one does with man, so likewise not with bird in general (for this genus has species), but with whatever individual bird, for example sparrow or crane or something of that kind. But insofar as it will turn out that one says the same thing about the same affection many times over, because it belongs commonly to several things, in this respect it is quite absurd and tedious to speak of each separately. [section 3] Perhaps, then, it is correct
21| to speak in common by genera of whatever is well said once people have marked out the boundaries, and which has one common nature, with species among them not far apart -- bird and fish, and anything else that, though nameless, likewise embraces in its genus the species within it; but of whatever is not of this kind, to speak of each individually, as with man and anything else of that sort. And the genera are marked out, roughly speaking, by the shapes of the parts and of the whole body, when these have a similarity -- for example, the genus of birds is affected in the same way in relation to itself, and so is that of fish, and the soft-bodied animals, and the shelled animals. For their parts differ from one another not by an analogous similarity -- as in man and fish, where bone stands to spine -- but rather by bodily affections, such as largeness and smallness, softness and hardness, smoothness and roughness, and things of that kind, and in general by the more and the less. [section 4] How, then, one ought to receive the method concerning nature, and in what way the study of these things would proceed most easily and by the right path, and further, concerning division, in what way it is possible for those pursuing it to grasp it usefully, and why dichotomizing is in one respect impossible and in another empty, has been stated. Now that these points have been settled, let us speak of what comes next, making the following our starting point.
22| [section 1] Of the substances constituted by nature, some are ungenerated and imperishable for all eternity, while others share in generation and destruction. Now it has fallen out that, concerning the former -- which are honorable and divine -- we have less scope for study (for both the starting points from which one might investigate them, and the things about which we long to know, the things evident to perception are altogether few); but concerning the perishable plants and animals we are better off with respect to knowledge, because of our familiarity with them, for one could grasp many facts about each of the kinds that exist, [section 2] if one is willing to work hard enough at it. Each has its own charm. For as to the former, even if we grasp only a little of them, still, because of the honor of the knowledge, it is more pleasant than knowing everything around us, just as catching sight of even a chance and small part of those we love is more pleasant than a precise view of many other great things; while as to the latter, because we come to know more of them and more fully, they take the superiority in point of knowledge, and further, because they are nearer to us and more akin to our nature, they offer something in exchange, weighed against the philosophy concerning divine things. [section 3]
23| Since we have gone through those subjects, stating what appears to us to be the case, it remains to speak of the nature of animals, leaving out nothing, so far as we are able, whether less honorable or more honorable. For even in the study of those animals which are not pleasing to perception, the nature that fashioned them nonetheless provides extraordinary pleasures to those able to know the causes and who are philosophers by nature. Indeed it would be unreasonable and absurd if, when looking at images of them, we take delight because we are at the same time contemplating the craft that made them -- for example painting or sculpture -- while not caring more for the study of the things constituted by nature themselves, when we are in fact able to observe their causes. [section 4] For this reason one must not be childishly squeamish about examining the less honorable animals. For in all natural things there is something marvelous. And just as Heraclitus is said to have spoken to the strangers who wished to meet him, who, when they approached and saw him warming himself at the oven, stopped short (for he urged them to come in without fear, since there were gods there too), so too one must approach the inquiry about each animal without disgust, since in all of them there is something natural and beautiful. For that which is not by chance but for the sake of something belongs to the works of nature, and above all, that for the sake of which a thing is put together or has come to be, as its end, occupies the place of the beautiful.
24| [section 5] If someone has come to think that the study of the other animals is beneath his dignity, he ought to think the same about the study of himself as well; for it is not possible to look at what the human race is composed of — blood, flesh, bones, veins, and parts of that kind — without a great deal of distaste. Likewise, one must recognize that a person discussing any part or any instrument whatsoever should not be making his account concerned with the matter, nor for the sake of the matter itself, but for the sake of the whole shape — just as with a house, the account is about the house, not about bricks and mud and timber. And so too the student of nature should be concerned with the composition and the whole substance, not with those things which never occur separated from their own substance. [section 6] It is necessary first to distinguish the attributes that belong to each genus, as many as belong to all the animals in their own right, and after that to try to distinguish their causes. Now it has been said before that many features are common to many animals — some without qualification, such as feet, feathers, scales, and affections of the same kind as these, and others by analogy. By 'analogy' I mean that some animals have a lung, while others have no lung but instead have, in place of it, something else that plays for them the role the lung plays for those that have one; and some have blood, while others have the analogous thing possessing the same power that blood has for the blooded animals.
25| [section 7] As for speaking about each of the particular animals separately — we said earlier too that this will often result in saying the same things again and again, since we would be speaking about all the features that belong to them, and the same features belong to many of them. Let this point, then, be settled in this way. Now since every instrument exists for the sake of something, and each of the parts of the body exists for the sake of something, and that for the sake of which is some action, it is clear that the body as a whole too has been put together for the sake of some complete action. For sawing does not exist for the sake of the saw, but the saw for the sake of sawing; for sawing is a kind of use. So the body too is in some way for the sake of the soul, and the parts are for the sake of the functions toward which each is naturally suited. [section 8]
26| We must therefore first speak of the actions — those common to all, those according to genus, and those according to species. By 'common' I mean those that belong to all animals; by 'according to genus,' those where we see the differences between them holding by way of degree relative to one another — for instance, I speak of bird according to genus, but of man according to species, and in general anything that, taken according to the universal account, exhibits no differentia. For some things have what is common by analogy, others according to genus, others according to species. Now whatever actions exist for the sake of other actions, it is clear that the parts whose actions these are stand apart from one another in the same way the actions do. Likewise, if some actions happen to be prior to and the end of other actions, each of the parts whose actions are of that sort will stand in the same relation; and a third case, those parts which must exist given that the others exist. [section 9] By affections and actions I mean coming-to-be, growth, mating, waking, sleep, locomotion, and whatever other such things belong to animals; by parts I mean nose, eye, and the face as a whole, each of which is called a limb. And likewise with the rest. Let this much be said, then, about the manner of our method; let us now try to state the causes, both of the common features and of the particular ones, beginning, as we determined, first from the first things.
1| B. [section 1] Out of which parts, then, and how many, each of the animals is composed has been shown more precisely in the Researches concerning them; but the causes on account of which each is disposed in this way we must now examine, separating this inquiry, in its own right, from what was said in the Researches. There being three kinds of composition, one would place first the composition out of what some call the elements, such as earth, air, water, fire. But it is perhaps better to speak in terms of the powers, and not all of these, but as has been said before elsewhere. For the moist and the dry and the hot and the cold are the matter of composite bodies; the other differentiae follow upon these — weight and lightness, density and rarity, roughness and smoothness, and the other such affections of bodies. The second composition, built out of the first, is the nature of the uniform parts found in animals, such as bone and flesh and the other things of that kind; and the third and last in number is that of the non-uniform parts, such as face and hand and parts of that sort. [section 2]
2| Since the order is reversed as between coming-to-be and substance — for what is later in coming-to-be is prior in nature, and what is last in coming-to-be is first (for a house does not exist for the sake of bricks and stones, but these for the sake of the house; and the same holds for the other matter as well); and it is clear not only by induction that this is how the matter stands, but also on rational grounds. For everything that comes to be, comes to be out of something and toward something, and proceeds from a starting-point to a starting-point, from the first thing that moves it and already possesses a certain nature, toward some shape or some other such end — for man begets man, and plant begets plant, out of the matter underlying each. In time, then, the matter and the coming-to-be must be prior; but in account, the substance and the shape of each thing are prior. This is clear if one states the account of the coming-to-be: for the account of the building includes the account of the house, but the account of the house does not include the account of the building. [section 3]
3| And the same holds likewise for the other cases too. So the matter of the elements must exist for the sake of the uniform parts. For these are later than those in coming-to-be, and the non-uniform parts are later still than these; for these already have their end and their limit, having reached the composition belonging to the third number, just as in many cases it happens that processes of coming-to-be are completed at a third stage. Animals, then, are composed of both kinds of these parts, but the uniform parts exist for the sake of the non-uniform; for it is the non-uniform parts that have functions and actions — for instance the eye, the nostril, the whole face, the finger, the hand, and the whole arm. And since the actions and motions belonging to animals, both as wholes and in parts of this sort, are of many different kinds, it is necessary that the things they are composed of have unlike capacities: for some purposes softness is useful, for others hardness, and some parts need to be capable of tension, others of bending. [section 4] Now the uniform parts have these capacities distributed part by part (for one of them is soft, another hard; one moist, another dry; one viscous, another brittle), while the non-uniform parts have them in many combinations put together with one another; for a different capacity is useful for pressing with the hand and for grasping. That is why the organic parts are composed out of bones and sinews
4| and flesh and the other things of that kind — and not the uniform parts out of the non-uniform. [section 5] As for how, then, the matter stands as stated for the sake of something, on account of this cause; but since it is also asked how it is necessary for things to be so, it is clear that they existed beforehand standing toward one another of necessity in this way. For the non-uniform parts can be composed out of the uniform, either out of several or out of one, as is the case with some of the internal organs; for these are varied in shape while being, so to speak, simply of uniform composition. [section 6]
5| But it is impossible for the uniform parts to come from these non-uniform parts; for a uniform part would then be many non-uniform ones. So it is for these reasons that some of the parts in animals are simple and uniform, while others are composite and non-uniform. And since there are, among animals, both instrumental parts and organs of sense, each of the instrumental parts is non-uniform, as I said before, while perception occurs in all cases in the uniform parts, because each kind of perception belongs to some one genus, and the organ of each sense must be receptive of the objects perceptible by that sense. Now what is potentially something is acted on by what is actually that thing, so that the agent and the patient are the same in genus, each being one; and this is why none of the natural philosophers attempts to say that a hand or a face or any such part is earth in one portion, water in another, and fire in another, while they do link each of the organs of sense to one of the elements, saying that one is air, another fire. Since perception occurs in the simple parts, it is reasonable that touch above all should occur in an organ of sense that is uniform, yet least simple of the sense organs; for this sense seems above all to belong to more than one genus, and to have many contrarieties. [section 7]
6| What is perceptible to touch is what is hot, cold, dry, wet, and anything else of that sort; and the organ of these, flesh, or what is analogous to it, is the most bodily of the sense organs. Since it is impossible for an animal to exist without perception, it would for this reason be necessary for animals to have some uniform parts; for perception resides in these, while their actions come about through the non-uniform parts. [section 8] Since the perceptive capacity, the capacity that moves the animal, and the nutritive capacity all reside in the same part of the body, as has been said elsewhere before, it is necessary that the part which first possesses these principles be, insofar as it is receptive of all the objects of perception, one of the simple parts, but insofar as it produces motion and action, one of the non-uniform parts. This is why, in bloodless animals, the analogous part, and in blooded animals, the heart, is of this kind; for it divides into uniform parts, as does each of the other viscera, yet because of the shape of its form it is non-uniform. And each of the other so-called viscera has followed the same pattern; for they are all composed of the same matter, since the nature of all of them is bloodlike, because they are situated at the outlets and junctions of the blood vessels.
7| [section 9] Just as mud settles from flowing water, so the other viscera are, as it were, deposits from the flow of blood through the vessels; but the heart, because it is the source of the blood vessels and possesses in itself the power that first produces the blood, is reasonably composed from the same kind of nourishment it receives. We have now said why the viscera are bloodlike in form, and why some are uniform and others non-uniform. [section 1] Among the uniform parts in animals, some are soft and moist, others hard and solid. The moist ones are moist either altogether, or for as long as they remain in their natural condition — for example blood, serum, fat, suet, marrow, semen, bile, milk in those that have it, flesh, and whatever is analogous to these; for not all animals possess all of these parts, but some possess what is analogous to them in place of them. The dry and solid uniform parts are, for example, bone, fish-spine, sinew, blood vessel. For even among the uniform parts the manner of division shows a difference; for in some cases the part has the same name as the whole, as a piece of a blood vessel is called a blood vessel, while in others it does not, since no piece of a face is called a face.
8| [section 2] First, then, there are many modes of causal explanation for both the moist and the dry parts. Some of them serve as the matter of the non-uniform parts (for each of the instrumental parts is composed of these — of bones, sinews, flesh, and other such things, some contributing to its substance, others to its function); others of the moist parts serve as nourishment for these parts (for everything derives its growth from moisture); and others turn out to be residues of these, for example the sediment of dry nourishment, and, in those that have a bladder, that of moist nourishment. [section 3] The differences among these parts themselves, relative to one another, exist for the sake of the better — as, among other things, blood differs from blood: one is thinner, the other thicker; one is purer, the other more turbid; and again one is colder, the other hotter, both among the parts of a single animal (for the blood in the upper parts differs from that in the lower parts by just these differences) and from one animal to another. And in general, some animals are blooded, while others have, in place of blood, some other part of this kind.
9| [section 4] Thicker and hotter blood is more productive of strength, while thinner and colder blood is more productive of perceptiveness and intelligence. The same difference holds also for whatever exists analogously to blood; and this is why bees and other such animals are more intelligent by nature than many blooded animals, and among blooded animals, those with cold and thin blood are more intelligent than the opposite kind. Best of all are those with blood that is hot, thin, and pure at once, for such blood is well disposed both toward courage and toward practical wisdom. This is also why the upper parts show this difference as against the lower, and again the male as against the female, and the right side of the body as against the left. [section 5] In like manner one must suppose that the other parts of this kind, and the non-uniform parts too, show this same sort of difference — some bearing on the functions and substance proper to each animal, others on what is better or worse. For instance, among animals that have eyes, some have hard eyes and others moist eyes, and some have no eyelids while others do, for the sake of more accurate vision.
10| [section 6] That it is necessary to have either blood or something of the same nature as blood, and what the nature of blood is — these are things one must study by first distinguishing the causes concerning hot and cold, and then examining the causes concerning blood in the same way. For the nature of many things is traced back to these principles, and many people dispute over which animals, and which parts of animals, are hot and which are cold. Some say that aquatic animals are hotter than land animals, claiming that the heat of their nature counterbalances the coldness of their environment; and that bloodless animals are hotter than blooded ones, and females hotter than males — as Parmenides says that women are hotter than men, and certain others say the same, on the ground that the menstrual flow occurs in women because of their heat, and makes them full of blood; while Empedocles says the opposite. Further, as regards blood and bile, some say that each of the two, whichever one, is hot, others that it is cold. [section 7]
11| But if hot and cold admit of so much dispute, what must we suppose about the other qualities? For these are, for us, the most evident of all in the realm of perception. This seems to happen because 'hotter' is said in many ways; for each disputant seems to be saying something true even while contradicting the others. One must therefore not lose sight of how one ought to speak of some naturally constituted things as hot and others as cold, and some as dry and others as moist, since it seems clear that these are, roughly speaking, the causes both of death and of life, and further of sleep and waking, of maturity and old age, of disease and health — but not roughness and smoothness, nor heaviness and lightness, nor, one might say, any other such quality. And this has come about reasonably; for, as has been said elsewhere before, these are the principles of the natural elements: hot and cold, dry and moist. [section 8]
12| Is 'hot' then said in an unqualified sense, or 8 in several ways? We must grasp what the function of the hotter thing is, or how many functions, if there are several. In one way, then, a thing is called hotter when what it touches is heated more by it; in another way, what produces more perception in touching, and this if it comes with pain. But sometimes this seems to be false; for sometimes it is the state of the person perceiving that is the cause of the pain. Again, what is more capable of melting is called hotter than what is meltable, and what is more capable of burning than what is burnable. Again, if one and the same thing is present in a greater and a lesser amount, the greater amount is hotter than the lesser. Besides these there are two more: what does not cool quickly but slowly is hotter, and what is heated more quickly than what is heated slowly we say is hotter in nature, since the one is far from its contrary while the other is near to what is like it. [section 9] It is said, then, 9
13| if not in several senses, at least in this many senses, that one thing is hotter than another; and it is impossible for all these ways to belong to the same thing. For boiling water heats more than flame does, but flame burns and melts what is burnable and meltable, while water does neither. Again, boiling water is hotter than a small fire, but hot water cools both more quickly and more completely than a small fire does; for fire never becomes cold, but all water does become cold. Again, boiling water is hotter to the touch, but it cools and solidifies more quickly than oil does. Again, blood is hotter to the touch than water and oil, but it solidifies more quickly. Again, stones and iron and things of that sort heat up more slowly than water, but once heated they burn more. [section 10] 10 Besides this, of the things called hot, some have a heat that is alien to them and others have a heat that is their own, and it makes a great difference whether a thing is hot in this way or in that way; for the one comes close to being hot accidentally rather than in its own right — just as if someone were to say, if it were an accident that a feverish person happened to be musical, that the musical person is hotter than the person who is hot with health.
14| [section 11] 11 Since, then, one thing is hot in its own right and another accidentally, what is hot in its own right cools more slowly, while what is hot accidentally often heats the perception more; and again, what is hot in its own right burns more — as flame does more than boiling water — while what is hot accidentally, namely boiling water, heats more to the touch. So it is clear that judging which of two things is hotter is not a simple matter; for in one respect this thing will be hotter, and in another respect the other. [section 12] 12 Some things of this kind cannot even be said, without qualification, to be hot or not hot. For that which the underlying subject happens to be is not hot, but becomes hot in combination — as if one were to give the name 'hot' to water or to iron. For it is in this way that blood is hot. And in such cases it becomes clear that the cold is a nature and not a privation, namely in all cases where the underlying subject is hot by way of an affection. [section 13]
15| And perhaps the nature of fire itself, if this 13 is so, is of this sort too; for perhaps the underlying subject is either smoke or ember, of which the one is always hot (for smoke is an exhalation), while the ember, once extinguished, is cold. Oil and pine-wood too could become cold. And nearly all things that have been fired possess heat — for example lime and ash, and the sediments of animals, and among residues, bile — because something has been kindled in them and left behind within them as heat. In another way pine-wood and fatty things are hot, because they change quickly into the actuality of fire. Heat seems both to solidify and to melt. [section 14] Now whatever consists only of water, 14 this the cold solidifies, but whatever consists of earth, fire solidifies; and among hot things, those that are more of earth solidify quickly under cold, and irreversibly, while those that are more of water solidify reversibly. But these matters have been determined more clearly elsewhere — what things are the solidifiable ones, and for what causes they solidify. As for what is hot, and what sort of thing is hotter, since this is said in several ways, it will not belong to all things in the same way, but we must further distinguish that this thing is hot in its own right, while the other is often hot accidentally, and further that this thing is hot in potentiality while that thing is hot in actuality, and that this is hot in this way, by heating the touch more, while that is hot in that way, by producing flame and setting things ablaze.
16| [section 15] Since the hot is said in 15 many ways, it will clearly follow that the cold is spoken of according to the same account. Let this, then, be our determination concerning the hot and the cold and their superiority over one another. [section 1] 3 Next in order, following what has been said, we must go through the dry and the moist as well. These too are said in several ways, some things being so in potentiality, others in actuality. For ice, and everything moist that has solidified, is called dry in actuality and accidentally, while being moist in potentiality and in its own right; whereas earth and ash and things of this sort, once mixed with moisture, are moist in actuality and accidentally, but dry in their own right and in potentiality. When these are separated out, some of them are capable of taking up water and are moist both in actuality and in potentiality, while others are entirely of earth and dry, and it is in this way, above all, that the properly and unqualifiedly dry is spoken of. Likewise the moist too has, by the same account, what is properly and unqualifiedly so, and the same holds concerning the hot and the cold. [section 2]
17| 2 Now that these points have been determined, it is clear that blood is hot in one way — namely in the way that constitutes what it is to be blood, just as if we were to signify by a single name what boiling water is called — while the underlying subject, the thing which blood happens to be, is not hot; and in its own right it is in one way hot and in another way not. For heat will belong to it in its account, just as white belongs in the account of a white man; but insofar as blood is hot by way of an affection, it is not hot in its own right. And the same holds concerning the dry and the moist. This is why, in the nature of such things, some are hot and moist but, when separated out, solidify and appear cold, as blood does, while others are hot and have thickness, as bile does, but when separated out from the nature of the things that contain them, undergo the opposite: they become cold and moist; for blood becomes drier, while yellow bile becomes moister. We must posit that the more and the less participation in the opposites belongs to these things as inherent attributes. [section 3]
18| How, then, blood is hot, and how it is 3 moist, and how the nature of blood partakes of the contraries, has now been stated more or less fully. Since everything that grows must necessarily take in nourishment, and nourishment for all things comes from the moist and the dry, and the concoction and transformation of these comes about through the power of heat, all animals and plants alike, even if for no other reason than this, must necessarily possess a natural principle of heat; and this, like the processes of working up the nourishment, belongs to several parts. For the first function evident in animals is that carried out through the mouth and the parts in it, in all cases where the food requires division. But this is not the cause of any concoction, but rather of easy concoction; for the division of the food into small pieces makes the work easier for the heat. But the concoction proper is already carried out, with the aid of natural heat, by the upper and the lower cavity. [section 4] Just as the mouth is a passage for 4 the unworked food, and the part continuous with it, which they call the esophagus — in all animals that have this part — leads as far as the stomach, so too there must be several other starting-points through which the whole body will take up its nourishment, as though from a manger, from the stomach and from the nature of the intestines.
19| [section 5] For plants take their nourishment already worked up out of the earth by means of their roots (which is why no residue arises in plants: they use the earth and the heat in it as a stomach), while animals — nearly all of them, and the ones that move about plainly so — have, one might say, earth within themselves in the cavity of the stomach, out of which, just as plants take their nourishment by their roots, these must take theirs by some organ, until the process of the digestion that follows it reaches completion. For the work done by the mouth hands the food over to the stomach, and from the stomach it is necessary for something else in turn to receive it, which is in fact what happens: the veins stretch the whole way through the mesentery, beginning below and reaching up to the stomach. These matters must be studied from the dissections and from the Researches on Animals. [section 6] Now since there is something that receives all nourishment and the residues that arise from it, and the veins are like a vessel for blood, it is clear that blood is the final nourishment for the animals that have blood, and for the bloodless ones the analogous substance. And because of this, when animals do not take in nourishment this substance runs low, and when they do it increases, and when it is good, this is healthy, and when it is bad, this too is bad. That blood, then, exists for the sake of nourishment in the blooded animals is clear from this and from considerations like it. And indeed this is also why blood, when touched, produces no perception, just as none of the other residues does either.
20| [section 7] Nor is the nourishment itself like flesh; for flesh, when touched, does produce perception. For blood is not continuous with flesh, nor grown together with it, but lies as though in a vessel, both in the heart and in the veins. As for the manner in which the parts take their growth from it, and about nourishment in general, it is more fitting to go through this in the works on generation and elsewhere. For now let this much be said — for this much is useful — that blood exists for the sake of nourishment, and for the nourishment of the parts. [section 1] The things called fibers: some blood has them, some does not, for example that of deer and roe deer. That is why blood of this kind does not congeal; for of blood, the part that is more watery is colder, and this is why it does not congeal, while the earthy part congeals as the moisture evaporates along with it; and the fibers are of earth. [section 2] It happens that some animals of this kind also have a keener intelligence, not because of the coldness of the blood, but rather because of the
21| fineness of it, and because it is pure; for the earthy element has neither of these qualities. For those animals whose fluid is finer and purer have a more readily-moved perception. And this is also why some of the bloodless animals have a more intelligent soul than some of the blooded ones, as has been said before — for example the bee and the race of ants, and anything else of that kind. But the excessively watery ones are more cowardly. For fear chills; the animals that have this kind of blend in the heart are therefore already predisposed toward that affection, since water is congealed by cold. This is why the other bloodless animals are, generally speaking, more cowardly than the blooded ones, and become motionless in fear, discharge residues, and some of them even change their color. [section 3] But animals that have very many fibers, and thick ones, are more earthy in nature and spirited in character, and prone to lose themselves in that spirit. For spirit produces heat, and solid things, once heated, heat more than fluids do; and fibers are solid and earthy, so that they become like fomentations in the blood and cause a seething in fits of spirit. This is why bulls and boars are spirited and prone to lose themselves; for their blood is the most fibrous, and that of the bull in particular congeals fastest of all.
22| [section 4] But once these fibers are removed, the blood does not congeal; for just as if one were to remove the earthy element from mud, the water would not congeal, so too with blood: the fibers are of earth. But if they are not removed, it congeals, like moist earth under cold; for as the heat is squeezed out by the cold, the moisture evaporates along with it, as has been said before, and it congeals not by heat but by being dried out under cold. In living bodies it remains fluid because of the heat present in animals. [section 5] The nature of the blood is responsible for much, both as regards the character of animals and as regards their perception, and reasonably so; for it is the matter of the whole body, since nourishment is matter, and blood is the final stage of nourishment. It therefore makes a great difference whether it is hot or cold, fine or thick, murky or pure. Serum is the watery part of the blood, present because the blood has not yet been concocted, or because it has spoiled; so that the one kind of serous fluid arises of necessity, while the other exists for the sake of the blood. [section 1]
23| Fat and suet differ from each other according to a difference in the blood. For each of them is blood that has been concocted through good nourishment, the part not used up for the fleshy portion of the animals, which is well-digested and well-nourished. Their oiliness shows this; for among fluids, the oily is what is common to air and fire. This is why none of the bloodless animals has either fat or suet, because they have no blood either. Among the blooded animals, those whose blood is more corporeal have suet rather than fat. For suet is earthy, and this is why it congeals, just as the fibrous kind of blood does too, both itself and broths of that kind; for it has little water, but much earth. [section 2] This is why animals that do not have teeth in both jaws but instead have horns have suet. Their nature is evidently full of this kind of element, in that they are horn-bearing and have ankle-bones; for all such things are dry and earthy in nature. But animals with teeth in both jaws, and without horns, and many-toed, have fat instead of suet, which does not congeal, nor does it crumble when dried, because its nature is not earthy. [section 3] Now these substances, when present in moderate amount in the parts of animals, are beneficial (for they do not hinder perception, and they contribute an aid toward health and strength), but when they exceed due measure in quantity they destroy and harm. For if the whole body were to become fat and suet, it would perish;
24| for an animal is what it is in virtue of its perceptive part, and flesh, and the analogous part, is what perceives; but blood, as has been said before too, has no perception, and so neither do fat and suet, for they are concocted blood. So that if the whole body were to become of this kind, it would have no perception at all. This is also why animals that are excessively fat grow old quickly; for they have little blood, since the blood is used up in the production of fatness, and animals with little blood are already predisposed toward decay; for decay is a kind of deficiency of blood, and what is little in quantity is susceptible to being acted on by cold of any degree, and by heat as well. And indeed fat animals are also less fertile, for the same reason: [section 4] for what ought to go from the blood into the seed and the semen is instead used up for fat and suet; for it is by the blood being concocted that these come to be, so that either no residue at all arises for such animals, or only a little. And concerning blood and serum and fat and suet, what each of them is and through what causes, has been stated. [section 1]
25| Marrow, too, is a kind of state of blood, and not, as some think, a seminal power belonging to semen. This is entirely clear in the young: since the parts are formed out of blood, and the nourishment for embryos is blood, even in the bones the marrow is blood-like. But as animals grow and the blood is concocted, just as the other parts change and the viscera change color (for while animals are still young, each of the viscera is excessively blood-like), so too does the marrow change: in animals that are fatty, it is oily and resembles fat, while in those in which the blood, when concocted, does not become like fat but becomes suet, in these the marrow is suet-like. Hence in horned animals that lack teeth in the upper jaw the marrow is suet-like, while in animals that have teeth in both jaws and are many-toed it is fatty. [section 2] 2 The spinal marrow is least of this kind, because it must be continuous and extend through the whole spine, which is divided at the vertebrae; being oily or suet-like, it would not be equally continuous, but would be either brittle or fluid. Some animals have no marrow worth mentioning — those whose bones are strong and dense, as with the lion; for the lion's bones, because they have no cavity at all, seem to have no marrow whatsoever.
26| [section 3] 3 Since it is necessary that animals possess the nature of bones, or what is analogous to bones — for example, water-animals have the spine in place of bones — it is necessary that some of them also have marrow, since the nourishment out of which the bones are formed is enclosed within them. That the nourishment for all animals is blood has been said earlier. And it stands to reason that the marrows are suet-like and fatty: for on account of the warmth produced by being enclosed within the bones, the blood is concocted, and the concoction of blood taken by itself is suet and fat. [section 4] 4 And so, among animals having dense and strong bones, it is reasonable that in some there is no marrow, and in others little; for the nourishment is used up into the bones. In those animals that do not have bones but a spine instead, the spinal marrow alone is marrow; for such animals are by nature low in blood, and the only hollow part is that of the spine. Hence marrow comes to be in this part alone: it alone has room for it, and it alone needs a binding because of its many divisions at the joints. This is why the marrow here, as has been said, is somewhat different in kind: because it takes the place of a ligament, it is sticky and sinewy, so that it may have tension.
27| [section 5] 5 Why, then, those animals that have marrow have it has been stated; and from this it is also clear what marrow is: it is a portion of the blood-nourishment going to the bones and the spine, namely the residue enclosed within them once it has been concocted. [section 1] 7 Concerning the brain, the discussion is very nearly continuous with this one; for to many people the brain too seems to be marrow, and the source of the marrow, because they observe the spinal marrow continuous with it. But its nature is, so to speak, entirely opposite: the brain is the coldest of the parts in the body, while marrow is hot by nature — its oiliness and fattiness make this clear. This is why the spinal marrow is continuous with the brain: nature always contrives, as a help against the excess of each thing, the neighboring presence of its opposite, so that the one may balance out the excess of the other. [section 2] 2 That marrow is hot, then, is clear from many things. The coldness of the brain is evident both by touch, and further from the fact that it is the least blood-like of all the fluids in the body — it contains not the slightest amount of blood in it — and the driest. It is neither a residue nor one of the continuous parts, but has a nature of its own, and reasonably so.
28| [section 3] 3 That it has no continuity at all with the perceptive parts is clear both from observation, and still more from the fact that it produces no perception when touched, just as neither blood nor the residue of animals does. It exists in animals for the preservation of the whole of their nature. For some place the soul of the animal in fire or some such power, putting the matter crudely; but it is perhaps better to say that the soul is constituted within some such body. The reason for this is that heat is the most serviceable of bodies for the works of the soul; for nourishing and causing motion is the work of the soul, and these come about above all through this power. It is therefore much the same to say that the soul is fire as to say that the carpenter is the drill, or the saw, or his craft (the text here is defective) — for the work is completed by these instruments only when they act in close conjunction with one another. That animals must, then, share in heat is clear from these considerations, [section 4]
29| 4 clear from these considerations; and since everything needs the countervailing inclination, so as to hit upon the moderate and the mean (for the mean has the substance and the ratio proper to the thing, whereas neither extreme has it by itself), for this reason nature has contrived the brain in relation to the region of the heart and the heat within it, and it is for the sake of this that this part exists in animals — having a nature common to water and earth. And because of this all the blooded animals have a brain, while none, so to speak, of the others do, except that in some there is an analogous part, as with the octopus; for all bloodless animals have little heat because of their lack of blood. [section 5] 5 The brain, then, makes well-tempered the heat and boiling in the heart; and so that this part too may attain a moderate heat, from each of the two vessels — both the great vein and the so-called aorta — veins run and terminate in the membrane around the brain. And so that it should not be harmed by the heat, instead of a few large veins, many fine, thin veins surround it, and instead of much thick blood, thin and pure blood surrounds it. This is also why discharges in the body take their origin from the head, in those animals whose parts around the brain are colder than the well-tempered mixture requires: for as the nourishment rises in vapor upward through the veins, the residue, being cooled owing to the capacity of this region, produces discharges of phlegm and serum.
30| [section 6] 6 One must grasp — comparing something small to something great — that this happens in a way similar to the generation of rain: for as vapor rises from the earth and is carried by the heat toward the region above, when it comes to be in the air above the earth, which is cold, it condenses again into water because of the cooling, and flows back down toward the earth. [section 7] 7 But it is fitting to speak of these matters in the treatises on the origins of diseases, so far as it belongs to natural philosophy to speak of them. This part also produces sleep in the animals that have a brain, and the analogous part does so in those that do not. For by cooling the influx of blood coming from the nourishment — or also through certain other, similar causes — it weighs down the region (which is why those overcome by sleep feel heaviness in the head), and it makes the heat retreat downward together with the blood. Hence, being gathered in greater quantity in the lower region, it brings about sleep, and it takes away the capacity to stand upright — in those animals that are upright by nature, the capacity to stand upright as a whole, and in the others, the uprightness of the head. Concerning these matters it has been discussed on its own account in the treatises on perception and on sleep.
31| [section 8] That the brain is a compound of water and earth is shown by what happens to it: when boiled, it becomes dry and hard, and the earthy part is left behind once the water has evaporated under the heat — just as with the boiled preparations of pulses and other fruits, because most of their bulk is earth, and the moisture mixed in departs; for these too become hard and thoroughly earthy. [section 9] Among animals, man has the largest brain in proportion to his size, and among human beings, the males have larger brains than the females; for the region around the heart and lung is hottest and richest in blood. This is also why man alone among animals stands upright: for the nature of the hot, gaining strength, produces growth away from the middle, in the direction of its own motion. Now opposed to a great deal of heat is a greater amount of moisture and cold, and because of this abundance the bone around the head — which some call the bregma — hardens latest of all, since for a long time the heat is evaporating off much moisture; this happens to none of the other blooded animals. [section 10]
32| Man also has the most sutures around the head, and the male more than the female, for the same reason: so that the region may be well-ventilated — and the more so the larger the brain is. For a brain that becomes too moist or too dry will not perform its own function, but will fail either to cool the heat or to make it congeal, so that it produces diseases, derangements, and deaths; for the heat in the heart, which is the principle, is most sympathetically affected and quickly registers perception whenever the blood around the brain undergoes some change and is affected. [section 11] Concerning the fluids that are innate in animals, virtually everything has now been said; but of those that arise later, there are the residues of nutriment — the sediment of the bladder and that of the belly — and besides these, seed and milk, in those animals whose nature it is to have each of these. Now the residues of nutriment have their own proper account in the inquiry and study concerning nutriment — in which animals they occur and for what causes; but the matters concerning seed and milk belong among the writings on generation, for the one is a principle of generation, the other is for the sake of generation.
33| [section 1] We must now examine the other uniform parts, and first flesh, in those animals that have flesh, and in the others whatever is analogous to it; for this is a principle and, in its own right, the body of animals. This is clear also from the account: we define an animal by its having perception, and first of all the first and most basic perception; and this is touch, and the organ of perception for this is a part of the kind just described — either the primary organ itself, as the pupil is of sight, or that which comprehends it together with its surroundings, as if one were to add to the pupil the whole of the transparent medium. Now in the case of the other senses it was both impossible and of no advantage for nature to make this so, but for the sense of touch it is necessary; for this alone, or most of all, among the sense-organs is bodily. [section 2] But it is evident from perception that all the other parts exist for the sake of this — I mean, for example, bones and skin and sinews and veins, and further hair and the class of nails, and anything else of this kind. For the nature of bones, hard by nature, has been contrived for the safety of what is soft, in those animals that have bones; while in those that do not, the analogous part serves this purpose, as in fish, in some the spine, in others cartilage.
34| [section 3] Now some animals have this kind of protection on the inside, but some of the bloodless animals have it on the outside, as each of the soft-shelled creatures does — crabs, for instance, and the class of crayfish — and likewise the class of shelled creatures, such as the so-called oysters; for in all of these the fleshy part is inside, while the earthy part, which holds together and protects, is outside. For besides guarding their continuity, since their nature contains little heat, being bloodless, the shell surrounds and preserves the smoldering heat within, like some covering set around it. [section 4] The tortoise and the class of terrapins seem to be constituted similarly to these, though a different class from them. But insects and cephalopods are put together in a way opposite both to these and to each other, in contrary fashion; for neither seems to have anything bony, nor any earthy part set apart worth mentioning, but the cephalopods are almost entirely fleshy and soft, though, so that their body may not be easily destroyed, unlike the merely fleshy animals, their nature is intermediate between flesh and sinew: it is soft like flesh, but has tension like sinew; and its flesh splits not in a straight line but is divisible in circles, for constituted this way it would be most useful for strength.
35| [section 5] In them there is also present what is analogous to the spines of fish: in cuttlefish, what is called the cuttlebone, and in squid, what is called the sword. Octopuses have nothing of this kind, because the receptacle called the head is small in them, whereas in the others it is elongated; and that is why nature has sketched in these structures, for the sake of their straightness and rigidity, just as among blooded animals it gives bone to some and spine to others. [section 6] Insects, however, are constituted in a way opposite both to these and to blooded animals, as we said. For they have nothing distinctly hard and nothing distinctly soft, but the whole body is hard, with a hardness of this sort: fleshier than bone, but bonier and earthier than flesh, so that their body may not be easily divided. [section 1] The nature of the bones and the nature of the veins are alike. For each of them, beginning from one point, is continuous, and no bone is anything in its own right by itself, but is either a part of a continuous whole, or is joined and bound to another, so that nature may use it both as one and continuous, and as two and divided, for the sake of bending.
36| [section 2] Likewise, too, no vein exists by itself in its own right, but all are part of one. For if any bone were separate, it would not perform the function for the sake of which the nature of bones exists — for, not being continuous but broken off, it would be the cause neither of bending nor of any rigidity — and further it would do harm, lodged in the flesh like some kind of dart. And if some vein were separate and not continuous with the source, it would not preserve the blood within it; for it is the heat coming from that source which prevents the blood from congealing, and what is separated is also observed to putrefy. [section 3] The heart is the source of the veins, and what is called the spine is the source of the bones, in those animals that have bones, and it is from this that the nature of the other bones continues; for it is the spine that holds together the length and the straightness of animals. Since, when the animal moves, its body must necessarily bend, the spine is one thing on account of its continuity, but many-parted through the division into vertebrae. From this, in those animals that have limbs continuous with it, the bones of these limbs are joints, at the points where the limbs bend, bound together with sinews; and their extremities fit together, one being hollow and the other rounded, or both hollow and enclosing something between them, like a peg, an astragalus, so that bending and extension may occur; for otherwise such motion would be either altogether impossible, or would not be performed well.
37| [section 4] Some of them, the starting point of one being similar to the end point of the other, are bound together by sinews. And there are cartilaginous parts between the joints, like padding, so that they do not rub against one another. The flesh has grown around the bones, wrapped beforehand in thin, fibrous bonds, for the sake of which the class of bones exists. [section 5] For just as those who mold an animal out of clay, or some other moist material, first set up underneath some solid body, and then mold the material around it in this way, in the same manner nature has fashioned the animal by building the flesh around the bones. In the other fleshy parts, then, bones underlie them: in the parts that move by bending, for the sake of this bending; in the immobile parts, for the sake of protection — as the ribs that close around the chest do, for the safety of the organs around the heart. But the region around the belly is boneless in all animals, so that it will not hinder the swelling that necessarily occurs in animals from their food, and in females, the growth of the embryos within them. [section 6] Now the animals that bear live young have, both internally and externally, a similar and strong power of bone. For all such animals are, proportionally speaking, much larger in body than the non-viviparous ones; for in some places many of the viviparous animals grow large, as in Libya and in hot, dry regions.
38| [section 7] Large animals need stronger supports, both bigger and harder, and among these, the more violent animals need still harder ones. This is why the bones of males are harder than those of females, and so are those of flesh-eating animals, since their food comes through fighting — as with the lion's: these are so hard by nature that they strike sparks like fire out of stones when struck. The dolphin, too, has not fish-spines but bones, since it bears live young. [section 8] In animals that are blooded but do not bear live young, nature varies by small degrees; birds, for instance, have bones, but weaker ones. [section 9] Among fish, the egg-laying ones have fish-spine, and in snakes too the nature of the bones is spiny, except in the very large ones; these, for the same reasons as the viviparous animals, need stronger supports for the sake of strength. But the so-called cartilaginous fish have a nature of cartilage-spine; for their motion must necessarily be more supple, so that their supports, too, must not be brittle but softer, and nature has spent all the earthy material on the skin. At the same time nature is unable to distribute the same surplus into many places at once.
39| [section 10] Also among the viviparous animals, many of the bones are cartilaginous, wherever it is advantageous for the solid material to be soft and spongy because of the flesh lying around it, as happens with the ears and the nostrils; for brittle material breaks quickly in projecting parts. Cartilage and bone are the same in nature, but differ by more and less; hence, too, neither one grows back once cut off. Now among land animals, cartilage has no marrow of its own, separate within it; for marrow, when it is separated out and mixed all through, makes the composition of the cartilage soft and spongy. [section 11] In the cartilaginous fish, the spine is cartilaginous but does have marrow; for this part serves them in place of bone. Close to bone in nature, too, are such parts as claws, hooves, talons, horns, and the beaks of birds. All these exist in animals for the sake of assistance; for the wholes composed out of them, which share the same name as the parts — a whole hoof, a whole horn — have been devised for the safety of each animal. In this same class, too, belongs the nature of teeth, which in some animals serves one function, the working of food, while in others it serves both this and defense, as in all the animals with jagged teeth and tusks.
40| [section 12] All these parts necessarily have an earthy and solid nature, for this is the capacity a weapon needs. This is why all such parts belong more to the four-footed viviparous animals than to the human race, because their whole composition is more earthy than that of the human race. [section 13] But about these parts, and those connected with them — such as skin, bladder, membrane, hair, feathers, their analogues, and any other part of this kind — we must examine their cause later, together with the non-uniform parts, and for the sake of what each is present in animals; for it will be necessary to recognize these too, as with those others, from their functions. [section 14] But because these parts share the same name as their wholes, they have now taken their place in the account of the uniform parts. The principles of all of them are bone and flesh. As for semen and milk, we left these aside in the discussion of the fluid uniform parts; for the inquiry into them fits better with the accounts of generation, since one of them is a principle and the other is nourishment for the things that come to be. [section 1]
41| 10 Let us now speak again as if from the beginning, starting first from first things. For in all complete animals there are two most necessary parts: that by which they take in food, and that by which they will discharge the residue; for it is not possible either to exist or to grow without food. Now plants — for we say that these too live — have no place for useless residue; for they take their food from the earth already concocted, and in place of a residue they put forth seeds and fruits. A third part is present in all of them, the middle between these two, in which — [section 2] Now the nature of plants, being stationary, is not multiform in its non-uniform parts; for the use of few organs serves few actions. Hence their shape must be studied on its own terms. But the things that, besides living, also have perception have a more multiform shape, and some of these more so than others — and a richer one still, in those whose nature partakes not only of living but also of living well. [section 3] Such is the human race; for among the animals known to us, it either alone shares in the divine, or does so most of all. So both for this reason, and because the shape of its external parts is most familiar to us,
42| we must speak about this animal first. For it is in this animal alone that the parts naturally situated upward are upward in relation to the whole; for man alone among animals stands upright. [section 4] Now the fact that the head is fleshless follows necessarily from what has been said about the brain. For it is not, as some say, that if it were fleshy the race would be longer-lived; rather, they say it is fleshless for the sake of good perception — for, they say, one perceives with the brain, and parts that are too fleshy do not admit of perception. [section 5] Neither of these claims is true. If the region around the brain were fleshy, it would produce the very opposite of what the brain exists in animals for — since it would not be able to cool the body if it were itself too warm — and the brain is not the cause of any of the perceptions, since it is itself as devoid of perception as any other residue. But since they cannot find the real cause why some of the perceptions are located in the head in animals, and they see that the head is more distinctive than the other parts, they pair the two together by inference, from one to the other. [section 6]
43| That the region around the heart is the starting point of the senses has been settled earlier, in the treatise on sense-perception. So too has the reason why two of the senses are plainly dependent on the heart -- that of touch and that of flavors -- while, of the remaining three, smell holds a middle position, and hearing and sight are located mainly in the head, because of the nature of their organs; and of these, sight is so located in every animal that has it, since hearing and smell, in the case of fish and similar animals, make what has been said evident: they hear and they smell, yet they have no organ for these sensibles that is visible in the head. Sight, in every animal that has it, is reasonably situated around the brain: the brain is moist and cold, and the substance of the eye is water in nature; for water is the most easily preserved of transparent things. [section 7]
44| Further, the more precise of the senses must occur through the parts that have the purer blood, since the motion of the heat in the blood blunts the activity of perception. For these reasons the organs of these senses are in the head. And it is not only the front of the head that is fleshless, but the back of it as well, because in every animal that has a head this part must be held very upright; for nothing can hold itself upright while carrying a load, and a load is exactly what it would carry if the head were covered in flesh. This also makes clear that the head is fleshless not for the sake of the brain's perception; for the back of the head has no brain, yet is fleshless all the same. [section 8] And some animals reasonably have their hearing too situated in the region around the head: for what is called the empty space is full of air, and we say that the organ of hearing consists of air. Now from the eyes the passages lead into the veins around the brain; and likewise, again, from the ears a passage connects through to the back of the head. [section 9] All the animals that have this part have the brain toward the front, because that which perceives is in front, and perception proceeds from the heart, and the heart lies among the forward parts, and perceiving occurs through the blood-bearing parts, while the cavity at the back is empty of veins. The organs of sense have, in this way, been arranged well by nature,
45| the organ of hearing at the middle of the circumference (for one hears not only along a straight line but from every direction), while sight is set toward the front (for one sees along a straight line, and motion is toward the front, and one must see ahead in the direction of that motion). And the organ of smell is reasonably placed between the eyes. For each of the sense organs is double, because the body is double, one part right and one left. [section 10] In the case of touch this is not evident; the reason is that the primary organ of touch is not the flesh or such a part, but something internal. In the case of the tongue it is less evident than in the other senses, but more evident than in the case of touch, since taste too is a kind of touch. Yet even here it is evident, since the tongue is seen to be split. In the other sense organs the doubleness of the perception is more plainly evident: there are two ears and two eyes, and the power of the nostrils is likewise twofold. [section 11] If it were placed differently and set apart, as the organ of hearing is, it would not perform its own function, nor would the part in which it lies; for in animals that have nostrils, perception of smell occurs by way of breathing, and this part lies in the middle and among the forward parts. This is why nature has brought the nostrils together into the middle of the three sense organs, setting them, as it were, on a single line for the motion of breathing. And in the other animals too these sense organs are well placed, each according to its own particular nature.
46| [section 1] Quadrupeds have their ears set apart and, it might seem, above the eyes. But this is not so -- it only appears so because these animals are not upright but stoop. Ears that are raised up and mobile are useful to animals that move about a great deal, since by turning they catch sounds better from every direction., since, being raised up and mobile, they catch sounds better from every direction by turning about. [section 1] Birds have only the passages for hearing, because of the hardness of their skin, and because they have not hair but feathers; so they have no material of the kind out of which ears could be formed. The same holds likewise of those quadrupeds that lay eggs and are scaly, for the same account fits their case too. And the seal, among the live-bearing animals, likewise has no ears but only passages for hearing, because it is a quadruped whose form has been stunted. [section 1] Human beings, birds, and both the live-bearing and the egg-laying quadrupeds have a protective covering for the eye: the live-bearing animals have two eyelids, with which they also blink; among birds, the heavy-bodied ones and others besides, along with the egg-laying quadrupeds, close the eye with the lower lid; birds blink by means of a membrane from the corners of the eyes. The reason they have this protection is that their eyes are moist, so that, in this way, they may see sharply, as nature intends. For if their eyes had a hard skin they would be less liable to injury from things striking them from outside, but they would not see sharply.
47| [section 2] For this reason the skin around the pupil is thin, and the eyelids exist for the sake of safety; and this is why all animals blink, human beings most of all -- all of them so as to keep off what strikes against the eyelids (and this is not done by choice, but nature has made it so), and human beings most often of all because their skin is the thinnest. The eyelid is skin wrapped around the eye; this is also why neither the eyelid nor the foreskin ever grows fused together, since these are skin without flesh. [section 3] Those birds that close the eye with the lower lid, and the egg-laying quadrupeds, close it this way because of the hardness of the skin around the head. The heavy-bodied among the winged animals, since they are not fliers, have the growth that would otherwise have gone into feathers turned instead into thickness of skin. This is why these close their eyes with the lower lid, while pigeons and the like use both lids. [section 4] The quadrupeds among the egg-laying animals are scaly; and scales are in every case harder than hair, so that their skins are harder than ordinary skin as well. The skin around their head, then, is hard, and this is why they have no eyelid there, while the skin below is fleshy, so that the lower lid has thinness and can be stretched. The heavy-bodied birds do not blink by means of this lower lid but by means of the membrane, because the motion of the lid is slow, whereas blinking must happen quickly; and the membrane is of just this quick kind.
48| [section 5] They blink from the corner of the eye nearest the nostrils, because it is better that their nature proceed from a single starting point, and this is the starting point they have -- the point of attachment toward the nostril; and the forward part is more of a starting point than the side part. Quadrupeds that lay eggs do not blink in the same way, because, being creatures of the ground, they have no need of moist and precise vision. Birds do need it, however, since their use of sight is at a distance. This is why the hook-taloned birds have sharp sight -- their view of their food is from above, which is also why these fly highest of all birds -- while the ground-dwelling birds that are not fliers, such as chickens and the like, do not have sharp sight, since nothing in their way of life presses them toward it. [section 6] Fish, insects, and the hard-shelled animals have eyes that differ from these, and none of them has an eyelid. The hard-shelled animals have none at all; for the function of the eyelid is a quick action performed by skin, and instead of this protection all these animals have hard eyes, seeing, as it were, through an eyelid that has grown fused to the eye. But since it is necessary that, because of this hardness, their sight be rather dull
49| ...to see, nature made the eyes of insects movable, and even more so in the hard-shelled animals, just as some four-footed animals move their ears, so that by turning toward the light and receiving its ray they may see more sharply. [section 7] 7 Fish, on the other hand, have moist eyes. For creatures that move about a great deal need to use their sight from far off. Now for land animals the air is easy to see through; but for fish, since water is unfavorable to sharp vision, yet does not present as many obstructions to sight as air does, for this reason they do not have an eyelid (for nature does nothing in vain), while against the thickness of the water they have moist eyes. [section 1]
50| 14 All creatures that have hair have eyelashes on their eyelids, but neither birds nor scaly animals have any, since they have no hair. As for the Libyan ostrich, we shall state the reason later, for that animal does have eyelashes. And of the creatures that have hair, only human beings have it on both sides of the body. For the four-footed animals do not have hair on their underside, but rather on their upper side; humans, by contrast, have more hair on their underside than on their upper side. For hair exists for the sake of covering in those creatures that have it; now for four-footed animals the upper side needs covering more, and while the front parts are more honorable, they become smooth because of their bending; but for humans, since because of their uprightness the front stands equal to the back, nature has assigned its help to the more honorable parts. For a cause, working from what is possible, always aims at what is better. [section 2] 2 And for this reason none of the four-footed animals has an eyelash on the lower eyelid, though in some, sparse hairs grow beneath that eyelid; nor do they have hair in the armpits or on the pubic region, as humans do; instead, in place of these, some are shaggy with hair over the whole of their upper side, as the dog family is, others have a mane along the neck, as horses and similar animals do, and others have a mane about the head, as the male lion does.
51| [section 3] 3 Further, whatever animals have tails of length, nature has adorned these too with hair — in those with a small stock of a tail, with long hair, as with horses, in those with a long tail, with short hair, and this follows the nature of the rest of the body's marking as well. For everywhere nature gives back, taking from one part to add to another. In those whose body it has made excessively shaggy, the region around the tail is correspondingly deficient in hair, as happens in the case of bears. [section 4] 4 As for the head, man is the shaggiest of animals there, of necessity because of the moistness of the brain and because of the sutures (for where moisture and heat are greatest, there growth must necessarily be greatest too), and also for the sake of help, so that the hairs may shelter the head, guarding against extremes of cold and heat. And since the human brain is the largest and the moistest, it needs the most protection of all; for what is moistest both boils and is chilled the most, while what is in the opposite condition is least affected. [section 5] 5 But it has happened that we digressed onto these points while staying close to the cause concerning the eyelashes, because of their kinship with it; so the remaining points must be given their due mention in their proper places.
52| [section 1] The eyebrows and the eyelashes both exist for the sake of protection: the eyebrows against fluids running down, so that, like an overhanging eave, they may keep off the fluids coming from the head; the eyelashes for the sake of things falling against the eyes, just as some people build palisades in front of enclosures. [section 2] 2 The eyebrows lie upon a joining of bones, which is why in many people, as they grow old, they become so shaggy that they need trimming; the eyelashes lie at the end of small blood vessels, for where the skin comes to an end, there the small vessels also reach the end of their length. So it is necessary that, because of the moisture passing off there — being bodily in nature — unless some function of nature prevents it for another use, hairs should form of necessity in these places, and for this reason as well. [section 1] 16 Now in the other four-footed, live-bearing animals, the organ of smell is not, in a certain way, far separated from the rest; but those that have elongated jaws drawn out to a narrow point have the part belonging to the nostrils present within what is called the snout, in whatever way is possible, while in the others it is more distinctly articulated in relation to the jaws.
53| [section 2] 2 The elephant has this part most peculiar to itself among the other animals; for it has both extraordinary size and extraordinary power. It is a nostril by which the animal brings its food, using it as if it were a hand, to its mouth, both dry food and wet, and by coiling it around trees it pulls them up, and uses it just as if it were a hand. For the animal's nature is at once marsh-dwelling and land-dwelling, so that, since it happens to take its food from moist ground, but as a land animal and a blooded one it must breathe, and cannot make a quick change from the moist element to the dry, as some blooded, live-bearing, breathing animals do, since its size is so exceedingly great, it must make use of the watery element in the same way as it does the land. [section 3] 3 Just as some divers provide themselves with instruments for breathing, so that by remaining a long time in the sea they may draw in air from outside the water through the instrument, so nature has made the size of the nostril such a thing for elephants. This is why they breathe by raising the nostril up above the water, whenever they happen to make their way through water; for as we have said, the trunk is a nostril for elephants.
54| [section 4] 4 But since it was impossible for the nostril to be of this kind without being soft and able to bend (for otherwise its length would get in the way of taking food from outside, just as they say horns do for oxen that graze backward — for they say those animals graze while retreating backward), given then that the nostril is of this kind, nature makes further use of it, as it is accustomed to do, applying the same parts to more than one purpose, in place of the use of the front feet. For the many-toed four-footed animals have their front feet in place of hands, and not only for the sake of supporting their weight; and elephants are among the many-toed animals, and their feet are neither cloven nor single-hoofed. But since the animal's size and the weight of its body are great, its feet exist only for the sake of support, and because of their slowness and their unfitness for bending they are of no use for anything else. [section 5] 5 So then, it has a nostril for the sake of breathing, just as each of the other animals that have lungs does, but because of its living in water and the slowness of its transition from there, it has one able to coil and be long; and since the use of the feet has been taken away, nature, as we said, makes use of this part as well for the help that would otherwise have come from the feet.
55| [section 6] Birds and snakes, and the other blooded and egg-laying four-footed animals, have the passages of the nostrils in front of the mouth, so that one might call them nostrils, if not by their working, they do not have them clearly articulated; but a bird is such that one would say it has nothing one could call a nose at all. This comes about because it has, instead of jaws, what is called a beak. [section 7] The nature of birds has its food-getting apparatus put together in this way. For a bird is two-footed and winged, so that its neck and head must of necessity be light in weight, and likewise its chest is narrow. So then, in order that it may be useful both for defense and for feeding, birds have a bony beak, and it is narrow because of the smallness of the head. In the beak they have the passages of smell, and it is impossible for them to have nostrils. [section 8] Concerning the other animals that do not breathe, it has been said earlier for what cause they do not have nostrils, but some perceive smells through the gills, some through the blowhole, and the insects through the diaphragm-like membrane, and all are moved, as it were, by the connate breath within the body; and this belongs to all of them by nature and is not brought in from outside.
56| [section 9] Below the nostrils is the nature of the lips, in those blooded animals that have teeth. For in birds, as we said, the beak is bony because of feeding and defense; for it has been drawn together into one thing in place of both teeth and lips, just as if someone were to take away a man's lips and fuse the upper teeth together separately and the lower ones separately, and draw each forward, making them long and narrow on both sides: this would already be a bird-like beak. [section 10] In the other animals, then, the nature of the lips exists for the preservation of the teeth and for their protection; and so, just as those animals share in precision and fineness of form or the opposite, so too they have this part more or less articulated. But humans have soft lips, fleshy, and capable of being separated, both for the protection of the teeth, as in the other animals, and even more so for the sake of the good; for these too serve the use of speech. For just as nature made the tongue not like that of the other animals, using it doubly for two functions, as we said she does in many cases, 660a the tongue for the sake both of tastes and of speech, so too the lips serve both this purpose and the guarding of the teeth.
57| [section 11] For speech, uttered through the voice, is composed of the letters, and if the tongue were not of such a kind, nor the lips moist, it would not be possible to sound most of the letters; for some are formed by contacts of the tongue, others by closures of the lips. What kinds of these there are, and how many, and what differentiae they have, one must inquire from those who study meter. [section 12] It was necessary that each of these two parts should immediately be well-fitted for the use described, and have such a nature as this; hence they are fleshy. The flesh of human beings turned out to be the softest. This is because man is the most perceptive of animals with respect to the perception through touch. [section 1] Below the palate, in the mouth, is the tongue, present in animals — in land animals nearly alike in all, but in the others unlike, both among themselves and in comparison with the land animals. [section 2] Man, then, has a tongue that is especially free and soft, and broad, so that it may be useful for both functions: for the perception of tastes (for man is the most perceptive of the other animals, and a soft tongue is most sensitive to touch, and taste is a kind of touch), and for the articulation of the letters and for speech; and it is the soft and broad tongue that is
58| useful; for being of such a kind and free, it can best contract and thrust forward in every direction. This is shown in those whose tongue is not overly free: they lisp and stammer, and this is a deficiency in the letters. [section 3] In being broad it is also narrow in a sense; for in the large is contained the small, but in the small there is not the large. This is why, among birds, those that utter the most articulate sounds have broader tongues than the rest. The blooded, live-bearing four-footed animals have a brief articulation of voice; for they have a tongue that is hard and not free, and thick. [section 4] Of birds, some have many notes, and the hook-taloned ones have a broader tongue. The smaller birds have more notes. And all of them use the tongue also for communication with one another, though some more than others, so that in some cases there seems even to be learning from one another; this has been discussed in the researches concerning animals. [section 5] Of land animals that are egg-laying and blooded, most have a tongue useless for the production of voice, both fastened down and hard; but for the tasting of flavors, snakes and lizards have a long, forked tongue — snakes so long that it extends from a small base to a great length, and forked, with the tip thin and hair-like, because of the gluttonous character of their nature; for they gain a double pleasure from flavors, having as it were a double organ of the perception of taste.
59| [section 6] The bloodless animals, too, have the part that perceives flavors, and so do all the blooded ones; for even those that most people think do not have it, such as some fishes, these too have in a way a sticky such part, and much the same as in river crocodiles. [section 7] Most fish do not appear to have it, for some reasonable cause: for the region of the mouth in all such animals is spiny, and because the perception of flavors in water-dwellers occupies only a short time, just as its use is brief, so too its articulation is brief. And the passage into the stomach is quick, because it is not possible for them to linger extracting the flavor; for the water would rush in meanwhile. Hence, unless one tilts open the mouth, this part does not appear to be separate at all. [section 8]
60| This region is spiny; for it is composed out of the meeting-place of the gills, whose nature is spiny. In crocodiles, something also contributes to the deficiency of this part: the fact that they have the lower jaw immoveable. For the tongue is naturally attached to the lower jaw, but crocodiles have it as it were the other way round, with the upper jaw moving; for in the others the upper jaw is immoveable. They do not have the tongue attached to the upper jaw, then, because that would work against the entrance of food, but to the lower jaw, because the upper is as it were displaced. Further, it has also come about for the crocodile, though it is a land animal, to live the life of a fish, so that for this reason too it necessarily has this part unarticulated. [section 9] Many fish, too, have a fleshy palate, and some river fish have one exceedingly fleshy and soft, such as the so-called carp, so that to those who do not examine closely it seems to have a tongue. Fish, for the reason stated, have this part but do not have it clearly articulated. Since the perception in the flavors exists for the sake of nourishment, they have the tongue-like part, but not alike throughout, rather chiefly at the tip. For this reason, in fish this alone is marked off.
61| [section 10] All animals have a desire for food, as having perception of the pleasure that comes from food; for desire is desire of the pleasant. But the part by which they perceive food is not the same in all: in some it is detached, in others attached — in those, that is, which have no function of voice — and in some it is hard, in others soft or fleshy. That is why in the soft-shelled crustaceans, such as crayfish and the like, there is something of this kind inside the mouth, [section 11] and likewise in the cephalopods, such as cuttlefish and octopuses. Of insects, some have this sort of part inside, as the ant tribe does, and so too do many of the testaceans; others have it outside, like a sting, spongy in nature and hollow, so that with this same part they both taste and draw up their food. This is clear in the case of flies and bees and all such creatures, and further in some of the testaceans; for in purple-shellfish this part has such power that they bore right through the shell even of conches — for example the shells of the whelks with which they are baited. Further, gadflies and horseflies, some of which pierce the skins of
1| [section 12] humans and others also the skins of other animals, do so with this same part. In these animals, then, the tongue is of this nature, standing in a kind of inverse relation to the trunk of elephants: for the trunk serves them for defense, and for these creatures the tongue takes the place of a sting. In the rest of the animals the tongue is in every case of the sort we have described. Book Three. [section 1] Next in order after what has been said comes the nature of the teeth in animals, and the mouth that is enclosed by them and composed of them. Now for animals generally the nature of the teeth serves, in common, the working of food, but apart from this, by kinds, some have them for the sake of strength — and this itself divides into acting and not being acted upon; for some animals have teeth for both purposes, both not to suffer harm and to inflict it, as do the wild animals whose nature is carnivorous, while others have them for the sake of defense only, as do many wild and tame animals besides. [section 2]
2| Man's teeth, for their common use, are naturally well formed: the front ones sharp, so that they may cut, the molars broad, so that they may grind. The canine teeth mark the boundary between the two, being of a nature intermediate between both — for what is in the middle shares in both extremes — and the canines are on one side sharp and on the other broad. It is the same too in the other animals, as many as do not have all their teeth sharp. And these teeth are especially of this kind and this number for the sake of speech; for the front teeth contribute much to the formation of the sounds of speech. [section 3] Some animals, as we said, have teeth only for the sake of food. But those that have them also for defense and for strength, some have tusks, as the pig does, others have sharp, interlocking teeth, for which reason they are called saw-toothed. For since their strength lies in their teeth, and this comes about through sharpness, the teeth useful for strength fall in alternately, so that they may not be blunted by rubbing against one another. [section 4] No animal is at once saw-toothed and tusked, because nature does nothing in vain and nothing superfluous; and in some animals the defense is by striking, in others by biting. That is why female pigs bite: they do not have tusks.
3| [section 5] But in general there is a point that ought to be grasped, one that will prove useful both here and in much of what will be said later. For nature assigns each of the organs of strength and defense to those creatures able to use it alone, or better than others, and most of all to whichever can use it best — for example a sting, a spur, horns, tusks, or anything of that kind. And since the male is stronger and more spirited, some animals have such parts only in the male, others have them more developed in the male. For as many parts as it is necessary for the females too to have, such as those for feeding, the females have them, but have them to a lesser degree; but as many as serve none of the necessities, they do not have at all. [section 6] And this is why, among deer, the males have horns but the females do not. The horns of female cattle also differ from those of bulls, and likewise among sheep. And of the males that have spurs, most of the females do not have them. [section 7]
4| It is the same too with the other such cases. All fish are saw-toothed except the one called the parrotfish; and many have teeth on their tongues as well, and on the roofs of their mouths. The reason for this is that, living in a liquid element, they necessarily take in the liquid along with the food, and must expel it quickly; for it is not possible for them to linger over grinding, since the liquid would then flow into the stomach. For this reason all of them are sharp-toothed for cutting. Again, their teeth are many and set in many places, so that, instead of grinding, they may cut the food into many pieces by sheer number. And they are voracious, because almost all their strength lies in these teeth. [section 8] Animals have the nature of mouth they have both for the sake of these functions and further for respiration, in the case of those animals that breathe and are cooled from outside. For nature itself, as we said, puts parts common to all creatures to use for many special purposes: so too with the mouth — food is common to all, but strength is peculiar to some, and speech to others, and further, breathing is not common to all.
5| [section 9] Nature has drawn these together into one part, producing a differentiation within this same part to match the differences of function. That is why some mouths are narrower, others large. For as many creatures as have mouths for the sake of food, breathing, and speech are narrower-mouthed, while of those that have them for the sake of defense, all the saw-toothed ones have mouths that open wide. For since their strength lies in their bites, it is useful for them that the mouth's gape be large; for they will bite more, and over a wider area, the more widely the mouth opens. And among fish too, the biting and carnivorous ones have a mouth of this kind, while the non-carnivorous ones have a tapering mouth; for that kind is useful to them, and the other useless. [section 10] For birds, the mouth is what is called the beak; for they have this instead of lips and teeth. This differs according to its uses and modes of defense. For the birds called hook-taloned, because they are carnivorous and feed on no fruit, all have a hooked beak; for this is useful for gripping, and, being naturally formed this way, is more forceful. [section 11] Their strength lies in this and in their talons; that is why they also have more hooked talons. For the rest, the beak is useful to each according to its way of life — for example, for woodpeckers it is strong and hard, and likewise for crows and ravens, while for small birds it is delicate, suited to gathering seeds and catching small creatures.
6| [section 12] As for the plant-eaters and those that live near marshes, such as the swimming birds and the web-footed ones, some have a beak useful in one way, while others among them are broad-beaked; for being of this shape, it can dig easily, just as the snout of the pig does among the quadrupeds — for the pig too is a root-eater. Further, the root-eating birds and those that live a similar life have the tips of their beaks notched in some cases; for this makes it easy for them, being plant-eaters. [section 13] Concerning the other parts in the head, then, an account has more or less been given. In humans, the part between the head and the neck is called the face, named, it seems, from its function; for because a human alone among animals stands upright, it alone looks forward, and it sends its voice forward as well. [section 1] We must now speak of horns; for these too grow naturally in the head, in those that have them. Nothing that is not viviparous has them. By resemblance and by transference of the word, the 'horns' of certain other things are also so called; but in none of these does the function of a horn actually belong to it. For it is for the sake of defense and strength that the viviparous animals have them, which does not hold for any of the other things said to have 'horns'; for none of these uses its 'horns' either to ward off attack or to overpower, which are the functions proper to strength.
7| [section 2] Now all the animals that are many-toed have no horn. The cause of this is that a horn serves as an aid to defense, while for the many-toed animals other aids are available: nature has given some of them claws, others teeth fit for fighting, and others some other part sufficient for defense. [section 3] Of the cloven-hoofed animals, most have horns for strength, and so do some of the solid-hoofed animals, and some have them for defense as well. But those to whom nature has not given some other means of defense for safety — such as speed of body, with which it has aided horses, or size, as with camels (for an excess of size is also enough to prevent destruction from other animals, which is what happens with camels, and still more with elephants) — these lack horns; and the tusked animals, such as the pig family, are cloven-hoofed. [section 4] Those for whom the outgrowth of horns is naturally useless, nature has furnished with a different aid instead: for example, in deer, speed (for their size and their being many-toed would harm them more than help them), and likewise in buffaloes and gazelles (for against some attackers they defend themselves by standing their ground with their horns, but from the more savage and stronger they flee); and in bonasi (for in these too the horns are naturally curved toward each other and useless) the discharge of excrement — for it is with this that the animal defends itself when frightened; and by this same discharge other animals too are saved. At the same time, nature has not given the same animals many sufficient means of defense together; and most of the horn-bearing animals are cloven-hoofed, though there is also said to be a solid-hoofed one, which they call the Indian ass.
8| [section 5] Now most animals — just as the body of animals that produce motion by means of it is divided into a right and a left — likewise naturally have two horns, for this same cause; but there are also single-horned animals, such as the oryx and the so-called Indian ass. The oryx is cloven-hoofed, while the ass is solid-hoofed. Single-horned animals have their horn in the middle of the head; for in this way each of the two parts would most fully have one horn, since the middle is equally common to both extremes. [section 6] It would seem reasonable that the solid-hoofed animal, rather than the cloven-hoofed, should be single-horned; for the hoof and the cloven hoof have the same nature as the horn, so that the same disposition occurs together in both the hooves and the horns. Further, the splitting and the cloven state are a deficiency of nature, so that it is reasonable that in the solid-hoofed animals, nature, having given the superiority in the hooves, removed it from above and made them single-horned. [section 7] And nature was right to place the growth of the horns upon the head, and not as Aesop's Momus finds fault with the bull for not having his horns on his shoulders, from which he would have made the blows strongest, but instead on the weakest
9| part of the head. For Momus did not see clearly when he found this fault. Just as if horns had grown somewhere else on the body, they would have provided weight without being of any use, and would in many cases have been an obstacle to the animal's activities — so too if they had grown on the shoulders. For one must consider not only from where the blows would be stronger, but also from where they would reach farther; so that, since these animals do not have hands, and having horns on the feet is impossible, and having them on the knees would have hindered the bending of the joint, it is necessary that they have them, as indeed they now do, upon the head. [section 8] At the same time, they are by nature least an obstacle to the other motions of the body when placed there. Horns are solid all the way through only in deer, and only deer shed them, being lightened of them for the sake of benefit, but of necessity because of their weight. In the other animals, the horns are hollow up to a point, and their tips are solid, because this is useful for delivering blows. And so that the hollow part too should not be weak, it is not made of skin alone; within it a solid core made of bone is fitted, for in this way the horns, while possessing what is most useful for strength, are also least troublesome for the rest of the animal's life.
10| [section 9] We have now said for what purpose horns exist by nature, and for what cause some animals have them of this kind and others do not; let us now explain how, while the necessary nature holds among the things that exist of necessity, the nature that operates according to reason makes use of them for some end. First, then, the bodily and earthy material is present in greater quantity in the larger animals, and we know of no horn-bearing animal that is altogether small; for the gazelle, the smallest of the known horn-bearers, is still not small in this sense. [section 10] One must study nature by looking at the many cases; for what is according to nature holds either universally or for the most part. Now the bony matter in the bodies of animals is earthy; hence, looking for the most part, one may say it is most abundant in the largest animals. [section 11] Accordingly, nature makes use, for aid and advantage, of the excess of residue of this bodily kind of matter that is present in the larger animals; and of what flows of necessity to the upper region, it allots some to teeth and tusks, and some to horns. This is why none of the horn-bearing animals has teeth in both jaws; for they lack the front teeth above — nature, having taken material from there, added it to the horns, and the nourishment that would have gone to these teeth is spent instead on the growth of the horns.
11| [section 12] As for why the female deer do not have horns, while having teeth like the males, the cause is that both sexes have the same nature, and it is a horn-bearing nature; but the horns have been taken away from the females because they would not be useful to the males either, and the females are less harmed by this lack because of their strength. In the other animals, in which such material is not diverted into horns, in some it has increased the size of the teeth generally in both sexes, and in others it has made tusks, like horns, out of the jaws. [section 1] Concerning the parts in the head, then, let this account stand; below the head, the neck grows in those animals that have a neck. For not all animals have this part, but only those that have the things for whose sake the neck exists; and these are the pharynx and what is called the esophagus. [section 2] The pharynx exists for the sake of breath; for through it animals draw in and send out breath, breathing in and breathing out. This is why those animals that do not have lungs also do not have a neck, such as the fish tribe. The esophagus is that through which food travels to the stomach.
12| So whatever animals have no neck also have no clearly distinguishable gullet. And there is no necessity for having a gullet for the sake of nourishment, since it does nothing to prepare the food. [section 3] 3 Further, it is possible for the stomach to be positioned right after the mouth, but it is not possible for the lung to be so positioned. For there must be some common channel, as it were, through which the breath is divided along the windpipe into the two branches, since the lung is two-lobed; and in this way it would carry out inhalation and exhalation most effectively. And since the organ concerned with breathing must of necessity have some length, it is necessary for the gullet to lie between the mouth and the stomach. Now the gullet is fleshy, but has a sinewy tension: sinewy, so that it can stretch as the food goes in; fleshy, so that it may be soft and yielding and not be damaged by being roughened by what passes down it. [section 4] 4 What is called the pharynx and windpipe is composed of cartilaginous substance, since it exists not only for breathing but also for voice, and what is going to produce sound must be smooth and have some firmness. The windpipe lies in front of the gullet, even though this gets in its way when it comes to receiving food; for if anything dry or wet slips into the windpipe, it produces choking, pain, and severe coughing fits. This is indeed something one might be surprised at in those who say that it is by this route that the animal takes in drink; for what has been described plainly happens to everyone into whom some of their food slips.
13| [section 5] 5 In many ways it appears absurd to say that it is by this route that animals take in drink. For there is no passage into the stomach from the lung, the way the gullet plainly runs from the mouth. Further, in vomiting and in nausea it is not unclear from where the fluid is seen to travel. [section 6] 6 It is also clear that the fluid is not collected straight into the bladder, but first into the stomach; for the residues of the stomach are visibly colored by the lees of dark wine, and this has often plainly happened also in cases of wounds to the stomach. But perhaps it is foolish to examine over-simple accounts too closely. [section 7] But the windpipe, 7 by being positioned as we said in front, is troubled by the food; but nature has contrived the epiglottis against this. Not all live-bearing animals have this, but only those that have a lung and hairy skin, and are not by nature scaly or feathered. In these, instead of the epiglottis, the pharynx itself contracts and opens, in the same way that in the others the epiglottis falls over and lifts back — lifting back for the entry and exit of breath, and folding down when food is going in, so that nothing may slip past into the windpipe. And if some fault occurs in this movement and someone draws breath while food is being carried in, this produces coughing and choking, as has been said.
14| [section 8] Both this movement and that of the tongue have been so 8 well contrived that, while the food is being smoothed in the mouth and passing right by it, it is chewed by the teeth only rarely, and only a small amount slips into the windpipe. [section 9] The animals mentioned do not have the 9 epiglottis because their flesh is dry and their skin is hard, so that such a part, if made of such flesh and such skin, would not be easily movable for them; instead, the contraction of the very extremity of the windpipe itself would occur more quickly than the contraction of an epiglottis made of flesh proper to it, such as the hairy animals have. This, then, is the reason why some animals have this part and others do not, and why nature has remedied the poor positioning of the windpipe by contriving what is called the epiglottis. [section 10]
15| 10 The pharynx of necessity lies in front of the gullet. For the heart lies in front and in the middle, and in it we say is the principle of life and of all motion and perception (for perception and motion belong to what is called the front; indeed it is by this very account that front and back are distinguished), while the lung lies where the heart is and around it, and breathing occurs both because of the lung and because of the principle present in the heart. Breathing occurs in animals through the windpipe; so since the heart must of necessity lie foremost among the front parts, the pharynx and windpipe must also of necessity lie in front of the gullet. For these lead toward the lung and the heart, while the gullet leads to the stomach. [section 11] 11 And in general, always, wherever nothing else greater stands in the way, the better and more honorable part is found among the upper rather than the lower, among the front rather than the back, and among the right rather than the left. [section 1]
16| 4 Concerning the neck, the gullet, and the windpipe, then, we have spoken; next in order is to speak about the internal organs. These belong properly to the blooded animals, and some blooded animals have all of them, others do not. None of the bloodless animals has an internal organ. Democritus seems not to have judged well about them, if indeed he thought that because of the smallness of the bloodless animals these organs are invisible in them. For as soon as the blooded animals form, even while entirely small, the heart and liver become visible; for in eggs, sometimes on the third day, these appear having the size of a mere point, and they are extremely small also in miscarried embryos. [section 2] 2 Further, just as not all the external parts have the same use for every animal, but each has been supplied its own, suited to its ways of life and its movements, so too the internal parts by nature differ from one animal to another. And the internal organs are proper to the blood-possessing animals, which is why each of them is composed out of blood-like matter. This is clear in their newborn young; for in these the organs are more blood-like and largest in proportion, because the form of the matter and its quantity are most conspicuous at the first formation. [section 3]
17| The heart, then, belongs to all the blooded animals; and the 3 reason for this has been stated before as well. For it is plain that the blooded animals must have blood; and since blood is fluid, there must be a vessel to contain it, and it is for this purpose that nature is evidently seen to have contrived the veins. And there must of necessity be one single origin of these; for wherever it is possible, one is better than many. And the heart is the origin of the veins. For they are plainly seen to come out of it and not merely to pass through it, and its own nature is vein-like, as being of the same kind. [section 4] Its position, too, occupies a ruling place: 4 for it lies about the middle, though rather toward the upper than the lower, and toward the front than the back; for in the more honorable parts nature has established the more honorable thing, wherever nothing greater prevents it. This is most evident in the case of human beings, but in the other animals too it tends, agreeably, to lie in the middle of the region required for life. The limit of this region is where the residues are excreted; but the limbs are formed differently in different animals, and are not among the things necessary for living, which is why animals live even when they are removed; and it is likewise clear that their addition does not destroy the animal. [section 5]
18| Those who say that the starting point of the blood vessels is in the head have not judged rightly. For first, they make many starting points, and scattered ones; and further, they place it in a cold region. This is shown by the head's being liable to chill, whereas the region around the heart is the opposite. [section 6] But as was said, the blood vessels pass through the other internal organs, but through the heart no blood vessel extends; hence it is clear too that the heart is a part and starting point of the blood vessels. And this is reasonable: the body of the heart is in the middle, and is naturally dense and hollow, and further full of blood, since the blood vessels take their origin from there — hollow so as to receive the blood, dense so as to guard the starting point of heat. For in the heart alone among the internal organs and among the parts of the body is there blood without blood vessels; in each of the other parts the blood is contained in the blood vessels. And this too is reasonable: the blood is channeled out of the heart into the blood vessels, but into the heart from nowhere else; for the heart is the starting point and source of the blood, or its first receptacle. [section 7]
19| This is made clearer still by dissections, and by the processes of generation: for the heart is the first of all the parts to become blooded as it forms. Further, the movements of pleasant and painful things, and in general of every act of perception, plainly begin from this point and are completed by reference to it. And this holds by reasoning too: there must be a single starting point, wherever that is possible. And the most naturally suited of positions is the middle; for the middle is one thing, and is equally or nearly equally accessible to everything. [section 8] Further, since nothing bloodless has perception, and blood itself has none, it is clear that whatever first possesses perception, possessing it as in a vessel, must be the starting point. And this appears to hold not only by reasoning but also by observation. For in embryos the heart is immediately seen moving among the parts, as if it were itself an animal, as being the starting point of nature for blooded creatures. Confirmation of what has been said is also the fact that it is present in all blooded animals; for they must necessarily have the starting point of the blood. [section 9] There is present
20| also the liver in all blooded animals; but no one would think it right to hold that it is the starting point either of the whole body or of the blood. For it is in no way situated in a position fitting a starting point, and, in the most precisely formed animals, it has the spleen set opposite it as a kind of counterweight. Further, it does not have within itself a receptacle for blood as the heart does, but like the rest of the parts, has its blood in a blood vessel. Further, a blood vessel extends through it, but none proceeds out of it; for the starting points of all the blood vessels are from the heart. [section 10] Since, then, one or the other of these must necessarily be the starting point, and the liver is not, the heart must necessarily be the starting point of the blood as well. For the animal is defined by perception, and the first thing capable of perception is the first blooded thing, and such is the heart; for it is both the starting point of the blood and the first blooded thing. [section 11] Its tip is sharp and firmer, and it is situated near the chest, and more toward the front of the body, so that it may not be chilled; for in all animals the chest is less fleshy, while the parts toward the back are fleshier, and so the heat has ample covering along the back. In the other animals the heart lies at the middle of the region of the chest, but in human beings it inclines slightly to the left, so as to offset the excessive chilling of the left side; for of all animals, the human being has the left side most chilled.
21| [section 12] That the heart is likewise situated in fish too has been said before, and also why it appears otherwise. Its point is turned toward the head, and this is the front, for the creature's motion is directed toward it. The heart also has a great quantity of sinews, and reasonably so; for the movements originate from it, and they are accomplished by pulling and relaxing, and this requires just such an instrument and strength. [section 13] The heart, as we have also said before, is naturally like a kind of animal in the creatures that possess it. It is without bone in all the animals we ourselves have observed, except horses and a certain kind of cattle; in these, because of their size, a bone underlies it, serving as a kind of support, just as in whole structures. [section 14] Of chambers, the hearts of the larger animals have three, those of the smaller have two, and all have at least one; the reason has been stated. For there must be some region of the heart serving as a receptacle for the first blood. That the blood comes to be first in the heart we have often said, on account of there being two governing blood vessels, the one called the great vessel and the aorta. Since each of these is a starting point of the blood vessels, and they have differences, which we shall discuss later, it is better that their starting points also be kept separate; and this would follow if the blood is twofold in nature and kept separate. This is why, wherever it is possible, there are two receptacles. It is possible in the large animals; for in these the hearts also have size.
22| [section 15] Further, it is better that there be three chambers, so that there may be one common starting point; for what is in the middle and extra is a starting point; and so a greater size is always needed for them, which is why only the largest hearts have three. [section 16] Of these, the right chamber has the most blood, and the hottest (which is why the right-hand parts of the body are also hotter), the left has the least and the coldest, and the middle chamber is in between in both quantity and heat. And it is the purest: for the starting point must be as much at rest as possible, and it would be such if the blood is pure, and in between in quantity and heat. [section 17] The hearts also have a certain articulation resembling seams. They are not joined together as though composed of several parts, but rather, as we have said, by articulation. They are more articulated in the more perceptive animals, and less articulated in the more sluggish ones, [section 18] as in the case of pigs. The differences among hearts, in respect of largeness and smallness
23| and hardness and softness, extend in some measure also to character. For the ones that lack perceptiveness have a hard and dense heart, while the perceptive ones have a softer one; and those with large hearts are cowardly, while those with smaller or middling hearts are bolder. For the affection that comes about through being afraid is already present in them beforehand, because the heat is not in proportion to the heart, and, being small within a large space, it is dimmed, and the blood becomes colder. Animals that have large hearts include the hare, the deer, the mouse, the hyena, the ass, the leopard, the weasel, and pretty much all the others that are manifestly cowardly, or vicious out of fear. [section 19] The same holds similarly also for the blood vessels and for the chambers: the large blood vessels and chambers are cold. For just as in a small room and a large one, an equal fire heats the larger room less, so it is with the heat in these too; for the blood vessel and the chamber are both vessels. [section 20] Further, extraneous movements chill each of the hot things, while in the more spacious vessels there is more air, and it has greater force; and this is why none of the animals with large chambers, nor any with large blood vessels, is fat in its flesh, but all or most of such animals appear to have inconspicuous blood vessels and small chambers,
24| [section 21] Of the internal organs, and of the parts in the body generally, the heart alone suffers no serious ailment — and reasonably so; for if the principle is destroyed, there is no source left from which help could come to the other parts that depend on it. A sign that the heart admits no ailment is that in none of the sacrificial victims has such an ailment ever been observed about it, as is observed in the case of the other organs. For the kidneys are often seen full of stones and tumors and boils, and so too the liver, and likewise the lung, and especially the spleen. [section 22] Many other affections, too, are seen occurring about these organs; least of all does the lung suffer about its windpipe, and the liver about its junction with the great vein, and reasonably so — for it is there that they most communicate with the heart. And in the case of animals that are observed dying of disease and such afflictions, when these are dissected, diseased conditions appear about the heart. [section 1] Concerning the heart, then — what sort of thing it is, and for what purpose and through what cause it belongs to the animals that have one — let so much have been said.
25| It would follow next to speak of the veins, both the great vein and the aorta; for these are the first to receive the blood from the heart, and the rest are offshoots of these. That they exist for the sake of the blood has been said before; for every fluid needs a vessel, and the class of veins is a vessel, and the blood is in these. Let us now say why there are two of them, and why, starting from a single principle, they extend throughout the whole body. [section 2] The cause of their converging on a single principle, and of their starting from one, is that every animal has, in actuality, a single sensitive soul, so that the part that possesses this primarily is also one — in the blooded animals both potentially and actually, in some of the bloodless animals only actually. This is why the principle of heat must also be in the same place; and this is the cause, for the blood too, of its fluidity and its heat. [section 3] So because the principle of perception and of heat is in a single part, the principle of the blood too is from one source; and because of the unity of the blood, the principle of the veins is also from one. There are two of them because the bodies of the blooded and locomotive animals are bipartite; for in all of these front and back, and right
26| and left, and up and down, are distinguished. [section 4] To the degree that the front is more honorable and more governing than the back, to that same degree the great vein exceeds the aorta; for the one lies among the parts in front, the other among those behind, and all the blooded animals have the former plainly visible, while the latter is in some faintly visible and in some not visible at all. The reason the veins are distributed throughout the whole body is that blood is the matter of the whole body — and for the bloodless animals, the analogous fluid — and this lies in the vein, or in what is analogous to a vein. [section 5] How animals are nourished, and from what, and in what way they take up nourishment from the stomach — it is more fitting to examine and discuss this in the discourses on generation. But since, as we have said, the parts are composed out of the blood, it is reasonable that the flow of the veins should by nature extend through the whole body; for the blood too must be present throughout and alongside every part, if indeed each of the parts is composed out of it. [section 6] It is much as in gardens: water-channels are laid out from a single source and spring into many conduits, and further ones again, so as to distribute water everywhere; and in buildings, stones are laid along the whole outline of the foundations, since garden-plants grow from water, while foundations are built up out of stones — in the same way nature too has channeled the blood throughout the whole body, since this by nature is the matter of every part.
27| [section 7] This becomes evident in the parts most thinned out; for nothing else is visible besides the veins — just as with vine leaves and fig leaves, and other such things; for when these too dry up, only their veins are left. [section 8] The reason for this is that blood, and what is analogous to it, is potentially body — is potentially flesh, or what is analogous to flesh. So just as, in irrigation systems, the largest of the trenches remain, while the smallest ones are the first and quickest to be obscured by silt, and become visible again once the silt is cleared out, in the same way, of the veins, the largest remain, while the smallest become flesh in actuality, though they are no less veins potentially. This is why, wherever the flesh is intact, blood flows out when it is cut, even though there is no such thing as blood without a vein — yet no small vein is apparent, just as in the irrigation channels the trenches are not apparent until the silt is removed. [section 9] The veins always proceed from larger to smaller, until the passages become smaller than the thickness of the blood; through these there is no passage for blood, but there is for the residue of the moist fluid which we call sweat — and this occurs once the body has been heated through and the small veins have opened up.
28| [section 10] In fact it has already happened to some people to sweat a blood-like residue, on account of a bad bodily condition: the body having become porous and loose, and the blood having become over-liquid through poor concoction, because the heat in the small veins was too weak, from its scantiness, to concoct it. For it has been said that everything that is a compound of earth and water thickens when concocted, and nourishment and blood are a mixture of both. Heat proves unable to concoct not only through its own scantiness but also through the quantity and excess of the nourishment brought in — for it is weak relative to only a little. And the excess is of two kinds, in quantity and in quality; for not everything is equally easy to concoct. [section 11] Blood flows most readily through the widest of the passages; this is why painless flows of blood occur from the nostrils, the gums, and the anus, and sometimes also from the mouth, and not, as from the artery, with violence. [section 12] The great vein and the aorta, though separate above, cross over below and hold the body together. For as they proceed they split according to the two-fold branching of the limbs, and the one goes from the front to the back, the other from the back to the front, and they meet into one; for just as, in woven things, greater continuity results, so too through this crossing-over of the veins the front parts of the body are bound together with the back. And the same thing happens likewise from the heart in the upper regions.
29| [section 13] How the veins stand to one another in precise detail must be studied both from dissections and from the History of Animals. Let this suffice concerning the veins and the heart; the other internal organs must be examined by the same method. [section 1] Animals have a lung, then, because one class of animals is land-dwelling.. For it is necessary that cooling occur for the heat, and the blooded animals need this cooling from outside, since they are hotter; the bloodless animals, on the other hand, are able to cool themselves by means of their connate breath as well. Cooling from outside must be done either by water or by air. This is why none of the fish has a lung, but gills instead, as has been said in the treatise on respiration; for they achieve their cooling by water, while the animals that breathe do so by air, and this is why all the animals that breathe have a lung. [section 2] All the land animals breathe, and so do some of the water animals, such as the whale and the dolphin and all the cetaceans that spout. For many animals share in both natures: some of the land animals that take in air, on account of the blend of their bodies, spend most of their time in water; and some of the water animals share so much in the land-dwelling nature that the end of their life depends on breath.
30| [section 3] The lung is the organ of breathing; it has the origin of its motion from the heart, but it provides room for the entry of breath through its own sponginess and size. For when it rises, the breath flows in, and when it contracts, the breath goes out again. [section 4] The claim that the lung exists for the sake of the heart's leaping has not been well stated. For the leaping occurs, so to speak, only in man, because only man experiences hope and expectation of the future; and in most animals the heart lies far off and is positioned higher up than the lung, so that the lung contributes nothing to the leaping of the heart. [section 5]
31| The lung differs greatly among animals. Some have it full of blood and large, others smaller and spongy: the live-bearing animals have it larger and full of blood because of the heat of their nature, while the egg-laying animals have it dry and small. It is capable of expanding greatly when inflated with breath, as in the four-footed but egg-laying land animals, such as lizards and tortoises and every such kind, and further, in addition to these, in the nature of the winged creatures, the so-called birds. For in all of these the lung is spongy and like foam; for just as foam collapses from a large mass into something small when compressed, so the lung of these creatures is small and membrane-like. That is why all these animals are without thirst and drink little, and can hold out a long time in water; for since they have only a little heat, they are sufficiently cooled for a long time by the very motion of the lung, which is airy and empty. [section 6] It also happens that the bodies of these animals are, generally speaking, smaller; for heat promotes growth, and abundance of blood is a sign of heat. Further, heat makes bodies more upright, which is why man is the most upright of all animals, and the live-bearing animals more upright than
32| the other four-footed animals; for none of the live-bearing animals burrows into holes the way the egg-laying ones do, whether footless or ground-walking. [section 7] In general, then, the lung exists for the sake of breathing, and its being bloodless and of this spongy kind exists for the sake of a certain class of animals; but the common name for these has none, unlike 'bird,' which has been given as a name for a particular class. That is why, just as being a bird derives from something, so too, for those animals, having a lung of this kind belongs to their substance. [section 1] Among the viscera, some seem to be single in nature, such as the heart and the lung, others double, such as the kidneys, while about others it is disputed which way they stand. For the liver and the spleen would appear to fall under both descriptions: each seems single, yet also seems, as it were, to be two organs of similar nature standing in place of one. In fact, all of them are double. [section 2] The cause is that the extension of the body, while itself twofold, contributes to a single principle: one dimension is up and down, another is front and back, and another is right and left. That is why the brain, too, tends to be two-parted in all animals, and likewise each of the sense organs. By the same reasoning the heart is two-parted in its chambers. And the lung in egg-laying animals is separated to such a degree that they seem to have two lungs. As for the kidneys, their doubleness is plain to anyone.
33| [section 3] But concerning the liver and the spleen, one might rightly be puzzled. The reason is that in animals which have a spleen of necessity, the spleen would seem to be a kind of bastard liver, while in those that do not have one of necessity, but only a very tiny one, as it were for the sake of a mark, the liver is clearly two-parted: the larger part tends to be positioned on the right, the smaller on the left. [section 4] Nonetheless, in the egg-laying animals this is less evident, though in some of them, as also in certain live-bearing animals, it is conspicuously separated: for instance, in some regions hares are held to have two livers, as is also true of certain fish, particularly the cartilaginous ones. And it is because the liver's position lies rather on the right that the nature of the spleen has come to exist, so that it is necessary in a way, but not to an excessive degree, in all animals. [section 5] The cause, then, of the viscera being double in nature is, as we have said, that right and left are two; for each of the two sides seeks its like, just as they themselves tend to have a similar and twin nature — just as right and left are twin yet joined together into one, so likewise is each of the viscera.
34| [section 6] The viscera below the diaphragm all exist, in common, for the sake of the veins, so that these, being suspended aloft, remain in place through their attachment to the body. For they are cast toward the body like anchors, by means of parts extended from them: from the great vein toward the liver and the spleen. For the nature of these viscera takes hold of it like nails fastening it to the body — the liver and the spleen fastening the great vein toward the sides of the body (for from this vein alone do veins stretch to them), and the kidneys fastening it toward the back. And to the kidneys a vein stretches on each side, not only from the great vein but also from the aorta. [section 7] These things, then, come about through these organs for the constitution of animals: the liver and the spleen assist in the concoction of nourishment (for, being full of blood, they have a hot nature), while the kidneys assist with the residue that is secreted into the bladder. [section 8] The heart and the liver, then, are necessary to all animals: the heart because of the principle of heat (for there must be something like a hearth in which the kindling principle of nature is set, and this must be well guarded, like
35| an acropolis of the body), and the liver for the sake of concoction. All blooded animals need these two, which is why all blooded animals have only these two viscera; and those that breathe have a third, the lung. [section 9] The spleen belongs to those animals that have it by accidental necessity, just like the residues — both the one in the stomach and the one around the bladder. That is why in some animals it is deficient in size, as in some of the winged creatures that have a hot stomach, such as the dove, the hawk, and the kite, and likewise among the egg-laying four-footed animals (for they have one that is altogether small), and in many of the scaly animals; these last also lack a bladder, because their residue passes through their porous flesh into feathers and scales. For the spleen draws off from the stomach the residual moisture, and, being full of blood, is able to help concoct it. [section 10] If the residue is too abundant, or the spleen too lacking in heat, animals become diseased, being full of nourishment; and because of the backflow of moisture that occurs there, in many animals the stomachs become hard as they grow spleen-diseased, as happens to those that urinate excessively, on account of the moisture being drawn back and forth. But in those animals in which little residue is produced, as in birds and fish, some have a spleen that is not large, and others have one merely as a token.
36| [section 11] And in the four-footed egg-laying animals too the spleen is small and firm and kidney-like, because the lung is spongy and they drink little, and the residue that is left over turns into their body and into their scales, just as in birds it turns into feathers. But in those that have a bladder and a blooded lung, the spleen is moist, both for the reason stated and because the nature of the left parts as a whole is more moist and more cold. For each of the opposites is arranged with its kindred column: right is opposite to left, and hot is opposite to cold, and these belong to the same column as one another in the way stated. [section 12] The kidneys do not belong to the animals that have them of necessity, but for the sake of the well and the fine; for they exist, by their own proper nature, for the sake of the residue that collects in the bladder, in those animals in which a greater amount of such sediment occurs, so that the bladder may perform its own function better. [section 13] Since it turns out that animals have both the kidneys and the bladder for the sake of the same use, we must now speak about the bladder, passing over the next part in the order of number; for nothing has yet been determined about the diaphragm, and this is one of the parts concerning the viscera.
37| [section 1] Not all animals have a bladder; rather nature appears to intend to give it to those that have a blooded lung only, and reasonably so in their case. For because of the superiority of nature that they possess in this part, these are the animals most given to thirst, and they need not only dry food but a greater amount of moist food as well, so that of necessity a greater residue also comes about, and not so much only as is concocted by the stomach and excreted along with its residue. There must therefore be something receptive of this residue as well. [section 2] This is why all that have a lung of this kind have a bladder; but those that do not have such a lung, but either drink little because their lung is spongy, or take in moisture as a whole not for the sake of drinking but for the sake of food — as insects and fishes do — and further those that are feathered or covered with scales or with horny plates, these, because of the small amount of moisture they take in and because the residue that is left over turns into these parts, none of them has a bladder, except the tortoises
38| among the horny-plated animals. And here too nature has been stunted only in this respect. The reason is that the sea tortoises have a fleshy, blooded lung, similar to that of the ox, while the land tortoises have one larger than is proportionate. Further, because what encloses it is shell-like and dense, and the moisture does not transpire through porous flesh as it does in birds and snakes and the other horny-plated animals, so much sediment comes about that their nature needs to have some part that is receptive and vessel-like. So among such animals only these have a bladder for this reason — the sea tortoise a large one, the land tortoises a quite small one. [section 1] The case is similar too with the kidneys. For none of the feathered animals nor of the scaly ones nor of the horny-plated ones has kidneys either, except the sea tortoises and the land tortoises; but it is as though the flesh assigned to kidneys, instead of occupying a distinct region, is dispersed into many parts. Flat kidney-like structures occur in some birds. The land-tortoise called the emys has neither bladder nor kidneys; for because of the softness of its shell the moisture readily transpires. [section 2] So the emys, for this reason, has neither of these parts; but all the other animals that have a blooded lung, as has been said, turn out to have kidneys. For nature makes use of them at once for the sake of the veins and for the excretion of the moist residue; for a passage leads into them from the great vein.
39| [section 3] All kidneys have a hollow, greater or smaller, except those of the seal; these, being like those of the ox, are the most solid of all, and those of man are also like those of the ox; for they are as it were composed of many small kidneys and are not uniform, like those of sheep and the other four-footed animals. This is why the ailment of the kidneys is hard for men to shake off once they have fallen ill of it; for it turns out that, since as it were many kidneys are diseased, the cure is more difficult than for those in whom only one is diseased. [section 4] The passage that stretches from the vein does not terminate in the hollow of the kidneys, but is used up into the body of the kidneys; this is why no blood forms in their hollows, nor does it congeal there in the end. [section 5] From the hollow of the kidneys two vigorous bloodless passages lead to the bladder, one from each kidney, and other strong and continuous ones from the aorta. These are arranged in this way so that the residue of moisture may travel from the vein into the kidneys, while the sediment that forms from the moisture as it filters through the body of the kidneys flows together into the middle — the hollow which most of them have — for which reason this is the most foul-smelling of the viscera. And from the middle, through these passages, it is then secreted into the bladder, now rather as residue.
40| [section 6] The bladder is moored from the kidneys; for, as has been said, strong passages stretch toward it. The kidneys, then, exist for these reasons, and have the capacities stated. In all animals that have kidneys, the right one is higher than the left; for because motion is from the right, and because of this the nature of the right parts is stronger, it is necessary that, for the sake of motion, all the parts should be led further forward toward the upper region — since indeed animals also raise the right eyebrow more, and hold it more arched than the left. [section 7] And because the right kidney is drawn up higher, the liver touches the right kidney in all animals; for the liver is on the right side. The kidneys have more fat than any of the other viscera, of necessity because the residue is filtered through the kidneys; for the blood that is left behind, being pure, is well concocted, and the end product of blood's good concoction is fat and suet. For just as in things that have been burned dry, such as ash, some fire is left behind, so too in things that have been concocted while moist; for some portion of the heat that has done the work is left behind. This is why what is fatty is light and floats on top in liquids.
41| [section 8] This does not happen within the kidneys themselves, because the organ is dense, but it collects on the outside — fat in animals of the fatty kind, suet in those of the suety kind; the difference between these has been stated earlier elsewhere. [section 9] So they become fatty of necessity, for this reason, from what happens of necessity to animals that have kidneys; but they become so for the sake of preservation as well, and because the nature of the kidneys is hot. For being at the extremity they need more warmth; for the back is fleshy, so as to be a bulwark for the viscera around the heart, while the loin is fleshless (for the bending parts of all animals are fleshless); so instead of flesh, fat becomes a bulwark for the kidneys. [section 10] Further, being fat, they separate out and concoct the moisture better; for what is fatty is hot, and heat concocts. For these reasons, then, the kidneys are fatty, and in all animals the right one is less fatty. The reason is that the nature of the right parts is dry and more given to motion; and motion is opposed to this — for it melts what is fat all the more.
42| [section 11] For the other animals, then, it is advantageous to have fat kidneys, and often they have them entirely filled with fat; but the sheep, when this happens to it, dies. Even if sheep are very fat, still something is lacking, if not in both kidneys, then in the right one. The cause of this happening especially among sheep is that in animals with soft, tallow-like fat the fat is liquid, so that the pneumata shut in within it do not, in the same way, cause the pain. [section 12] This is the cause of the mortification; and this is why, among human beings too, for those whose kidneys are diseased, although becoming fat is beneficial, still, if they become excessively fat, fatal pains result. In the other animals with suet-fat, the suet is less dense than it is in sheep. And sheep far exceed the other animals in quantity of fat; for sheep develop fat around the kidneys faster than any other animal. [section 13] So when the moisture and the pneumata are shut in on account of the mortification, sheep are killed quickly; for through the aorta and the great vein the affection reaches the heart at once, and the passages from these veins are continuous with the kidneys. We have now spoken about the heart and the lung, and about the liver, the spleen, and the kidneys.
43| [section 1] These parts happen to be separated from one another by the partition. This partition some people call the phrenes; it marks off the lung and the heart from what lies below. This partition, in blooded animals, is called, as has already been said, the phrenes. All blooded animals have it, just as they have a heart and a liver. [section 2] The cause of this is that it exists for the sake of marking off the region around the stomach from the region around the heart, so that the principle of the perceptive soul may be unaffected and not be quickly overtaken by the exhalation that arises from food and by the quantity of imported heat. For nature made this division with just this end in view, constructing the phrenes as a kind of adjoining wall and barrier, and separated the more honorable from the less honorable, in all the cases where it is possible to separate an upper region from a lower one; for the upper region is that for the sake of which the rest exists, and is the better one, while the lower is that which exists for the sake of the upper and is necessary — the part that receives food. [section 3] The partition is fleshier and stronger toward the ribs, but more membranous in the middle; for arranged this way it is more useful for strength and for tension. That the phrenes are, so to speak, an offshoot with respect to the heat coming from below is shown by a sign drawn from what actually happens: whenever, on account of their proximity, they draw in hot and residual moisture, this immediately and visibly disturbs thought and perception — which is why they are called phrenes, as if they shared to some degree in thinking.
44| [section 4] The phrenes themselves share in nothing of thought, but being close to the parts that do share in it, they make the change in thought evident. This is also why they are thin in the middle — not only of necessity, because, being fleshy, the parts toward the ribs must be fleshier, but so that they may share in as little moisture as possible; for if they were fleshy there too, they would both hold and draw in a great deal more moisture. [section 5] That when heated they quickly make the effect on perception evident is shown also by what happens in the case of laughter. For people who are tickled laugh quickly, because the motion arrives quickly at this region. The phrenes are heated only gently, yet even so they make the effect evident and set thought in motion against one's own choice. [section 6] The cause of man alone being susceptible to tickling is both the thinness of his skin and the fact that man alone among animals laughs. Tickling is laughter produced by this kind of scratching of the region around the armpit. [section 7] They say that laughter also occurs from blows received in war, when the blow lands in the region around the phrenes, on account of the heat produced by the blow. This is a claim more worth trusting from those who report it than the one about the head — that a man's head speaks after being cut off. For some people say this, bringing in Homer as well, claiming that this is why he composed the line (Iliad 10.457; Odyssey 22.329): 'φθεγγομένη δ' ἄρα τοῦ γε κάρη κονίῃσιν ἐμίχθη' (and his head, speaking, mingled at once with the dust) — using 'φθεγγομένη' (speaking, as though the head itself spoke), not 'φθεγγομένου' (speaking, as though he himself was still speaking).
45| [section 9] In Caria they believed a thing of this sort so firmly that they even held a trial over one of the local people because of it. For when the priest of Zeus Hoplosmios died, and it was unclear at whose hand, some people claimed to have heard the severed head repeatedly saying, over the dead man, 'Kerkidas killed him'; and so, searching for the person in the district whose name was Kerkidas, they convicted him. [section 10] But it is impossible to speak once the windpipe has been severed and without the motion that comes from the lung. Among the barbarians, too, among whom heads are cut off quickly, nothing of this sort has ever occurred. Further, for what reason does it not occur in the other animals? The case of laughter, when the phrenes are struck, is reasonable enough — for none of the other animals laughs. But that the body should move forward some distance once the head has been removed is not at all unreasonable, since even bloodless animals go on living for a long time afterward; the cause of this has been explained elsewhere. [section 1] We have now stated, then, for the sake of what each of the viscera exists; and each has come to be of necessity at the internal ends of the veins. For it is necessary that moisture come out there, and that this moisture be blood-like, and that from it, as it combines and solidifies, the body of the viscera is formed. This is why they are blood-like, and have a bodily nature similar to blood itself, but unlike that of the other parts. All the viscera are enclosed in a membrane; for a protective covering is needed
46| to keep them unaffected, and one that is light. The membrane is by nature just such a thing: dense enough to keep things off, without flesh so that it neither draws in nor holds moisture, and thin so that it may be light and add no weight. [section 2] The largest and strongest of the membranes are those around the heart and around the brain, and reasonably so; for these organs need the most protection, since protection is for the governing parts, and these are the parts most governing of life. [section 1] Some animals have the full number of these organs, others do not have all of them; which animals these are, and for what cause, has been stated earlier. And even among those that have them, they differ from one another: for not all animals that have a heart have hearts of a similar kind, nor, one might say, do they have any of the other viscera alike either. The liver, for instance, is many-lobed in some, more single in growth in others — this is so first of all among the blooded, live-bearing animals themselves; and the livers of fish and of the four-footed egg-layers differ still more, both from these and from one another.
47| [section 2] The liver of birds is most similar to that of the live-bearing animals; for its color is clean and blood-like, just as in those animals. The cause is that the bodies of birds are extremely well-aerated and do not carry much base residue. This is also why some live-bearing animals lack gall-bladders: the liver contributes a great deal toward the good blending and health of the body, since for these animals their end lies chiefly in the blood, and the liver is the most blood-like of the viscera after the heart. [section 3] The livers of most four-footed egg-layers and of fish are somewhat pale, and in some cases entirely poor, just as their bodies too happen to be of a poor temperament — the toad's and the tortoise's, for example, and those of other such animals. [section 4] Horned, cloven-hoofed animals have a round spleen, like the goat, the sheep, and each of the others, unless one grows more elongated in length on account of its size, as happens with the spleen of the ox. All the many-toed animals have an elongated spleen, like the pig, man, and the dog, while the single-hoofed animals are intermediate between these two and mixed in form — broad in one part and narrow in another — as with the horse, the mule, and the donkey.
48| 13 The viscera differ from flesh not only in the bulk of the body but also in that the one has an outer position and the other an inner one. The reason is that their nature is connected with the veins: some of them exist for the sake of the veins, others cannot exist without veins. [section 1] 14 Beneath the diaphragm lies the stomach, in animals that have a gullet, where this part terminates; in those that have none, it lies right at the mouth. Adjoining the stomach is what is called the intestine. [section 2] 2 The reason each of these parts belongs to the animals that have them is clear to everyone. For the food that has entered must be received, and the residue, once its moisture has been drawn off, must be sent out, and the place of the undigested food must not be the same as that of the residue, and there must also be some place in which the food undergoes change. For one part will hold the food that has entered, another the useless residue; and since the time proper to each of these is different, it is necessary that they be separated by place as well. [section 3] 3 But the fuller determination of these matters belongs more properly to the discussions of generation and nutrition; here we must examine the differentiation of the stomach and of the parts that work with it.
49| [section 4] 4 For animals do not resemble one another either in the size or in the forms of these parts. Among the blooded, live-bearing animals, those that have teeth in both jaws have a single stomach — for example man, dog, lion, and the rest that are many-toed, and those that are single-hoofed, such as horse, mule, donkey, and those that are cloven-hoofed but have teeth in both jaws, such as the pig — except that where the size of the body and the character of the food require it (the food not being easy to digest but thorny and woody), the animal has more than one stomach, as does the camel, like the horned animals. For the horned animals do not have teeth in both jaws; and it is for this reason that the camel too, having no horns, is not among those with teeth in both jaws, because it is more necessary for it to have this kind of stomach than to have front teeth. So, since it has a stomach like that of animals without teeth in both jaws, its dental arrangement is likewise similar to theirs, as though the teeth were of no further use to it. [section 5] 5 At the same time, since its food is thorny, and the tongue must be fleshy, nature has made use of the earthy material from the teeth to counter the hardness of the palate. [section 6]
50| The camel also chews the cud, like the horned animals, 6 because it has stomachs similar to those of the horned animals. Each of these has several stomachs — for example sheep, ox, goat, deer, and the other such animals — so that, since the mouth falls short in its work upon the food because of the deficiency of teeth, the several stomachs, receiving the food one from another, may compensate: the one receiving it unworked, another working it more, another completely, and another making it smooth. This is why such animals have more places and parts of this kind. [section 7] These are called the stomach, the honeycomb-bag, 7 the many-plies, and the reed. The manner in which these stand to one another in position and in form must be studied from the History of Animals and from dissections. [section 8] For the same reason the class of birds also has a differentiation in the part that receives food. 8 For since birds too do not perform the work of the mouth at all (they are toothless) and have nothing with which to divide or grind the food,
51| for this reason some have, before the stomach, what is called the crop, in place of the working of the mouth; others have a broad gullet, or, before the stomach, some bulging part of it in which they store up the unworked food in advance; or some elevated part of the stomach itself; others have the stomach itself strong and fleshy, so as to be able to store the food a long time and to concoct it even unground; for by its power and by the heat of the stomach, nature makes up for the deficiency of the mouth. [section 9] 9 There are some that have none of these, but instead a long crop — those that are long-legged and live by marshes — because of the wetness of their food. The reason is that for all these the food is easy to grind, so that it follows that the stomachs of such birds are moist, on account of both the lack of concoction and the nature of the food. [section 10] 10 The class of fishes has teeth, and these, in almost all of them one may say, are jagged; for it is a small class that does not have teeth of this kind, such as the one called the parrotfish, which is also reasonably thought to chew the cud, and for this reason alone; for even animals without teeth in both jaws but with horns chew the cud.
52| [section 11] 11 All fish have sharp teeth, so that they are able to divide their food, but divide it poorly; for they cannot linger over it and take time. This is also why they do not have broad teeth, nor is it possible for them to grind; such teeth would have been useless to them. Further, some have no gullet at all, others a short one. But to assist digestion, some have stomachs like those of birds, and fleshy, such as the grey mullet, while most have, alongside the stomach, dense outgrowths, so that in these, as in little storage-pits, they may store the food and let it putrefy somewhat and concoct it. [section 12] 12 Fish have their outgrowths in the opposite position to birds; for in fish they are up near the stomach, while in the birds that have such outgrowths they are down near the end of the intestine. Some of the live-bearing animals also have intestinal outgrowths lower down, for the same reason. [section 13] The whole class of fishes, because their work upon the food is deficient, 13 so that they pass it out undigested, is gluttonous for food, as are all the other animals that have a straight intestine; for since the passing-out happens quickly, and because of this the enjoyment is brief, the appetite must also quickly recur.
53| [section 14] It has been said earlier that the animals with teeth in both jaws 14 have a small stomach; and nearly all of these fall into two differentiations: some have a stomach like that of the dog, others like that of the pig. The pig's stomach is larger and has certain moderate folds so that digestion may take longer, while the dog's is small in size and is much exceeded by the length of the intestine, and smooth within. For after the stomach, the nature of the intestines is present in all animals. [section 15] This part too, like the stomach, exhibits many differences. 15 In some it is simple and uniform when unwound; in others it is not uniform: in some the part near the stomach is wider and that near the end narrower (which is why dogs pass this kind of residue with effort), while in the majority it is narrower above and wider near the end. [section 16] The intestines of the horned animals are larger and have many convolutions, 16 and in these the bulk of the stomach and of the intestines is also greater, on account of their size; for practically all the horned animals are large, because of the working their food requires.
54| [section 17] In all animals that do not have a straight intestine, this part becomes wider as it proceeds, and they have what is called the colon, and a blind and bulky part of the intestine, and then after this again something narrower and coiled. What comes after this stretches straight toward the exit for the residue, and in some animals this part, the so-called rectum, is fatty, in others it is without fat. [section 18] All these things have been contrived by nature for the tasks suited to nutrition and to the residue that is produced. For as the residue proceeds and descends, wide space is provided, useful also for undergoing change, in animals that digest their food more easily and need more food, because of the size or the heat of these regions. Then again from here, just as a narrower intestine receives the food from the upper stomach, so from the colon and the wide space in the lower stomach the residue again comes into something narrower, into the coil, thoroughly dried out, so that nature may store it up and the discharge of the residue not happen all at once. [section 19] So then, whatever animals need to be more temperate with regard to the taking of food do not have great wide spaces in the lower stomach, but have more coils and are not straight-gutted. For wide space produces desire for quantity, while straightness produces speed of desire; and so, of animals, those that have simple or wide receptacles are gluttonous for quantity, and those with straight guts are gluttonous for speed.
55| [section 20] Since in the upper stomach, at the first entry of the food, the food must be fresh, while as it proceeds downward it is dung-like and dried out, there must also be something in between, in which it undergoes change and is neither still fresh nor yet dung. For this reason all such animals have what is called the jejunum, in the thin intestine that comes after the stomach; for this lies between the upper part, in which the food is undigested, and the lower part, in which the residue is already useless. [section 21] This occurs in all animals, but it is conspicuous in the larger ones, and in those that have fasted but not yet eaten; for then it becomes a boundary-region between both places, whereas in animals that have eaten the moment of transition is brief. In females, then, the jejunum occurs wherever it happens to fall in the upper intestine; the males have it before the blind gut and the lower stomach. [section 1] Chapter 15. All the many-stomached animals have what is called rennet, and among the single-stomached animals, the hare alone has it. Of the many-stomached animals that have rennet, it is found neither in the great paunch nor in the honeycomb bag nor in the last stomach, the reed, but in the part between the last stomach and the first two, in what is called the manyplies.
1| [section 2] All these animals have rennet because of the thickness of their milk; the single-stomached animals do not have it, for the milk of single-stomached animals is thin. Hence the milk of the horned animals curdles, while that of the hornless animals does not curdle. [section 3] The hare gets rennet from grazing on juicy grass; for this kind of juice causes the milk to curdle in the stomach for the young. As for why, among the many-stomached animals, the rennet occurs in the manyplies, this has been discussed in the Problems. Book 4. [section 1] Chapter 1. The parts around the viscera and the stomach, and each of the parts mentioned, are arranged in the same way in the four-footed animals that are egg-laying, and in the footless ones, such as snakes. For the nature of snakes is akin to these; it is like a long, footless lizard. [section 2] These and fish are all very similar to one another, except that the former have lungs because they walk on land, while the latter do not have lungs but gills instead. Fish have no bladder, nor does any of these other animals, except the tortoise; for the liquid is turned into the
2| scales, since these animals drink little, because of the bloodlessness of the lung, just as in birds it is turned into the feathers. [section 3] The residue whitens in all of these too, as in birds; and so, in the animals that have a bladder, once the residue has passed out, a salty, earthy sediment settles in the vessels; for the sweet and drinkable part is used up, because of its lightness, into the flesh. [section 4] Among snakes, vipers have the same difference from the rest that, among fish, the cartilaginous fish have from the rest; for both the cartilaginous fish and the vipers bear their young alive outside the body, though they first lay eggs within themselves. All such animals are single-stomached, like the other animals with both kinds of teeth; and they have altogether small viscera, like the other animals that lack a bladder. [section 5] Snakes, because of the shape of their body, which is long and narrow, have the shapes of their viscera long and unlike those of other animals for this same reason, because their shapes have been molded, as if in a mold, on account of their place. [section 6] All the blooded animals have the caul, the mesentery, and the structures concerning the nature of the intestines, and further the diaphragm and the heart; and all except fish have a lung and a windpipe. And all that have them have the position of the windpipe and the gullet arranged in the same way, for the reasons stated before.
3| [section 1] Chapter 2. Most of the blooded animals also have gall, some on the liver, others suspended near the intestines, since its nature comes no less from the lower stomach; this is clearest in the case of fish. For all of these have it, and most of them have it near the intestines, while some have it woven along the whole length of the intestine, as in the amia; and most snakes have it in the same way. Hence those who say that the nature of gall exists for the sake of some kind of perception are not speaking correctly. For they say it exists so that, by biting the part of the soul around the liver, it may cause distress, and by being dissolved, it may produce a gracious mood. For some animals have no gall at all, such as the horse, the mule, the donkey, the deer, and the roe deer. [section 2] Nor does the camel have it as a separate organ, but rather has small gall-like veins. Nor does the seal have gall, nor, among sea creatures, the dolphin. [section 3] And within the same kinds, some are found to have it and others not, as in the case of mice. Man too belongs to this class; for some are found to have gall on the liver, and others not to have it. For this reason a dispute also arises concerning the whole kind; for those who happen to have encountered animals either way suppose, concerning all of them, that all have it.
4| [section 4] The same thing happens also with sheep and goats; for most of these have gall, but in some places so much that the excess seems monstrous, as in Naxos, while in other places they have none, as in a certain district of Chalcis in Euboea. Further, as has been said, the gall of fish is suspended far from the liver. [section 5] The followers of Anaxagoras do not seem to be right in supposing that gall is the cause of acute diseases, on the ground that, when it overflows, it sprinkles out onto the lung and the veins and the ribs. For in nearly all cases where these disease-conditions occur, the animals do not have gall, and this would become evident in dissections; further, the quantity present in illnesses and the quantity that supposedly overflows are not comparable. [section 6] But it seems that gall, just as the residue or waste-product that forms elsewhere in the body, is likewise the gall on the liver: it is a residue and does not exist for the sake of anything, just as the sediment in the stomach and in the intestines is not for the sake of anything. [section 7]
5| 7 Nature, then, sometimes puts even residues to good use, but this does not mean we must look for the sake-of-what in every case; rather, when certain things exist for a reason, many other things follow from them of necessity. [section 8] 8 So in those animals in which the constitution of the liver is healthy and the nature of the blood that is secreted into it is sweet, these either have no bile on the liver at all, or have it in some small veins only, or have it in some places but not others. This is why the livers of animals without bile are, generally speaking, well-colored and sweet, and in animals that do have bile, the part of the liver beneath the bile is the sweetest. [section 9] 9 In animals whose liver forms from less pure blood, this — the bile — is the residue produced. For a residue must be the opposite of nourishment, and the bitter the opposite of the sweet, and healthy blood is sweet. [section 10] 10 It is clear, then, that bile does not exist for the sake of anything, but is a purgation. This is why the most graceful thing said among the ancients is the claim that not having bile is the cause of living a longer time — a claim made by looking at the solid-hoofed animals and the deer; for these are without bile and live a long time.
6| [section 11] 11 Further, there are also animals not observed by those thinkers to be without bile, such as the dolphin and the camel, and these too happen to be long-lived. For it is reasonable that the nature of the liver, being of vital importance and necessary to all blooded animals, should be a cause, by being of a certain sort, of living a shorter or a longer time. [section 12] 12 And it is in accordance with reason that this organ alone has such a residue, and none of the others does. For no such fluid can come near the heart (it admits no violent affection), and none of the other internal organs is necessary to animals, but the liver alone is; and this is why this residue occurs about the liver alone. [section 13] It is also absurd not to hold everywhere that wherever one sees phlegm or the sediment of the belly, it is a residue, and likewise, clearly, bile as well, and not to make a distinction based on location. [section 1] We have now spoken of bile, and of the reason why some animals have it and some do not; it remains to speak of the mesentery and the omentum, for these are located in this same region and go together with these parts. The omentum is a membrane which, in animals that have suet, is suety, and in those that have fat, is fatty; and we have already said what each of these is.
7| [section 2] 2 The omentum is attached, alike in single-stomached and many-stomached animals, from the middle of the stomach along what looks like a seam, as described. It covers the rest of the stomach and the mass of the intestines alike in blooded animals, both in land animals and in aquatic ones. [section 3] 3 The formation of this part comes about of necessity in the following way: when a mixture of dry and moist is heated, its outermost part always becomes skin-like and membranous, and this region is full of nourishment of that sort. [section 4] 4 Further, because of the density of the membrane, what filters through from the blood-like nourishment must be fatty (for this is the finest part), and because of the heat in that region, as it is concocted, it becomes, instead of a fleshy and blood-like constitution, suet and fat. [section 5] 5 The formation of the omentum, then, comes about on this account; but nature puts it to further use for the good digestion of food, so that animals may digest their food more easily and more quickly; for what is hot is capable of digesting, and what is fatty is hot, and the omentum is fatty. And this is why it is attached from the middle of the
8| stomach: because the part next to that region helps concoct along with the adjoining liver. This concludes what we have said about the omentum. [section 1] 4 What is called the mesentery is a membrane, stretching continuously from the extent of the intestines to the great vein and the aorta, and it is full of many dense veins that stretch from the intestines to both the great vein and the aorta. [section 2] 2 We shall find that its formation comes about of necessity, as with the other parts; but the reason why it exists in blooded animals becomes clear on examination. For since it is necessary that animals take in nourishment from outside, and that from this in turn the final nourishment be produced, from which it is now distributed to the parts (this is nameless in bloodless animals, but is called blood in blooded ones), there must be something through which the nourishment will travel from the stomach into the veins, as though through roots. [section 3] 3 Now plants have their roots in the earth (for it is from there that they take their nourishment), but for animals the stomach and the power of the intestines are the earth from which they must take their nourishment; and this is why the mesentery exists — having, as it were, roots in the veins that run through it.
9| [section 4] 4 We have now said for the sake of what the mesentery exists; the manner in which it takes in the nourishment, and how what is distributed into the veins enters through the veins from the incoming nourishment into these parts, will be spoken of in the treatise on the generation of animals and on nourishment. [section 5] 5 We have now said how the blooded animals stand with respect to the parts we have distinguished, and for what reasons; as for the parts that contribute to generation, in which the female is thought to differ from the male, this too follows on and remains from what has been said; but since we must speak about generation, it is fitting to go through these matters as well in the treatise on that subject. [section 1] 5 The creatures called the cephalopods and the crustaceans differ greatly from the blooded animals in these respects; for straight off they do not have the whole nature of internal organs at all. And likewise none of the other bloodless creatures has them either. There remain two further kinds of bloodless creatures, the testaceans (shell-creatures) and the class of insects. For none of these has blood, because none of them is composed of that out of which the nature of the internal organs is formed, since this is itself an affection belonging to their substance; for the fact that some animals are blooded and others bloodless will be present in the account that defines their substance.
10| [section 2] 2 Further, none of that for the sake of which the blooded animals have internal organs will be present in these creatures; for they have neither veins nor a bladder, nor do they breathe, but it is only necessary for them to have the part analogous to the heart. For the perceptive part of the soul and the cause of life are present in some principle among the parts and of the body, in all animals alike. [section 3] 3 These creatures also have, of necessity, the parts concerned with nourishment, but the ways in which they have them differ because of the places in which they take their nourishment. The cephalopods have, around what is called the mouth, two teeth, and in the mouth, in place of a tongue, something fleshy by which they judge the pleasure found in what they eat. [section 4] 4 Likewise the crustaceans have, like these, the first pair of teeth and the fleshy part analogous to the tongue. Further, all the testaceans also have such a part, for the same reason as the blooded animals, for the perception of their food. Likewise too the insects: some have a protruding sucker at the mouth, as for example the class of bees and the class of flies, as has already been said; but those that are not front-stinging have such a part in the mouth, like that of the
11| the ant tribe and any other such creature. Some of these have teeth, though of a different sort, as in the tribe of ants and the tribe of bees; others do not, namely all those that take liquid food, [section 5] for many insects have their teeth not for the sake of food but for defense. Among the testaceans, some, as was said in the discussions at the beginning, have the so-called strong tongue, while whelks also have two teeth, like the crustaceans. In the cephalopods, after the mouth there is a long gullet, and adjoining this a crop such as birds have, then continuous with it a stomach, and adjoining this a simple intestine running to the outlet. [section 6] In cuttlefish and octopuses the parts around the stomach are alike both in shape and to the touch; but in the so-called calamary there are likewise two stomach-like receptacles, though the second is less crop-like, and they differ from those others in shape as well, because their whole body is composed of softer flesh.
12| [section 7] These creatures have their parts arranged in this way for the same cause as birds do; for none of these is able to grind its food smooth, and this is why the crop is placed before the stomach. For help and safety they have the so-called ink, attached within a membranous sac that has an outlet and an opening where they discharge it along the passage called the funnel, through which they also expel the residue of the stomach; this funnel is on their underside. [section 8] Now all the cephalopods have this part as peculiar to them, but the cuttlefish has it most of all and in greatest quantity; for whenever they are frightened and afraid, they make a screen in front of their body out of the blackness and murk of this liquid. [section 9] The calamaries and octopuses have the ink sac higher up, more toward the cuttlebone, while the cuttlefish has it lower, near the stomach; for it has more of it because it makes more use of it. This happens to it because its life is spent near the shore, and it has no other means of defense, whereas the octopus has its tentacles as useful, and also the change of color, which happens to it, like the discharge of ink, on account of timidity. The calamary alone of these lives out at sea. [section 10] So the cuttlefish has more of this ink than the others, and has it lower down because it has more; for it is easy to discharge it, and from far off, on account of having more. The ink comes about, just as in birds the white sediment on their residue is the earthy part, so too in these creatures the ink arises because they likewise have no bladder; for the most earthy matter is separated off into it, and in the cuttlefish it is most abundant because it has the most earthy matter.
13| [section 11] A sign that this is so is the cuttlebone itself; for the octopus does not have this, while the calamaries have one that is cartilaginous and thin. The cause why some lack it and others have it, and what sort each of these has, has been stated. Since these creatures are bloodless and for this reason chilled and prone to fear, just as in some animals, when they are afraid, the belly is disturbed, and in others residue flows from the bladder, so in these creatures too this happens of necessity, their discharging it out of timidity, just as with those who involuntarily urinate from the bladder; but nature at the same time makes use of this kind of residue for their help and safety. [section 12] The crustaceans too, both the lobster-like kinds and the crabs, have two front teeth, and between them the tongue-like flesh, as has been said before, and immediately adjoining the mouth a gullet small in proportion to the size of their bodies, the larger ones proportionally to the smaller; and adjoining this a stomach, upon which the lobsters and some of the crabs have other teeth, because the upper ones do not divide the food sufficiently; and from the stomach a simple intestine running straight to the outlet of the residue.
14| [section 13] Each of the testaceans also has these parts, some more distinctly articulated, others less so; in the larger kinds each of these is more clearly visible. Whelks have teeth that are hard and sharp, as has been said before, and between them fleshy matter similar to that in the cephalopods and crustaceans, and the proboscis, as has been said, lying between a sting and a tongue; adjoining the mouth is something like a bird's crop, and adjoining this a gullet; adjoining this is the stomach, in which is the so-called poppy, from which a continuous intestine begins, simple from its start at the poppy; for in all the testaceans this is the residue that seems most fit to be eaten. [section 14] The other spiral-shelled kinds have the same arrangement as the whelk, for example purple-shellfish and trumpet-shells. There are many genera and species of testaceans; some are spiral-shelled, as those just mentioned, others are two-shelled, others one-shelled. [section 15] In a way even the spiral-shelled kinds resemble the two-shelled; for all such creatures have, from birth, coverings over the exposed part of their flesh, as do the purple-shellfish, trumpet-shells, and nerites, and the whole tribe of that sort, for their protection. For where the shell does not project in front, it is easy for that part to be harmed by things striking it from outside.
15| [section 16] The one-shelled kinds are kept safe, since they are attached, by having their shell overhanging, and in a way become two-shelled by means of a borrowed screen, as with the so-called limpets; the two-shelled kinds, such as scallops and mussels, are protected by closing together; and the spiral-shelled kinds by this covering, becoming as it were two-shelled out of one-shelled. [section 17] The sea urchin of all these has the greatest protection; for its shell is roofed over on every side and fortified with spines. It has this peculiar to it among the testaceans, as has been said before. [section 18] The nature of the crustaceans and testaceans is constructed in a manner opposite to that of the cephalopods; for in the latter the fleshy part is outside, in the former it is inside, and the earthy part outside. The sea urchin has no fleshy part at all. Now all the other testaceans have, as has been said, a mouth and the tongue-like part and a stomach and an outlet for the residue, but they differ in position and in size. [section 19] The manner in which each of these is arranged should be studied both from the Researches on Animals and from the dissections; for some things must be made clear by argument, others rather by reference to the sight of them. The sea urchins and the tribe of the so-called sea-squirts have a peculiar arrangement among the testaceans.
16| [section 20] The sea urchins have five teeth, and between them the fleshy matter that is found in all the creatures mentioned, and adjoining this a gullet, and from this a stomach divided into many parts, as though the animal had many stomachs. For they are separate and full of residue, but they are all suspended from one gullet and end in one outlet for the residue. [section 21] Besides the stomach they have nothing fleshy, as has been said, but they have what are called eggs, several in number, each apart in its own membrane, and arranged in a circle from the mouth, certain black bodies scattered loosely about, which have no name. Since there are several genera (for the sea urchins are not all one species), all have these parts, but not all have the so-called eggs edible, and in those outside the surface-dwelling kinds they are altogether small. [section 22] In general this also holds true of the other testaceans as well; for their flesh is not equally edible in all of them, and the residue, the so-called poppy, is edible in some, not edible in others. In the spiral-shelled kinds this is located in the coil; in the one-shelled kinds, at the base, as in limpets; in the two-shelled kinds, near the hinge; and the so-called egg is on the right side, while on the other side is the outlet of the residue, in the two-shelled kinds.
17| [section 23] 22 It is not rightly called an "egg" by those who call it so; for this is, in the blooded animals, what fatness is when they are thriving. That is why it also occurs at those seasons of the year in which they thrive, in spring and in autumn; for in the cold and in the heat all the testaceans suffer, and cannot bear the extremes. [section 24] 24 A sign of this is what happens in the case of sea urchins: they have it as soon as they are born, and more at full moons — not because of feeding about, as some think, but because the nights are warmer on account of the moon's light. For being bloodless, they feel the cold badly and need warmth. That is why nearly everywhere they thrive more in summer, except those in the Euripus of Pyrrha; those thrive no less in winter. The cause is that they have a more abundant food supply then, since the fish leave those places at that season. [section 25] 25 All sea urchins have eggs equal in number to each other and odd in number: they have five, and just as many teeth and stomachs too. The cause is that the "egg," as has been said before, is not an egg but the animal's good nourishment. In oysters this occurs on one side only — what is called the egg.
18| And this same thing is what occurs in sea urchins as well. [section 26] 26 Since, then, the sea urchin is spherical, and not, as with the other testaceans, having one circle to its body while the sea urchin is not this way in one part and otherwise in another but is alike all round (for it is spherical), the egg too must necessarily be arranged in like fashion. For it is not the case, as with the others, that going round the circle it is unlike itself. For in all the others the head is in the middle, and such a part faces upward. [section 27] 27 But moreover the egg cannot form a continuous ring: for it does not in the others either, but only on one side of the circle. It is necessary, then — since this is common to all of them, while it is peculiar to the urchin that its body is spherical — that its eggs not be even in number. For if they were even, they would lie along a diameter, since they would need to correspond alike on this side and that, if they were even and diametrically placed; and being so arranged, the egg would occupy both sides of the circle. But this did not hold even in the other testaceans; for oysters and scallops have such a part on only one side of their circumference. It is necessary, then, that there be three or five, or some other odd number.
19| [section 28] 28 If, then, they had three, the intervals would be too far apart; if more than five, they would be continuous; and of these, the one is not better, the other is not possible. It is necessary, therefore, that they have five eggs. For the same cause, the stomach too is divided in this way, and the number of teeth is likewise this many. For each of the eggs, being as it were a body-part of the animal, must necessarily correspond to its manner of life, since growth proceeds from it. For if there were only one, it would either be far off in a small part, or would occupy the whole cavity, so that the urchin would be hard to move and its vessel would not fill with food; but there being five intervals, it is necessary that near each one the body be divided fivefold. [section 29] 29 For the same cause the number of teeth is also this many; for in this way nature would have given like correspondence to the parts mentioned. Why, then, the sea urchin has an odd number of eggs, and this many, has been stated. Why some urchins are altogether small and others large, the cause is that the latter are hotter by nature; for heat is more able to concoct the food, and this is why the ones not fit to eat are fuller of residue.
20| [section 30] 30 And the heat of their nature also makes them more mobile, so that they range about and do not remain fixed in place. A sign of this is that such urchins always have something on their spines, as if they were moving about frequently; for they use their spines as feet. [section 31] 31 The sea-squirts differ little in nature from plants, yet they are more alive than sponges; for the latter have altogether the capacity of a plant. For nature passes continuously from lifeless things to animals, through things that are alive but are not animals, so that each seems to differ very little from its neighbor because of how close they lie to one another. [section 32] 32 The sponge, then, as has been said, lives only so long as it is attached, and when detached it does not live, and in this it is exactly like the plants. But the things called sea-cucumbers and sea-lungs, and other such things in the sea, differ little from these, though detached: for they have no perception at all, but live as though they were detached plants. [section 33] 33 There are also some such things among the plants of the land, which both live and grow, some on other plants, some even when detached, such as the plant from Parnassus called by some the "rock-plant"; for this lives a long time hanging up on pegs.
21| [section 34] 34 And sometimes the sea-squirts too, and any other such kind, being attached, live in a way like a plant only, but by having something fleshy might seem to have some perception; and it is unclear which way this should be decided. This animal has two passages and one opening, by which it takes in the moisture for nourishment, and by which again it sends out the remaining fluid; for it has no residue that is apparent, as the other testaceans do. That is why this creature above all, and any other animal like it, may rightly be called plantlike; for none of the plants has residue either. Through the middle there is a thin partition, in which it is reasonable that the governing part of its life resides. [section 35] 35 Those which some call nettles and others call sea-anemones are not testaceans, but fall outside the divided genera, and this creature is ambivalent in its nature between plant and animal. For in detaching itself and falling upon its food, some of them are animal-like, and in perceiving what falls upon them; further, it uses the roughness of its body for its protection. But in being incomplete and quickly attaching itself to the rocks it resembles the genus of plants, and in having no residue that is evident, though it does have a mouth.
22| [section 36] 36 Similar to this is also the genus of the starfish; for this too, falling upon them, drains the juice out of many of the oysters, and also out of the detached ones among the animals mentioned, such as the mollusks and the crustaceans. The same account holds also concerning the testaceans. [section 37] 37 The parts concerned with nutrition, then, which must belong to all, are as has been described; but clearly there must also be, in these too, some part analogous to what belongs to the blooded animals with respect to the governing organ of the senses; for this must belong to all animals. In the mollusks this is a moist thing lying within a membrane, through which the gullet stretches toward the stomach, and it is attached more toward the underside, and is called by some the mytis. [section 38] 38 Such another part belongs also to the crustaceans, and that too is called mytis. This part is moist and fleshy at once, and through it, as has been said, the gullet stretches through the middle; for if it lay between this part and the underside, it would not be able to expand equally as the food entered, because of the hardness of the back.
23| [section 39] 39 In the mytis, the intestine lies outward, and the ink is next to the intestine, so that it may be as far as possible from the entrance, and the disagreeable part may be kept away from the better part and the source. That this part is analogous to the heart is shown by its position (for this is the same) and by the sweetness of the fluid, since it is concocted and blood-like. [section 40] 40 In the testaceans the ruling part of perception has the same character, but it is less evident. Still, in those that are stationary, midway between the part that receives nourishment and the part through which the discharge of seed or of residue is made; in those animals that also move about, always in the middle between right and left. [section 41] 41 In insects, the part that holds such a source, as was said in the first accounts, lies between the head and the cavity around the belly. In most of them this is one part, but in others it is several, as in the millipede-like and elongated ones; that is why they go on living when cut apart. For nature wishes, in all cases, to make only one such part, but being unable to, it makes it only one in actuality, though several in potentiality; and this is more evident in some than in others.
24| [section 42] The parts concerned with nourishment are not the same in all; rather they show much difference. For inside the mouth, some have what is called the sting, a sort of composite organ having the power of tongue and lips together; those that do not have the sting in front have, inside the teeth, a similar organ of perception. [section 43] Next to this, in all of them, is an intestine that is straight and simple as far as the exit of the residue; but in some this has a coil. 43 Others have a stomach after the mouth, and from the stomach the intestine runs coiled, so that those that are more voracious eaters and greater in their nature may have a receptacle for more nourishment. [section 44] The class of cicadas has, most of all these, a nature of its own; for it has one and the same part serving as mouth and tongue grown together, 44 through which, as if through a root, it takes in nourishment from moist things. [section 45] All insects, then, are creatures needing little nourishment, 45 not so much because of their smallness as because of their coldness (for what is hot both needs nourishment and concocts nourishment quickly, while what is cold needs little nourishment); and this is most true of all of the class of cicadas. For a sufficient nourishment for the body is the moisture that remains from their breath, just as with the ephemeral creatures (these occur around the Pontus), except that those live for the space of a single day, while these live for several days, though few.
25| [section 46] Now that we have spoken of the parts present within animals, 46 we must go back again to the remaining external parts. We must begin from what has just now been said, and not from the point at which we left off, so that, having spent less time on these, our account may have more leisure for the complete and blooded animals. [section 1] The insects, then, are not many-parted in number, 6 yet they do have differences from one another. All of them are many-footed, because, given the slowness and the coldness of their nature, having many feet makes their motion more effective for them; and those most chilled through because of their length are the most many-footed, as the class of millipedes. [section 2] 2 Further, because they have several sources, both their segmentations occur and they are many-footed accordingly. Those that have fewer feet are winged, to compensate for the deficiency of their feet. [section 3]
26| 3 Among the winged creatures themselves, those whose life is nomadic, and who must move from place to place for the sake of food, are four-winged and have a light bulk of body, as the bees and the creatures of the same kind as they; for they have two wings on each side of the body. Those of this kind that are small are two-winged, as the class of flies. Those that are small in size and settled in their manner of life are many-winged in the same way as bees, but have wing-cases over their wings, as the cockchafers and such insects, so that the power of the wings may be preserved; for since they are settled, they are more easily damaged than the ones that move about easily, and that is why they have a barrier placed before them. [section 4] 4 The wing of these is also undivided and stemless; for it is not a feather but a skin-like membrane, which of necessity stands off from the body because of dryness, once the fleshy part has cooled. [section 5] 5 They are segmented both because of the causes stated, and so that they may be preserved from harm by being able to bend up; for those of them that are elongated coil themselves together, and this could not happen to them if they were not segmented. Those of them that do not coil become harder instead, being compacted together at the incisions.
27| [section 6] 6 This becomes clear when one touches them, as in the case of the creatures called beetles; for when frightened they become motionless, and their body becomes hard. And it is necessary for them to be segmented; for this belongs to their very substance, the having of many sources, and in this respect they resemble plants. For just as plants, so these too are able to live when divided, except that these live on only for a while, whereas plants both become complete in nature and become two, or more in number, out of one. [section 7] Some insects also have stings for help against what does them harm. The sting is in front in some, behind in others; 7 in front, at the tongue; behind, at the tail. For just as, in elephants, the organ of perception for smells has come to be useful both for defense and for the use of food, so too in some insects the organ set at the tongue; for by this they both perceive their food and take it up and bring it to themselves. [section 8] Those of them that are not front-stinged have teeth, some for the sake of eating, 8 others for taking hold of and drawing in their food, as the ants and the whole class of bees. Those that are rear-stinged have the sting because they have spirit, as a weapon.
28| [section 9] Some have their stings within themselves, as the bees and the wasps, because they are winged. 9 For being thin, if they were outside they would be easily destroyed; and if the sting stood out as it does in scorpions, it would add weight. But scorpions, being ground-walkers and having a sting, must of necessity have the sting placed in this way, or else it would be of no use for defense. No two-winged creature is rear-stinged. [section 10] For it is because they are weak and small that they are two-winged; 10 for small creatures are adequately lifted by a smaller number of wings. And for this same reason they also have the sting in front; for being weak, they can barely strike with their front parts. But the many-winged creatures, because they are greater in their nature, have come to have more wings, and are strong in their hind parts. [section 11] 11 It is better, when it is possible, not to have the same organ serve dissimilar uses, but rather to have the defensive part be as sharp as possible, and the tongue-part spongy and suited for drawing in food. For wherever it is possible to use two instruments for two functions without one hindering the other, nature is not accustomed to make one thing serve both, the way bronze-working does, for the sake of cheapness, with its combined spit-and-lampstand; but where it is not possible, it makes one and the same thing serve for several functions.
29| [section 12] 12 Some of these have larger front feet than the rest, so that—since, being hard-eyed, they do not have precise vision—they can clean off with their front legs whatever falls on them; and flies and the bee-like animals are visibly seen doing just this, for they are constantly scraping with their front legs. The hind legs are larger than the middle ones, both for walking and so that they may lift off more easily from the ground when flying up. [section 13] 13 In the jumping insects this is even more evident, for example locusts and the flea family: for whenever, having bent their legs, they extend them again, they must be lifted from the ground. Locusts have their rudder-like legs not in front but only behind, for the bend must be turned inward, and none of the front limbs is of this kind. All such creatures are six-footed, counting the leaping parts. [section 1] 7 The body of the testaceans is not made of many parts. The cause of this is that their nature is stationary; for animals capable of movement must necessarily have more parts, because they have actions to perform, and what shares in more kinds of motion needs more organs.
30| [section 2] Of these, some are entirely motionless, others share in a small amount of motion; but nature has provided the hardness of their shells for their preservation. Some of them are single-shelled, some double-shelled, and some spiral-shaped, as has been said before; and of these, some have a coil, for example whelks, while others are simply spherical, like the sea-urchin family. [section 3] And of the double-shelled kinds, some open, for example scallops and mussels (for they are joined together on one side, so that they open and close on the other), while others are fused together on both sides, for example the razor-shell family. [section 4] All the testaceans, like plants, have their head below. The cause of this is that they take in nourishment from below, just as plants do with their roots. It follows, then, that what is below in them corresponds to what is above, and what is above corresponds to what is below. It is within a membrane, through which it filters what is drinkable and takes in its nourishment. All of them have a head, but apart from the part that receives nourishment, the other parts of the body are nameless. [section 1] All the soft-shelled creatures are also capable of walking, and that is why they have many feet. The largest kinds of them are four: the ones called spiny lobsters, lobsters, shrimp, and crabs; and of each of these there are several species differing not only in shape but also greatly in size, for some of them are large and others altogether small.
31| [section 2] Now the crab-like and the lobster-like kinds are alike in that both have claws. They do not have these for the sake of walking, but for grasping and holding, in place of hands. That is also why they bend these in the opposite way from their feet: they bend and curl their feet toward the concave side, but their claws toward the convex side, for in this way the claws are useful for taking hold of food and bringing it to the mouth. [section 3] They differ in that spiny lobsters have a tail, while crabs do not have a tail. For the tail is useful to the former because they are swimmers—they swim by pushing off with it as if with oars—but to crabs it is of no use, because their way of life keeps close to the ground and they live in holes. [section 4] And those of them that live in the open sea have, for this reason, feet that are much more sluggish for walking—for example spider-crabs and the crabs called Heracleotic—because they make use of little motion, and their safety comes instead from being shell-like; that is why spider-crabs have thin legs, and the Heracleotic crabs have small legs.
32| [section 5] But the altogether small crabs, which are caught among the tiny fish, have their last pair of feet flat, so that they may be useful to them for swimming, their feet being like oar-blades, as if they were fins. Shrimp differ from the crab-like kinds in having a tail, and from the lobster-like kinds in not having claws; they do not have claws because they have more feet—for the growth that would have gone into the claws has been spent there instead—and they have more feet because they are more given to swimming than to walking. [section 6] The parts on their underside and around the head that serve to take in water and let it out are gill-like. Female spiny lobsters have their lower parts broader than the males do, and female crabs have the parts under the flap hairier than the males, because they extrude their eggs onto these parts rather than at a distance, as fish and the other creatures that bear young do; for being broader, these parts provide more room, a greater space, for the eggs. [section 7] So all spiny lobsters and crabs have their right claw larger and stronger, for all animals are by nature disposed to act more with their right side, and nature always assigns each organ to those able to use it, either exclusively or more than the other—
33| for example tusks, teeth, horns, spurs, and all such parts as serve for defense and strength. [section 8] Lobsters alone have the larger of their two claws on whichever side it happens to be, in both females and males. The cause of their having claws at all is that they belong to the genus that has claws; but they have this irregularly because they are defective in this respect and do not use their claws for what they are naturally suited for, but for the sake of walking. [section 9] As for each of the parts individually—their position, their differences from one another, and, among other things, how the males differ from the females—let this be studied from the Dissections and from the Researches on Animals. [section 1] As for the cephalopods, their internal parts have been discussed earlier, as with the other animals. Externally they have the trunk of the body, which is undifferentiated, and, belonging to this, feet in front around the head, inside the eyes, around the mouth and the teeth. Now the other animals that have feet have some in front and some behind, or else at the side, as with the many-footed bloodless animals; but this kind is peculiar among these, for they have all their feet on what is called the front.
34| [section 2] The cause of this is that their hind part has been drawn together toward the front, as with the spiral-shaped testaceans. For in general the testaceans stand, in one respect, like the crustaceans, and in another, like the cephalopods: insofar as the earthy part is outside and the fleshy part inside, they are like the crustaceans, but in the way the shape of the body is put together, they are like the cephalopods—in a way all of them, but especially, among the spiral-shaped kinds, those that have the coil. For in both, nature follows this same arrangement, as one might conceive it laid out along a straight line, just as happens in the case of four-footed animals and human beings: first, at the upper end of the straight line, the mouth, at point A; then B the gullet, and Γ the stomach; and from the intestine down to the outlet for the residue, where Δ is. [section 3] This, then, is how it is arranged in the blooded animals, and around this are situated the head and what is called the thorax. The remaining parts nature added for the sake of these organs and for the sake of motion—for example the front limbs and the hind ones. In the crustaceans and the insects too, the straight-line arrangement of the internal organs tends to follow the same pattern, but in respect to the external moving parts that serve them, they differ from the blooded animals.
35| [section 4] 4 The soft-bodied animals (the cephalopods) and the spiral-shelled testaceans have their parts arranged in the same way as each other, but in the reverse way from the crustaceans and the rest. For the end is bent back toward the beginning, as if one bent the straight line on which E lies and brought D up to A. For with the internal organs lying in this way, the cephalopods have wrapped around them the sac — which is called, only in the case of the octopuses, the head; and in the testaceans the corresponding structure is the spiral shell. [section 5] 5 There is no other difference except that in the one case nature has put a soft covering around the fleshy part, and in the other a hard one, so that the animal may be preserved despite its difficulty in moving; and for this reason the residue passes out near the mouth in both the cephalopods and the spiral-shelled animals, except that in the cephalopods it comes out from below, and in the spiral-shelled ones from the side. [section 6] 6 It is for this cause, then, that the feet of the cephalopods are arranged in this way, and in the opposite manner from those of other animals. Cuttlefish and squid have them unlike the octopuses, because they only swim and do not also walk. For they have six small arms above the mouth-parts, and of these the two outermost are larger, while of the remaining eight the two below are the largest of all. For just as in four-footed animals the hind limbs are the stronger, so in these creatures the lower arms are the largest; for it is these that bear and move the load most of all, and the two outermost are larger than the middle ones because they assist these lower ones. The octopus, by contrast, has the four middle arms the largest.
36| [section 7] 7 All these animals, then, have eight of these feet, but in the cuttlefish and squid they are short, while in the octopus-like animals they are long. For the former have a large body-sac and the latter a small one, so that nature took away from the body in the one case and added to the length of the feet, while in the other case she took from the feet and used it to increase the body. This is why in the octopuses the feet are useful not only for swimming but also for walking, while in the cuttlefish and squid they are useless for this — for they are small, while the sac is large. [section 8] 8 Since they have short feet, useless for taking hold of things and for not being torn away from the rocks when there is surf and storm, and useless for drawing distant things toward them, for these reasons they have two long tentacles, with which they anchor themselves and ride at their moorings the way a ship does in a storm, and with which they hunt and draw toward themselves things at a distance; and both the cuttlefish and the squid have these. The octopuses do not have such tentacles, because their feet serve them for these purposes. [section 9] 9 Those creatures which have suckers attached to their feet, arranged along the tentacle-arms, possess a power and a construction of the sort found in the little woven devices which the ancient physicians used to insert their fingers into; for these too are woven out of fibers, and with them the animals grip
37| the flesh and anything that yields to them. For being slack they close loosely around a thing; but when the animal draws them tight, the sucker presses and holds fast on every part of what it touches within it. Since, then, there is nothing else with which they can draw things toward them — apart from what they take with their feet on the one hand and with their tentacles on the other — they have these suckers for defense and for other kinds of assistance, in place of hands. [section 10] 10 Now the rest have two rows of suckers, but a certain kind of octopus has only one row. The cause of this is the length and slenderness of their bodily nature; for a narrow arm must necessarily have only one row. They do not have this arrangement, then, because it is best, but because it is necessary given the particular character of their substance. [section 11] 11 All of these creatures have a small fin running round the sac. In most of them this is joined together and continuous, as also in the large squid; but the smaller ones, called squid in the narrower sense, have this fin broader and not narrow, as the cuttlefish and octopuses do, and it begins from the middle and does not run all the way round in a circle. They have this so that they may swim and so as to steer themselves, just as flying creatures have the rump feather and fish have the tail-fin. [section 12] 12 This part is smallest and least noticeable in the octopuses, because they have a small sac and steer adequately with their feet. We have now spoken about the insects, the crustaceans, the testaceans, and the cephalopods, both about their internal parts and about their external ones.
38| 10 We must again take up from the beginning the study of the blooded, live-bearing animals, starting from the parts that remain and have not yet been discussed; and once these have been distinguished we shall speak in the same way about the blooded, egg-laying animals. Now the parts around the head of animals have already been discussed, and those around the so-called neck and throat. All blooded animals have a head;
39| but in some of the bloodless animals this part is not clearly marked off, as in the crabs. All live-bearing animals, then, have a neck, but of the egg-laying animals some have one and some do not: those that have lungs also have a neck, while those that do not breathe from outside do not have this part. The head exists mainly for the sake of the brain; for blooded animals must necessarily have this part, and it lies in the position opposite to the heart, for the reasons stated earlier. Nature has also placed in the head some of the sense organs, because the blend of blood there is well-proportioned and suited both to the warmth of the brain and to the stillness and precision required by the senses. Further, she set beneath it as a third part the structure that provides the entrance for nourishment; for it was there that this could be placed most proportionately. For the mouth-cavity could not lie above the heart and the ruling principle, nor, given that it lies below as it now does, could its entrance be placed still lower than the heart; for then the length of the body would be great, and the entrance would be too far from the principle that moves and concocts the food. The head, then, exists for the sake of these things, and the neck for the sake of the windpipe; for it is a protection, and preserves this and the gullet by enclosing them all around. In most animals the neck is flexible and has vertebrae, but wolves and lions have a neck made of a single bone; for nature looked to making it useful for strength rather than for other kinds of assistance. Next after the neck and the head come, in animals, the forelimbs and the chest. Man, instead of forelegs and forefeet, has arms and what are called hands. For man alone stands upright
40| of the animals, because its nature and its substance are divine; and the work of what is most divine is thinking and exercising practical wisdom. This is not easy when a great deal of body lies weighing on top; for bulk makes thought and the common perception hard to move. Hence, as the bulk and the bodily mass become greater, the bodies are necessarily drawn down toward the earth, so that for the sake of stability nature has furnished four-footed animals with front feet instead of arms and hands. For all animals capable of walking must have two hind feet; and such animals became four-footed because the soul was not able to carry the bulk. For all the other animals are dwarfish in comparison with man: a thing is dwarfish when its upper part is large but the part that carries the bulk and walks on the ground is small. The upper part is what is called the trunk, from the head to the outlet for residue. In human beings this is proportionate to the lower part, and becomes much smaller as they reach maturity; but in the young it is the opposite: the upper parts are large and the lower part small. That is why they crawl and are not able to walk. And at the very first stage they cannot even crawl, but remain motionless, for all infants are dwarfs. As human beings advance, the lower parts grow; but in four-footed animals it is the opposite: the lower parts are largest at first, and as they advance the upper parts grow — this being the mass that runs from the seat to the head. That is why foals are little if at all shorter in height than grown horses, and while young they can touch their head with a hind leg, but when older they cannot. This, then, is how it is with the solid-hoofed and cloven-hoofed animals; the many-toed and hornless animals are dwarfish too, but less so than these.
41| That is why such animals make their growth in the upper parts proportionate to the deficiency in the lower parts. And the class of birds, and the class of fish, and every blooded animal, as has been said, is dwarfish. That is also why all animals are less intelligent than human beings. Indeed, even among human beings — for example children compared to grown men, and among grown men themselves those who are dwarfish in nature — even if they possess some other capacity in excess, they are deficient in the possession of intellect. The cause, as has been said before, is that the principle of the soul is very hard to move and bodily in them. Further, as the heat that lifts the body up becomes less and the earthy element becomes more, the bodies of the animals become smaller and many-footed, and in the end become footless and stretched out flat along the ground. And going a little further still in this progression, they even have their starting principle below, and the part corresponding to the head is in the end motionless and without perception, and the creature becomes a plant, having its upper parts below and its lower parts above; for the roots have, for plants, the capacity of a mouth and a head, while the seed is the opposite — for it forms above, at the tips of the shoots. The cause, then, why some animals are two-footed, others many-footed, and others footless, and the cause why some things have become plants and others animals, has been stated, and also why man alone among the animals stands upright. Since he is upright in nature, he has no need of front legs at all, and in their place nature has given him arms and hands instead. Anaxagoras, then, says that man is the most intelligent of the animals because he has hands; but it is reasonable to suppose that he has hands because he is the most intelligent. For hands are an instrument, and nature, like a practically wise person, always distributes each
42| thing to the one able to use it. For it is fitting to give flutes to one who is already a flute-player, rather than to fit flute-playing onto one who already has flutes; for she has added the lesser thing to the greater and more authoritative thing, not the more valuable and greater thing to the lesser. If, then, this is the better way, and nature always does, out of the possibilities available, what is best, it is not on account of the hands that man is the most intelligent, but on account of being the most intelligent of the animals that he has hands. For the most intelligent being would make good use of the greatest number of instruments, and the hand seems to be not one instrument but many; for it is, as it were, an instrument in place of instruments. To the being capable of receiving the greatest number of crafts, then, nature has given the hand, the instrument useful for the greatest number of purposes. But those who say that man is not put together well, but worst of all the animals — for they say he is unshod and naked and without a weapon for defense — do not speak correctly. For the other animals have a single means of assistance, and it is not possible for them to exchange this for another; rather, they are compelled to sleep, so to speak, still shod, and to do everything so, and never to lay aside their protection for the body, nor to exchange whatever weapon they happen to have; whereas the human being has many means of assistance, and it is always possible to exchange these, and further to have whatever weapon he wishes and wherever he wishes. For the hand becomes claw and hoof and horn and spear and sword and any other weapon or instrument whatsoever; for all these it will be, because it is able to take and hold them all. And to this end the form [and] the nature of the hand has been contrived accordingly. For it is divisible and many-cleft; and it belongs to what is divisible to be also composite, whereas the reverse of this
43| does not hold. And it is possible to use it with one finger, or with two, or in many ways. And the joints of the fingers are well suited for grasping and pressing. And there is one finger set at an angle to the side, and this one is short and thick, not long; for just as, if there were no hand at all, there would be no grasping, so likewise there would be none if this finger did not stand to the side. For this one presses from below upward, which the others do from above downward; and this must happen if the grip, like a strong bond, is to bind firmly, so that being one it may be equal in force to the many. And it is short both for the sake of strength and because a long one would be of no use. And the outermost finger is rightly small, and the middle one long, like an oar amidships; for what is grasped must most of all be enclosed all round at the middle for the work to be done. And this is why, though small, it is called great, because the other fingers are, so to speak, useless without it. And the arrangement of the nails, too, is well contrived: the other animals have them for use as well, but for human beings they are coverings, being a protection for the extremities. And the joints of the arms bend, for bringing food to the mouth and for other uses, in the opposite way from the four-footed animals. For those animals must bend their front limbs inward, since they use them as feet, so that they may be useful for walking, since indeed even among these, in the many-toed kinds, the front legs are useful not only for walking but also in place of hands, as in fact they are seen to be used; for they both grasp and defend themselves with the front limbs. But the solid-hoofed animals defend themselves with the hind limbs; for their front legs bear no analogy to elbows and hands. Some of the many-toed animals also have, for this reason, five toes on their front feet, but the
44| Some are four-toed behind, for instance lions and wolves, and also dogs and leopards; for the fifth toe, as in the hand, becomes in effect the large fifth. But the small many-toed animals have five toes even on the hind feet, because they are climbers, so that with more claws to grip they can more easily climb up to what is higher and above their heads. Between the elbows in human beings, and between the front legs in other animals, is what is called the chest. In human beings it reasonably has breadth, since the elbows, being set to the side, do not prevent this region from being broad; but in four-footed animals, because of the forward extension of the front limbs in walking and changing place, this part is narrow. And for this reason four-footed animals do not have breasts in this region; but in human beings, because of the roominess there and because the region around the heart needs to be covered, since the place is fleshy the breasts have accordingly become differentiated, being fleshy in the males for the reason stated, while in the females nature has additionally put this fleshy place to use for another function as well, which we say nature often does: for it stores up nourishment there for the offspring. There are two breasts because there are two sides, the left and the right. And they are rather firm, but distinct, because the ribs also join together at this place, though their nature is not laborious. In other animals it is impossible for the breasts to be, awkwardly, on the chest between the legs (for they would then get in the way of walking), and they have them in many different arrangements. For the animals that bear few young, are single-hoofed, and horn-bearing
45| have their breasts on the thighs, and these are two; but the animals that bear many young, or that are many-toed, have theirs either arranged along the belly, to the side and numerous, as in the pig and the dog, or only two, near the middle of the belly, as in the lion. The cause of this is not that the lion bears few young — since it sometimes bears more than two — but that it is not abundant in milk; for it uses up the nourishment it takes in on its own body, and it takes in little, because it is carnivorous. The elephant has only two, and these under the armpits of the front legs. The cause of its having two is that it bears a single offspring; the cause of their not being on the thighs is that it is many-toed (for no many-toed animal has breasts on the thighs); and the cause of their being up near the armpits is that these are the first breasts among those animals that have many breasts, and these yield the most milk. A sign of this is what happens with pigs: to the first-born of the piglets they offer the first breasts; so whatever animal's first-born is a single one must have the first breasts, and the first are those under the armpits. The elephant, then, for this reason has two breasts and in this place, while the many-bearing animals have theirs about the belly.
46| The cause of this is that those that are going to nurse more offspring need more breasts; since, then, it is not possible to have more than two arranged in breadth, because there are only two sides, left and right, they must have them arranged in length. Now the region between the front legs and the hind legs has length only. Animals that are not many-toed but bear few young, or are horn-bearing, have their breasts on the thighs, for instance the horse, the ass, the camel (for these bear a single offspring, and some are single-hoofed while the camel is cloven-hoofed), and further the deer and the ox and the goat and all the other animals of this kind.
47| The cause is that in these animals growth is toward the upper part of the body. So wherever there is a gathering and abundance of residue and blood — and this place is the lower part, around the outlets — there nature has made the breasts; for from wherever the movement of nourishment occurs, from there it is also possible for the young to take it. Now the human being, both female and male, has breasts, but among the other animals some of the males do not have them, for instance among horses some do not have them and some do, namely those that resemble their mother. So much, then, for the breasts. After the chest comes the region around the belly, not enclosed by the ribs, for the reason stated before, so that the ribs may not obstruct either the swelling of the food, which necessarily occurs as it is heated, or the womb during pregnancy. The end of what is called the trunk is the parts concerned with the passage of the residue, both the dry and the moist. Nature makes additional use of the same part both for the passage of the moist residue and for copulation, alike in the females and in the males, in nearly all blood-bearing animals except a few, and in all the live-bearing ones.
48| The cause is that the seed is something moist, and a residue; let this be assumed for now, and it will be demonstrated later concerning it. In the same way too, in the females, both the menstrual fluid and the passage by which they emit the seed follow the same pattern; this too will be determined later, but for now let it only be assumed that the menstrual fluid, like the seed, is a residue in females. The menstrual fluid and the seed are moist in their nature, so it stands to reason that the discharge of the same and of similar things should be into these same parts. How matters stand internally, and in what way the organs concerned with seed and those concerned with pregnancy differ, is evident from the History of Animals and from dissections, and will be discussed later in the works on generation. That the shapes of these parts, too, are necessarily suited to their function is not unclear. [section 32] The organ of the males has differences corresponding to the differences of body. For not all animals are alike sinewy in nature. Further, this alone among the parts undergoes growth and diminution without being a diseased change; for one of these states is useful for coupling, the other for the use of the rest of the body — since if it were always in the same state it would get in the way.
49| [section 33] This part is composed, in its nature, of such materials that both these outcomes can occur: for part of it is sinewy and part cartilaginous, and for this reason it is able both to contract and to extend, and it is capable of receiving breath. Now the females of the four-footed animals are all backward-urinating, because that position is useful to them for copulation in this way; but of the males few are backward-urinating, for instance the lynx, the lion, the camel, the hare; and no single-hoofed animal is backward-urinating. [section 34] The hind parts and what concerns the legs are peculiar to human beings as against the four-footed animals. Almost all animals have a tail, not only the live-bearing ones but the egg-laying ones too; for even if this part has no size in them, still for the sake of a mark they have some sort of projection. [section 35] The human being is tailless, but has hips, which none of the four-footed animals has. Further, as regards the legs, the human being has fleshy thighs and shins, while all the other animals have fleshless ones — not only the live-bearing animals but, generally, all animals that have legs; for they have sinewy and bony and spiny legs.
50| [section 36] There is, one might say, a single cause of all these things: that man alone among animals stands upright. So that he might easily carry the upper parts, which are light, nature took the bodily bulk away from the upper parts and added the weight to the lower ones; that is why it made the hips, thighs, and calves fleshy. [section 37] At the same time nature made the nature of the hips useful also for resting. For four-footed animals find standing untiring, and do not grow weary doing this continuously (since, with four supports underneath, it is as if they remain lying down the whole time), but for men it is not easy to remain standing upright continuously; rather the body needs rest and a seat. [section 38] Man, then, has hips and fleshy legs for the reason stated, and for this same reason is tailless (for the nourishment that would go there is used up on these parts instead, and because he has hips, the necessary use of a tail has been taken away). But the four-footed animals and the other animals are the opposite way: since they are dwarfed toward the top, all the weight and bodily bulk lies upon the upper part, taken away from the lower parts; that is why they have hipless legs, and hard ones.
51| [section 39] So that the part serving the discharge of residue might be guarded and covered, nature gave them the so-called tail, taking away for it from the nourishment that goes to the legs. But the ape, because its form is ambiguous and belongs neither wholly to one type nor wholly to the other, but to both, for this reason has neither tail nor hips: no tail, in that it is two-footed, and no hips, in that it is four-footed. [section 40] Of the so-called tails there are several differentiae, and nature makes further use of them too in these animals, not only for guarding and covering the seat, but also for benefit and use to those that have them. Feet, again, differ among four-footed animals: some of them are single-hoofed, some cloven-hoofed, some many-toed. They are single-hoofed in those which, because of their size and because they have a great deal of earthy matter, received such a part as a secreted growth into the nature of a claw, in place of horns and teeth; and because of its bulk, the hoof is a single claw in place of several claws. [section 41] And for this reason such animals generally do not have an astragalus, because the bending of the hind leg would be harder to move if an astragalus were present in it; for joints with a single angle open and close faster than those with several, and the astragalus, being a peg-like bone, is set in between the two bones like a foreign limb, adding weight but making the stance more secure.
52| [section 42] For this same reason, those animals that do have an astragalus have it not in the forelegs but in the hind legs, because the legs that lead the way must be light and easy to bend, while security and firmness belong in the hind legs. Further, for the sake of defense, this makes the blow heavier; for such animals use their hind limbs for defense, kicking out at whatever troubles them. [section 43] Cloven-hoofed animals have an astragalus (since their hind legs are the lighter part), and because they have an astragalus they are also not single-hoofed, the astragalus being, as it were, the bony part left over from the foot, remaining at the bend. Many-toed animals do not have an astragalus; for if they had one, they would not be many-toed, but the foot would be split in breadth only as far as the astragalus extends. That is why, of the animals that do have it, most are cloven-hoofed. [section 44] Man has the largest feet of the animals in proportion to his size, and reasonably so; for he alone stands upright, so that feet which, being only two, are going to bear the entire weight of the body must have both length and breadth. And indeed the size of the toes stands in an opposite relation on the feet and on the hands, proportionately speaking; for the function of the hands is to take hold and
53| to grip, so that they must have long fingers (for the hand grasps round an object with the part that bends), whereas the function of the feet is to stand securely, so that one must reckon that this is the part of the foot that matters: the undivided part apart from the toes. [section 45] Yet it is better for the extremity to be divided than undivided; for otherwise the whole would suffer together whenever a single part were injured, whereas when it is split into toes this does not happen in the same way. [section 46] Further, being short, the toes are less liable to be harmed; that is why human feet are many-toed but not long-toed. And for the same reason people have the class of nails on the hands as well; for the extremities need covering most of all, because of their weakness. [section 1] Concerning the blooded, viviparous, land-dwelling animals, then, we have spoken about nearly everything. Of the blooded animals that are egg-laying, some are four-footed and some footless. There is only one such genus that is footless, that of the snakes; the cause of their footlessness has been stated in the discussions determined concerning the progression of animals. The rest have a form similar to that of the four-footed, viviparous animals. [section 2] These animals have a head, and the parts in it, for the same causes as the other blooded animals do, and a tongue in the mouth, except for the river crocodile; this one would not seem to have one, but only the place for one.
54| [section 3] The cause is that in a way it is at once a land animal and a water animal: because it is a land animal it has a place for a tongue, but because it is a water animal it is tongueless. For fish, as has been said before, in some cases do not appear to have one, unless one tilts the head sharply back, and in other cases have one that is undifferentiated. [section 4] The cause is that these animals had little need of a tongue, because they cannot chew or taste in advance; rather, for all of them the perception and pleasure of their food occurs in the swallowing. For the tongue produces the perception of flavors, whereas the pleasure of foods occurs in their passage down; for as they are swallowed, they perceive what is fatty and hot and other such qualities. [section 5] The viviparous animals too have this perception, and for most relishes and foods the enjoyment occurs, in the swallowing, through the stretching of the gullet. That is why the same creatures are not without self-control in the same way about drinks and flavors as about relishes and food; rather, the other animals possess the perception by way of taste as well, while these have, so to speak, only the other kind of perception.
55| [section 6] Among the four-footed, egg-laying animals, lizards, like snakes, have a forked tongue, altogether hair-like at the tip, as has been said before. Seals too have a forked tongue; that is why all these animals are also gluttonous. The four-footed egg-laying animals also have saw-edged teeth, like fish. All of them have sense-organs like those of the other animals, namely nostrils for smell, eyes for sight, and ears for hearing, except that these are not raised up, just as with birds, but consist only of the passage. [section 7] The cause of both facts is the hardness of the skin; for birds are feathered, while these are all scaly, and the scale is similar in kind to a fish-scale, but by nature harder. This is shown in the case of tortoises, of large snakes, and of river crocodiles; for these grow stronger than bone, being of such a nature. These animals do not have an upper eyelid, just as birds do not either, but close the eye with the lower one, for the reason stated in their case. [section 8] Now some of the birds also blink
56| by a membrane from the corners of the eyes, and these animals do not blink; for they are harder-eyed than birds. The cause is that for birds keen sight is more useful for their way of life, since they are winged, but for these animals it is less useful; for all such animals are burrow-dwellers. Since the head is divided into two parts, the upper part and the lower jaw, man and the four-footed animals that bear live young move their jaws both up and down and also sideways, while fish, birds, and the four-footed animals that lay eggs move them only up and down. [section 9] 9 The cause is that this up-and-down motion is useful for biting and dividing, while the sideways motion serves for grinding smooth. Now for those that have molars the sideways motion is useful, but for those that do not have molars it is of no use at all, and so it has been taken away from all such animals; for nature does nothing superfluous. [section 10] 10 Now all the other animals move the lower jaw, but the river crocodile alone moves the upper. The cause of this is that its feet are useless for grasping and holding fast, since they are altogether small. For these purposes, then, nature has made its mouth useful to it in place of feet.
57| [section 11] 11 For holding fast or grasping, whichever side the blow is stronger from is the more useful side to move; and the blow is always stronger from above than from below. Since, then, both uses are performed through the mouth, both grasping and biting, and holding fast is more necessary for a creature that has neither hands nor well-formed feet, it is more useful for such creatures to move the upper jaw than the lower. [section 12] For the same reason crabs too move the upper 12 part of the claw, and not the lower; for they have their claws in place of hands, so that the claw needs to be useful for grasping, not for dividing. Dividing and biting are the work of teeth. Now for crabs, and for the other animals for which it is possible to take food at leisure because the use of the mouth is not carried on in a liquid medium, the functions are divided: they grasp with hands and feet, but divide and bite with the mouth. [section 13] But for crocodiles nature has made the mouth 13 useful for both purposes, the jaws being moved in this way. And all such animals have a neck because they have a lung; for they take in breath through the windpipe, which has length.
58| [section 1]
59| 13 The parts of birds, then, are in this condition. The class of fish is stunted still further in its external parts. For they have neither legs nor hands nor wings (the cause of this has been stated before), but the whole trunk is continuous from the head all the way to the tail. This tail is not alike in all of them; some have one much the same, but among the flat fish some have a tail that is spiny and long, since the growth from that region goes into breadth, as with electric rays and stingrays and any other cartilaginous fish of that kind. In these, then, the tail-part is spiny and long, but in some it is fleshy and short, for the same cause as with the electric rays; for it makes no difference whether it is short and fleshier, or long and less fleshy. In the anglerfish the opposite has happened: because their forward breadth is not fleshy, whatever flesh has been withheld from there nature has placed toward the rear, in the tail as well. Fish do not have detached limbs because their nature, by the account of their substance, is a swimming one, since nature makes nothing superfluous or in vain. But since they are blooded in their substance, they have fins because they are swimmers, and they do not have feet because they do not go on land; for the addition of feet is useful for movement over flat ground. And it is not possible to have four fins and feet at the same time, nor any other such limb besides; for they are blooded. Tadpoles, however, though they have gills, have feet; for they have no fins, but a tail that is loose-textured and broad. Among fish, those that are not flat, such as the ray and the stingray, have four fins, two on
60| the dorsal side and two on the ventral side. None has more than these; for they would then have been bloodless. Of these, nearly all have the dorsal ones, but some of the long, thick-bodied ones do not have the ventral ones, such as the eel and the conger eel and a certain kind of grey mullet found in the lake at Siphae. Those that are of longer growth and more snake-like, such as the moray eel, have no fin at all, but move by their bendings, using the water just as snakes use the land; for snakes swim in the very way that they crawl on land. The cause of the snake-like fish not having fins is the same as the cause of snakes being footless. The cause has been stated in the work on the progression and movement of animals. For otherwise they would move badly, moving by four points. For if they had their fins close together, they would move only with difficulty, and if far apart, likewise, because of the great distance between them. And if they had had more points of motion, they would have been bloodless. The same cause holds also for the fish that have only two fins; for they are snake-like and rather elongated, and use bending in place of the other two fins.
61| This is also why they crawl on dry land and can live a long time out of water, and some do not die at once, while those that are akin in nature to land-going creatures thrash about less. Of the fins themselves, those fish that have only two fins have them on the dorsal side, except where breadth prevents it. Those that have them near the head have them there because they lack length in the region by which they would otherwise move; for the body of such fish is elongated toward the tail. Rays and the like swim by means of their outermost breadth in place of fins. But those that have less breadth have fins, such as the electric ray and the anglerfish, the
62| ones on the dorsal side set lower down, because of the breadth of the upper part, and the ones on the ventral side near the head (for the breadth does not prevent motion there); but instead of being on top, these are smaller than the dorsal ones. The electric ray has its two other fins near the tail; and instead of two more fins it uses its breadth, employing each semicircular lobe as a fin. The parts in the head and the sense-organs have been discussed earlier. The class of fish has, as its own peculiar feature compared with the other blooded animals, the nature of the gills; the cause of this has been stated in the work on respiration. And among the fish that have gills, some have coverings over their gills, while all the cartilaginous fish (for they are cartilage-spined) have them uncovered. The cause is that the covered ones are spiny, and the covering itself is spiny, while all the cartilaginous fish have cartilage in place of spine. Moreover, the movements of the cartilaginous ones are sluggish because they are neither spiny nor sinewy, while the movements of the spiny ones are quick; and the movement of the covering must be quick, since the nature of the gills serves, as it were, for exhalation. For this reason, in the cartilaginous fish the contraction occurs in the gill-passages themselves, and there is no need of a covering, so that it may happen quickly.
63| Now some of them have many gills and some few, and some have double gills and some single; but the last gill is single in most of them. The precise details about these must be studied from the dissections and in the Researches on Animals. The cause of the multiplicity or paucity of gills is the multiplicity or paucity of the heat in the heart; for those that have more heat need a quicker and stronger motion. More numerous and double gills have this nature more than single and fewer ones do. This is also why some of them can live out of water for a long time, being of those
64| Those with fewer and weaker gills, such as the eel and the snake-like fish, need little cooling. There are also differences in the mouth. Some fish have the mouth straight ahead, facing forward, others have it on the underside, as dolphins and the cartilaginous fish do; hence they take their food by turning over onto their backs. Nature appears to have done this not only for the safety of the other animals (for while the fish is delayed in turning over, the others escape, since all such fish are flesh-eaters), but also so that these fish should not indulge their gluttony for food; for if they took it easily, they would quickly destroy themselves by overfilling. Besides this, they cannot have a widely-cleft mouth. Further, among fish that have the mouth on top, some have it wide-slit and some tapering to a point: those that are carnivorous have it wide-slit, like the saw-toothed fish, because for such fish their strength lies in the mouth, while those that are not carnivorous have it tapering. As for the skin, some fish have scaled skin (the scale stands off from the body owing to the body's brightness and thinness), like the angel-shark and the ray and such fish; very few are smooth-skinned. The cartilaginous fish are without scales but are rough, because they have cartilage in place of spine; for nature has spent the earthy matter that would otherwise have gone there upon the skin instead. No fish has testicles, either external or internal, nor does any other footless animal, and so neither do snakes. They have the same passage for residue and for the parts concerned with generation, just as all the other egg-laying animals do, including the four-footed ones, because they have no bladder and produce no liquid residue. The class of fish, then, has these differences from the other animals,
65| and dolphins and whales and all such cetaceans have no gills, but have a blowhole because they have a lung; for they take in seawater through the mouth and let it out through the blowhole. They must take in the water because they take their food in the water, and having taken it in they must let it out again. Gills, then, are useful to animals that do not breathe; the reason has been stated in the work on respiration; for it is impossible for the same animal both to breathe and to have gills. But these animals have the blowhole for letting out the water. It is situated in front of the brain, since, placed elsewhere, it would have cut the brain off from the spinal cord. The reason these animals have a lung and breathe is that large animals need more heat in order to move; hence a lung, full of blood-heat, is present in them. These animals are, in a way, both land-animals and water-animals: they take in air as land-animals do, but they are footless and get their food from the water, like water-animals. Seals too, and bats, because they belong ambiguously to both classes — the seals to the water-animals and the land-animals, the bats to the winged animals and the land-animals — for this reason share in both and in neither. For seals, as water-animals, have feet, yet as land-animals they have flippers (for their hind feet are entirely fish-like, and besides, all their teeth are saw-edged and sharp); and bats have feet in the manner of winged creatures, but not in the manner of four-footed ones, and they have neither a tail nor a rump — they have neither a tail nor a rump — no tail, because they are winged; no rump, because they are land-animals. This happens to them of necessity; for they have wings of skin, and nothing has a rump unless it has split feathers; for it is out of that kind of feather that the
66| rump forms. As for a tail, it would actually have been an obstacle if present amid their wings. In the same way too the Libyan ostrich has some features of a bird and some of a four-footed animal. As not being a four-footed animal, it has feathers; but as not being a bird, it does not fly up into the air, and its feathers are not useful for flight but are hair-like. Further, as being a four-footed animal, it has eyelashes on the upper lid and is bare about the head and the upper part of the neck, so that its eyelashes are rather hair-like; but as being a bird, it is feathered on the lower parts, and it is two-footed as a bird is, but cloven-hoofed as a four-footed animal is, for it has not toes but hooves. The reason for this is that it has the size not of a bird but of a four-footed animal; for the size of birds, generally speaking, must necessarily be small, since it is not easy for a great bulk of body to move while lifted in the air. Concerning the parts, then — for what cause each one is present in animals — we have spoken of all the animals one by one. Now that these matters have been determined, it remains next to go through the subject of their generation.
1| ON THE MOVEMENT OF ANIMALS As for the movement of animals — whatever belongs to each particular kind of animal, what the differentiae are, and what the causes are of the attributes that belong to each — all this has been examined elsewhere, for every kind. But we must now examine, in a general way, the common cause of being moved with any kind of motion whatsoever (for some animals move by flying, some by swimming, some by walking, and others in other such ways). That the starting point of the other motions is that which moves itself, and that the starting point of this is what is unmoved, and that the first mover must necessarily be unmoved — this has been settled earlier, at the point where we also dealt with everlasting motion: whether it exists or not, and if it exists, what it is. But this must be grasped not only by argument, but also in the particular perceptible cases, on account of which we also seek the universal accounts, and to which we think the accounts ought to apply. For it is evident, even in these particular cases, that motion is impossible unless something remains at rest — first of all within the animals themselves. For if any of the parts is in motion, something must be at rest; and this is why animals have joints. For they use their joints as a pivot, and the whole part in which the joint lies becomes both one and two, both straight and bent, changing in potentiality and in actuality on account of the joint.
2| When a limb is bending and moving, one point in the joint moves and another stays still, just as, if of a diameter the point A and the point Δ were to stay still while B moved, the line AΓ would come to be. But in that case the center is thought to be in every way indivisible (indeed, they even fabricate the notion of its being moved, as they say, in dealing with such things — for nothing belonging to the objects of mathematics is actually moved), whereas the points in the joints become, in potentiality and in actuality, at one time one and at another divisible. But at any rate the starting point on the side toward which — insofar as it is a starting point — always remains at rest while the part below it is moved: for instance, when the forearm moves, the elbow-joint remains at rest, and when the whole limb moves, the shoulder remains at rest; and of the shin, the knee, and of the whole leg, the hip. That each thing, then, must have within itself something at rest, from which the starting point of the moving part will proceed, and against which, bracing itself, it will be moved both as a whole together and part by part, is evident.
3| 2 But every state of rest within the animal itself is nonetheless without authority unless there is something outside, wholly at rest and unmoved. It is worth pausing to examine this claim; for the inquiry bears not only on animals, but also on the motion and locomotion of the universe as a whole. For just as there must be something unmoved within the animal itself, if it is to be moved, so still more must there be something outside the animal, unmoved, against which the thing that moves braces itself as it moves. For if the support always gives way — as with worms in the earth, or with creatures walking in sand — the animal makes no headway; and there will be neither walking, unless the earth stays still, nor flying nor swimming, unless the air or the sea offers resistance in return. And this must necessarily be other than the thing moved, and whole other than whole, and no part of it may be a part of the thing moved, in this sense unmoved; otherwise it will not be moved. A proof of this is the puzzle: why is it that, from outside, if someone pushes the mast of a ship — or presses against any other part — with a pole, he moves it easily, whereas if someone standing in the ship itself tries to do this, he could not move it, not even if Tityos or Boreas were blowing from inside the ship, supposing he blew in the manner painters depict him blowing —
4| for they paint him letting the wind go forth from himself. For whether one hurls the breath gently or so forcefully as to produce the greatest wind, or whether it is anything else that is hurled or pushed, it is necessary first to push by bracing against some part of oneself that is at rest, and then, in turn, for that part — either itself or that of which it happens to be a part — to remain still by being braced against something external. Now the man pushing the ship while standing in the ship and bracing himself against the ship reasonably does not move the ship, because that against which he braces himself must necessarily stay still; but it turns out for him that the very thing he moves and the thing against which he braces himself are the same. Pushing or pulling from outside, however, he does move it; for the earth is no part of the ship. One might raise the puzzle whether, if something moves the whole heaven, that thing 3 must be unmoved, and be no part of the heaven at all, nor within the heaven. For whether it moves the heaven while itself being moved, it must move it by touching something unmoved, and this must be no part of the mover;
5| or if the mover is straightaway itself unmoved, likewise it will be no part of the thing moved. And in this respect those are right who say that, the sphere being carried around in a circle, not even the smallest part of it remains at rest; for either the whole would necessarily remain at rest, or its continuity would be torn apart. But in supposing that the poles have some power, though they have no magnitude but are extremities and points, they are not right. For besides the fact that no such point has any substance at all, it is also impossible for the one motion to be moved by two things; and they make the poles two. That there is something which stands to the whole of nature as the earth stands to animals and to the things that move by means of it, one might raise as a puzzle from considerations of this sort. Those who mythically make Atlas have his feet upon the earth, might seem to have spoken the myth with some thought behind it, on the supposition that he, functioning like a diameter, turns the heaven about the poles; and this would also follow reasonably enough from the earth's staying at rest — but those who say this must necessarily also say that the earth is no part of the whole. And besides this, one must make the strength of the mover equal to that of the thing that stays at rest.
6| For there is a certain quantity of strength and power in virtue of which the thing at rest remains at rest, just as there is one in virtue of which the mover moves; and there is necessarily some proportion, just as there is among opposite motions, so too among states of rest. And things equal are unaffected by one another, but are overpowered according to the excess. And so whether it is Atlas or something else of this kind that moves the heaven from within, it needs to resist no more than the resistance which the earth in fact exerts in remaining at rest — otherwise the earth will be moved away from the middle and out of its own place. For as the pusher pushes, so the thing pushed is pushed, and equally in respect of strength. And it is what is at rest that moves in the primary sense, so that the strength of rest must be greater rather than merely similar and equal. And likewise too the strength of the thing that is moved but does not itself move something else. The power of the earth in remaining at rest will therefore need to be as great as that possessed by the whole heaven together with the thing that moves it. But if this is impossible, it is also impossible for the heaven to be moved by any such internal mover.
7| There is a certain puzzle about the motions of the parts of the heaven, which one might examine as belonging to what has been said. For if someone should exceed, in the power of the motion, the earth's being at rest, clearly he will move it from the middle. And it is clear that the strength from which this power comes is not infinite; for the earth is not infinite either, and so neither is its weight. Since "impossible" is said in several ways (for we do not say in the same way that it is impossible for sound to be seen and for the things on the moon to be seen by us; the one is impossible of necessity, the other, though naturally fitted to be seen, simply will not be seen), and we think the heaven is indestructible and cannot be dissolved of necessity, but on this argument it turns out not to be so of necessity (for it is possible and in nature's way that there be a motion greater than that by which the earth is at rest and than that by which fire and the upper body are moved); if then there are motions that exceed it, these will be dissolved by one another; and if there are not, but it is possible for there to be (for an infinite motion is not possible, since no body can be infinite either), then it would be possible for the heaven to be dissolved. For what prevents this from happening, if indeed it is not impossible? And it is not impossible, unless the opposite is necessary. But let there be another discussion about this puzzle. But is it necessary that there be something unmoved and at rest outside what is moved, being no part of it, or not? And is it necessary that this hold in this way for the universe as well? For perhaps it would seem strange if the principle of motion were internal to it. That is why it would seem, to those who suppose this, that Homer spoke well: "but you could not drag down from heaven to the plain Zeus, highest of all, not even if you toiled very hard—
8| all you gods, and all you goddesses, hang on together." For what is altogether unmoved cannot be moved by anything. This is also how the puzzle stated earlier is resolved, whether the constitution of the heaven can or cannot be dissolved, given that it is suspended from an unmoved principle. But in the case of animals, it is not only necessary that something unmoved of this sort exist, but also, within the very things that are moved with respect to place, that there be something which moves them themselves. For part of the animal must be at rest and part in motion, and the part in motion will move by pressing against the part that is at rest, as happens whenever something moves one of its parts; for the one part presses against the other as against something that stays still. About lifeless things that are moved, one might raise the puzzle whether all of them have within themselves both what is at rest and what moves, and whether these too must press against something outside that is at rest, or whether this is impossible — for instance for fire or earth or any other lifeless thing — but rather that they are moved by the first things that move them. For all lifeless things are moved by something else, and the principle of all things that are moved in this way is the things that move themselves. Of such things, what concerns animals has been stated; for all things of this kind must necessarily have within themselves what is at rest, and also something outside against which they will press. But whether there is something higher and moving in the primary sense is unclear, and that is a separate discussion, about a principle of that sort. As for the animals that are moved, all of them move by pressing against what is outside them, even in breathing in and breathing out. For it makes no difference whether one throws off a large weight or a small one — which is exactly what those do who spit, and cough, and breathe in and breathe out.
9| Is it only in the thing that moves itself with respect to place that something must remain still, or also in the thing that is altered by itself and grows? Concerning original coming-to-be and perishing there is another account; for if there is, as we say, a first motion of coming-to-be and perishing, this would be the cause, and perhaps of all the other motions as well. And just as in the universe, so too in the animal this is the first motion, once it has reached completion; so that if growth ever occurs, the animal is itself the cause of it, and likewise of alteration — but if not, this is not necessary. The first instances of growth and alteration come about through something else and by means of other things; but of coming-to-be and perishing, nothing can in any way be its own cause. For what moves must exist before what is moved, and what begets before what is begotten; and nothing is prior to itself.
10| Concerning the soul, then — whether it is moved or not, and if it is moved, how it is moved — this has been discussed earlier, in the treatises that give the definitions concerning it. And since all lifeless things are moved by something else, and it has been determined earlier, in the works on first philosophy, concerning the first thing moved and always moving, in what way it is moved and how the first mover moves it, what remains is to consider how the soul moves the body, and what the principle of the animal's motion is. For among the other things, apart from the motion of the whole, ensouled things are causes of motion — namely, all those that are not moved by one another through colliding with one another. That is also why all their motions have a limit; for so do those of ensouled things as well. For all animals both move and are moved for the sake of something, so that this — the that-for-the-sake-of-which — is, for them, the limit of all their motion. Now we observe that what moves the animal is thought, imagination, choice, wish, and appetite. All of these are reducible to intellect and desire. For imagination and perception occupy the same ground as intellect; for all of them are discriminative, though they differ according to the distinctions stated elsewhere.
11| Wish, spirit, and appetite are all desire, while choice is common to thought and desire; so that what moves first is the object of desire and the object of thought. But not every object of thought — only the end of things that can be done. Hence it is a thing of this sort among goods that moves, and not every fine thing; for it moves in this way because it is for the sake of something else, and it is the end of things that exist for the sake of something else. One must also posit that the apparent good holds the place of the good, and likewise the pleasant; for the pleasant is an apparent good. So it is clear that what is always moved by what always moves and each of the animals are moved in a similar way, yet also in a different way; and this is why some things are always in motion, while the motion of animals has a limit. What is eternal is fine, and what is truly and primarily good, and not at one time so and at another time not, is more divine and more honorable than to have anything prior to it. The first mover, then, moves without being moved, while desire and the faculty of desire move while being moved. The last of the things moved need not move anything. From this it is also clear why, reasonably enough, locomotion is the last of the kinds of motion that occur among moving things—
12| for the animal is moved and travels by desire or choice, once something has been altered in accordance with perception or imagination. But how is it that, in thinking, an animal at one time acts and at another does not act, and is moved at one time and at another is not moved? Something similar seems to happen also with those who reason and form syllogisms about things that are unchanging. But there the end is a piece of theoretical knowledge (for when one has thought the two premises, one has thought and put together the conclusion), whereas here the conclusion that comes from the two premises is the action — as, for instance, when one thinks that every man ought to walk, and one is oneself a man, one walks at once; or if one thinks that no man ought to walk just now, and one is oneself a man, one at once stays still. And one does both of these, provided nothing prevents or compels otherwise. I ought to make something good, and a house is something good; one makes a house at once. I need covering, and a cloak is a covering; I need a cloak. What I need, I ought to make; I need a cloak; I ought to make a cloak. And the conclusion, "I ought to make a cloak," is an action. And one acts from a starting point: if there is to be a cloak, this must first exist of necessity, and if this, then this; and one does this at once. That the action is the conclusion, then, is clear; but the premises that produce action come about through two kinds — through the good and through the possible. And just as some who ask questions do, so too here thought, even while attending to it, gives no consideration at all to the one premise that is obvious—
13| For example, if walking is good for a man because he is himself a man, he does not dwell on this. That is why, whatever we do without reasoning it out, we do quickly. For whenever a thing acts either by perception toward that for the sake of which, or by imagination, or by intellect, on what it desires, it acts at once; for the actuality of desire takes the place of inquiry or thinking. "I must drink," appetite says; "this here is drink," perception or imagination or intellect has said; at once it drinks. In this way, then, animals are set moving toward motion and action, the last cause of being moved being desire, and this desire coming about either through perception or through imagination and thinking. Of those that desire to act, some act through appetite or spirit, others through desire or wish; some make, others do. And just as automatic puppets are moved when a small motion occurs, the cords being released and striking against one another, and the toy cart, which when ridden moves itself in a straight line and again moves in a circle because it has unequal wheels (for the smaller wheel becomes like a center, as happens with cylinders), so too animals move. For they have organs suited to this: the nature of the sinews and of the bones — the bones playing the part of the wood and iron there, the sinews the part of the cords —
14| when these are released and slackened, the animal moves. Now in the automatic puppets and the toy carts there is no alteration, since if the inner wheels became smaller and then larger again, the same thing would still move in a circle; but in the animal the same part can become both larger and smaller and change its shape, as the parts grow through heat and again contract through cooling and are altered. And it is imaginations, perceptions, and conceptions that cause alteration. For perceptions are, straightaway, themselves certain alterations, while imagination and thinking have the power of the actual things; for in a way the form conceived, of the hot or the cold or the pleasant or the frightening, turns out to be just such as each of the actual things is, which is why people shudder and grow afraid from thinking alone. All these are affections and alterations. And as the body is altered, some parts become larger, others smaller. That a small change occurring at the origin produces great and numerous differences further off is not unclear: for instance, when the rudder shifts by a hair's breadth, a great shift results in the prow. Further, when an alteration occurs around the heart owing to heat or cold or some other such affection, even one of magnitude confined to an imperceptible part, it produces a great difference in the body, in blushing and paling, shivering and trembling, and their opposites.
15| The origin of motion, then, as has been said, is the pursued and the avoided within the sphere of action; and heat and cold follow of necessity upon the thinking and imagining of these. For the painful is to be avoided, the pleasant to be pursued, though in small matters this happening escapes notice, and painful and pleasant things are nearly all accompanied by some cooling or heating. This is clear from the affections. For confidence and fears and sexual excitements and the other bodily pains and pleasures are in some cases, in a particular part, accompanied by heat or cold, in others throughout the whole body; and memories and hopes, since they employ images of these same things, are causes of the same effects, at times less, at times more. So it is reasonable that already the internal parts, and those around the origins of the organic parts, are being worked, changing from solid to fluid and from fluid to solid, and soft and hard into one another. Since these things happen in this way, and further since the passive and the active have the nature we have often stated, whenever it comes about that one thing is active and the other passive, and neither of the two falls short of what its account requires, at once the one acts and the other is acted on.
16| For this reason one thinks, so to speak, at the very moment that one must walk, and walks, unless something else impedes it. For the affections prepare the organic parts fittingly, desire prepares the affections, and imagination prepares desire; and imagination comes about either through thinking or through perception. And it happens together and swiftly because the active and the passive are by nature such as to act on one another. The first mover of the animal must be located in some origin. That the joint is an origin of one part and an end of another has been stated. That is why nature uses it in one sense as one thing, in another sense as two. For when motion occurs from this point, one of the extreme points must be at rest and the other in motion; for it has been said earlier that the mover must brace itself against something at rest. Now the extremity of the upper arm is moved and does not move anything further; and of the bend at the elbow, part is moved along with the whole that is in motion, but there must also be something unmoved, which we say is potentially one point but actually becomes two; so that if the animal were the arm, the origin of the soul that moves it would be there.
17| But since it is possible for something lifeless too to stand in a like relation to the hand, for instance if one were to move a stick held in the hand, it is clear that the soul would not be in either of the extremities, neither in the extremity of the thing moved nor in the other origin. For the piece of wood also has both a beginning and an end in relation to the hand. So on this ground, if the moving origin from the soul is not present in the stick, neither is it in the hand; for the tip of the hand stands in the same relation to the wrist, and this part in turn to the elbow. For there is no difference between parts that have grown on and parts that have not, since the stick becomes, as it were, a detachable part. It follows, then, that the origin must be in no point that is the end of another, nor even if there is something still further outward than that — for instance, of the extremity of the stick the origin is in the hand, and of this, in the wrist; and if it is not even in the hand, because the origin lies still higher, then it is not there either. For further, while the elbow remains still, the whole continuous part below it moves.
18| Since the same holds on the left side as on the right, and opposite parts move at the same time, so that it is not the case that the left moves because the right is at rest, nor again that the right moves because the left is at rest, but the origin always lies above both, the origin of the moving soul must be in the middle; for the middle is the extreme point common to both of the extremities. And this holds similarly for motions from above and below — for instance, motions from the head as against motions from the spine, in animals that have a spine. And this comes about reasonably; for we say the faculty of perception is there too, so that, when the region around the origin is altered through perception and changes, the parts connected to it change along with it, being stretched out and drawn together, so that the motion in animals necessarily comes about through these causes. And the middle part of the body is potentially one, but must actually become several; for the limbs move at the same time from the origin, and while one is at rest the other moves. I mean, for instance, on the line ABC, B is moved, and it moves A. But surely something must remain at rest, if one part is to move and another to be moved.
19| So A, being one in potentiality, will be two in actuality, and hence it must be not a point but some magnitude. But it is possible for C to move at the same time as B, so that both principles within A must, in moving, cause motion. There must, then, be something else besides these that causes the motion, and is itself unmoved. For if the extremities and the principles within A moved against one another, they would simply brace against each other, as if some people, bracing their backs against each other, were to move their legs. But that which moves both must be unmoved, and this is the soul, being distinct from that sort of magnitude, though present within it.
20| 10 According to the account that states the cause of motion, desire is the middle term, which, itself being moved, causes motion; and in ensouled bodies there must be some such body. Now that which is moved but is not naturally constituted to cause motion can be acted on in virtue of another's power; but that which causes motion must have some power and strength. And all animals evidently possess connate breath, and are strong by means of it. What the preservation of the connate breath consists in has been stated elsewhere; and this breath appears to stand to the psychic principle in a way similar to the point at the joints, which both moves and is moved, in relation to the unmoved. Since the principle is in the heart for some animals, and in the analogous part for others, this is why the connate breath also appears to be located there. Whether the breath is always the same or is always coming to be different, let that be a separate account (for the same question arises about the other parts too); but it evidently has a good natural fitness to be a source of motion and to supply strength. And the functions of motion are pushing and pulling, so that the instrument must be capable both of expanding and of contracting.
21| Such is the nature of breath: for it contracts without force, and is forceful and capable of pushing for the same reason, and it has both weight relative to fiery things and lightness relative to their opposites. And what is going to cause motion must be of this sort without undergoing alteration; for natural bodies overpower one another in accordance with their degree of excess, the light being overcome downward by the heavier, the heavy upward by the lighter. We have stated, then, by what moved part the soul causes motion, and for what cause. And one must suppose that the animal is constituted like a well-governed city-state. For in a city-state, once order has been established, there is no need of a separate monarch who must be present at each and every thing that happens; rather each person does his own work as it has been assigned, and this happens after that by custom. And in animals this same thing comes about through nature, and because each part, being so constituted, is naturally suited to do its own work, so that there is no need for soul to be present in each part; rather, the principle being in some one part of the body, the rest live by being attached to it, and do their own work through nature.
22| How, then, animals move with voluntary motions, 11 and through what causes, has been stated; but some of the parts move with involuntary motions too, and most with motions that are not voluntary. I mean by involuntary, for example, the motion of the heart and of the genitals (for these often move at the appearance of something, yet not at the command of intellect); and by not voluntary, for example, sleep and waking and breathing, and any other such motions. For none of these is under the sole control of either imagination or desire; rather, since animals are necessarily altered by natural alteration, and as the parts are altered some grow and some diminish, so that motions and changes already occur, these changes being naturally disposed to follow one another. The causes of these motions are states of heat and cold, both those coming from outside and those that are internal and natural. And even the motions of the aforesaid parts that occur contrary to reason come about when an alteration has coincided with them. (For thought and imagination, as has been said before, bring on the things that are productive of these affections; for they bring on the forms of the things that are productive.) These effects are most conspicuously produced in these parts because each of the parts is, as it were, a separate animal in its own right.
23| Now the cause with respect to the heart is clear, for it holds the principles of the senses; and as for the generative part, that it is of this same sort is shown by a sign: for the power of the seed issues from it as though it were itself a kind of animal. And the motions reasonably occur both from the parts to the principle and from the principle to the parts, and in this way they arrive at one another. For one must think of A as the principle. The motions along each of the elements marked in the diagram arrive at the principle, and from the principle, as it moves and changes—since it is many things in potentiality—the principle of B goes to B, that of C to C, and that of both goes to both. And the motion goes from B to C by way of going from B to A, as to a principle, and from A to C, as from a principle. And the reason why sometimes, when the same things are thought, the motion contrary to reason occurs in the parts, and sometimes not, is that sometimes the passive matter is present in a given quantity or quality, and sometimes it is not present in that quantity or quality. Concerning the parts of each of the animals, then, and concerning the soul, and further concerning perception and sleep and memory and motion common to all, we have stated the causes.
24| It remains to speak about generation.
1| ON THE PROGRESSION OF ANIMALS Concerning the parts that are useful to animals for motion 1 from place to place, we must examine for what cause each of them is such as it is, and for the sake of what it belongs to them, and further, concerning the differences these parts have both from one another within the same single animal and from the corresponding parts of animals differing in kind. Let us first take up the points we must examine. One is: with how few points of contact at the minimum do animals move? Next, why do the blooded animals move with four such points and the bloodless ones with more? And, generally, for what cause some animals are footless, some two-footed, some four-footed, and some many-footed; and why all of them have an even number of feet, in every case where they have feet at all, and in general, wherever an animal moves by points of contact, these are even in number. Further, for what cause a human being and a bird are both two-footed, while fish are footless; and why the human being and the bird, though both two-footed, bend their legs in opposite ways (for the human being bends the leg toward the convex side, the bird toward the concave side); and why a human being himself bends his own legs and arms in opposite ways to each other —
2| for he bends the arms toward the concave side, but the knees toward the convex side. And the four-footed live-bearing animals bend their limbs in the opposite way both to human beings and to themselves — for they bend the front legs toward the convex side of the curve, but the hind legs toward the concave side. Further, among the four-footed animals, those that are not live-bearing but egg-laying bend their legs in a peculiar way, sideways.) Beyond these questions, for what cause the four-footed animals move diagonally — concerning all these matters, and whatever others are akin to them, we must study the causes. That these things happen so is plain from the researches on nature; why they happen so we must now examine.
3| 2 The starting point of the inquiry is to lay down, as we are accustomed often to use for the method of natural science, the principles that hold in this way throughout all the works of nature. Of these, one is that nature does nothing in vain, but always, out of what is possible for the substance concerning each kind of animal, does what is best; hence if it is better thus, then it is also so by nature. Further, we must grasp the dimensions of magnitude — how many there are and which belong to which things. For the dimensions are six, forming three pairs: one is the above and the below, a second is the front and the back, and a third is the right and the left. Beyond this, the starting points of motions from place to place are pushing and pulling. These, then, are motions in their own right; but what is carried along by something else moves accidentally — for what is carried along by something else does not seem to move itself, but to be moved by another. 3 Having distinguished these points, let us go on to what follows from them. Of animals that change place, some change with the whole body all at once, as those that leap,
4| while others change by parts, as each of the animals that walk does. In both these kinds of change, what is moved always changes by bracing itself against what underlies it. Hence, if that underlying thing shifts away faster than allows what is producing the motion upon it to get a purchase, or if it offers the moving thing no resistance at all, nothing is able to move itself upon it. For even the leaping animal makes its leap by bracing itself, both upward against itself and downward against what lies beneath its feet — for the parts have a certain mutual resistance to one another at the joints, and, generally, the pressing part has resistance against the part pressed. That is why pentathletes leap farther holding weights than not holding them, and runners run faster swinging their arms — for a certain resistance arises in the tension against the hands and wrists. And what is moved always effects its change using at least two organic parts as instruments, the one as it were pressing, the other pressed. For the part that stays still is pressed because it bears the weight, while the part that is lifted is stretched by the part that carries the load. Hence nothing without parts can be moved in this way — for it does not contain within itself the distinction between the part that will be acted upon and the part that will act.
5| Since the dimensions by which animals are naturally marked off are six in number — the above and below, the front and back, and further the right and the left — all living things have the above and below part. For the above and below is found not only in animals but also in plants. And it is distinguished by function, not merely by position relative to the earth and the heavens. For that from which the distribution of nourishment and growth proceeds for each thing, this is above; that at which this distribution finally ends, this is below. For the one is a kind of starting point, the other an end point; and the starting point is above. And yet it might seem that the below is more proper to plants — for the above and below do not hold in the same way by position for plants as for animals. Relative to the whole, they are not alike, but by function they are alike. For the roots are the above for plants — since it is from there that nourishment is distributed to what is growing, and the plant takes in its nourishment by these, just as animals do by their mouths. And whatever things not only live but are also animals, in such things there belongs both the front and the back.
6| For all these have perception, and it is by this that the back and the front are marked off — for that toward which perception is naturally directed, and the point from which it comes for each of them, this is front, and the parts opposite to these are back. But whatever animals share not only in perception but are also able to produce change of place by themselves through their own agency, in these, besides what has been said, the left and the right too are marked off in the same way as what was said before, each of the two marked off by some function and not by position. For that part of the body from which the starting point of change of place naturally comes, this is right for each of them, and the part opposite to this, which is naturally disposed to follow it, is left. This distinction is more sharply articulated in some animals than in others. For whatever animals produce the said change of place by using organic parts — I mean, for example, feet or wings or some other such part — in these the point stated is more sharply articulated; but whatever animals advance not by such parts but by making divisions with the body itself, as some of the footless animals do, for instance snakes and the family of caterpillars, and besides these what people call earthworms, in these too what has been said holds, yet it is not equally clearly marked out.
7| That the starting point of motion is on the right side is shown also by the fact that everyone carries loads on the left side — for in this way what carries the load is able to move, since what will do the moving is left free. That is why people also hop more easily on the left leg — for the right is naturally disposed to move, the left to be moved; so that the load too must be placed not on the part that will do the moving but on the part that will be moved. And if it is placed on the part that moves and on the starting point of the motion, either the animal will not move at all, or it will move with greater difficulty. A further sign that the starting point of motion, and thrusting forward, come from the right side is this: everyone thrusts the left parts forward, and even when standing still they hold the left parts more forward, unless it happens otherwise by chance. For they do not move by the part that has stepped forward, but by the part that has stepped off; and they defend themselves with the right parts. For this same cause the right side is the same for all — for that from which the starting point of motion comes has, in all of them, the same position by nature; and the right is that from which the starting point of motion is. And for this reason the spiral-shelled testaceans are all right-handed. For they do not move toward the spiral coil, but all advance toward the opposite side, for example purple-shellfish and whelks.
8| Since, then, everything moves starting from the right, and the right parts move in the same direction as themselves, it is necessary that all be alike right. Of all animals, human beings have their left side most set free, because they, more than any other animal, are constituted according to nature; and by nature the right, once separated from the left, is better. That is why in human beings the right parts are right in the fullest sense. And once the right is thus marked off, it is reasonable that the left parts are less mobile, and it is in human beings that they are most set free. The other principles, too, exist in the human being most according to nature and most clearly marked off — namely the upper and the front.
9| 5 Now the animals in which the upper and the front are marked off as distinct, as in human beings and birds, are bipeds. (Of the four points, two are wings in some and hands and arms in others.) Those that have the front in the same place as the upper are four-footed, many-footed, or footless. For I call a foot a part situated at a point that touches the ground and is capable of moving the animal from place to place; indeed feet seem to have gotten their name from the ground. Some have the front and the back in the same place, such as the cephalopods and the spiral-shelled testaceans; these have been discussed earlier elsewhere. Since there are three regions — up, middle, and down — bipeds have their up oriented toward the up of the universe, many-footed and footless animals toward the middle, and plants toward the down. The reason is that plants are immobile, while nourishment is upward for them, and nourishment comes from the earth. Four-footed animals are oriented toward the middle, as are many-footed and footless ones, because they are not upright; bipeds are oriented toward the up because they are upright, and the human being most of all, since it is by nature most fully a biped. It is reasonable, too, that the principles derive from these parts; for a principle is honorable, and the upper is more honorable than the lower, the front than the back, and the right than the left. It is also fine to state the matter the other way around: that because the principles are in these parts, these parts are more honorable than the opposite parts.
10| That the principle of motion is from the right, then, is clear from what has been said. 6 Now since it is necessary, in the case of anything continuous, one part of which moves while the other is at rest — the whole being able to move while one part stands still, and both moving in opposite motions — that there be some common point at which these parts are continuous with one another, and that here too lies the principle of the motion of each of the parts, and likewise of course of their rest; and since, for as many of the stated oppositions as have a motion peculiar to each of the opposite parts, all of these have a common principle, corresponding to the natural union of the parts mentioned — I mean the right and the left, the up and the down, the front and the back — then, in the case of front and back, there is no such distinction concerning what moves itself, because no natural motion toward the back exists for anything, nor does the moving thing have any determination by which it makes a change toward either of these directions; but in the case of right and left, and up and down, such a distinction does exist. That is why, of the animals that progress by using organic parts, those parts are not marked off as distinct by the difference of front and back, but are marked off by the remaining two differences — both of them, but primarily by the one that distinguishes according to right and left — because the latter distinction must exist immediately in animals with two points of movement, while the former exists first in those with four.
11| Since, then, the up and the down, and the right and the left, are bound up with one and the same common principle in relation to themselves (I mean the principle that governs motion), and since, in everything that is going to produce motion from each part properly, it is necessary that this motion be somehow determined and ordered by its distances from the stated principles (both the corresponding and the paired parts among those in these parts), the cause of all the motions mentioned (and this is the common principle in the animal from which comes both the motion of the right and the left, and likewise that of the up and down) must stand in a similar relation for each animal, in proportion to
12| 7 each of the principles in the parts mentioned. It is clear, then, that locomotion belongs either solely or chiefly to those animals that effect their change of place by means of two or four points. So since this holds most of all, roughly speaking, for the blooded animals, it is clear that no blooded animal can move by more than four points, and that if anything is naturally constituted to move by four points only, it must be blooded. What actually happens with animals agrees with what has been said. For none of the blooded animals, when divided into several pieces, can live for any time worth mentioning, so to speak, nor can it share in the locomotion by which it moved while it was continuous and undivided; but some of the bloodless and many-footed animals, when divided, can live a long time in each of their parts, and can move with the very same motion they had before being divided — for example the creatures called centipedes, and
13| other elongated insects. For in all of these the hind part travels along the same path as the front. The reason they can live when divided is that each of them is constituted just as a single continuous thing would be if it were composed of many animals joined together. This is clear from what was said before, because that is the way the matter stands. For the things most fully constituted according to nature are naturally suited to move by two or four points, and likewise this holds for as many of the blooded animals as are footless. For these too move by four points, through which they effect their motion. For using two points, they progress by bendings; for the right and left, front and back, lie side by side in width at each bend — at the part near the head the front point is right and left, and at the part near the tail the hind points are right and left. It seems to move by two points, by the forward point of contact and the rear one. The reason is that it is narrow in width, since here too the right leads, and the response comes on the back side, just as in four-footed animals. The length is the cause of the bendings;
14| for just as tall men walk swaybacked, and when the right shoulder leads forward (for the left hip inclines further backward, and the middle becomes hollow and swaybacked), so too one must think of snakes moving on the ground as swaybacked. A sign that they move in the same way as four-footed animals is that they alternate the hollow and the convex in turn. For whenever the left of the front pair leads again, the hollow occurs again on the opposite side; for the right in turn becomes the inner side. Let the right front point be marked A, the left B, the left hind point C, the right D. Snakes on land move in this way, and among water creatures the eels, conger eels, and morays do too, along with all the others that have a more snake-like shape. Except that some of these water creatures have no fin at all, such as the morays, but make use of the sea just as snakes make use of both the land and the sea (for snakes swim in the same way they move on land); others have only two fins, such as the conger eels, the eels, and a certain kind of mullet that occurs in the lake at Siphae.
15| And for this reason animals accustomed to live on land move with fewer bends in water than on land, as with the eel kind. But mullets, which have two fins, make up for the four points of support by bending, in the water. 8 The cause of snakes' footlessness is, first, that nature does nothing in vain, but in every case looks to what is best among the possibilities available, preserving for each thing its own substance and its essence; and further, what we said earlier, that none of the blooded animals can move with more than four points. From this it is clear that none of the blooded animals whose length is disproportionate to the rest of their bodily nature, as with snakes, can have feet. For they cannot have more than four feet (since then they would be bloodless), while if they had two feet or four they would be virtually unable to move at all; the motion would necessarily be so slow and useless.
16| Every footed animal necessarily has an even number of feet. For those that effect their change of place only by leaping have no need of feet at all for that kind of motion; but those that do use leaping, yet for which this motion is not by itself sufficient but which also need walking, clearly for some walking is the better way, while for others it is altogether impossible otherwise. For since this kind of change of place occurs part by part, and not with the whole body at once as in leaping, it is necessary that while some feet are moving, others remain still, and that the opposite feet do each of these in turn, the weight shifting from the feet that are moving to those that remain still. That is why nothing can walk using three feet, nor using one; for with one foot there is no support at all on which the body's weight can rest, while with three there is support only on one side of the opposition, so that anything attempting to move that way must necessarily fall. But animals with many feet, such as centipedes, can even walk with an odd number of feet, as is actually seen happening now, if one maims one of their feet, because the loss of the paired foot is made good by the remaining number of feet on each side; for in these animals the maimed part is, as it were, dragged along by the others. Nevertheless it is clear that even these animals would carry out the change of place better if they had an even number of feet, with none missing, but had their feet matched in pairs; for in this way they would be able to balance their own weight and not tip more to one side than the other, provided they had matching points of support and the corresponding place on the other side were not left empty. And in walking it advances from each of the two sides alternately; for in this way its posture returns to the same shape it had at the start.
17| 9 It has been stated, then, that all footed animals have an even number of feet, and for what cause. That, if nothing were at rest, there would be neither bending nor straightening, is clear from the following. Bending is a change from straight to either curved or angled, and straightening is a change from either of these to straight. And in all the changes mentioned, the bending or straightening must occur with reference to one fixed point. But indeed, if there were no bending, there would be neither walking nor swimming nor flying. For footed animals, since they stand in turn on each of the two opposite legs and take the weight on it, it is necessary that, while one advances, the other bends. For the paired limbs are naturally equal in length, and the one supporting the weight must be upright, like a perpendicular to the ground. But when it advances, there arises the hypotenuse, whose square is equal to the fixed length together with the interval between. And since the limbs are equal, the one at rest must bend, either at the knee or at whatever joint of flexion it has, as would be the case even if some walking animal had no knee. A sign that this is so: if someone were to walk on the ground alongside a wall, the line traced would not be
18| straight but wavy, because the traced line becomes lower while the leg is bending, and higher while it is planted and the body is raised. It is possible, however, to move even without the leg having a bend, as infants crawl. And there was an old story of this kind told about elephants, which is not true. Such creatures too move by a bending that occurs at the shoulder blades or the hips. But nothing could walk upright continuously and securely without a bending joint; it could move only in the way that, in the wrestling schools, those who advance through the dust on their knees do; for the upper part of the body is large, so the limb must be long, and if so, bending is necessary. For since it stands upright, if the part moving forward were to remain unbent, then either it will fall as the upright angle becomes smaller, or it will not advance at all. For if, while one leg remains upright, the other is to have advanced, that leg would have to be longer while still being equal in length; for it would have to equal both the leg at rest and the hypotenuse together. The advancing limb, then, must necessarily bend, and having bent, must at the same time straighten the other, and lean to the side, and stand astride, and remain along the perpendicular; for the limbs form an isosceles triangle, and the head is lower whenever the perpendicular falls on the leg on which it stands.
19| Footless animals advance in some cases by a wave-like motion (this happens in two ways: some make their bends along the ground, as snakes do, others upward, as caterpillars do), and this waving is a form of bending; others use a looping motion, as with the creatures called earthworms and leeches. For these advance with the leading part, and draw the whole of the rest of the body up to it, and in this way change from place to place. It is clear that if the two lengths were not greater than the one, wave-moving animals could not move at all. For when the bend is straightened out, if it then occupied an equal length as before, they would not advance at all; but as it is, once straightened it extends beyond that length, and once this part comes to rest, it draws the rest of the body after it. In all the changes described, the moving creature advances at one time by stretching out straight, at another by bending together, becoming straight in its leading parts and bent in the parts that follow. All jumping creatures, too, make their bend in the underlying part of the body, and it is in this posture that they leap. And flying and swimming animals likewise: some fly by straightening and bending their wings, others swim with fins, and of these some use four fins, others two — namely those of more elongated shape, such as the eel kind;
20| and for the rest of their motion, in place of the two fins they lack, they swim by bending the rest of the body, as has been said before. Flat fish use the breadth of their body in place of some fins, and for the rest use two fins. Those that are altogether flat, such as the ray, swim by straightening and bending the fins themselves together with the outer curves of the body. 10 One might perhaps raise the difficulty how birds move with four points, whether flying or walking, on the supposition that it was said that all blooded animals move with four. But that is not what was said — rather, that they move with no more than four. Nevertheless, they could neither fly if their legs were taken away, nor walk if their wings were... (text breaks off here)
21| removed — since not even a man can walk without moving his shoulders somewhat. But all of them, as has been said, produce their change of place by bending and extending; for all of them advance to some extent into what lies beneath them, as into something yielding, so that it is necessary, even if the bending does not also occur at some other part, that at least the starting-point be there: for the whole-winged insects, of the wing; for birds, of the wing; for others, of the analogous part, as with fish. For others, like snakes, the starting-point of the bending is in the bendings of the body. The rump serves flying creatures for steering their flight straight, just as rudders serve ships. And this too must necessarily bend at its point of attachment. That is why the whole-winged insects, and among the split-winged those whose rump is ill-suited for the use just described — as with peacocks and cocks, and in general the birds that are not strong flyers — do not fly in a straight course; for none of the whole-winged insects has a rump at all, so that each is carried along like a rudderless ship, and each of them comes down wherever it happens to; and likewise the sheath-winged insects, such as dung-beetles and cockchafers, and the uncased-winged, such as bees and wasps.
22| And for those that are not strong flyers the rump is useless too, as with purple coots and herons and all the swimming birds; instead, they fly by stretching out their feet, and use their legs in place of a rump for steering their flight straight. The flight of the whole-winged insects is slow and weak, because the nature of their wings is not proportioned to the weight of the body, but the body is large while the wings are small and weak. So it is just as if a merchant freighter should try to make its voyage by oars — that is how these creatures manage their flight. And the weakness both of the wings themselves and of their point of growth contributes something to what has been said. Among birds, the peacock's rump is at one time useless because of its size, and at another does no good because the bird sheds it. Birds have the nature of their wings opposite to that of the whole-winged insects, and this is most true of those birds that fly fastest. Such are the crook-taloned birds; for these, speed of flight is useful for their way of life. And the rest of their bodily parts seem to be consistent with this, suited to swift motion: in all of them the head is small and the neck not thick, while the breast is strong and sharp — sharp so as to be well set for cutting through, like the prow of a light boat, and strong in the nature of its flesh, so that it can push away the air that strikes against it;
23| and it does this easily and without effort; while the hind parts are light and narrow again to a point, so that they may follow after the front parts without dragging the air because of their breadth. 11 Let this, then, be our determination of these matters. As for why an animal that is going to walk upright must necessarily be two-footed, and must have the upper parts of its body lighter and the parts standing beneath them heavier, this is clear: for only if constituted in this way could it easily carry itself. That is why man, being the only animal that stands upright, has legs proportionate to the upper part of the body — the largest and strongest among footed animals. What happens with small children makes this clear too: for they cannot walk upright, because they are all dwarf-like, and have the upper parts of the body larger and stronger than is proportionate to the parts below.
24| But as the age advances the lower parts grow more, until they attain their proper size, and then their bodies achieve upright walking. Birds, being light, are two-footed because their weight lies toward the back, just as craftsmen make bronze horses that have their forelegs raised. The chief cause of their being able to stand while two-footed is that they have a hip-bone like a thigh, and so large that they seem to have two thighs — the one in the leg before the joint, and the other running from the seat toward that part; but it is not a thigh, it is a hip-bone. For if it were not so large, a bird could not be two-footed. For as with men and four-footed animals, if the hip-bone were short, the thigh and the rest of the leg would begin right from it; and then the whole body would be far too far forward, tipping. As it is, being long, it extends as far as under the middle of the belly, so that from that point the legs, planted firmly beneath, carry the whole body. From this it is also clear that a bird cannot be upright as a man is. For the nature of their wings is useful to them as their body is now constituted, but if they were upright it would be useless — like the way painters paint the Loves as having wings. For together with what has been said it is clear that neither a man, nor anything else of that shape, could possibly be winged — not only because, being blooded, it would then move by more than four points, but because the possession of wings would be useless to them while moving according to their nature; and nature does nothing contrary to nature.
25| That, then, if there were no bending in the legs or in the 12 shoulder-blades and hip-bones, none of the blooded and footed animals could move forward, has been stated earlier; and that there could be no bending if nothing remained at rest; and that men, though both two-footed, and birds bend their legs oppositely to one another, and further that the four-footed animals bend theirs oppositely both to themselves and to men. For men bend their arms toward the hollow side, but their legs toward the convex side, while the four-footed animals bend their front legs toward the convex side, and their hind legs toward the hollow side; and birds likewise. The cause is that nature makes nothing in vain, as has been said before, but does everything for the best among the possibilities. So, since for all those to whom change of place by means of the two legs belongs by nature, when each stands still the weight is in both legs, but when moving forward the foot that leads in position must be light, while as the advance continues it must in turn take up the weight again, it is clear that the leg must necessarily become straight again after having been bent, while the point at the foot that was thrust forward, and the shin, remain fixed.
26| And this can happen at the same time as the animal moves forward if the leading leg has its bend toward the front, but it is impossible if the bend is toward the back. For in the one case the extension of the leg will occur as the body is carried forward, but in the other, as the body is carried back. Further, if the bend were toward the back, the placing of the foot would come about through two motions opposite to each other, the one toward the back and the other toward the front; for in the bending of the leg it would be necessary for the end of the thigh to move forward toward the back, while the shin, from the bend, moves the foot toward the front — toward the front
27| ...and since the bend is where it is, the progression we have described will not occur through movements that are opposite to one another while both are directed toward the same forward motion. Now man, being two-footed and making his change of place with his legs in accordance with nature for the reason stated, bends his legs forward, and his arms toward the concave side, reasonably so; for they would be useless if bent the opposite way, both for the use of the hands and for taking food. As for the four-footed and live-bearing animals, their front legs — since these lead their progression and are in the front part of the body — must bend toward the convex side for the same reason as in humans; for in this respect they are alike. That is why four-footed animals too bend forward in the manner described. For if their bend occurs this way, they will be able to raise their feet well clear of the ground; but if they bent the opposite way, they would raise them only a little off the ground, because as the animal advances the whole thigh, and the bend from which the shin grows, would come to be under the belly. As for the hind legs, if the bend were forward, the raising of the feet would be the same for them as for the front ones (for it would likewise be only slight, given the raising of the legs, since both the thigh and the bend would fall under the region of the belly); but if it is backward, as indeed they now bend, nothing hinders their progression in such a movement of the feet. Further, for those of them that suckle their young, it is necessary, or at least better, that the legs be bent this way for that function too; for it is not easy, if the bend is made inward beneath themselves, to hold and shelter their young.
29| 13 There being four ways of bending at the joints (for it is necessary to bend either toward the concave side both in front and behind, as in the cases marked A, or the opposite way, toward the convex side, as in the cases marked B, or in reverse, not in the same direction, but the front toward the convex side and the hind toward the concave, as in the case marked Γ, or the opposite of these, the convex sides toward each other and the concave sides outward, as is the case with what is marked ∠) — in the way of A or of B, nothing bends, neither among the two-footed nor among the four-footed; in the way of Γ, the four-footed animals bend; but in the way of ∠, none of the four-footed animals bends except the elephant, but man bends both his arms and his legs: for he bends the arms toward the concave side, and the legs toward the convex side. And in humans the limbs always have their bends alternating in opposite directions: for instance the elbow toward the concave side, but the wrist toward the convex side, and again the shoulder toward the convex side; and likewise with the legs, the thigh toward the concave side, the knee toward the convex side, but the foot, on the contrary, toward the concave side. And it is plain that the lower limbs stand opposite to the upper ones as well; for the starting point is opposite in each: the shoulder toward the convex side, the thigh toward the concave side; and that is why the foot is toward the concave side, while the wrist of the hand is toward the convex side.
30| The bends of the legs, then, occur in this way and for the reasons stated. The hind legs move relative to the front legs along the diagonal: for after the right front leg, they move the left hind leg, then the left front leg, and after this the right hind leg. The reason is that if the front legs moved together and first, the gait would be pulled apart, or would become pitched forward, and with the hind legs, as it were, dragged along behind. Moreover, such a thing is not walking but leaping; and it is difficult to keep making the change continuously by leaping. Here is a sign of this: even now, among horses, those that move in this manner soon give out — for example those used in processions. So it is for these reasons that they do not move the front and hind legs separately in this way. And if both right legs moved first, the animals would fall outside their points of support and would fall over. If, then, it is necessary to move either in one of these ways or along the diagonal, and neither of the other ways is possible, it is necessary to move along the diagonal;
31| for when moving as described, neither of these mishaps can befall them. And this is why horses and animals of that kind, when they come to a stop after advancing, stand with their legs positioned diagonally, and not with both right legs or both left legs together. In the same way, too, all animals that have more than four feet make their movement; for always, among each four feet taken in sequence, the hind pair moves relative to the front pair along the diagonal — this is clear in animals that move slowly. Crabs also move in this same way, for they belong to the many-footed animals; for they too always move along the diagonal, in whatever direction they make their progress. For this animal makes its motion in a peculiar way: it is the only animal that does not move forward, but sideways. But since the front is marked out by the eyes, nature has made the eyes able to follow the limbs; for the crabs' limbs move sideways for them, so that in a certain way the crabs too move forward on this account.
32| 15 Birds bend their legs just as the four-footed animals do. For their nature is, in a certain way, similar: for birds, the wings serve in place of the front legs. That is why they are bent in the same way as the front legs are bent in those animals, since for birds the natural starting point of the change involved in walking comes from the wings; for flight is their proper motion. That is why, if the wings are removed, no bird would be able either to stand or to go forward. Further, since a bird is two-footed and not upright, and has the front parts of its body lighter, it is either necessary or better, for the sake of being able to stand, that the thigh be positioned underlying the body in the way it now is — I mean, growing toward the back. But indeed, if it must be positioned this way, the bend of the leg must necessarily occur toward the concave side, just as with four-footed animals in the case of the hind legs, for the same reason we stated in the case of the four-footed and live-bearing animals. In general, both birds and the fully-winged among flying creatures, and the swimming creatures in water — those of them that make their progress through the water by means of organs — it is not hard to see that it is better for the attachment of the aforementioned parts to be from the side, just as indeed it now appears to be the case for them, both in birds and in the fully-winged creatures.
33| The same holds also for fish: for birds have wings, water-creatures have fins. For in this way, contracting and expanding most quickly and most forcefully, one group would produce its motion against the air, the other against the water; for the front and hind parts of the body would follow along, being carried as the medium yields, one in the water, the other in the air. As for the burrowing creatures among the four-footed and egg-laying animals, such as crocodiles, lizards, geckos, freshwater turtles, and tortoises, all of them have their legs attached from the side and stretched out flat on the ground, and they bend them sideways, because this arrangement is useful for ease in burrowing and for sitting on and guarding their eggs. Since their legs are positioned outward, they must draw their thighs in and place them beneath themselves in order to raise the whole body. And when this happens, it is not possible for them to bend their legs in any way other than outward.
34| 16 We have already said that the bloodless footed animals are many-footed and that none of them is four-footed. But why it was necessary for their legs — except for the outermost ones — to be attached from the side, to have their bends turned upward, and to be somewhat bowed backward, is now clear. For in all such animals the middle legs must be both leading and following. If, then, they were set directly under the body, they would have to bend both forward and backward — forward because they lead, backward because they follow. But since both must happen to them at once, for this reason they are bowed and have their bends turned to the side, except for the outermost legs. These outermost legs are bent more in the natural way, some as following legs, others as leading ones. Further, they are bent this way also because of the multitude of their legs; for bent in this manner the legs would be less of a hindrance to one another in walking and would knock together less. Their bowleggedness comes from the fact that all, or most, of them are burrow-dwellers; for animals that live this way cannot stand high off the ground. Crabs, among the many-footed animals, are constituted the most unusually of all: they do not make their progression forward except in the way said before, and they alone among animals have many leading legs. The cause of this is the hardness of their feet, and the fact that they do not use them for the sake of swimming
35| but for walking; for they spend their lives going about on foot. In all many-footed animals, then, the bends are to the side, just as in those four-footed animals that are burrow-dwellers. Such are lizards, for example, and crocodiles, and most egg-laying animals. The cause is that some of them burrow only for breeding, while others do so for their whole life. But while in the others the limbs 17 are bowed because they are soft, in the case of crayfish, since they are hard-skinned, the feet are for swimming and not for the sake of walking. In crabs the bend is to the side, but they are not bowed the way the egg-laying four-footed animals are, or the bloodless many-footed ones, because their limbs are hard-skinned and shell-like, since it is not a swimmer but a burrow-dweller; for its life is spent close to the ground. It is also round in shape, and has no tail-flap as the crayfish has; for the tail-flap is useful to crayfish for swimming, but the crab is not a swimmer. And the crab alone has its side like its back, because it has many leading legs. The cause of this is that it does not bend forward and is not bowed. The cause of its not being bowed has been stated already: the hardness and shell-like character of its skin. For these reasons, then, it must go forward with all its legs leading, and to the side: to the side, because the bend is to the side; with all its legs, because resting feet would get in the way of the moving ones. Flatfish-like fish swim the way one-eyed people walk;
36| for their nature is twisted. Web-footed birds swim with their feet: they are two-footed because they take in air and breathe, but web-footed because their life is spent in water. For feet of this kind serve them in place of fins. They have their legs not in the middle, as other birds do, but further back; for since they are short-legged, having the legs set back is useful for swimming. Such birds are short-legged because nature has taken from the length of the legs and added it to the feet, and in place of length has given the legs thickness and the feet breadth. For feet that are broad rather than long are more useful for forcing back the water when they swim. 18 It is also reasonable that winged animals have feet while fish are footless. For the life of the former is on dry land, and it is impossible to remain always aloft, so they must have feet; but the life of fish is in water, and they take in water, not air. Fins, then, are useful for swimming, but feet would be useless. And if they had both, they would have to be bloodless. Birds are, in a way, in a similar condition to fish. For while fish have two fins on the prone (upper) side; and in birds the feet are on the supine part, while in fish, in most cases, there are fins both on the supine part and near the prone part; and the one kind has a tail-flap, the other a tail-fin.
37| 19 Concerning the shell-covered animals one might raise the difficulty of what their motion is, and, if they do not have a right and a left, where their motion comes from; yet they are observed to move. Or rather, this whole class must be regarded as maimed, and as moving the way a footed animal would move if someone cut off its legs — as the seal and the bat move. For these too are four-footed animals, but badly so. The shell-covered animals do move, but they move contrary to their nature. For they are not naturally capable of progression: as compared with stationary, rooted things they can move, but as compared with animals capable of walking, they are stationary. Crabs too have a poor right side, though they do have one. The claw shows this: the right claw is larger and stronger, as though nature wanted the left and the right to be distinguished. This, then, is how matters stand concerning the parts — both the other parts of animals and those concerned with their progression — and concerning every change of place. Now that these matters have been determined, the next thing is to examine the soul.
1| Since we have spoken of the other parts found in animals, both in common and, for each kind, separately about what is peculiar to it — in what way each part exists on account of such-and-such a cause, I mean the cause that is for the sake of something (for four causes are laid down: that for the sake of which, as an end, and the account of the substance — these two we should take as practically one — and, as a third and fourth, the matter and that from which the principle of motion comes). Now concerning the others we have spoken (for the account and that for the sake of which as end are the same, and matter, for animals, is the parts: for the whole animal, the non-uniform parts; for the non-uniform parts, the uniform parts; and for these, what are called the elements of bodies). What remains is, of the parts, those that contribute to the generation of animals, about which nothing has been determined before, and, concerning the moving cause, what this is. To examine this and to examine the generation of each animal are, in a certain way, the same inquiry. That is why our discussion has brought them together into one, setting the former as the last topic among those concerning the parts, and the latter, the origin of generation, as following directly upon it.
2| Now of animals, some come to be from the coupling of female and male, in all the kinds of animals in which female and male exist. For it does not exist in all: among the blooded animals, with few exceptions, each one, once fully developed, is either male or female; but among the bloodless animals, some have both female and male, so that they generate offspring of the same kind, while others generate, but not offspring of the same kind — such are all those that come to be not from animals coupling, but from decaying earth and residues. To speak generally of the whole class: of animals capable of moving from place to place, some swimming, some flying, some walking with their bodies, in some of these the whole kind possesses both female and male, not only among the blooded animals but also among some of the bloodless ones. And among these, in some the distinction holds for the whole kind, as with the cephalopods and the crustaceans; among the kind of insects, it holds for most of them. Of these same animals, whichever come to be from the coupling of animals of the same kind also themselves generate offspring of that same kind.
3| But whichever do not come to be from animals but from decaying matter, these generate offspring, but of a different kind, and what is generated is neither female nor male. Such are some of the insects. And this happens reasonably: for if the animals that do not come to be from animals were themselves, once produced, to generate by coupling — if the offspring were of the same kind as themselves, then the generation of their begetters, right from the start, would have had to be of that same kind. And this we reasonably require, for it evidently turns out this way with the other animals. But if the offspring were unlike their parents, yet capable of coupling, then again from these a further different nature would come to be, and again another from these, and this process would go on to infinity. But nature avoids the infinite, for the infinite is incomplete, while nature always seeks an end. As for animals that are not capable of locomotion, such as the testaceans among animals, and those that live by being attached to something — because their substance is close to that of plants — just as in plants, so in these too there is no female and male strictly speaking, but the terms are already used by way of resemblance and by analogy, for they have some small difference of this sort. Indeed, even among plants there exist fruit-bearing trees of the same kind, while others do not themselves bear fruit but contribute to the ripening of those that do, as happens with the fig and the wild fig.
4| The same holds also in the case of plants: some come to be from seed, others as though nature were acting spontaneously. For they come to be either from decaying earth or from certain parts within plants. For some do not form themselves independently on their own, but arise within other trees, as does the mistletoe. Concerning plants, then, they must be examined separately, on their own; but concerning the generation of the other animals we must speak according to the argument that applies in each case, drawing our threads together from what has been said. For as we said, one would rightly set down as the principles of generation, above all, the female and the male — the male as having the principle of motion and of generation, the female as having it in the manner of matter. And one might be most persuaded of this by observing how the seed comes to be, and from where: for it is from this that things that come to be by nature are constituted, and how this comes about from the female and the male must not go unnoticed. For it is because such a part is secreted off from the female and the male, and the secretion exists in these and comes from these, that the female and the male are principles of generation. For we call an animal male if it generates in another, and female if it generates in itself; that is also why people think of the nature of the earth, taken as a whole, as female and a mother, while they address the sky and the sun, or some other such thing, as begetters and fathers.
5| The male and the female differ, in respect of their account, in that each is capable of a different thing, but in respect of perception, by certain parts: in respect of the account, in that the male is that which is capable of generating in another, as was said before, while the female is that which generates in itself, and that from which what is generated comes to be, existing within the begetter. And since it has been distinguished by a capacity and a certain function, and every function requires organs for its performance, and the organs for the capacities are the parts of the body, it is necessary that there also be parts for begetting and for coupling, and that these differ from one another, insofar as the male differs from the female. For even though the female and the male are spoken of with reference to the animal as a whole, still, the female's are the wombs, while the male's are the parts around the testicles and the perineum, in all the blooded animals — for some of them have testicles, others such passages in their place. There are differences between female and male also among the bloodless animals, in all those of them that have this opposition. Among the blooded animals, the parts concerned with mating differ in their shapes. And one must understand that when a small principle is shifted, many of the things that come after that principle tend to change along with it.
6| This is clear in the case of castrated animals: when only the generative part is destroyed, almost the whole form changes along with it, to the point that the animal comes close to seeming female, showing that the animal's being female or male does not depend on some chance part or some chance capacity. It is clear, then, that the female and the male evidently constitute a kind of principle: at any rate, many things change together when the animals change in respect of being female and male, as though a principle were shifting.
7| The parts concerning the testicles and the uteri are not alike in all blooded animals, and first let us take the parts concerning the testicles in males. Some of these animals have no testicles at all, such as the class of fishes and that of serpents, but only two seminal passages; others have testicles, but have them inside, near the loin, in the region of the kidneys, and from each of these a passage, as in those not having testicles, the two joining into one, just as in those others too, for example all birds and the egg-laying quadrupeds among those that take in air and have lungs. For all of these too have the testicles inside, near the loin, and two passages from them, similarly to serpents, for example lizards and tortoises and all the scaly animals. But the live-bearing animals all have the testicles in front, though some of them have them inside near the end of the belly, as the dolphin, and not passages but a genital organ leading from these to the outside, as in oxen; and of those that have them outside, some have them hanging free, as man, others close to the seat, as pigs.
8| These matters have been determined more precisely in the Researches on Animals. All uteri are two-parted, just as the testicles too are two in all males; some animals have these near the joints, as women and all live-bearing animals do, not only externally but also within themselves, and those fish that lay eggs visibly; others have them near the diaphragm, as all birds do and the live-bearing fish. The crustaceans also have forked uteri, and so do the soft-bodied animals; for what are called their eggs have surrounding membranes that serve as uteri. This is most indeterminate in the case of the octopuses, so that the uterus seems to be single; the cause of this is that the mass of the body is alike in every direction. The uteri of insects too are forked in those that have some size; in the smaller ones they are unclear because of the smallness of the body.
9| So the parts mentioned belong to animals in this way. But concerning the difference in the seminal organs among males, if one intends to examine the causes on account of which they exist, one must first grasp for the sake of what the constitution of the testicles exists. If indeed nature does everything either because of necessity or for the sake of the better, this part too would exist because of one or the other of these. That it is not necessary for generation is clear; for it would then belong to all things that generate, but as it is neither serpents nor fish have testicles, since they are observed copulating and having their passages full of milt. It remains, then, that they exist for the sake of something better. Now for most animals there is scarcely any function other than, as with plants, seed and fruit. Just as, in matters concerning nutrition, those with straight intestines are more voracious in their desire for food, so too those not having testicles but only passages, or having testicles but having them inside, are all quicker toward the activity of copulation. But those that need to be more temperate, just as in the case of nutrition they are not straight-gutted, so here too have passages that are coiled, so that the desire may be neither greedy nor quick.
10| The testicles are contrived for this purpose: they make the motion of the seminal residue more settled, in the live-bearing animals, such as horses and other such animals, and in humans, by preserving the doubling-back of the passage. The manner in which this doubling-back is arranged must be studied from the Researches on Animals. For the testicles are no part of the passages, but are attached to them, just as women weaving attach the loom-weights to the warp-threads; for when the testicles are removed, the passages are drawn up inside, so that castrated animals cannot generate, since if the passages were not drawn up they would be able to; and indeed a certain bull, immediately after castration, having mounted, impregnated the cow, because the passages had not yet been drawn up. In birds and the egg-laying quadrupeds the passages receive the seminal residue, so that its exit is slower than in fish. This is clear in the case of birds; for around the mating season they have much larger testicles, and as many birds as mate at one particular season, when that time has passed, have them so small as to be nearly invisible, but around the mating season very large. Those having the testicles inside, then, mate more quickly; for even those having them outside do not release the seed before drawing the testicles up.
11| Further, the organ for copulation the quadrupeds have, for it is possible for them to have it; but for birds and for the footless animals it is not possible, because in the one case the legs are set beneath the middle of the belly, in the other case they are altogether without legs, and the nature of the genital organ depends on this and is positioned there by its situation. This is why, also, in intercourse the legs become tensed; for the organ is sinewy, and the nature of the legs is sinewy. So since it is not possible for these animals to have this organ, it is necessary that they either not have testicles, or not have them there; for in those that do have the organ, the position of both is the same. Further, in those having the testicles outside, through the motion the genital organ becomes heated and the seed that has been collected comes forward, but not as though it were ready at once upon contact, as with fish. All the live-bearing animals have the testicles in front, outside, except the hedgehog; this alone has them near the loin, for the same cause as birds do. For their copulation must necessarily be quick, since they do not mount, as the quadrupeds do, upon animals lying prone, but mate standing upright because of their spines. So it has been stated for what cause those having testicles have them, and for what cause some have them outside and others inside.
12| Those animals that do not have testicles, as has been said, lack this part both because it serves not the better but only the necessary, and because it is necessary that their mating occur quickly; and such is the nature of fish and of serpents. For fish mate by coming alongside one another and separate quickly. For just as in the case of humans and all such animals it is necessary to hold the breath and so release the seed, this does not happen to fish, since they do not shut out the sea; and they would easily perish if they failed to do this. They must not, therefore, concoct the seed during copulation, as the land-dwelling live-bearing animals do, but have the seed already concocted by the season, in a mass, so that they do not produce it in the act of touching one another, but emit it already concocted. This is why they do not have testicles, but straight and simple passages, like the small part that belongs to quadrupeds around the testicles. For of the doubling-back of the passage, one part is blooded and one bloodless, which receives the seed and through which, being now seed, it travels, so that when the semen arrives there, its release is quick for these animals too. But in fish the passage throughout is of the kind that in humans and such animals corresponds to the other part of the doubling-back.
13| Snakes mate by coiling around one another; they have neither testicles nor a penis, as has been said before — no penis because they have no legs, no testicles because of their length — but ducts instead, as fish do. For because their nature is elongated, if there were still a delay at the testicles, the semen would be chilled on account of the slowness. This is exactly what happens also in animals that have a large penis: they are less fertile than those of moderate size, because cold semen is not fertile, and what travels too great a distance is chilled. So the cause why some animals have testicles and some do not has been stated. Snakes wind around one another because they are ill-suited for close contact; being extremely long, they can fit together by only a small part, and so are not easy to join. Since, then, they have no parts by which they can grip one another, in place of these they make use of the moistness of their body, coiling around one another. This is also why they seem to separate more slowly than fish, not only because of the length of their ducts but also because of the elaborate maneuvering involved in this.
14| Concerning the females, one might raise a puzzle about how matters stand with their wombs; for many contrary conditions hold among them. For not even the live-bearing animals are all alike: humans and all the land animals have the womb below, near the joints, while the live-bearing cartilaginous fish have it above, near the diaphragm. Nor are the egg-laying animals alike either: fish have it below, like man and the live-bearing quadrupeds, while birds have it above, and so do the egg-laying quadrupeds. Nevertheless these contrary conditions too hold by reason. For first, the egg-laying animals lay eggs in different ways. Some produce incomplete eggs, for example fish; for the eggs of fish are completed and grow outside the body. The cause is that these are prolific breeders, and this is their function, just as it is of plants. If then they completed the eggs within themselves, they would necessarily be few in number; but as it is they hold so many that each of the two wombs seems, at least in the small little fish, to be a single egg. For these are the most prolific of all, just as also among the other things whose nature is analogous to these, both in plants and in animals; for in these the growth in size is diverted into seed.
15| Birds and the quadrupeds among the egg-laying animals produce complete eggs, which for their preservation must be hard-shelled; for they are soft-shelled as long as they are still growing. The shell comes about through heat drawing the moisture out of the earthy matter. The place in which this happens must therefore be hot. Such is the region around the diaphragm; for it is this that concocts the nourishment. If then, the eggs must be in the womb, and the womb must be near the diaphragm for those that lay complete eggs, but below for those that lay incomplete eggs — for in this way it will be further along on its way — then the womb is by nature disposed to be below rather than above, wherever no other function of nature stands in the way; for its end lies below as well; and where the end is, there is the function; and the womb itself belongs where its function is. The live-bearing animals also differ from one another. For some bear their young live not only outside but also inside themselves, for example humans and horses and dogs and all animals that have hair, and among the water-dwellers, dolphins and whales and such cetaceans.
16| Cartilaginous fish and vipers bear their young live outside, but inside themselves they first lay eggs. They lay a complete egg; for it is in this way that the animal is generated from the egg, and from an incomplete egg nothing is generated. They do not lay eggs outside because their nature is cold, and not, as some say, hot.
17| At any rate they produce soft-shelled eggs; for because they have little heat, their nature does not dry out the outer surface of the eggs. So because they are cold they produce soft-shelled eggs, and because the eggs are soft-shelled they do not lay them outside; for they would be destroyed. But when the animal comes to be from the egg, in most cases it happens in the same way as in birds: it moves down, and the young come to be near the joints, just as also in those that are live-bearing from the start. This is why such animals have a womb unlike that of either the live-bearers or the egg-layers, because it partakes of both forms; for all the cartilaginous fish have wombs both near the diaphragm and extending down below. One must have observed, both concerning this womb and concerning the others, how they stand, from dissections and from the natural histories. So then, because they are egg-layers of complete eggs they have it above, and because they bear their young live they have it below, and they partake of both. But those that bear their young live from the start all have it below; for no function of nature stands in the way, nor do they produce offspring twice over, and besides this it is impossible for animals to come to be near the diaphragm; for the embryos must have weight and motion, and the region, being a critical one for life, could not bear these.
18| Further, difficult labor is bound to occur because of the length of the passage, since even now in the case of women, if around the time of birth they stretch upward by yawning or doing something of that sort, they have difficult labor. And empty wombs, when they rise up and press against the upper parts, cause suffocation; for it is necessary that those wombs which are going to hold an animal be stronger, which is why all such wombs are fleshy, while those near the diaphragm are membranous. And this is evidently what happens even in the very animals that produce offspring in two ways: for they hold their eggs above and to the side, but their live young in the lower part of the womb. So the cause why some animals have contrary arrangements as regards their wombs, and in general why some have them below and others near the diaphragm, has been stated.
19| As to why all animals have their wombs internal, but their testicles in some cases external and in some internal, the cause of the womb being internal in all is that in it is what is being generated, which needs guarding and shelter and concoction, whereas the region outside the body is easily harmed and cold. The testicles are internal in some, external in others, because these too need shelter and covering both for their preservation and for the concoction of the semen; for it is impossible, when they are chilled and congealed, to draw up and emit the seed. This is why all those whose testicles are exposed have a covering of skin called the scrotum. But those whose skin's nature is opposed to this, through hardness, so that it cannot enclose them and be soft and skin-like — for example those that have fish-like skin and those that have scaly skin — these necessarily have them internal. This is why dolphins and all the cetaceans that have testicles have them internal, and so do the egg-laying and scaly quadrupeds. And the skin of birds too is hard, so that it is out of proportion in size for enclosing them, and this is a cause common to all these, in addition to those stated earlier, arising from the necessities connected with mating.
20| For the same cause both the elephant and the hedgehog have their testicles internal; for in these too the skin is not well suited to have a separable covering part. The wombs also lie in opposite positions: between those that bear young live inside themselves and those that lay eggs outside, and among these, between those that have the womb below and those that have it near the diaphragm, as fish do compared with birds and the egg-laying quadrupeds, and also in those that generate by both methods, laying eggs inside themselves but bearing young live in the open. For the live-bearing animals have their wombs both inside and outside on the belly, for example man and ox and dog and other such animals; for it is advantageous for the preservation and growth of the embryos that no weight lie upon the wombs.
21| There is also a different passage, through which the dry residue exits, and through which the liquid residue exits, in all these animals. This is why all such animals have genitals, both males and females, the part through which the liquid residue is secreted — in males the semen, in females the fetal fluid. This passage lies above and toward the front, where the passage for the dry nourishment is. Those that lay eggs but lay an incomplete egg, such as the fish that lay eggs, have their uteruses not under the belly but toward the loin. For the growth of the egg is no hindrance, since what is growing is completed and advances outside the body; and the passage is the same one even in those that have no genital organ for generation, namely the passage for the dry nourishment, in all egg-laying animals, including those of them that have a bladder, such as tortoises. For the passages are double for the sake of generation, not for the sake of expelling the liquid residue; but because the nature of semen is liquid, the residue of liquid nourishment has come to share the same passage. This is clear from the fact that all animals produce semen, but not all of them produce a liquid residue.
22| Since, then, the seminal passages of the males must also be fixed in place and not wander, and likewise the uteruses in females, and this must occur either toward the front of the body or toward the back, in the live-bearing animals the uteruses are in front, because of the embryos, while in the egg-laying animals they are toward the loin and the back; and those animals that lay eggs within themselves but bear their young alive outside have it both ways, because they partake of both and are both live-bearing and egg-laying. For the upper part of the uterus, where the eggs are formed, is under the diaphragm, toward the loin and the back, but as it proceeds downward toward the belly — for there it is already bearing its young alive. In these animals too the passage is one, for both the dry residue and for mating; for none of them has a genital organ set apart, as was said before. The passages of the males are similarly disposed, both in those that have testicles and those that do not, corresponding to the uteruses of the egg-laying females. For in all of them these passages are attached toward the back and along the region of the spine. For they must not wander but be fixed in place, and such is the region behind;
23| for this region provides continuity and stability. So in those animals that have their testicles inside, they are fixed in place right along with the passages, and likewise in those that have them outside; then they meet together into one at the region of the genital organ. The passages are disposed similarly in dolphins too, but they have their testicles hidden beneath the cavity around the belly. So it has been said how the parts that contribute to generation are positioned, and for what causes. As for the other bloodless animals, the manner of the parts contributing to generation is not the same either as in the blooded animals or among themselves. The remaining kinds are four: one, that of the crustaceans; second, that of the cephalopods; third, that of the insects; and fourth, that of the testaceans. Concerning all of these the matter is not clear in every case, but it is evident that most of them do not mate; in what manner they are formed must be said later. The crustaceans mate as the animals that urinate backward do, when one lies on its back and the other on its front and they lock their tails together; for the tails, whose fins are attached far off, prevent the ones lying on their backs from mounting the ones lying on their fronts. The males have thin seminal passages, and the females have membranous uteruses alongside the intestine, split apart on this side and that; and in these the egg is formed.
24| The cephalopods copulate mouth to mouth, pressing against each other and unfolding their tentacles; and they copulate in this manner of necessity. For nature has drawn the outlet of the residue round near the mouth, bending it back, as has been said before in the account of the parts. The female clearly has a uterine part in each of these animals; for at first it holds the egg undifferentiated, then, as it is differentiated, it becomes many, and she brings forth each of these incomplete, just as the egg-laying fish do. The passage is the same for the residue and for the uterine part, in these animals as in the crustaceans. For it is there that the male discharges the milt, through the passage. This is located on the underside of the body, where the shell falls away and the sea enters in. This is why the mating of the male with the female takes place at this point; for it is necessary, if the male discharges either semen or some part or some other capacity, that he approach along the uterine passage. As for the passing of the male's tentacle through the funnel in octopuses, by which fishermen say they mate ‘with the tentacle,’ this is for the sake of embracing, not as an organ useful for generation; for it lies outside the passage and outside the body. Sometimes the cephalopods also mate front to front; but whether this is for the sake of generation or for some other cause, nothing has yet been observed.
26| Of the insects, some mate, and their generation comes from animals that share their name, as with the blooded animals — for instance locusts, cicadas, spiders, wasps, and ants; others mate and produce offspring, but not offspring of the same kind as themselves, only grubs, and these do not come to be from animals but from putrefying liquids, or in some cases from dry matter — for instance fleas, flies, and blister-beetles. Others neither come to be from animals nor mate, such as gnats, mosquitoes, and many similar kinds. Among those that mate, in most cases the females are larger than the males. The males do not appear to have seminal passages. Speaking generally, the male discharges no part into the female; rather the female discharges into the male, from below upward. This has been observed in many cases, and likewise as to which mounts which, though the opposite occurs in a few; but a division by kind has not yet been worked out. This holds, too, of most of the egg-laying fish, and of the four-footed egg-laying animals; for the females are larger than the males because of the advantage this gives with respect to the bulk that develops in them from the eggs during gestation. In the females of these animals the part analogous to the uterus is split apart alongside the intestine, as in the others; and in this the fetations are formed. This is clear in the case of locusts, and such of them as have sufficient size, being naturally disposed to mate; for most insects are extremely small. This, then, is the manner in which the organs concerned with generation stand for the animals not spoken of before. Among the uniform parts, what remains is semen and milk, about which it is now time to speak — about semen at once, and about milk in what follows.
27| Some animals plainly emit seed — those, namely, that are blooded by nature — but with insects and the soft-bodied creatures it is unclear which way it goes. So this must be examined: whether all the males emit seed or not all, and if not all, for what cause some do and some do not; and further, whether the females too contribute some seed or not, and if not seed, whether they contribute nothing else either, or contribute something, though not seed. And besides, in the case of those that do emit seed, we must examine what it is that they contribute toward generation through the seed, and in general what the nature of the seed is, and of the so-called menstrual fluid, in the case of those animals that emit this kind of fluid. Now it is thought that all things come to be from seed, and the seed from the parents. Hence it belongs to the same inquiry whether both the female and the male emit it, or only one of the two, and whether it comes away from the whole of the body or not from the whole; for it stands to reason that, if not from the whole, then not from both parents either — which is why we must examine, since some say it comes away from the whole body, how the matter stands with this point first.
28| There are, roughly, four pieces of evidence one might use to show that the seed comes away from each of the parts. First, the intensity of the pleasure: for the same affection becoming greater is more pleasant, and it is greater when it happens to all the parts than when it happens to one or a few of them. Further, that from maimed parents maimed offspring come to be: for they say that, because of the part's deficiency, no seed travels from there, and that wherever it fails to come from, this is what turns out not to be generated. Besides these, there are the resemblances to the parents: for offspring come to resemble them, just as the whole body does, so too do part resemble part; if, then, the cause of the resemblance of the whole is that the seed came from the whole, then the cause with respect to the parts would likewise be that something came from each of the parts. Further, it would seem reasonable that, just as there is something from which the whole first comes to be, so too for each of the parts — so that if there is a seed of that whole, there would also be some seed proper to each of the parts. And testimonies of this sort too lend credibility to these opinions: for children come to resemble their parents not only in their inborn features but also in their acquired ones —
29| for some parents who had scars have had children born with the mark of the scar in the same places, and in Chalcedon a father who had a brand on his arm left the same sign on his child, though blurred and not clearly articulated as writing. So it is chiefly from considerations of this sort that some people believe the seed comes from every part. But on examination the argument appears to point rather the other way: for the points just stated are not hard to refute, and besides this, other consequences follow that are impossible to maintain. First, then, resemblance is no sign that it comes away from every part, because children come to resemble their parents also in voice, nails, and hair, and in their movement — and nothing comes away from these. And some features they do not yet have when the parents beget them, such as a head of gray hair or a beard. Further, they resemble ancestors further back, from whom nothing came away; for resemblances reappear across many generations, as in the case at Elis of the woman who had intercourse with the Ethiopian — for it was not the daughter who was born dark, but the child born from her, an Ethiopian. And the same argument applies to plants as well; for it is clear that in their case too the seed would have to come from all the parts. Yet many parts they simply do not have, others could be removed, and others grow on afterward. Further, it does not come away from the fruit-coverings either, although these too come to be with the same shape reproduced. Again, does it come away only from the uniform parts, taken from each — such as flesh, bone, and sinew — or also from the non-uniform parts, such as face and hand?
30| For if it comes only from the former, yet it is the non-uniform parts — face, hands, feet — that resemble the parents more, then if these are not made to resemble by coming from the whole, what stops the uniform parts from being alike for some other cause too, and not by coming from the whole? But if it comes only from the non-uniform parts, then it does not come from all the parts. And it would indeed make more sense for it to come from these; for the uniform parts are prior, and the non-uniform parts are composed out of them, and just as offspring come to resemble parents in face and hands, so too in their flesh and nails. But if it comes from both, what would be the manner of the generation? For the non-uniform parts are composed out of the uniform ones, so that for it to come away from the former would be for it to come away from the latter, and from their composition as well — just as if it came from a written name: if from the whole, then also from each of the syllables, and if from these, then from the letters and from their arrangement. So that if flesh and bones are composed out of fire and things of that kind, it would come rather from the elements; for how could it come from the arrangement? And yet without this the resulting parts would not be alike. And if something later fashions this arrangement, that would be the cause of the resemblance, and not the fact that something came away from the whole.
31| Further, if the parts are scattered apart within the seed, how does it live? And if they are continuous, it would be a tiny animal. And what of the genitals — how does that work? For what comes away from the male is not the same as what comes away from the female. Further, if from both parents alike it comes away from all the parts, two animals are produced; for it will have the entirety from each of the two. This is why Empedocles, if one may put it so, seems to be saying something that agrees most closely with this theory, so far as that point goes — though where he says it differently, he is not right. For he says that in the male and the female there is, as it were, a matching token, but that the whole comes away from neither: "but the nature of the limbs is split apart, part in the man's." For why do the females not generate from themselves alone, if indeed it comes away from every part and they have a receptacle for it? But, as it appears, either it does not come away from every part, or it does so in the way he says — not the same things from each parent — which is why they need intercourse with one another. But this too is impossible. For just as it is impossible, even for large creatures, for them to be preserved and be alive while scattered apart, in the way Empedocles generates them, speaking of the age of Love: "whereby many heads without necks sprang up" — and then says that they grow together in this fashion — this is plainly impossible.
32| For neither can something lacking soul nor lacking any life at all be preserved, in the way he supposes, as though several already-living things grew together so as to become one again. But this is exactly the manner of thing that those who claim it comes away from every part are committed to saying: just as then, on earth, in the age of Love, so for these people it happens within the body. For it is impossible for the parts to become continuous and to come together, converging into a single place. Then again, how are up and down, right and left, front and back kept apart? All of this is unreasonable. Further, the parts are distinguished some by a power, others by affections: the non-uniform parts by being able to do something — such as tongue and hand — the uniform parts by hardness and softness and other affections of that kind, not simply by having blood or not having flesh. It is clear, then, that what comes away cannot be synonymous with the parts — blood coming from blood, or flesh from flesh. But indeed, if blood comes to be out of something other than itself, then the coming-away from all the parts could not be the cause of the resemblance either, as those who speak this way claim; for it is enough for it to come away from one thing only, if indeed blood does not come to be from blood.
33| For why would not everything come to be from one thing? For this argument seems to be the same as Anaxagoras's, that none of the homoiomerous things comes to be, except that he applies this to everything, while these thinkers apply it to the generation of animals alone. Next, in what way will these things that have departed from every part grow? For Anaxagoras reasonably says that flesh comes to flesh from the nourishment; but for those who do not say this, but claim that the seed departs from every part, how will a thing become bigger by something else being added to it, if what has come to it stays as it is? But then, if what has come to it can change, why is it not the case straightaway from the start that the seed is of such a nature that blood and flesh can come to be out of it, rather than that it already is that thing itself and blood and flesh too? For surely it is not possible to say this either — that it grows later by a kind of blending, as wine grows when water is poured into it. For then each thing would have been most itself, unmixed, right at the beginning; but as it is, each of flesh and bone and the rest of the parts becomes more fully itself later rather than earlier. And to say that something in the seed is sinew and something is bone is a claim altogether beyond what we can verify. Besides this, if male and female differ at the time of conception, as Empedocles says: "and it was poured into what was pure —
34| — such offspring turn out women, when they meet with cold." At any rate women and men are observed to change: just as the barren become fertile, so too those who bear females come to bear males, on the grounds that the cause lies not in whether something departs from every part or not, but in whether what departs from the woman and the man is well-proportioned or not, or in some other such cause. It is clear, then, if we lay this down in this way, that the female is not what it is because something departed from a given source, so that neither is the part peculiar to the male and to the female so accounted for, if indeed the same seed can become either female or male, on the grounds that the part is not present in the seed. What difference, then, does it make to say this about this case rather than about the other parts? For if seed does not even come from the womb, the same argument would hold for the other parts too. Further, some animals come to be neither from creatures of their own kind nor from creatures differing in kind — for example flies, and the kinds of what are called grubs. From these, animals do come to be, but no longer alike in nature to their parents, but a certain kind of worm. It is clear, then, that this could not be so, if likeness is a sign of the seed's departing from every part.
35| Further, from a single mating some animals too beget many offspring, and plants do so altogether; for it is clear that from a single act of generation a plant bears its whole yearly crop of fruit. And yet how is this possible, if the seed were separated off from every part? For one secretion must necessarily come from one mating and one act of separating-off. But within the womb it is impossible for it to be further divided up; for by then the dividing-off would be as if from a young plant or animal, not from seed. Further, cuttings taken from a plant bear seed of their own; it is clear, then, that even before being cut off, that part was already bearing fruit from that same size, and that the seed did not depart from the whole plant. The greatest proof of these points we have observed sufficiently in the case of insects. For even if not in all, still in most of them, in mating the female stretches some part of herself out into the male. That is why they carry out mating, as we said before, in this way: for the lower parts are observed to be sent into the upper parts — not in all, but in most of the cases we have observed. So it would be evident that not even in those creatures where the males emit semen is the departing from every part the cause of generation, but some other way, which must be considered later.
36| For indeed, if it were true that the seed departs from every part, as they say, there would be no need to claim that it departs from all the parts, but only from the part that does the fashioning — from the carpenter, say, but not from the material. But as it is, they speak as though it came from the shoes as well; for a son who resembles his father tends to wear similar shoes! As for the fact that intense pleasure arises in sexual intercourse, this is not caused by the seed's departing from every part, but because there is a strong itching sensation; that is also why, if this intercourse happens often, the pleasure felt by those having intercourse becomes less. Further, the pleasure comes at the end; but it ought to arise in each of the parts, and not all at once, but earlier in some and later in others. As for mutilated offspring coming from mutilated parents, the cause is the same as why offspring resemble their parents at all. But unmutilated offspring also come from mutilated parents, just as offspring unlike their parents come from those who begot them; the cause of these cases must be considered later, for this problem is the same as the other one. Further, if the female does not emit seed, then by the same argument it does not follow that it departs from every part either. And even if it does not depart from every part, there is nothing absurd in its also not departing from the female, but in the female being the cause of generation in some other way.
37| It is fitting next to examine this question, since it is clear that the seed is not secreted from all the parts. The starting point both for this inquiry and for what follows is to grasp first what seed is; for in this way the facts about its functions and what happens concerning it will be more readily observed. Seed is meant by its nature to be such that from it, as the first thing, the things constituted according to nature come to be — not in the sense that what does the making is itself derived from that source, as with the human being; for the human being comes to be from this because this is the seed. Now since one thing comes to be from another in many ways — in one way, as we say night comes to be from day and a man from a child, because this comes after that; in another way, as a statue comes from bronze and a bed from wood, and all the other things we say come to be as if from matter, where the whole is made from something present within and given shape; in another way again, as an unmusical man comes from a musical one and a sick man from a healthy one, and in general as the contrary comes from the contrary; and further, besides these, as Epicharmus makes his "building-up" — from slander comes abuse, and from this a fight — all these come from something as the starting point of the motion.
38| Of such things, in some the starting point of the motion is in the things themselves, as in what has just been said, for slander is a part of the whole disturbance, while in others it is outside them, as the crafts are outside the things crafted, and the lamp is outside the burning house. It is clear that seed falls under one of these two: either it produces what comes to be as being matter for it, or as being the first mover of it; for it certainly does not produce it as this coming after that, the way the voyage comes after the Panathenaic festival, nor as from a contrary; for when a thing perishes, the contrary comes to be from the contrary, and something else must underlie it as the first thing present in it out of which the result will come. So of the two we must decide under which head to place the seed — whether as matter and as something acted upon, or as a form and something that acts, or as both at once; for perhaps it will become clear at the same time also how generation from contraries holds for all things that come from seed. For generation from contraries too is natural: some things come to be from contraries, male and female, others from one alone, as plants and some animals, in all cases where male and female are not marked off as separate.
39| Now 'seed' is the term for that which comes from the begetter as its cause — in whatever beings are naturally suited to mate — being the first thing to hold the principle of generation, while 'semen' is that which has the principles from both of the pair that mated, as with plants and with some animals in which the female and the male are not separated, being like the first mixture that arises from female and male, a sort of embryo or animal already; for these already have in them what comes from both. Semen and fruit differ as later and earlier: fruit is such by being from another thing, while semen is such by another thing coming from it, since the two are in fact the same thing. But we must say again what the primary nature of what is called semen is. Necessarily, everything we take within the body is either a part of what is according to nature — and this either of the non-uniform parts or of the uniform parts — or something contrary to nature, such as a tumor, or a residue, or a colliquescence, or nourishment. By residue I mean what is left over from nourishment, and by colliquescence what is separated off from the body's growth by a dissolution contrary to nature. That it cannot be a part, then, is clear: it is uniform, but nothing is composed out of it, as things are composed out of sinew and flesh.
40| Further, it is not even marked off as a distinct part, the way all the other parts are. But neither is it contrary to nature, nor a deformity: for it is present in all animals, and it is out of this that their nature comes to be. Nourishment is plainly something brought in from outside, so it must necessarily be either a colliquescence or a residue. Now the ancients seem to have thought it was a colliquescence: for to say that it departs from every part of the body on account of the heat produced by motion amounts to saying it is a colliquescence. But colliquescences are something contrary to nature, and nothing that is according to nature comes to be from what is contrary to nature. It must therefore be a residue. But every residue is a residue either of useless nourishment or of useful nourishment. By useless I mean that from which nothing further contributes to nature, but from the greater consumption of which the body is most harmed; by useful I mean the opposite. That semen is not this useless sort of residue is clear: for those in the worst condition because of age or disease have the most of this, but the least semen — for they either have none at all, or have semen that is not fertile, because a useless and diseased residue is mixed into it. Semen, then, is a part of the useful residue. And the most useful residue is the last, the one from which each of the parts already comes to be.
41| For nourishment is at one stage earlier, at another later. Now the residue of the first stage of nourishment is phlegm, and anything else of that kind. For phlegm too is a residue of useful nourishment; a sign of this is that, mixed with pure nourishment, it nourishes, and is used up in those who exert themselves. But the last residue is the least in amount produced from the greatest amount of nourishment. One must bear in mind that the whole daily growth of animals and plants is small: for if the same small amount were continually added, the resulting size would be excessive. The opposite, then, of what the ancients said must be maintained. For they said semen was what departs from every part, whereas we shall say it is what naturally goes toward every part; and they said it was a colliquescence, but it appears rather to be a residue. For it is more reasonable that what comes in last, and becomes the residue of such a process, should be similar to it — just as for painters there is often left over, of the flesh-coloured pigment, some that is similar to what was used up. But everything that undergoes colliquescence is destroyed and departs from its own nature. Evidence that semen is not a colliquescence but rather a residue is that the large animals produce few offspring, while the small ones are prolific. For colliquescence must necessarily be greater in the large animals, but residue less; for since the body is large, most of the nourishment is used up on it, so that little residue is produced.
42| Further, no place is assigned by nature to colliquescence; it flows wherever it finds an easy passage through the body. But to all the residues that are according to nature a place is assigned: for the dry nourishment, the lower belly; for the moist, the bladder; for the useful, the upper belly; and for the seminal, the womb, the genitals, and the breasts — for it is into these that it collects and flows together. And the things that happen bear witness that what has been described is semen; and these things happen because the nature of the residue is of this sort. For exhaustion becomes evident even when only a very small amount of this has departed, since the bodies are thereby deprived of the final product that arises from nourishment. But in a few, for a short time, at certain ages, its departure brings relief when it has become excessive — just as the first stage of nourishment does, if it exceeds in quantity; for when this too departs, bodies fare better, especially when other residues depart along with it. For it is not only semen that departs, but other powers mixed in with it depart along with it, and these are diseased; which is why, in some, what is discharged is sometimes infertile, because it has little of the seminal in it. But in most, and speaking generally, exhaustion and weakness result from sexual intercourse, rather, on account of the cause just stated.
43| Further, semen is not present either in the earliest age, or in old age, or in sicknesses: in sickness, because of weakness; in old age, because nature no longer concocts enough of it; and in the young, because of growth — for it is all used up beforehand; in about five years, at least in the case of human beings, the body seems to acquire half of the total size it acquires in all the rest of its time. In many animals and plants there is a difference in these respects between one genus and another, and within the same genus among individuals of the same species compared with one another, as between one man and another, or one vine and another. For some produce much semen, others little, and others none at all — not because of weakness, but in some cases quite the opposite; for it is used up on the body, as happens with some men, since they are in good bodily condition and become fleshy. Or rather, the fatter they are, the less semen they emit, and the less they desire sexual intercourse. Similar too is what happens with vines that 'go he-goat,' which run riot because of their nourishment, since he-goats too, when they are fat, mount the female less; which is why farmers slim them down beforehand, and why they call vines 'goating' after the condition of he-goats.
44| And fat people, both women and men, appear to be less fertile than those who are not fat, because in the well-nourished the residue, once concocted, turns into fat; for fat too is a residue, one that is healthy on account of good feeding. Some plants do not bear seed at all, such as the willow and the black poplar. There are, then, other causes as well of this condition: some fail to concoct because of weakness, others use it up because of strength, as has been said. Likewise some are copiously and abundantly seminal because of strength, others because of weakness; for much useless residue also gets mixed in, so that in some it even becomes a sickness, when their purgation does not proceed easily. Some, indeed, are cured by this, but others are even destroyed by it; for they waste away by colliquescence in this way, just as also into the urine — for this too has already happened as a sickness in some cases. Further, the passage is the same for the residue and for the semen; and in those in which a residue arises from both the moist and the dry nourishment, the discharge of seed takes place along the same passage as that of the moist residue (for it is a residue of moisture, since the nourishment of all things is rather moist); but in those which do not have this separate moist residue, it takes place along the passage of the dry residue's discharge.
45| Further, colliquescence is always a sign of disease, whereas the removal of residue is beneficial; but the discharge of semen partakes of both, because it also takes on something of the non-useful nourishment. But if it were a colliquescence, it would always be harmful; as it is, it does not do this. That semen, then, is a residue of useful nourishment, and of the last stage of it — whether or not all animals emit semen — is clear from what has been said.
46| After this we must determine what kind of residue this is, and what it is of, and also deal with the menstrual fluid; for in some of the animals that bear their young live, a menstrual fluid occurs. For through these questions it will become clear also about the female, whether she too emits semen as the male does, and what comes to be is one blend from two semens, or whether no semen at all is secreted from the female; and if none, whether nothing else either contributes to the generation but she merely provides a place, or whether she does contribute something, and how and in what manner. Now that blood is the ultimate nourishment for the blooded animals, and the analogous fluid for the bloodless ones, has been said before; and since seed too is a residue of nourishment, and of the ultimate nourishment, it would have to be either blood or the analogue of blood or something composed from these. And since each of the parts comes to be out of blood as it is concocted and in some way divided up, while seed, when concocted, is secreted as something different from blood, but when unconcocted, and when someone forces the issue by indulging too often in sexual intercourse, in some men it has already come forth blood-like, it is clear that seed would be a residue of the blood-like nourishment, of that nourishment in its final distribution to the parts. And it is for this reason that it has great power.
47| For indeed the departure of pure and healthy blood is weakening; and it is reasonable that the offspring come to resemble those who begot them, for what has arrived at the parts is like what was left behind. So the seed of the hand or of the face or of the whole animal is, indeterminately, hand or face or whole animal; and whatever each of those is in actuality, such is the seed in potentiality — either in respect of its own bulk, or it has some power within itself. For this is not yet clear to us from what has been determined: whether the body of the seed is the cause of the generation, or whether it has some state and a generative principle of motion. For neither the hand nor any other of the parts is a hand, or any part at all, apart from soul or some other power, but only homonymously so. And it is also clear that in all cases where a seminal colliquescence occurs, this too is a residue. This happens when the thing dissolves back into what was added, just as when the plaster that was smeared on falls off at once; for what departs is the same as what was first added. In the same way, the final residue is the same as the first colliquescent matter. Let this, then, be the determination on these points.
48| Since it is necessary that in the weaker one too a residue arise that is more abundant and less concocted, and since such a residue must be a quantity of blood-like fluid, and the weaker is that which by nature shares in less heat, and it has been said before that the female is of this kind, it is necessary that the blood-like secretion that occurs in the female also be a residue. And such is the discharge of what is called the menstrual fluid. That the menstrual fluid is a residue, then, and that it stands to females as, analogously, seed stands to males, is clear. And that this has been correctly stated, the things that happen concerning them are signs. For at the same age at which seed begins to arise and be secreted in males, in females the menstrual flow breaks out, and their voice changes, and there are the signs concerning the breasts. And as their prime declines, the ability to beget ceases in men, and the menstrual flow ceases in women. Further, the following too are signs that this discharge is a residue in females. For as a general rule women neither get hemorrhoids nor a flow of blood from the nostrils nor any other such thing, as long as the menstrual flow is regular; and if any of these does occur, the purgations become worse, on the ground that the secretion is being used up on these instead.
49| Further, females are less full of visible veins and are more delicate and smoother-skinned than males, because the residue that would go into these is secreted along with the menstrual fluid instead. And this same cause must be thought responsible also for the fact that the bulk of the body is smaller in females than in males among the live-bearing animals; for it is in these alone that the flow of the menstrual fluid occurs outward, and among these it is most conspicuous in women, for woman discharges the most secretion of all the animals. This is why she is always most conspicuously pale and lacking visible veins, and has a plainly evident deficiency of body compared with the males. Since this is what occurs in females as seed occurs in males, and it is not possible for two seminal secretions to occur at the same time, it is clear that the female does not contribute semen to the generation; for if it were semen, there would be no menstrual fluid, but as it is, because this comes to be, that does not exist. That the menstrual fluid, then, like the semen, is a residue, has been stated; and one might take as evidence for this some of the things that happen to animals. For fat animals are less productive of semen than lean ones, as has been said before.
50| And the cause is that fat too is a residue, just as semen is, and is concocted blood, but not in the same manner as semen. So it is reasonable that when the residue is spent on fat, matters relating to seed are deficient — as, for example, among the bloodless animals, the cephalopods and the crustaceans are at their best around the time of pregnancy. For because they are bloodless and no fat forms in them, the analogue of fat in them is secreted instead into the seminal residue. A sign that the female does not emit a semen of the same kind as the male is this: nor does generation occur when the two are mixed together, as some say, on the ground that the female often conceives without pleasure occurring for her in the intercourse; and again, when it does occur, generation is no less likely; and even when male and female reach their culmination together, no generation occurs unless the moisture of what is called the menstrual fluid is present in due measure. This is why the female neither begets when it does not occur at all, nor, when it does occur, does she conceive as a rule at the time when it is flowing out, but after the purgation. For at one time she has no nourishment or matter out of which the power present in the seed from the male will be able to construct the animal.
51| At another time it is washed away together with the flow because of its abundance. But when, after the flow has occurred, it departs, what is left behind coalesces. As for those women who conceive while the menstrual fluid is not occurring, or in the interval while it is occurring but not afterward, the cause is that for these, just such an amount of moisture arises as remains behind after the purgation in fertile women, and no greater residue arises so as to also pass outward; whereas in others, after the purgation, the mouth of the womb closes up. So whenever much has departed, but a purgation is still occurring, though not so much as to wash out the seed, then women who have intercourse at that time conceive again. And there is nothing strange in its still occurring in women who have already conceived; for even later, up to a point, the menstrual fluid keeps recurring, though little and not throughout. But this is a diseased condition, which is why it happens to few women and rarely; what happens as a general rule is what is most in accordance with nature. That the female, then, contributes the matter to generation, and that this consists in the composition of the menstrual fluid, and that the menstrual fluid is a residue, is clear.
52| As for what some suppose — that the female contributes semen in intercourse because a pleasure similar to that of the males sometimes occurs for them, along with a moist secretion at the same time — this moisture is not seminal but is peculiar to the place, in each woman's case. For it is a secretion of the womb, and it occurs in some women and not in others. It occurs, generally speaking, in fair-skinned and feminine women, but does not occur in dark-skinned and masculine-looking ones. And the amount, in those in whom it occurs, is sometimes not in proportion to an emission of semen, but greatly exceeds it. Further, different foods make a great difference, in different women, as to whether this secretion occurs less or more; for instance, some pungent foods make the discharge noticeably more abundant. And the fact that pleasure occurs in intercourse is due not only to the emission of semen but also of breath, and it is from the coalescing of this that the semen is ejected. This is clear in the case of boys who are not yet able to emit semen but are near that age, and in the case of infertile men; for pleasure occurs in all of these when they are aroused. And in men whose generative power has been destroyed, sometimes the bowels are loosened, because a residue is secreted into the belly which is unable to be concocted and become semen.
53| A woman also resembles a child in form, and the female is, as it were, an infertile male. For the female is female by virtue of a certain incapacity, namely an inability to concoct semen out of the final stage of nourishment (this is either blood or its analogue in bloodless animals) because of the coldness of her nature. So just as in the stomach, through failure of concoction, diarrhea occurs, so in the veins there occur, among other hemorrhages, that of the menstrual discharge as well; for this too is a hemorrhage, but whereas those others are due to disease, this one is natural. So it is clear that it is reasonable for generation to come about from this. For the menstrual fluid is semen, not pure, but needing working-up, just as in the generation of fruit, when it has not yet been strained, the nourishment is present in it but needs working-up for its purification. This is why, when the one is mixed with the seed and the other with pure nourishment, the one generates and the other nourishes. A sign that the female does not emit semen is also the fact that the pleasure that occurs in intercourse is felt, by touch, in the same place as in males; and yet females do not emit this moisture from there. Further, this excretion does not occur in all females, but only in the blooded ones, and not even in all of these, but only in those whose wombs are not close up under the diaphragm and which do not lay eggs; and again it does not occur in the bloodless animals, but rather their analogue does.
54| For what blood is in some animals, in these a different compound takes its place. The cause of there being no purgation either in these, or in those blooded animals mentioned—those that have their wombs low down and do not lay eggs—is the dryness of their bodies, which leaves little residue, and only so much as suffices for generation, none being emitted outside. As for those that bear their young alive without laying eggs (these are man and those of the four-footed animals that bend their hind legs inward; for all of these bear their young alive without laying eggs), in all of them this purgation does occur, except if some creature is deformed in its generation, such as the mule, though the purgations do not rise to the surface in them as they do in human beings. The precise details of how these matters stand for each of the animals have been written up in the Researches on Animals. The greatest purgation among animals occurs in women, and correspondingly the greatest emission of semen occurs in men, in proportion to their size. The cause is that the constitution of their bodies is moist and hot; for in such a constitution the greatest amount of residue must necessarily arise. Further, such creatures do not have, in their bodies, parts into which the residue is diverted, as other animals do; for they have neither a great quantity of hair over the body, nor excretions in the form of bones and horns and teeth.
55| A sign that the semen is present in the menstrual fluid is this: at the same time, as has been said before, this residue arises in males, and the menstrual discharge shows itself in females, at the same age, as though the regions receptive of each residue were being differentiated at the same time; and as the regions near each are loosened, the growth of pubic hair breaks out. When the regions are about to be differentiated they swell up under the action of breath—in males more visibly around the testicles, though it shows also around the breasts, in females rather around the breasts; for when these have risen the space of two fingers, that is when the menses begin, in most cases. Now in all those living things in which the female and the male are not separated, in these the semen is, as it were, an embryo—I call an embryo the first mixture of female and male. This is why from one semen one body arises, just as from one grain of wheat one shoot, just as from one egg one animal; for twin eggs are two eggs. But in those kinds in which the female and the male are distinguished, in these it is possible for many animals to arise from one act of semen-emission, on the ground that the semen differs in nature in plants as against animals.
56| A sign of this is that from a single mating more than one offspring is produced in those able to generate more than one at a time. From this it is also clear that the seed does not come from every part of the body; for neither would separated parts, coming from the same part, be secreted at once, nor, if they arrived together at the womb, would they be separated out there; but what happens is, as is reasonable, since the male supplies the form and the origin of the motion, while the female supplies the body and the matter—just as in the curdling of milk the body is the milk, while the fig-juice, or rennet, is that which has the principle that brings it together—so it is with what comes from the male, being divided up within the female. For what cause it is divided in some cases into more parts, in others into fewer, in others into a single part only, will be a separate account. But because it makes no difference in respect of form, but only whether the part being divided off is commensurate with the matter—neither too little, so that it cannot concoct or bring it together, nor too much, so that it dries it out—more offspring are generated in this way. But from the first thing that brings it together, from one thing already one thing alone arises. That the female, then, does not contribute semen to generation, but does contribute something, and that this is the substance of the menstrual fluid and its analogue in bloodless animals, is clear both from what has been said and, for those who examine the matter in general terms, from the argument as well.
57| For necessarily that which generates and that from which it generates, even if they are one thing, must differ in form, and their account must be different; and where the powers, and the bodies, and the nature are kept separate, the nature of that which acts must be other than that of that which is acted upon. If, then, the male stands as that which moves and acts, and the female, qua female, as that which is acted upon, the female would contribute to the male's semen not semen but matter. And this is indeed what plainly happens: for the nature of the menstrual fluid is that of matter in the primary sense.
58| Let these matters be determined in this way. At the same time it is clear from this what belongs to the next inquiry: how it is, exactly, that the male contributes to generation, and in what way the semen from the male is a cause of the thing generated—whether as being present within it and being straightaway a part of the body generated, mixed together with the matter that comes from the female, or whether the body has no share at all in the semen, but only the power and motion within it. For this is what acts, while what is constituted and takes on the form is what is left of the residue within the female. In accordance with the argument, then, this is how it appears, and so it appears also from the facts. For when one examines the matter generally, it does not appear that one thing comes to be out of the passive and the active in such a way that the agent is present as a part within the thing generated, nor in general out of the moved and the mover. But indeed the female, qua female, is passive, and the male, qua male, is active, and is that from which the origin of the motion comes. So that if the extremes of each are taken, in the sense that the one is agent and mover, the other passive and moved, the thing generated does not arise out of these as one thing composed of them, but rather in the way that a bed arises out of the carpenter and the wood, or a ball out of the wax and the shape.
59| It is clear, then, that it is not necessary for anything to depart from the male, and that, even if something does depart, what comes to be is not therefore from this as something present within it, but rather as from what set it in motion and from the form — just as the one who is healed is healed from the medical art. And what actually happens agrees with this account. This is why some males, even while copulating with females, are seen to emit no part at all into the female — on the contrary, it is the female that emits into the male, which is what happens with some insects. For what the semen produces in the female in those animals that do emit it, the moisture and power within the animal itself produces in these cases, the female bringing forward the part that receives the residue; and this is why such animals remain coupled, doing this until the embryo is formed, as with semen; but once they come apart, they quickly discharge the embryo. For what it produces is incomplete: all such animals produce larvae. The greatest sign of this is what happens with birds and with the egg-laying kind of fish — namely, that the semen does not come from all the parts, and that the male does not emit any such part as will be present within the offspring, but only gives life by the power in the semen, as we said in the case of insects, where the female emits into the male.
60| For if a hen happens to be carrying wind-eggs, and is afterward mated before the egg has changed from being wholly yellow to turning white, the eggs become fertile instead of remaining wind-eggs; but if she has been mated by one male and is then mated by another while the egg is still yellow, the whole brood of chicks turns out according to the male who mated her later. This is why some of those who take pains breeding fine birds do it this way, changing the earlier matings for later ones — on the ground that the semen does not become mixed in and present within the offspring, nor come from every part of the male. For if it came from both males, the offspring would have the same parts twice over. Instead, by its power, the male's semen fashions the matter and nourishment in the female into a certain quality. For it is possible for the semen that enters later to do this, by heating and concocting it; for the egg goes on taking in nourishment as long as it is growing. The same thing happens also in the generation of egg-laying fish. For when the female has laid the eggs, the male sprinkles milt over them; and whichever eggs it touches become fertile, while those it does not touch remain infertile — which shows that the male contributes to animals not in respect of quantity, but of quality.
61| That the semen, then, does not depart from every part in those animals that emit semen, and that the female does not contribute to the generation of the things composed in the same way as the male, but rather the male contributes the principle of motion and the female the matter, is clear from what has been said. For this is why the female does not generate by itself: it needs a principle, something to set it in motion and to define it. Yet in some animals, such as birds, nature is able to generate up to a point; for these do form something, but what they form is incomplete — the so-called wind-eggs.
62| The generation of what comes to be takes place in the female, not in the male; nor again does the male emit its semen into itself, nor the female into itself, but both contribute into the female what comes from them, because it is in the female that the matter is present out of which the thing fashioned consists. And some of this matter must be present all at once straightaway, that out of which the first embryo is formed, while more of the matter must be added afterward, so that what is developing may grow. So it is necessary that the offspring be present in the female; for indeed the carpenter works upon wood and the potter upon clay, and in general all working, and the final motion, occurs upon the matter — just as house-building occurs in the things being built. From this one could also grasp how the male contributes to generation. For not every male emits semen, and in those males that do emit it, this is no part of the developing embryo — just as nothing departs from the carpenter into the wood as matter, nor is any part of the carpenter's craft present in the thing produced, but the shape and the form come to be in the matter from him through the motion; and the soul, in which the form and the knowledge reside, moves the hands, or some other part, with a certain kind of motion — a different motion when what comes to be is different, the same motion when what comes to be is the same — while the hands and the instruments move the matter.
63| In the same way, the nature that is in the male, in those animals that emit semen, uses the semen as an instrument possessing motion in actuality, just as in things produced by craft the instruments move; for in a sense the motion of the craft is present in them. Those animals, then, that emit semen contribute to generation in this way; but in those that do not emit semen, where instead the female deposits some part of itself into the male, it seems to do something like bringing the matter to the craftsman — text corrupt at this point — nature is not able to do this by other means in the case of the males, but the motions have force only when the female itself remains in close attendance, and it resembles those who mold by hand, not those who build with tools; for it does not fashion the thing being formed by touching it through some other agent, but itself, by its own parts.
64| In all animals capable of locomotion, then, the female is separate from the male, and the female is one animal and the male another, though the same in species — for instance, both are human. But in plants these powers are mixed together, and the female is not separated from the male. This is why plants generate from themselves, and emit not semen but an embryo — what are called seeds. And Empedocles puts this well when he writes, "Thus tall trees first lay eggs — olives." For the egg is an embryo, and the animal comes to be from a part of it, while the rest is nourishment; and likewise, the growing plant comes to be from a part of the seed, while the rest becomes nourishment for the shoot and the first root. In some sense these things converge in plants (text corrupt at this point), and their nature aims at their becoming one — which is manifest to sight in animals that mix and mate, one single animal coming to be out of both. And some remain joined (text corrupt at this point) until the embryo has formed, as with mating insects; while others remain joined until the male sends off some of its added parts, which will form the embryo over a longer time, as with blooded animals.
65| For some remain joined for only part of a day, while the semen takes several days to form the embryo; and once they have emitted this, they separate. And in a quite literal sense, animals seem to be divisible, like plants — as if, when a plant put forth its seed, one were to break that seed apart and separate it into the female and male present within it. And nature fashions all this reasonably. For the substance of plants has no other function or activity except the generation of seed, so that, since this comes about through the female and the male joined together, nature mixed these and arranged them together with each other; this is why in plants the female and the male are inseparable. But plants have been examined elsewhere. In the case of the animal, generating is not its only function — for this is common to all living things — but all animals also share in some kind of knowledge, some in more, some in less, and some in only a very small amount. For they have perception, and perception is a kind of knowledge. And how valuable or valueless this is differs greatly, when one looks at it in relation to practical wisdom on the one hand and to the class of lifeless things on the other. For in relation to thinking, sharing only in touch and taste seems to amount to almost nothing, but in relation to having no perception at all, it is the best thing there is;
1| For it would seem worth being content even to attain this kind of knowledge, rather than lying there dead and non-existent. Animals differ from things that merely live only in respect of perception. But since it is necessary also to live, if a thing is an animal, then whenever it becomes necessary to complete the function of the living thing, it pairs and mates and comes to be, as it were, like a plant, just as we said. The testaceans among animals, being between animals and plants, as belonging to both kinds, perform the function of neither: for as a plant it has neither the female nor the male and does not generate into another, but as an animal it does not bear fruit from itself as plants do, but is composed and generated from some earthy and moist composition. But about the generation of these we must speak later.
2| That the female and the male are principles of generation has been said before, and what their power is and the account of their substance. But as to why it comes about, and why the one is female and the other male — so far as this happens by necessity and from the first mover and from what kind of matter, we must try, as we proceed, to state the account; but so far as it is for the sake of the better and by the cause that is for the sake of something, its principle comes from above. For since some existing things are eternal and divine while others admit of both being and not being, and the fine and the divine is always, in accordance with its own nature, a cause of the better among things that admit of being otherwise, while what is not eternal admits of both being and of partaking of the worse and the better, and since soul is better than body, and the ensouled is better than the unensouled because of soul, and being is better than not being, and living than not living — for these causes there is generation of animals. For since the nature of such a kind cannot be eternal, in whatever way this is possible, in that way what comes to be is eternal.
3| In number, then, this is impossible (for the substance of existing things lies in the particular, and if the particular were of this kind, it would be eternal); but in species it is possible. Hence there is always a genus of human beings and of animals and of plants. And since the female and the male are the principle of these, the female and the male would exist among beings for the sake of generation. And since the cause that first moves, in which the account resides along with the form of the matter, is better and more divine in its nature, it is also better for the superior to be separated from the inferior. For this reason, in whatever cases it is possible, and to whatever extent it is possible, the male is separated from the female. For the principle of motion, which is present as male in the things that come to be, is better and more divine; matter is what is female. The male comes together and mates with the female for the work of generation, for this work is common to both. Now insofar as they partake of the female and the male, they live — which is why plants too partake of life — but insofar as they have perception, they belong to the genus of animals. And in almost all of these, among the animals capable of locomotion, the female and the male are separated, for the reasons stated.
4| And of these, some, as was said, emit seed in mating, while others do not. The cause of this is that the more honorable and more self-sufficient in nature are such as to have partaken of size. And this does not come about without vital heat, for the larger must necessarily be moved by a greater power, and heat is capable of causing motion. For this reason, speaking generally, the blooded animals are larger than the bloodless, and the animals capable of locomotion are larger than the stationary ones; and these emit seed on account of their heat and their size. Concerning male and female, then, and the cause for which each of them exists, this has been said. Of animals, some bring to completion and send forth outside something like themselves, namely all those that bear live young into visible form; others produce something unarticulated and not yet possessing its own shape. Of these latter, the blooded ones lay eggs, the bloodless produce larvae. An egg differs from a larva: an egg is that from part of which the thing that comes to be is generated, while the remainder is nourishment for the thing coming to be; a larva is that from the whole of which the whole of the thing that comes to be is generated. Of those that bring to completion an offspring visibly like themselves and that bear live young, some bear live young directly within themselves, such as man and horse and ox, and among sea creatures the dolphin and the other such animals; others first lay eggs within themselves and only then in this way bear live young outside, such as the animals called cartilaginous fish.
5| Of the egg-laying animals, some emit a complete egg, such as birds and all the four-footed egg-layers and all the footless ones, such as lizards and tortoises and most of the kind of serpents (for the eggs of these, once they come out, no longer undergo growth); others emit an incomplete egg, such as fish and the crustaceans and the animals called cephalopods; for the eggs of these grow after they come out. All animals that bear live young or lay eggs are blooded, and all blooded animals either bear live young or lay eggs, except those that are entirely infertile. Of the bloodless animals, the insects produce larvae, namely all those that come to be from mating or that themselves mate. For there are some such insects that come to be spontaneously, yet are female and male, and something is produced from their mating, though what is produced is incomplete; the cause of this has been stated before elsewhere. Now there occurs much overlapping among the kinds. For not all two-footed animals bear live young (birds lay eggs), nor do all lay eggs (man bears live young); nor do all four-footed animals lay eggs (horse and ox and countless others bear live young), nor do all bear live young (lizards and crocodiles and many others lay eggs).
6| Nor does it make a difference whether they have feet or not: for footless animals bear live young, such as vipers and the cartilaginous fish, while others lay eggs, such as the kind of fish and the other serpents; and among those that have feet, many both lay eggs and bear live young, such as the four-footed animals mentioned. And among these same live-bearers, some have feet, such as man, and some are footless, such as the whale and the dolphin. So it is not possible to divide them in this way, nor is any of the organs of locomotion the cause of this difference; rather, the more perfect in nature among animals bear live young, namely those that partake of a purer principle; for nothing bears live young within itself unless it receives breath and respires. More perfect are those that are hotter in nature and moister and not earthy. The boundary of natural heat is the lung, in those animals that are blooded; for in general those that have a lung are hotter than those that do not, and among these very ones, those that have a lung that is not spongy nor compact nor sparse in blood, but full of blood and soft, are hotter still. And just as the animal is complete while the larva and the egg are incomplete, so the complete is naturally generated from the more complete. Those that are hotter because they have a lung, but drier in nature, or those that are colder but moister, some lay a complete egg, while others, having laid eggs, bear live young within themselves.
7| For birds and scaly animals achieve completion because of heat, but lay eggs because of dryness; the selachians, however, are less hot than these but more moist, so that they share in both: for they both lay eggs and bear live young within themselves — they lay eggs because they are cold, and bear live young because they are moist, for the moist is life-giving, while the dry is furthest removed from what has soul. Since they are neither feathered nor scaly nor covered with scales — signs rather of a dry and earthy nature — they produce a soft egg; for just as the earthy element does not rise to the surface in the animal itself, neither does it in the egg. And because of this they lay their eggs into themselves; for if the egg went outside it would be destroyed, having no protective covering. But the colder and drier animals lay eggs, yet the egg is incomplete, and it is hard-shelled, because, being earthy, they produce an incomplete egg, so that it may be preserved by having the protection of a shell-like covering. Now fish, being scaly, and the soft-shelled crustaceans, being earthy, produce hard-shelled eggs. But the cephalopods, just as they themselves are viscous in the nature of their body, so they preserve their eggs, incomplete as they produce them, by producing a great deal of viscous matter around the embryo. And all the insects produce grubs.
8| All insects are bloodless, and this is why, though they produce grubs, they do so outside the body. But not all bloodless animals simply produce grubs; for insects and those that bring forth an incomplete egg overlap with one another — for instance the scaly fish, the soft-shelled crustaceans, and the cephalopods. For the eggs of these are grub-like, since they receive their growth outside; while in the case of the insects, the grubs, as they advance, become egg-like — in what manner we shall determine later. One must understand how well and in due order nature renders generation. For the more complete and hotter animals render their offspring complete in quality (in respect of quantity none of the animals do so completely, since all, once born, undergo growth), and these accordingly generate living animals within themselves right away. The second class does not generate complete offspring within themselves right away, for they bear live young only after first laying eggs within themselves, and it is outside that they bear the young alive; others do not generate a complete animal but generate an egg, and this egg is complete. But those whose nature is still colder than these produce an egg, yet not a complete egg — it is completed outside — as with the class of scaly fish, the soft-shelled crustaceans, and the cephalopods.
9| The fifth kind, and the coldest, does not even lay eggs from itself, but even this sort of thing happens to it outside, as has been said. For insects first bring forth grubs; and as the grub advances it becomes egg-like (for what is called the chrysalis has the capacity of an egg); then from this an animal is generated, reaching the completion of its generation in the third change. Now some animals are not generated from seed, as was said before as well; but all the blooded animals that come to be from copulation are generated from seed, the male emitting semen into the female, and when this has entered, the animals are constituted and take on their proper form — some within the animals themselves, namely those that bear live young, others in eggs and seeds and other such secretions. Concerning these there is a greater difficulty: how ever does the plant, or any animal whatever, come to be from the seed? For necessarily what comes to be must come to be both from something and by something and as something. Now as to that from which it is, the matter — which some animals have first within themselves, taking it from the female, namely those that are not born alive but produce grubs or lay eggs, while others take it from the female for a long time by suckling, as do those that are born alive not only outside but also within.
10| Either something outside produces it, or else something is present in the semen and seed; and this is either some part of the soul, or the soul itself, or something that would possess soul. That any of the internal organs, or any of the other parts, should produce something from outside would seem irrational; for it is impossible for a thing to move without touching, and impossible for a thing to be affected without something moving it. Therefore something is present within the embryo itself, either as a part of it or as something separated from it. That it should be something else, separated, is irrational. For once the animal has been generated, does this thing perish or does it remain? But nothing of this kind appears to be present that is not a part of the whole, whether of the plant or of the animal. But indeed it is also absurd that it should perish, whether it made all the parts or only some of them; for what will make the rest? For if it made the heart and then perished, and the heart made another part, by the same reasoning either all must perish or all must remain. It is preserved, then. It is therefore a part of the thing itself, which is present in the semen from the very start. And if indeed there is nothing belonging to the soul that does not belong to some part of the body, then some part would immediately be ensouled.
11| How then do the other parts come to be? Either all the parts come to be at once — heart, lung, liver, eye, and each of the rest — or in succession, as in the poems called the poems of Orpheus; for there he says the animal comes to be in a manner like the plaiting of a net. That they do not come to be at once is clear even to perception: for some of the parts appear already present, others not. And that it is not on account of smallness that they fail to appear is clear; for the lung, though greater in size than the heart, appears later than the heart in the original generation. Since, then, one part is prior and another posterior, does the one make the other, and is this because it is next to it, or rather does this come to be after that? I mean, for example, that it is not the heart, once it has come to be, that makes the liver, and the liver in turn some other part, but rather this comes after that, just as a man comes after a child, but not by the child's agency. The reason for this is that, in things that come to be by nature or by craft, what is potentially comes to be by the agency of what is actually; so that the form and the shape would need to be present in that prior thing — for example, the form of the liver would have to be in the heart.
12| But this account is otherwise absurd and fanciful as well. But moreover, that some part of the animal or plant, already generated, should be present at once in the seed — whether capable of making the rest or not — is impossible, if everything comes to be from seed and semen. For it is clear that it would have come to be by the agency of whatever made the seed, if indeed it is present in it from the start. But the seed must come to be first, and this is the work of the parent. None of the parts, therefore, can possibly already be present in it. The agent that makes the parts, then, does not have them within itself. But neither is it outside; and one or the other must be the case. One must try, then, to resolve these difficulties; for perhaps one of the statements made is not straightforward — for example, how it is that a thing cannot come to be by the agency of something outside. For in one sense this is possible, in another it is not. Now to say 'the semen' or 'that from which the semen comes' makes no difference, insofar as the semen has within itself the motion which that agent set going. And it is possible for this to move that, and that to move something else, and for the process to be like the automatic puppets among marvels. For the parts, even while at rest, possess a certain capacity in themselves; and when something external first sets one of them in motion, immediately the next part comes to be in actuality.
13| Just as in automatic devices, in a certain way that thing moves it without touching anything now, though it did touch something before; likewise too whatever the semen comes from, or whatever made the semen, has touched something but no longer touches it — in a certain way it is the movement present within it, just as house-building produces the house. That there is something which produces the thing generated, then, but not in the way that a particular "this" does, nor is it present within as something already completed from the start, is clear. But how each thing comes to be must be grasped starting from this point, taking as our first principle that whatever comes to be by nature or by craft comes to be, by something actually existing, out of something potentially of that kind. Now the semen is of this sort, and has movement and a starting-principle of this kind, so that when the movement ceases each of the parts comes to be, and comes to be ensouled. For there is no face that does not have soul, nor flesh; but once destroyed, they will be called "face" and "flesh" only equivocally, just as if they had come to be made of stone or of wood. The uniform parts and the organic parts come to be at the same time; and just as we would not say that fire alone made an axe or any other tool, so neither does it make a foot or a hand. In the same way it does not make flesh either.
14| For flesh too has some function of its own. Hardness and softness, stickiness and brittleness, and whatever other affections belong to the ensouled parts — heat and cold could produce these, but they can no longer produce the account by which this part is already flesh and that part bone; rather it is the movement coming from the begetter, which is the thing in actuality that the matter it comes from is potentially — just as also in things that come to be by craft. For heat and cold make the iron hard or soft, but what makes it a sword is the movement of the tools, which has the account belonging to the craft. For craft is a starting-principle and form of the thing that comes to be, but in something else; whereas the movement of nature is in the thing itself, coming from another nature which has the form in actuality. Does the semen have soul, or not? The same account applies to the parts as well: for there will be no soul in anything else except that of which it is the soul, nor will a part exist without sharing in soul, except equivocally, like the eye of a dead man. It is clear, then, that the semen both has soul and is soul potentially. And a thing can be nearer to or further from itself in potentiality, as the sleeping geometer is further from actuality than the one who is awake, and this one further than the one who is actually studying.
15| Of this generation, then, no part is the cause, but rather the first thing that moved it, from outside. For nothing generates itself; but once it has come to be, it already increases itself. That is why some one thing comes to be first, and not everything at once. And this must necessarily be the first thing to come to be which has the starting-principle of growth; for whether it is a plant or an animal, this — the nutritive faculty — belongs alike to all of them. And this is what is generative of another thing like itself; for this is the function of everything that is by nature complete, both animal and plant. And it is necessary for this reason: that when something comes to be, it must grow. Now what it begot was something of the same name — for instance a man begets a man — but it grows through itself. So it is itself, being something, that causes the growth. If, then, this is some one thing and is first, this must be the first thing to come to be. So if the heart comes to be first in some animals, and in those not having a heart, the part analogous to it comes to be first, then the starting-principle would be from the heart in those that have one, and from the analogous part in the others. What, then, is the cause as starting-principle of the generation of each thing, the first mover and craftsman, has been stated, in answer to the difficulties raised earlier.
16| But concerning the nature of the semen one might raise a difficulty. For the semen comes out of the animal thick and white, but on cooling it becomes liquid like water, and the color of water. This would seem strange: for water does not thicken by heat, yet the semen comes out from inside thick, out of what is hot, and on cooling becomes liquid. And yet watery things do congeal by cold; but the semen does not congeal when set out in the open in frosty weather — it becomes more liquid instead, as though thickened by its opposite. But then it is not reasonable that it should be thickened by heat either. For things that have more earth in them condense and thicken when boiled, as milk does too. So it ought to become solid on cooling. But in fact nothing solid comes of it — the whole thing is like water. This, then, is the difficulty. For if it is water, water does not appear to be thickened by heat, and yet the semen comes out thick and hot, out of a hot body; but if it is out of earth, or a mixture of earth and water, it ought not to become entirely liquid and like water. Or else we have not distinguished all the relevant facts. For it is not only moisture composed of water and earthy matter that thickens, but also that composed of water and pneuma — for example foam too becomes thicker and white, and the smaller and less visible the bubbles are, the whiter and more compact the mass appears.
17| Oil is affected in the same way: it thickens when pneuma mixes into it; that is why what is being whitened also becomes thicker, since the watery element in it is being separated out by the heat that is generating pneuma. And litharge, mixed with water or with oil, produces a great bulk out of a small quantity, and something solid out of liquid, and something white out of black. The cause is that pneuma is mixed in, which produces the bulk and shows through as whiteness, just as in foam and in snow — for snow too is a kind of foam. And water itself, when mixed with oil, becomes thick and white; for by the rubbing, pneuma is enclosed within it, and oil itself contains much pneuma; for the fatty element is neither of earth nor of water, but of pneuma. That is why it floats on water: for the air within it, as though in a vessel, carries it upward and makes it float, and is the cause of its lightness. And in cold weather and frosts oil thickens, but does not freeze solid; for it does not freeze on account of its heat (for air is hot and does not freeze), but because it condenses and is compacted, oil becomes thicker as though by the cold.
18| For these same causes the semen too comes out from inside compact and white, containing much hot pneuma because of the internal heat; but once it has come out, when the heat breathes off and the air is cooled, it becomes liquid and dark; for what is left is the water, and whatever small amount of earthy matter there is, as in phlegm, and in the semen as it dries out. The semen, then, is a combination of pneuma and water, and pneuma is hot air; that is why it is liquid in nature, because it comes from water. As for Ctesias of Cnidus — what he has said about the semen of elephants is plainly false. For he says that on drying it hardens so much that it becomes like amber. But this does not happen; rather it is necessary that one animal's semen be more earthy than another's, and especially so in those that have much earthy matter in the bulk of their body. But it is thick and white because pneuma is mixed into it. For indeed the semen of all animals is white; Herodotus does not speak the truth when he says that the semen of the Ethiopians is black, as though it were necessary that everything belonging to those black in color should be black — and this though he could see that their teeth too are white. The cause of the whiteness of the semen is that the seed is a kind of foam, and foam is white, especially the kind composed of the fewest parts and of parts so small that each bubble is invisible — which is what happens also with water and oil when they are mixed and rubbed together, as was said before.
19| It seems that the ancients too were not unaware that the nature of seed is frothy; at any rate they named the presiding god of intercourse from this capacity. So the cause of the stated difficulty has been given, and it is clear that seed does not solidify for this reason: air does not solidify. Next after this it is worth raising the question, and stating, whether none of the fluid the male emits into the female is a part of the resulting embryo that enters it — where does its bodily substance go, if it works by the capacity present within it? And we must determine whether what forms in the female takes on something from what entered it, or nothing at all; and concerning the soul in virtue of which a thing is called an animal (a thing is an animal in virtue of the perceptive part of the soul), whether it is present in the seed and in the embryo or not, and where it comes from. For one could not posit the embryo as soulless, deprived of life in every way; for the seeds and embryos of animals are no less alive than those of plants, and are capable of generation up to a point. That they have the nutritive soul, then, is clear (why it is necessary to grasp this first is clear from what has been determined about the soul elsewhere); and as they progress, they also have the perceptive soul, in virtue of which a thing is an animal. For a thing does not become an animal and a human being at the same time, nor an animal and a horse, and likewise with the other animals; for the end comes later, and what is proper to each thing is the end of its coming-to-be.
20| That is why, concerning intellect too — when and how those things that share in this principle come to partake of it, and from where — there is the greatest difficulty, and one must be eager to grasp it as far as possible and to whatever extent is attainable. Now as for the nutritive soul, it is clear that the seeds and the embryos, once separated off, must be said to have it in potentiality but not in actuality, until, like the embryos that have become separate, they draw nutriment and perform the function of this kind of soul. For at first all such things seem to live the life of a plant, and correspondingly it is clear that the same must be said about the perceptive soul and the soul capable of intellect. For all of them must be possessed in potentiality before actuality. And it is necessary either that none of them exist beforehand and all come to be present, or that all pre-exist, or that some do and some do not — and that they come to be present either in the matter without having entered in the seed of the male, or having come there from that source, while in the male either all come to be present from outside, or none, or some do and some do not. That it is not possible for all to pre-exist, then, is clear from the following. For whatever principles have a bodily activity, it is clear that these cannot exist without a body — for instance, walking without feet;
21| so it is also impossible for them to enter from outside. For they cannot enter by themselves, being inseparable, nor can they enter within a body; for the seed is a residue of nutriment undergoing change. It remains, then, that intellect alone enters from outside and alone is divine; for bodily activity has nothing in common with its activity. Now the capacity of every soul seems to have shared in a body other than and more divine than the so-called elements; and just as souls differ from one another in worth and lack of worth, so too this kind of nature differs. For in the seed of all there is present that which makes seeds capable of generation, the so-called hot. But this is not fire nor any such power, but the pneuma enclosed within the seed and within the frothy substance, and the nature within the pneuma, being analogous to the element of the stars. That is why fire generates no animal, and nothing appears to form when things are subjected to fire, whether in moist things or in dry things; whereas the heat of the sun and that of animals — not only the heat that acts through the seed, but even if some other residue of their nature happens to be present, this too has a vital principle. That the heat in animals, then, is neither fire nor derives its origin from fire, is clear from considerations of this sort;
22| and the body of the seminal fluid, in which the seed of the soul's principle is carried along together with it, is in part separable from body — in those cases where the divine is enclosed within it (such is the so-called intellect) — and in part inseparable; this, the body of the seminal fluid, dissolves and turns to pneuma, having a moist and watery nature. For this reason one should not seek for it always to go back outside, nor for it to be any part of the form that has been formed, any more than one should seek this of the fig-juice that curdles milk; for this too changes, and is no part of the resulting masses. Concerning the soul, then, how the embryo and the seed have it and how they do not have it, has been determined: for they have it in potentiality, but do not have it in actuality. And since the seed is a residue and moves with the same motion by which the body grows, as the ultimate nutriment is being distributed, when it arrives at the uterus it forms and moves the residue of the female with the same motion with which it itself happens to be moved. For that too is a residue, and has all the parts in potentiality, but none in actuality — for such things too have parts in potentiality, in respect of which the female differs from the male. For just as from maimed parents there sometimes come maimed offspring and sometimes not, so too from a female sometimes comes a female, and sometimes not, but a male.
23| For the female is, as it were, a maimed male, and the menstrual fluid is seed, though not pure; for it lacks one thing only, the principle of soul. And for this reason, in those animals in which wind-eggs occur, the egg that forms has the parts of both, but does not have the principle, and therefore does not become ensouled; for it is the seed of the male that brings this. But when the residue of the female partakes of such a principle, it becomes an embryo. In moist things that are bodily and are heated, a surrounding forms, just as in boiled liquids as they cool a dry crust forms round them. And what holds all bodies together is the viscous element; and this, as things advance and grow larger, takes on the nature of sinew, which holds together the parts of animals — being sinew in some, and the analogous thing in others. And of the same form are skin and vein and membrane and every such kind; for these differ by the more and the less, and in general by excess and deficiency.
24| Of animals, those that have a less complete nature, when the embryo has become complete but the animal not yet complete, send it forth outside; the causes have been stated earlier. It is complete, however, precisely when one of the embryos is male and the other female, in those cases where this difference exists among the things generated; for some generate neither female nor male — those that do not themselves come to be from female and male, nor from animals mating. And concerning the generation of these we shall speak later. Animals that bear their young alive within themselves, being the complete kind of animal, keep the developing animal attached and growing within themselves until the point at which they produce the animal and send it forth outside. Those that bear their young alive outside but at first lay eggs within themselves — when they have produced the complete egg, in some of these the egg is released, as in those that lay eggs outside, and the animal comes to be from the egg within the female; in others, when the nutriment from the egg has been used up, the animal is completed from the uterus, and for this reason the egg is not released from the uterus. This difference is found in the cartilaginous fish, concerning which we must speak later, on their own account.
25| But now we must begin first from what is primary. The complete animals are primary, and such are the ones that bear live young, and among these man is first. Now the secretion of semen occurs in all of them just as with any other residue. For each thing travels to its own proper place, with no force applied by the breath, nor any other such cause compelling it, as some say — claiming that the genitals draw it in like cupping-glasses, the residue being forced along together with the breath, as though this residue of wet or dry nutriment could travel somewhere else if it were not forced, on the grounds that people expel these residues' outlets together with the breath they have accumulated — and this, they say, holds in common for everything that needs to be moved: for it is by holding the breath that strength arises, since even without this forcing the residues are excreted, even in people who are asleep, if the places happen to be relaxed and full of residue. It would be a similar claim if someone said that in plants too the seeds — the text is corrupt at this point — and the fruit are moved by breath on each occasion. But the cause of this, as has been said, is that all things have parts receptive of their residues — for the useless ones, such as the dry and the wet, and, for blood, the so-called veins. In females, then, around the region of the womb, since the two veins split off from above — the great vein and the aorta — many fine veins terminate in the womb; and when these become overfilled from the nutriment, and nature is unable to concoct it because of coldness, it is excreted through the finest veins into the womb, the veins being unable, because of their narrowness, to receive the excess in quantity, and the condition that results is like a hemorrhage.
26| Now the period is not fixed with precision for women, but it tends to occur, reasonably enough, as the month wanes; for the bodies of animals become colder whenever the surrounding air also happens to become so, and the conjunctions of the months are cold because of the moon's failing light, which is why the conjunctions of the months turn out to be more wintry than the mid-points. So then, once the residue has changed into blood, the menses tend to occur according to the period stated, but when it has not been concocted, something is always secreted little by little; and this is why the white discharge occurs in females while they are still small children. Now when both these secretions of residue occur in moderation, they preserve the body, inasmuch as a purging occurs of the residues that are causes of disease for the body; but when they fail to occur, or occur in excess, this does harm; for it produces either diseases or a wasting away of the body, and this is why the white discharge, when it occurs continuously and in excess, takes growth away from children. This residue, then, occurs in females of necessity, on account of the causes stated; for since nature is unable to concoct it, residue must arise not only from the useless nutriment, but also in the veins, and, increasing in quantity, it must overflow through the finest veins.
27| But for the sake of the better and of the end, nature makes use of this residue by directing it toward this place, for the sake of generation, so that another thing of the same sort as the parent may come to be; for it already exists potentially as the same sort of thing as the body of which it is a secretion. In all females, then, residue must necessarily arise — more in the blooded ones, and among these, most of all in the human female; and in the others too some such mass must necessarily collect in the region of the womb. The cause of why it is more in the blooded animals, and most of all among these in humans, has been stated earlier; but as for why such a residue exists in all females, but not in all males, the reason is that some males do not emit seed at all, but rather, just as the animals mentioned earlier fashion, by the motion in the seed, what is formed out of the matter present in the female, so too these seedless males, by the motion within themselves, in this part from which the semen is secreted in others, do the same thing and form the offspring. This is the region around the diaphragm, in all that have one; for the heart, or what is analogous to it, is the starting point of nature, while what lies below is an addition, and exists for its sake. The cause, then, of why not all males have a generative residue, but all females do, is that the animal is an ensouled body..
28| The female always supplies the matter, the male what fashions it; for this is the capacity we say each of them has, and this is what it is to be female and to be male, respectively. So the female must necessarily supply body and bulk, but the male need not; for it is not necessary that either the organs or the agent itself be present in the things that come to be. The body is from the female, but the soul is from the male; for the soul is the substance of a particular body. And this is why, whenever a female and male of kinds that are not the same but not too far apart mate (and those mate whose periods of time are equal and whose gestations are close, and whose body sizes are not far apart), the first offspring comes to be, by way of resemblance, common to both, as with the offspring produced from a fox and a dog, and from a partridge and a domestic fowl; but as time goes on, and generation after generation comes from these, the outcome in the end conforms to the female in form, just as foreign seeds conform to the region they are sown in. For it is this — the female, or the region — that supplies the matter and the body to the seeds. And this is why, in females, the receptive part is not a mere duct, but the womb has an internal cavity;
29| whereas in males that emit seed there are ducts, and these are bloodless, and each of the residues both is in its own proper place and becomes a residue at one and the same time; before that, nothing is a residue, unless by great force and contrary to nature. The cause, then, on account of which the generative residues are secreted in animals, has been stated. But when the semen comes from the male, in those animals that emit seed, it forms the purest part of the female's residue into offspring. For the greater part even of the menstrual fluid is useless and watery, just as the wateriest part of the male's seed is also useless — including that of a single emission taken as a whole; and in most cases the earlier portion is less fertile than the later; for it has less vital heat because it is unconcocted, whereas the concocted part has thickness and is more fully embodied. In those females — whether women or the females of other animals — in whom no emission occurs outward, because there is not much useless residue present in a secretion of this sort, what is present internally is only as much as is left over in animals that do emit it outward, and this the male's power, present in the semen secreted, forms into offspring, or else it does so once the part analogous to the womb has come to the male, as appears to happen in some insects.
30| That the moisture which arises together with pleasure in females contributes nothing to the embryo has been stated earlier. This would seem most supported by the fact that, just as with males, so too with women there occurs at night what people call having an erotic dream. But this is no evidence at all; for it also happens to young males who are on the verge of maturity but emit nothing yet, or who do emit but infertilely. So then, without the male's emission during intercourse it is impossible to conceive, and it is likewise impossible without the female's residue, whether it has come forth outward or is present internally in sufficient amount. Yet women do conceive from such intercourse even when the pleasure that customarily occurs in females does not happen, if the region happens to be aroused and the womb has descended nearby. But for the most part it happens the other way, because the mouth of the womb has not closed up when the secretion occurs, the secretion accompanied by which pleasure customarily arises both in males and in women; and when things are in this state, the male's semen also has an easier passage. The release of semen does not occur internally, as some suppose (for the mouth of the womb is narrow), but toward the front, at the very place where the female emits the moisture that arises in some of them — it is there that the male also emits his seed, if one draws it out to check.
31| So sometimes the seed stays in this condition, but sometimes, if the womb happens to be in due proportion and warm because of the purging, it draws the seed in. Here is a sign of this: fluids applied to it beforehand come away dry. Further, in whatever animals have their wombs next to the diaphragm, as with birds and the fish that bear their young alive, it is impossible for the seed not to be drawn in there, rather than simply being released and arriving on its own. The place draws the seed to itself because of the heat present in it. And the excretion and accumulation of the menses kindles heat in this part, so that, just as cupping-glasses among instruments, when rinsed out with something hot, draw the water into themselves as their mouth turns inward, so too the womb draws in the seed. This, then, is the way the drawing-in comes about; but as some say, it does not happen in any way at all by means of organic parts fitted for intercourse. And the opposite in fact results for those who say that the woman too emits seed: for wombs that are emitting outward turn out, on their account, to have to draw back inward again, if the seed is to mix with that of the male. But for it to happen in this roundabout way is superfluous, and nature does nothing superfluous. Now when the secretion in the womb belonging to the female is composed by the seed of the male, which acts in a way similar to rennet upon milk—
32| for rennet, too, is milk possessing vital heat, which brings what is alike together into one and makes it curdle, and this is what the seed does in relation to the substance of the menses; for milk and the menses have the same nature. As the bodily matter comes together, the fluid is separated out, and as the earthy parts dry, membranes form around it in a circle, both of necessity and for the sake of something: for it is necessary that the outer parts dry out both as they are heated and as they are cooled, and the animal must not be in fluid but set apart from it. Of these coverings, some are called membranes and others chorions, differing in degree; and both are present alike in animals that produce eggs and those that bear their young alive. Once the embryo has already been formed, it behaves in a way similar to things that are sown as seed. For in seeds too there is a first principle present in the seed itself; and once this has been separated out, though it was present potentially before, from it are sent forth both the shoot and the root. It is by the root that the plant takes its nourishment, for the plant needs growth. So too in the embryo, though in a way all the parts are present in it potentially, it is above all the principle that is present, well ahead of the rest. That is why the heart is the first thing separated out in actuality.
33| And this is clear not only from perception (for that is in fact what happens), but also from reasoning. For once the thing has been separated off from both parents, what has come to be must govern itself, like a child sent off to live away from its father. So it must have a principle, from which, later on, the ordering of the body for animals also comes about. For if this principle were ever going to come from outside and be present only later, one could raise not only the difficulty of when, but also the point that, whenever each of the parts is being separated off, this principle must of necessity be present first, since it is from it that both the growth and the motion of the other parts come. That is why those who say, as Democritus does, that the outer parts of animals are distinguished first and the inner parts later, are not speaking correctly, as though animals were like wooden or stone figures. For such things have no principle at all, whereas animals all have one, and have it within. That is why the heart is seen to be marked off first in all blooded animals; for it is the principle both of the uniform parts and of the non-uniform parts. Indeed, this is properly to be recognized as the principle of the animal and of the whole system, from the moment it needs nourishment; for what already exists, after all, grows. And the final form of nourishment for an animal is blood, or its analogue.
34| The vessel for this is the veins; and this is why the heart is the principle of these too. This is clear from observations and from dissections. Now since the embryo is already an animal potentially, though not yet complete, it must take its nourishment from elsewhere; and so it makes use of the womb, which holds it as earth holds a plant, for taking nourishment, until it is brought to completion so as to be already an animal potentially capable of movement. That is why nature first sketched out the two veins from the heart; and from these, small veins are attached, reaching to the womb, by what is called the navel. For the navel is a vein—one in some animals, more than one in others. Around these is a skin-like sheath [the so-called navel] because the weakness of the veins requires safeguarding and covering. The veins, like roots, connect to the womb, and through them the embryo takes its nourishment. This, in fact, is why the animal remains in the womb—not, as Democritus says, so that its parts may be molded to match the parts of the one that holds it. For this is plain in the case of egg-laying animals: their parts undergo differentiation within the eggs, separated from the womb. But one might raise this difficulty: if blood is nourishment, and the heart is the first part to come to be as a blooded thing, and blood is nourishment, and nourishment comes from outside, then where did the first nourishment come in from?
35| Or rather, it is not true that all nourishment comes from outside; instead, right from the start, just as in the seeds of plants there is present a certain milk-like substance that appears first, so too in the material of animals the residue of the initial composition is nourishment. The growth of the embryo, then, comes about through the navel in the same way that it does through the roots for plants, and also for the animals themselves once they have been released from the nourishment within them—matters that must be discussed later, at the proper points in the argument. The differentiation of the parts does not come about, as some suppose, because like is naturally borne toward like (for besides the many other difficulties this account faces, it would follow, if one accepted this cause, that each of the uniform parts comes to be separately—bones by themselves, sinews by themselves, and flesh by itself); rather, it is because the residue belonging to the female is potentially such as the animal is by nature, and the parts are present in it potentially, though none in actuality, that each of them comes to be through this cause; and because, when the active and the passive come into contact in the way in which the one is active and the other passive (and by "the way" I mean the how, the where, and the when), at once the one acts and the other is acted upon.
36| The female, then, provides the matter, and the male provides the principle of motion. Now just as the things produced by a craft come about through instruments—or, more truly speaking, through their motion, and this motion is the actuality of the craft, while the craft is the form of the things that come to be in something else—so too the capacity of the nutritive soul, just as later, in the animals and plants themselves, it produces growth out of nourishment, using heat and cold as its instruments, so to speak (for the motion belonging to the nutritive soul is present in these, and each thing comes to be by a certain proportion), so too from the very beginning it puts together what comes to be by nature. For it is the same matter by which the thing grows and out of which it is first composed, so that the productive capacity too is the same as the one operating from the beginning—though this one is greater. If, then, this is the nutritive soul, it is also the generative soul; and this is the nature belonging to each thing, present both in plants and in all animals. But the other parts of the soul are present in some animals and not in others. In plants, then, the female is not separated from the male—
37| In animals where the sexes are separate, the female needs the male. Yet one might raise a difficulty: if the female has the same soul, and the matter is the residue that belongs to the female, why does she need the male at all, rather than generating offspring by herself out of herself? The reason is that an animal differs from a plant in having perception; and it is impossible for there to be a face or a hand or flesh or any other part without a perceptive soul present in it, either in actuality or in potentiality, and either in some respect or without qualification; otherwise it will be like a corpse, or a part of a corpse. If, then, the male is what produces a soul of this kind, then wherever the female and the male are separate, it is impossible for the female to generate an animal by itself out of itself; for what we have just said was precisely what it is to be male. That the stated difficulty does have some point is clear from birds that lay wind-eggs, since the female is able to generate up to a certain point on her own. But this too presents a difficulty: how are we to say that their eggs are alive? For they cannot be alive in the way fertile eggs are — since then an actually ensouled thing would come from them — nor in the way wood or stone is; for there is a certain decay that befalls even these eggs, as things that in some way previously shared in life.
38| It is clear, then, that they possess some soul potentially. What kind, then, is this? It must be the lowest kind. This is the nutritive soul, for it belongs alike to all animals and plants. Why then does it not bring the parts, and the animal, to completion? Because these need to have a perceptive soul; for the parts of animals are not like the parts of a plant. Hence the female needs partnership with the male, since in these cases the male is kept separate. And this is exactly what happens: wind-eggs become fertile if the male mounts the female at the right time. But the cause of this will be determined later. If, however, there is some genus that is female but has no separate male, it is possible for this to generate an animal out of itself. This has not yet been observed with any confidence up to now, but it does make one hesitate in the genus of fishes; for of the so-called red mullets, no male has ever yet been observed, only females full of spawn. But we do not yet have trustworthy experience of these matters; and there are also fish within the genus of fishes that are neither female nor male, such as eels and a certain kind of grey mullet found around marshy rivers.
39| In all cases where the female and the male are kept separate, it is impossible for the female by itself to generate to completion; for then the male would exist in vain, and nature does nothing in vain. This is why in such cases the male always brings the process of generation to completion. For it is the male that produces the perceptive soul, either through itself or through the seed. Since the parts are already present potentially in the matter, when a principle of motion arises, what follows next falls into sequence, just as in automated marvels. And what some of the natural philosophers mean when they speak of things "moving toward what is like them" should be understood not as the parts changing place as they move, but as remaining in place and being altered in softness and hardness and colors and the other differentiae proper to the uniform parts, becoming in actuality what had previously existed only in potentiality. And the principle comes to be first. This is the heart in blooded animals, and in the others the analogous part, as has often been said. This is clear not only from observation, in that it comes to be first, but also with regard to the end; for life departs from this point last, and this holds true in every case — as if nature were running a double course and winding back to the starting point from which it set out.
40| For coming-to-be is a passage from not-being into being, and destruction is a passage back from being into not-being. After the principle, as has been said, the internal parts come to be before the external ones. And the parts that have magnitude appear before the smaller ones — though in some cases they do not actually come to be earlier, they only appear to. The parts above the midriff are the first to be articulated, and they differ in size, while the lower part is both smaller and less clearly defined. This happens in all animals in which upper and lower are distinguished, except in insects; and among these, in the grub-born kind the growth proceeds upward, since the upper part is smaller to begin with. Both upper and lower remain undifferentiated only in the case of the soft-bodied creatures among those that move about. The same thing that has been said holds also for plants: the upper growth is prior in coming-to-be to what lies below, for seeds send out roots before they send out shoots. The parts of animals are marked off by pneuma — not, however, by the pneuma of the parent that generates them, nor by their own, as some of the natural philosophers claim. This is clear from the case of birds, fish, and insects. For once separated from the parent that generated them, they come to be from an egg, within which they receive their articulation; and some animals do not breathe at all, yet are grub-born or egg-born.
41| Those that do breathe, and receive their articulation within the womb, do not breathe until the lung has reached completion; and this organ, along with the parts in front of it, is articulated before breathing begins. Further, all the many-toed quadrupeds — for example dog, lion, wolf, fox, jackal — bear their young blind, and the eyelid opens only later, after birth. So it is clear that in the same way, in all other cases too, just as quality comes to be, so quantity too comes to be, existing beforehand potentially and only afterward in actuality, under the same causes by which quality is also determined, and two come to be out of one. Pneuma must necessarily be present, because there is moisture and heat, the one acting, the other being acted upon. Some of the ancient natural philosophers attempted to say which of the parts comes to be after which, without being very well acquainted with what actually happens. For among the parts, as among other things, one is by nature prior to another. But "prior" already has several senses: that for the sake of which, and that which exists for the sake of this, differ from one another, and one of them is prior to the other in coming-to-be, the other in substance. And that for the sake of which also has two differentiae: the one is that from which the motion comes, the other is that which the end makes use of.
42| I mean, for example, the generative part and the instrumental part, in relation to the thing generated; for of these, the productive one must exist first — just as the one who teaches exists before the one who learns, but the flutes come after the one learning to play the flute, since it would be pointless for flutes to exist for people who do not know how to play them. There being three things — first, the end, which we call that for the sake of which; second, the things that exist for the sake of this, namely the principle of motion and generation (for the productive and generative, insofar as they are such, stand in relation to the thing produced and generated); and third, the useful thing, that which the end makes use of — of necessity there must first exist some part in which the principle of motion resides (for this is itself immediately a part of the end, one part and the most authoritative one), then after this the whole, that is, the end itself, and third and last the instrumental parts that serve these for certain uses. So if there is something of this kind, which must exist in animals, possessing within itself the principle and end of the whole nature, this must of necessity come to be first — first insofar as it is a moving principle, and along with the whole insofar as it is a part of the end. So that, of the instrumental parts, those that are generative in nature must always exist earlier, since they exist for the sake of something else, as the principle does, while those that are not of this kind, but exist for the sake of something else, come later.
43| That is why it is not easy to distinguish which of the parts are prior — those that exist for the sake of something else, or that for whose sake they exist. For the parts that produce motion intrude, being prior in generation to the end, and it is not easy to distinguish the motion-producing parts from the organic ones. And yet by this method one must inquire what comes into being after what: for the end comes later in some cases, and earlier in others. And for this reason the part that has the principle comes into being first, and next after it the upper cavity. That is why the parts around the head and the eyes appear largest at the start in embryos, while the parts below the navel, such as the limbs, are small: for the lower parts exist for the sake of the upper, and are neither parts of the end nor productive of it. Nor do those speak well about the necessity involved in the 'why', who say that this is simply how it always happens, and think that this is itself a principle in things — as Democritus of Abdera does, on the ground that there is no principle of what is eternal and infinite, but the 'why' is a principle, and the eternal is infinite, so that to ask the 'why' about any such thing is, he says, to seek a principle of the infinite.
44| And yet on this reasoning, by which they think one ought not to seek the 'why', there will be no demonstration of anything eternal; but demonstration is evidently found for many things, some of which are always coming to be and others which always are — since a triangle's having its angles equal to two right angles is always so, and the incommensurability of the diagonal with the side is eternal, and yet there is some cause of these things and a demonstration of them. Now it is right to say that one should not seek a principle of everything, but it is not right to say this of everything that always is and everything that always comes to be; rather it holds only of whatever happen to be principles of eternal things — for a principle is known in a different way, and not by demonstration. A principle, in the case of unchanging things, is what the thing is; but in the case of things that come to be there are already several principles, and in a different way, and not all the same way: one of them, one in number, is that from which the motion comes. That is why all blooded animals have a heart first, as was said at the start; and in the other animals, whatever is analogous to the heart comes into being first. And from the heart the veins are stretched out, just as those who sketch ground-plans do on walls; for the parts are arranged around these veins, inasmuch as they come into being out of them, and their generation is out of the uniform parts by cooling and heating.
45| For things are formed and set solid, some by cold, others by heat. The difference between these has been discussed earlier, elsewhere — which things are dissolved by moisture and by fire, and which are not dissolved by moisture and not melted by fire. Now through the veins and the passages within each part, the nourishment oozes through, just as water does in unfired earthenware jars, and flesh comes into being, or whatever is analogous to it, being formed by cold — which is why it is also dissolved by fire. But whatever of the growing parts are excessively earthy, having little moisture and heat, these, as they cool and the moisture evaporates along with the heat, become hard and earthy in form — such as claws, horns, hooves, and beaks. That is why they are softened by fire but not melted at all, though some are softened by moisture, such as the shells of eggs. By the heat within, the sinews and the bones come into being, as the moisture is dried out. That is why bones too are not dissolved by fire, like pottery: for they have been baked, as it were in a kiln, by the heat present at their generation. And this heat does not make just any chance thing into flesh or bone, nor in any chance place, but makes what is naturally suited to become so, in the place where it is naturally suited, and at the time when it is naturally suited.
46| For neither will what is potentially be brought about by a mover that does not itself have the actuality, nor will what has the actuality make something out of just any chance material — just as a carpenter could not make a chest except out of wood, nor will a chest come to be out of the wood without him. The heat is present in the seminal residue, having motion and actuality of just such an amount and kind as is proportioned to each of the parts. And to the degree that it falls short or exceeds this, it produces a worse result, or the thing that comes to be is deformed — in a way similar to things put together outside the body by boiling, for the enjoyment of food or for some other piece of work. But there, we ourselves supply the proportioning of the heat for the process; here, in generation, nature — the nature of the begetter — supplies it. In things that come to be spontaneously, the cause is the motion and heat of the season. Cooling is a privation of heat. Nature makes use of both, since it has, of necessity, the power to make this thing so and that thing so; yet in things that come to be for the sake of something, it happens that one process cools and another heats, and that each of the parts comes to be as it does — the flesh soft, made so partly of necessity and partly for the sake of something, the sinew dry and tensile, and the bone dry and brittle.
47| The skin comes into being as the flesh dries out, just as with boiled liquids there forms what is called the 'scum'. Its generation happens not only because it is the outermost part, but also because the viscous element rises to the surface, being unable to evaporate. Now in the other animals the viscous element is dry (which is why the shells of testaceans and crustaceans form the outer covering of the bloodless animals), but in the blooded animals the viscous element is more oily. And of these, whatever do not have a very earthy nature, the fatty matter collects beneath the covering of the skin, since the skin itself comes into being out of just such viscosity — for what is oily has a certain viscosity of its own. All these things, as we have said, must be described as coming to be partly of necessity and partly not of necessity but for the sake of something. First, then, the upper cavity is marked off in the process of generation, while the lower part, as time goes on, takes on its growth in the blooded animals. And all the parts are first distinguished by their outlines, and only later take on their colors and their softness and hardness — exactly as though they were being fashioned by nature acting as a painter; for painters too, having first sketched the outline in lines, then fill in the animal with colors.
48| Now because the principle of the senses, and of the whole animal, is in the heart, the heart comes into being first; and because of its heat — at the point where the veins terminate above — the cold forms the brain, as the counterpart to the heat around the heart. That is why the parts around the head take on their generation continuously after the heart, and differ from the other parts in size; for the brain is copious and moist from the start. But what happens with the eyes of animals presents a difficulty. For they appear largest of all the parts from the start, in land animals, swimming animals, and flying animals alike, yet they are the last of the parts to reach completion — for in the intervening time they shrink. The cause is that the sense-organ of the eyes is, like the other sense-organs, situated at passages; but the organ of touch and of taste is immediately either the body itself or some part of the body of the animals, while smell and hearing are passages connecting to the outside air, full of connate breath, and terminating at the little veins around the brain that stretch from the heart; but the eye alone among the sense-organs has a body that is its own.
49| It is moist and cold, and does not pre-exist in that place the way the other parts do — potentially at first, then coming to be in actuality later. Rather, the purest part is separated off from the moisture around the brain through the passages, which are visibly carrying it from the brain to the membrane around the brain. Here is evidence of this: no other part in the head besides the brain is moist and cold, and the eye is cold and moist. So of necessity the place first takes on size, and later contracts. For the same thing happens with the brain itself: at first it is moist and abundant, but as it exhales and is concocted it becomes more solid and contracts — the brain (and its coverings) and the size of the eyes alike. At the start, because of the brain the head is largest, and because of the moisture in the eyes the eyes appear large. They reach completion last, because the brain too coalesces only with difficulty; for it is late in giving up its coldness and moistness, in all animals, but most of all in humans. This is also why the crown of the skull's bones is the last to form.
50| For even once the embryos have already been born into the world, this bone of infants is still soft. The cause of this happening most in the case of humans is that they have the moistest brain, and the most abundant, of all animals. The cause of that, in turn, is that the heat in their heart is the purest. Their intelligence shows this good blending: for man is the most intelligent of animals. Children likewise lack control of their heads for a long time, because of the weight around the brain. And the same holds for the parts that need to be moved: for the principle of motion only late, and last of all, gains mastery over the parts above, in the case of parts whose motion is not directly bound up with it the way the limbs' motion is. The eyelid is such a part. Since nature does nothing superfluous or in vain, clearly it makes this neither too late nor too early; otherwise what came to be would be in vain or superfluous. So it is necessary that the eyelids separate and become able to move at one and the same time. It is late, then, because of the great amount of concoction that goes on around the brain, that the eyes reach completion in animals; and it is last of all, because moving parts so far from the principle, and so thoroughly cooled, requires a motion that has gained a very strong mastery.
51| The eyelids show that they have this nature: for if any heaviness at all occurs around the head, whether from sleep or drink or something else of that kind, we are unable to lift the eyelids, small as the weight they carry is. Concerning the eyes, then, it has been said how and why they come to be, and for what cause they are the last to receive their articulation. Each of the other parts comes to be from the nourishment: the most honored parts, which share in the most authoritative principle, come from the concocted, purest, and first nourishment; the necessary parts, which exist for the sake of these, come from the inferior nourishment and from the residues and excess-products. For nature, like a good household manager, is accustomed to throw nothing away from which something useful can be made. In households, of the food that is produced, the best is set aside for the free members, the worse — and its surplus — for the servants, and the worst is given even to the animals raised alongside them. So just as, outside the body, the intellect governs growth this way, so too, within the things that are coming to be, nature composes flesh and the bodies of the other sense-organs out of the purest matter, but bones and sinews and hair, and further nails and hooves and everything of that kind, out of the residues.
52| That is why these come together last, once nature's residue is already being produced. The nature of the bones comes to be in the first formation of the parts, out of the seminal residue, and as the animal grows it takes its growth from the natural nourishment — from the very same nourishment the principal parts grow from, but from the leftover and residual portion of it. For in everything there is a first and a second, and of nourishment one part is nutritive and the other growth-producing: the nutritive is what supplies being to the whole and to the parts, the growth-producing is what brings about the increase in size — matters that must be determined more fully later. The sinews are formed in the same way as the bones, and from the same sources, from the seminal residue and the nutritive residue. But nails, hair, hooves, horns, beaks, the spurs of birds, and any other part of that kind, come from acquired nourishment, of the growth-producing sort — both what is acquired from the female and what comes from outside afterward. This is why the bones take on growth only up to a certain point: for there is a limit of size set for all animals, and hence also a limit to the growth of their bones.
53| For if these went on growing forever, then the animals that have the analogous part to bone would also keep growing for as long as they lived; for it is these that set the limit of size for animals. The cause why they do not always keep growing must be stated later. Hair, and what is akin to it, grows for as long as it exists, and grows more during illnesses and as bodies age and waste away, because more residue is left over — since less is being spent on the principal parts on account of old age and illness. Indeed, when this supply too fails because of advanced age, the hair fails along with it. Bones are the opposite: they waste away together with the body and its parts. Hair grows even in the dead, though it does not begin growing from nothing in them. About teeth one might raise a puzzle. For they have the same nature as bones, and come to be from the bones, whereas nails, hair, horns, and the like come from the skin — which is why they change color along with the skin, becoming white or black or every sort of color to match the skin's color. Teeth do not change at all in this way; for they come from the bones, in every animal that has both teeth and bones.
54| They alone, unlike the other bones, go on growing throughout life; this is clear in the case of teeth that grow aslant and wear against one another's edge. The cause of their growth, so far as the 'for the sake of which' goes, lies in their function: for they would quickly be worn away if there were no ongoing replenishment, since even now, in some animals as they age — those that eat a great deal but do not have large teeth — the teeth are worn away entirely, because they are ground down at a greater rate than their growth can keep up with. This too, then, is something nature has well contrived to meet what happens: it arranges for the teeth's failing to coincide with old age and the end of life. And if a lifetime lasted ten thousand years, or a thousand, the original teeth would have to become enormous and to grow in afresh many times over; for even if they had continuous growth, they would still become useless for their work once worn smooth. The purpose for which they receive their growth has now been stated. But it turns out that teeth do not have quite the same nature as the other bones either: the others all come to be in the first formation and none of them later, whereas teeth come later. That is also why, once they have fallen out, they can grow in again — for they are attached to the bones, but not grown together with them. Yet they do come to be from the nourishment that is distributed into the bones, and so they share the bones' nature, and they come to be at the point when the bones already have their full number.
55| So the other animals are born already having their teeth, or the part analogous to teeth, unless something contrary to nature occurs — because they are released from generation in a more finished state than man is. Man, unless something contrary to nature happens, is born without them. The cause why some teeth come in and later fall out, while others do not fall out, will be stated later. And because such parts come from residue, this is why man is the most hairless in body of all animals, and has the smallest nails in proportion to his size: for he has the least earthy residue, and residue is what is unconcocted, and the earthy element in bodies is, of all things, the least concocted.
56| We have said, then, how each of the parts is put together, and what the cause of generation is. The embryos of animals that bear their young alive get their growth, as was said earlier, through the attachment of the umbilical cord. For since the nutritive capacity of the soul is present in animals, the embryo at once sends out the umbilical cord like a root into the uterus. The umbilical cord contains veins within its sheath — more of them in the larger animals, such as the ox and the like, two in the middle-sized ones, and one in the smallest. Through this it takes its blood-nourishment, for the uterus is the terminus of many veins. Now all the animals that do not have teeth in both jaws, and those animals with teeth in both jaws whose uterus does not have one large vein running through it but instead many close-packed veins in place of one, have in their uteruses what are called cotyledons, which are convex toward the uterus and hollow toward the embryo. Between the uterus and the embryo are the chorion and the membranes. As the embryo grows and reaches completion the cotyledons become smaller, and finally, once it is complete, they disappear. For nature sets out the uterus's blood-nourishment for the embryos at these points, as if at breasts, and because it collects there little by little out of many veins, the body of the cotyledon comes to be something like an efflorescence or an inflammation.
57| So then, as long as the embryo is small and unable to take in much nourishment, the cotyledons are plainly visible and indeed larger, but once it has grown they collapse. Most of the docked animals, even those with teeth in both jaws, do not have a cotyledon in their uteruses; instead the umbilical cord runs into a single vein, and this vein is stretched through the uterus with considerable size. Since some of these animals bear one young at a time and others bear many, the several embryos are related to it in the same way as the single one is. One must observe these things both from the specimens seen in dissections and from what has been written in the Researches on Animals. For animals grow naturally out of the umbilical cord, and the umbilical cord out of the vein, one connected to the next, as though the vein were flowing past like a channel; and around each of the embryos are both the membranes and the chorion. Those who say that infants are nourished in the uterus by sucking on some little piece of flesh are not speaking correctly. For the same thing would happen in the other animals too, but in fact it is not observed to (this is easy to see by dissection); and around all embryos alike — the winged, the swimming, and those that walk on land — thin membranes enclose them in the same way, separating them from the uterus and from the fluids that form there, in which there is nothing of that kind, nor is it possible to draw nourishment through any of these.
58| It is clear that all egg-laying animals get their growth once separated and outside the womb. Mating occurs among animals, by nature, between those of the same kind; but it also occurs between those whose nature is close, though not identical in species, provided their sizes are close and the periods of their gestation are equal. Such matings are rare among most animals, but they do occur among dogs, foxes, and wolves; and the Indian dogs are born from some dog-like wild beast mated with a dog. This has also been observed among birds that mate readily, for instance among partridges and hens; and among the hook-clawed birds the hawks that differ in species are thought to mate with one another; and it happens in the same way among certain other birds too. Among sea creatures nothing of note has been observed, though the creatures called rhinobatoi are thought above all to arise from the mating of the rhine and the batos. There is also the proverbial saying about Libya, that Libya is always breeding something new, said because of the mating there of animals not of the same stock; for on account of the scarcity of water, all the animals converge on the few places that have springs, and so even those not of the same kind mate together.
59| Now the other offspring produced from such mixed matings are observed, in turn, to mate and breed with one another again, and to be capable of producing both female and male young; but mules alone among such offspring are sterile, for they breed neither from one another nor by mating with other animals. The problem, stated generally, is this: for what cause is a thing sterile, or male, or female? For there are sterile women and sterile men, and among the other animals too, within each kind — horses and sheep, for instance. But the case of the mule is different: the whole kind is sterile. The causes of sterility in the other cases are several. For sometimes, from birth, when the parts useful for mating are maimed, both women and men become sterile, so that the women do not reach puberty and the men do not grow a beard, but remain permanently in a eunuch-like state. In others the same thing happens as their age advances, sometimes on account of the good nourishment of their bodies (for as the women grow fatter and the men grow more vigorous in body, the seminal residue is used up on the body itself, so that the women stop having their monthly discharge and the men stop producing seed), and sometimes because of disease: some men emit fluid that is watery and cold, while in women the menstrual discharges are poor and full of morbid residues; and for many men and many women this condition also comes about through defects in the parts and the places useful for intercourse.
60| Some of these conditions are curable and some incurable, and those that arise this way at the body's original formation remain sterile most persistently of all; for there come to be mannish women and womanish men, and the women do not have their monthly discharge, while the men's seed is thin and cold. This is why, reasonably enough, men's seed is tested for sterility by the trial in water: for what is thin and cold quickly disperses on the surface, while what is fertile sinks to the bottom; for what has been concocted is hot, and what is compact and has thickness to it has been concocted. Women are tested both by pessaries, to see whether the odors pass through to the breath and travel out through the mouth from below upward, and by pigments smeared into the eyes, to see whether they color the saliva in the mouth. For when these things fail to occur, it shows that the body has the passages through which the residue is secreted confused together and grown shut; and the region around the eyes is the most seed-charged part of those around the head. This is shown by the fact that in sexual intercourse it alone visibly changes its appearance, and in those who indulge often in sexual pleasures the eyes visibly give way. The cause is that the nature of seed is similar to that of the brain.
61| for its matter is watery, and its heat is acquired. And the seminal discharges come from the diaphragm, for that is where the origin of this nature lies, so that the motions reach the chest from the joints; and the odors from the chest produce sensation by way of the breathing. Now among human beings and the other kinds, as has been said before, this sort of defect occurs only in particular individuals, but the kind of the mules is sterile as a whole. As for the cause, the accounts given by Empedocles and Democritus — the one speaking obscurely, Democritus more intelligibly — are not correctly stated. For they both give the same demonstration for all cases alike of animals mating outside their own kind. Democritus says that the passages in the uteruses of mules are ruined because the origin of the animals does not come from creatures of the same kind. But it happens with other animals that this same thing holds true of them, and yet they breed no less; and yet, if this really were the cause, the other animals that mate in this way ought to be sterile too. Empedocles attributes it to the mixture of the seeds becoming dense, since the seed of each parent is soft; for the hollow parts of each fit together with the dense parts of the other, and out of such soft materials something hard results, just as when bronze is mixed with tin — and he is not correct either about the case of bronze and tin (this has been discussed in the Problems concerning them) or, in general, since he does not base his principles on anything well established.
62| For how do the hollow and the solid parts, fitting together with one another, produce mixture — for example, of wine and water? This statement is beyond us; for how one is supposed to take the hollow parts of the wine and of the water is altogether contrary to perception. Further, since it happens that from horses a horse is born, and from donkeys a donkey, and from a horse and a donkey a mule — either sex of the horse being paired with either sex of the donkey — why is it that from these a mixture is produced so dense that the offspring is sterile, while from a male and female horse, or from a male and female donkey, no sterile offspring results? And yet the seed of the male horse is soft, and so is that of the female. Both the female horse and the male mate with the donkey — with both the male donkey and the female donkey. And the reason sterile offspring result from both combinations, as he says, is that from both a single thing comes to be, the seeds being soft. So the offspring of a male and female horse ought to be sterile as well, on this account. For if only one of the two mated with the donkey, it would be possible to say that the other was the cause of the offspring's not being generated as similar, comparing it to the seed of the donkey; but as it is, the seed with which the horse mixes when mating with the donkey is of the very same kind as that with which it mixes when mating with its own kind.
63| Further, the demonstration has been stated as applying equally to both, to the female and to the male; but, as they say, only the male mule breeds, and only once it is seven years old — while the female is entirely sterile, or rather sterile in the sense that she does not carry to term, since a mule has actually been known to conceive. Perhaps, though, a more plausible demonstration than those stated would seem to be the dialectical one. I call it dialectical for this reason: the more universal an argument is, the further it stands from the principles proper to the subject. It runs something like this. If it is natural that from a male and female of the same species there comes to be, whether male or female, an offspring of the same species as its parents — for example, from a male and female dog, a dog, male or female — while from parents differing in species there comes to be something differing in species from both, for example, if a dog is different in species from a lion, then from a male dog and a female lion there comes something different from both, and from a male lion and a female dog something different from both — then, since a mule, male and female, is produced, and these two do not differ in species from each other, and the mule is produced from a horse and a donkey, and horses and donkeys differ in species from mules, it is impossible for offspring to be produced from mules. For it is not possible to produce another kind, since from a male and female of the same species only a thing the same in species results.
64| But the mule is produced from a horse and a donkey, which differ in species, and it was laid down that from things differing in species a different animal results; this argument, then, is far too universal, and empty. For arguments not drawn from the principles proper to the subject are empty — they merely seem to belong to the facts, without actually doing so. For arguments drawn from geometrical principles are geometrical, and likewise in the other cases; and what is empty seems to be something, but is nothing. Nor is the premise true, since many offspring produced from parents not of the same species turn out fertile, as was said earlier. In this way, then, one should not conduct inquiry either about the other cases or about natural things generally; rather, by examining the attributes belonging to the kind horse and the kind donkey, one could better grasp the cause — namely, first, that each of them, among animals of its own kind, bears a single offspring at a time; and next, that the females do not always conceive from the males, which is why breeders let horses cover the mares at intervals, since the mares cannot bear continuously. Now the mare is not subject to a monthly discharge, but emits the least of all the quadrupeds; the she-donkey, on the other hand, does not readily accept mating, but urinates out the seed, which is why handlers follow along whipping her.
65| Further, the donkey is a cold animal, and for that reason it does not thrive in wintry regions, since it is by nature ill-suited to cold — for example among the Scythians and the country bordering theirs, nor among the Celts beyond Iberia, for that country too is cold. For this same reason breeders let the males cover the she-donkeys not at the equinox, as with horses, but around the summer solstice, so that the foals may be born in the warm season; for birth occurs in the same season in which mating took place, since both the mare and the she-donkey carry for a year. And since, as has been said, the donkey is cold by nature, its seed too must necessarily be cold. Here is a sign of this: for this reason, if a stallion mounts a mare already covered by a donkey, it does not spoil the donkey's mating; but if the donkey mounts after the horse, it spoils the horse's mating, on account of the coldness of its seed. So then, when the two are mixed with each other, the offspring is preserved because of the heat of the one; for what is secreted from the horse is hotter — the donkey's matter and seed are both cold, while the horse's are hotter. And when hot is mixed onto cold, or cold onto hot, the result is that the conceptus produced from these is itself preserved, and that these parents are fertile with one another; but what is produced from these offspring is no longer fertile, but sterile as regards producing complete offspring.
66| In general, each of the two, horse and donkey, is by nature well-disposed toward sterility. For the donkey, besides the other traits mentioned, has this further trait: if it does not begin to breed right after its first mating season, it never breeds at all thereafter — so closely does the body of donkeys verge on being barren. The horse is likewise: it too is well-disposed toward sterility, and it falls short of being sterile only by as much as is needed to make its offspring colder — and this happens when its seed is mixed with the donkey's secretion. The donkey too, in the same way, comes close to sterility even in mating within its own kind, so that when the unnatural union is added to this — given that, mating with its own kind, it could barely produce a single offspring — the offspring produced from the unnatural union will be still more sterile, and being unnatural it will need nothing further to make it sterile, but will of necessity be sterile. It also happens that the bodies of mules grow large, because the secretion that would otherwise go to the menstrual discharge is turned instead toward growth. And since the gestation of such animals lasts a year, the female mule must not only conceive but also nourish the young to term; but this is impossible without the menstrual discharges occurring. In female mules this discharge does not occur; instead, the useless residue is excreted along with the residue from the bladder (which is why male mules, unlike the other solid-hoofed animals, do not smell the genitals of the females in heat, but only this residue itself), while the rest is turned toward growth and size.
1| So it is possible for the female mule sometimes to conceive, as has evidently already happened, but to nourish the young and carry it to term is impossible. The male might at some point sire offspring, both because the male is by nature hotter than the female, and because the male contributes no bodily matter to the mixture in generation. What is thus produced becomes a ginnos. This is a stunted mule; for ginnoi are also produced directly from the horse and the donkey, when the embryo suffers some defect in the womb. For the ginnos is like the metachoira among pigs; for there too, the offspring stunted in the womb is called a metachoiron. Any of the piglets, whichever it happens to be, may turn out this way. Pygmies come about in the same way; for they too have their parts and their size stunted during gestation, and are like the metachoira and the ginnoi.
2| We have discussed, then, the childlessness of mules, and the animals that bear live young, both those that do so outwardly and those that do so within themselves. Among the blooded animals that lay eggs, in one respect the facts about their generation are similar both to each other and to the land animals, and one can grasp something the same about all of them, but in another respect they differ, both from each other and from the land animals. Now all of them come to be from copulation without exception, the male emitting seed into the female. Among the egg-layers, the birds emit a complete, hard-shelled egg, unless something is defective through disease, and all the eggs of birds are two-colored. Among fish, the cartilaginous ones, as has often been said, lay eggs within themselves and then bear live young, the egg shifting from one place in the womb to another; their egg is soft-shelled and uniform in color. Only one of these does not bear live young within itself, the so-called fishing-frog; the cause of this must be stated later. The rest of the egg-laying fish emit an egg that is uniform in color but incomplete, for it takes its growth outside, for the same reason that also applies to the eggs that are completed inside.
3| We have already discussed, then, what differences the wombs have and for what causes. For among the live-bearers, some have their womb up near the diaphragm, others down near the joints — up in the cartilaginous fish, down in those that bear live young both within themselves and outwardly, such as man and horse and each of the other such animals. And among the egg-layers, some have it down, as do the egg-laying fish, others up, as do birds. Now conceptions also form in birds spontaneously — what some call wind-eggs and zephyr-eggs; these occur in birds that are neither strong fliers nor hook-taloned, but are prolific, because such birds have much residue, whereas in the hook-taloned birds this kind of secretion is diverted into the wings and feathers, and their body is small, dry, and hot, while the menstrual secretion and the seed are residue. Since, then, both the nature of feathers and that of seed come from residue, nature cannot pour abundantly toward both at once. For this same cause the hook-taloned birds are neither given to mating nor prolific, while the heavy birds, and among fliers all those whose bodies are bulky, such as the pigeon and the like, are given to mating and prolific.
4| For in the heavy, non-flying birds, such as hens, partridges, and others like them, much residue of this kind arises; hence their males are given to mating and their females emit much matter, and such birds produce their young either many at a time or often — many at a time, as the hen, the partridge, and the Libyan ostrich; the pigeon kind not many at a time, but often, for these stand between the hook-taloned and the heavy birds. They are fliers, like the hook-taloned, but they have bulk of body, like the heavy ones, so that because they are fliers, and their residue is diverted there too, they lay few eggs at a time, but because of the bulk of their body, and because they have a hot and highly digestive gut, and besides this because they procure their food easily, while the hook-taloned do so with difficulty, they lay often. The small birds too are given to mating and prolific, as sometimes plants are as well; for growth into the body becomes seminal residue. This is why, among hens, the Adriatic breed is the most prolific of all: because of the smallness of their body, the nourishment is spent on breeding.
5| Also the ignoble breeds are more prolific than the noble ones; for the bodies of the former are moister and bulkier, those of the latter leaner and drier, since noble spirit arises more in bodies of that leaner sort. Further, the thinness and weakness of the legs also contributes to such birds' being disposed to mate and being prolific, as is also the case with humans; for in them the nourishment that would go to the limbs is diverted into seminal residue — what nature takes away from there, it adds here. The hook-taloned birds have a strong stance and legs with bulk, because of their way of life, so that for all these causes they are neither given to mating nor prolific. The kestrel is the most prolific of all; for it is almost the only one of the hook-taloned birds that also drinks, and its moisture, both natural and acquired, is seminal, together with the heat that belongs to it. Yet even it does not produce very many at a time, but four at most. The cuckoo produces few young, even though it is not hook-taloned, because it is cold by nature (its cowardice makes this clear), whereas a seminal animal must be hot and moist. That it is cowardly is plain:
6| for it is chased by all the birds, and it lays its eggs in the nests of others. The pigeon kind, on the other hand, usually lays two eggs; for they are neither one-egg layers (no bird lays only one, except the cuckoo, and even this one sometimes lays two), nor do they lay many, but often produce two or three at most, and mostly two; for these numbers stand between one and many. That in prolific animals the nourishment is diverted into seed is clear from what happens. Most trees, after bearing too much fruit, wither away afterward, when no nourishment is left over for the body, and annual plants appear to suffer the same thing — such as pulses, wheat, and the like; for they spend all their nourishment on seed, since their kind produces much seed. And some hens that have been excessively prolific, to the point of laying two eggs in a day, have died after this excessive laying. For birds and plants too become depleted; and this affliction is an excess in the discharge of residue. A condition of this kind is also the cause of the lion's later barrenness: for at first it bears five or six cubs, then in the following year four, then again three cubs, then the next number down to one, then none at all, as the residue is used up and, at the same time as its age comes to an end, the seed fails.
7| We have now said, then, in which birds wind-eggs occur, and further which of them are prolific and which produce few young, and for what causes. Wind-eggs occur, as has also been said before, because the seminal matter is present in the female, but birds do not produce the menstrual discharge as the blooded live-bearers do; for in all of these it occurs, more in some, less in others, and in some in such quantity as at least to be noticeable. It is likewise the case, though not identically, with fish as with birds; hence in them too a conception forms without mating, just as in birds, but less conspicuously, since their nature is colder. The discharge of menstrual matter that occurs in live-bearers takes shape, in birds, according to the times when the residue arrives, and because the place near the diaphragm is hot, it is brought to completion there in its full size. But with respect to generation, these too, and likewise the eggs of fish, are incomplete without the seed of the male; the cause of this has been stated before. Wind-eggs do not occur in the strong-flying birds, for the same reason that such birds are also not prolific.
8| For hook-taloned birds have little residue, and need the male in addition for the impulse of the discharge of the semen. Wind-eggs are more numerous than those produced by mating, but smaller in size, for one and the same cause: they are smaller in size because they are incomplete, and because their size is smaller they are more numerous in number. They are also less pleasant to the taste because they are less concocted; for in all things what is concocted is sweeter. That the eggs neither of birds nor of fish are brought to completion for generation without the males has now been sufficiently observed. But as to whether conceptions also occur in fish without males, the case is not the same throughout; in connection with the erythrinus, for some are seen to have eggs immediately, as has been written about them in the Researches. And in general, even among birds, the eggs produced through mating tend for the most part not to grow unless the bird is covered continuously. The cause of this is that, just as in women intercourse with males draws down the discharge of the menses (for the womb, being heated, draws the fluid, and the passages open up), the same thing happens also in birds as the menstrual-type residue advances little by little; this residue is not discharged outward, because it is small in quantity and because the wombs lie up near the diaphragm, but it drains together into the womb itself.
9| For this is what makes the egg grow, just as with the embryos of live-bearing animals through the umbilical cord — what flows in through the womb — since once birds have mated once, nearly all of them go on continually having eggs, though quite small ones. This is why some are accustomed to say of wind-eggs that they are not generated at all but are remainders left over from an earlier mating. But this is false; for it has been sufficiently observed occurring even in the chicks of the hen and the goose without any mating. Further, female partridges — both those unmated and those already mated among the ones kept for hunting — on smelling the male and hearing his call, some become full and some lay on the spot. The cause of this affection is the same as in humans and in quadrupeds: if their bodies happen to be in heat for intercourse, some emit semen at a mere sight, others at the slightest touch. Birds of this kind are by nature disposed to mate and are prolific in semen, so that they need only a slight stimulus when they happen to be in heat, and the discharge occurs quickly in them; the result is that in the unmated ones wind-eggs are formed, while in the mated ones the eggs grow and reach completion quickly. Of animals that lay their eggs outside the body, birds emit the egg complete, but fish emit it incomplete, and it takes its growth outside, as has also been said before.
10| The cause is that the fish kind is prolific in offspring; it is therefore impossible for it to bring many to completion, and that is why they lay them outside. And the emission is quick, for the wombs of fish that lay their eggs outside lie close to the vents. Now the eggs of birds are two-colored, but those of fish are all one-colored. The cause of the two-coloredness one may see from the capacity of each of the two parts, the white and the yolk. The secretion arises from the blood (for no bloodless animal lays eggs), and that blood is the matter for bodies has been said many times. Now one part of it is nearer to the form, as the parts come to be — the hot part; the other, more earthy part, provides the constitution of the body and is farther removed. This is why, in all eggs that are two-colored, the animal takes the starting point of its generation from the white (for the psychic principle is in the hot), and its nourishment from the yolk. In animals hotter by nature, then, that from which the starting point comes and that from which the creature is nourished are kept separate, and the one is white and the other yellow, and the white is always greater and purer in proportion than the yellow and earthy part;
11| but in animals less hot and moister, the yellow is greater and more fluid. This is what happens in marsh birds; for they are by nature moister and colder than birds that walk on land, so that the eggs of such birds have a great deal of what is called yolk, and it is less yellow because the white has been less fully separated out. And in creatures that are by now cold by nature among egg-layers, and moreover more moist still (such is the fish kind), the white is not even separated out at all, on account both of its smallness and of the abundance of the cold and earthy element; that is why the eggs of all fish are one-colored, being, as it were, white yolk, or yellow white. The eggs of birds, including wind-eggs, have this two-coloredness; for each has that from which each of the two parts will come — that from which the starting point comes and that from which the nourishment comes — but these are incomplete and still need the male; for wind-eggs become fertile if at some point they are mated by the male. The cause of the two-coloredness is not the male and the female, as though the white came from the male and the yellow from the female;
12| rather, both come from the female, but one is cold and the other hot. In those in which the hot is plentiful, it is separated out; in those in which it is little, it cannot be. That is why the conceptions of such creatures are one-colored, as has been said. The semen only brought it together. And for this reason the conception in birds appears at first white and small, but as it advances it becomes entirely yellow, as more and more blood-like matter keeps being mixed in; finally, as the hot is separated out, the white takes its place around it in a circle, as when a liquid boils, alike on every side; for the white is by nature fluid, but has within itself the psychic heat; this is why it is separated out in a circle, while the yellow and earthy part is within. And if one pours many eggs together into a bladder or something of the kind and boils them over a fire that does not make the motion of the heat faster than the separation that occurs within a single egg, then, just as in one egg, the resulting mass from all the eggs together has the yellow in the middle and the white in a circle around it.
13| Why, then, some eggs are one-colored and some two-colored has been stated. In eggs the principle of the male is separated out at the point where the egg is attached to the womb, and so the shape of two-colored eggs becomes unequal, not entirely round but sharper at one end, because it must differ at the point where it holds the white, in which it has its starting point. That is why the egg is harder there than below; for it must cover and guard the starting point. And for this reason the sharp end of the egg comes out last; for what is attached comes out last, and it is attached at the starting point, and the starting point is in the sharp end. The same manner holds also in the seeds of plants; for the starting point of the seed is attached in some cases within the branches, in others within the husks, in others within the fruit-coverings. This is clear in the case of legumes; for wherever the two-valved pod of beans and similar seeds is joined together, there the seed is attached, and the starting point of the seed is there. One might raise a difficulty about the growth of eggs, as to how it comes about from the womb. For animals take their nourishment through the umbilical cord, but through what do eggs take theirs?
14| since they do not, like grubs, get their growth through themselves. But if there is something by which the embryo is attached, where does this go when the embryo reaches completion? For it does not come out along with it, as the navel-cord does with animals born alive; rather, the surrounding shell forms once the embryo is complete. Now this question is rightly asked; but what escapes notice is that the shell which forms is at first a soft membrane, and only becomes hard and brittle once the embryo is complete, and in such due proportion that the chick comes out while it is still soft (for it would have caused pain in the hatching if it had not), and once it has come out it sets at once as it cools, since the moisture in it, being small in amount, quickly evaporates and the earthy part is left behind. Now a part of this membrane is at the outset navel-like at the pointed end, and while the embryo is still small it stands apart from it like a tube. This is clear in the case of small eggs that are cast out prematurely: if a hen, after being drenched or chilled in some other way, casts out an egg, the embryo still looks bloody and has running through it a small navel-like stalk. As the embryo becomes larger, this stalk is stretched tighter and becomes shorter. Once the pointed end of the egg is complete, this is the limit that results. Beneath this is the inner membrane, which separates the white from the yolk on the near side.
15| Once the egg is complete, the whole thing comes free, and reasonably enough the navel-cord no longer appears, for it is itself at the very tip. The manner of coming out is the opposite for animals from eggs as against those born alive: the latter come out head first, at the starting principle, while for the egg the coming-out is, so to speak, feet first. The cause of this is what has been said, namely that the attachment is at the starting principle. The generation from the egg comes about in birds through the hen's sitting on it and concocting it further, the animal being separated off from one part of the egg, while it takes its growth and reaches completion from the remaining part. For nature at the same time places in the egg both the matter of the animal and food sufficient for its growth; since the hen cannot bring it to completion within herself, she lays the food along with it in the egg. For animals born alive, the food is produced in a different part, the so-called milk, in the breasts; but for birds nature does this in the eggs, though in the opposite way from what people suppose and from what Alcmaeon of Croton says. For the white is not the milk, but the yolk;
16| for this is the food for the chicks, and people suppose it is the white because of the similarity of color. Now the chick comes about, as has been said, through the hen's sitting on the egg; but even so, if the season is temperate or the place where the eggs happen to lie is warm, the eggs of birds are concocted, and likewise those of four-footed egg-laying animals. For all such animals lay their eggs into the earth, and the eggs are concocted further by the heat in the earth. Those egg-laying and four-footed animals that go about sitting on their eggs do this more for the sake of protection. The eggs of birds and those of the four-footed animals come about in the same way: they too are hard-skinned and two-colored, and form near the membrane that divides them, just as those of birds do, and everything else, both inside and outside, comes about in the same way. So the same account holds for the cause in all these cases. But the eggs of the four-footed animals are concocted through their own strength and by the season, while those of birds are more perishable and need the mother that bore them. And nature seems to want to provide, in the case of offspring, a perceptive concern for their care; but in the worse animals it produces this only up to the point of giving birth, in others also through the completion of the young, and in those with more practical wisdom, through the rearing of the young as well.
17| In those that most share in practical wisdom there also comes about, toward the offspring once they are complete, familiarity and affection, as with human beings and with some of the four-footed animals, while for birds this lasts only up to the begetting and rearing of the young; and this is why females that do not sit on their eggs, once they have laid them, are worse off, as if deprived of something that belongs to them by nature. The animals in eggs reach completion more quickly on warm days, for the season works together with the process; concoction, after all, is itself a kind of heat. For the earth concocts further by its heat, and the sitting hen does this same thing, since she applies the heat within herself. And eggs also spoil and become what are called "wind eggs" more, reasonably enough, in the hot season; for just as wines turn sour in warm weather when the sediment is stirred up (this being the cause of the spoiling), so too in eggs it is the yolk that spoils, since this is the earthy part in both cases. This is why wine becomes turbid when the sediment is mixed in, and eggs that spoil do so through the yolk. Now with animals that lay many eggs, this sort of thing happens reasonably enough (for it is not easy to render the fitting heat to all of them alike, but it falls short in some and is excessive in others, and makes them turbid as if putrefying them), while for the hook-taloned birds, which lay few eggs, this happens no less;
18| for often one of a pair of eggs becomes a wind egg, and, one might almost say, a third of them always does; for being hot in nature, these birds make the moisture in the eggs as it were boil over. For the yolk and the white have, in fact, opposite natures. The yolk sets in frost, but becomes liquid when heated; this is why, when it is concocted further in the earth or by sitting, it becomes liquid, and being of this kind it becomes food for the animals forming in it. But when burned or roasted it does not become hard, because its nature is earthy in the way wax is; and for this reason, when heated further, if it is not formed of moist residue, it separates out and becomes a wind egg. The white, by contrast, does not set under frost, but rather becomes more liquid (the cause has been stated earlier), while when burned it becomes solid; this is why, as it is concocted in the course of the generation of the animal, it thickens. For the animal forms out of this, while the yolk becomes food, and the growth of the parts as they continually form comes from this source. This is why the yolk and the white are marked off separately by membranes, as having a different nature. As for the precise manner in which these stand to one another at the beginning of generation and as the animals are forming, and further concerning the membranes and navel-cords, one must look to what has been written in the Researches;
19| but for the present inquiry it is enough that this much be clear: once the heart has first formed, and the great vein has been marked off from it, two navel-cords stretch from the vein, one to the membrane surrounding the yolk, the other to the membrane shaped like a chorion, which surrounds the animal in a circle; this latter lies near the membrane of the shell. Through the one, then, the embryo takes its food from the yolk, and the yolk becomes more in quantity, for it becomes more liquid as it is heated. For the food, being bodily, must be liquid, just as it is for plants; and what forms first, both in eggs and in animals, lives the life of a plant at first, for it is by being attached to something that it takes its first growth and food. The other navel-cord stretches to the surrounding chorion. For one must suppose that egg-laying animals stand to the yolk in the way that the embryos of animals born alive stand to the mother, when they are in the mother (since egg-laying animals are of course not nourished within the mother, the yolk takes over a certain part of that role), while they stand to the outermost, blood-filled membrane as they stand to the womb.
20| At the same time, the shell of the egg has grown around both the yolk and the chorion (which is analogous to the uterus), as if someone were to place something around both the embryo itself and the mother as a whole. This is so because the embryo must be in the uterus and also with the mother. Now in live-bearing animals the uterus is in the mother, but in egg-laying animals it is the reverse, as if one were to say that the mother is in the uterus; for what comes from the mother, the nourishment, is the yolk. The cause is that the process of nourishing does not take place within the mother. As they grow, the umbilical cord leading to the chorion collapses first, because it is at this point that the animal must emerge, while the remainder of the yolk and the umbilical cord leading to the yolk come later. For what is generated must have nourishment right away: it is not suckled by the mother, and it cannot immediately provide itself with nourishment on its own. That is why the yolk, together with the umbilical cord, enters inside, and the flesh grows around it. So the animals generated from complete eggs outside the mother come about in this way, in birds and in those four-footed animals that lay the hard-shelled egg.
21| These things are more clearly visible in the larger animals; in the smaller ones they are unclear because of the smallness of their bulk. Further, the class of fishes is egg-laying. Of these, the ones that have the uterus below produce an incomplete egg, for the reason stated earlier, while those fish called the selachians produce a complete egg within themselves but bear live young outside, except for one, which they call the frogfish; this one alone lays a complete egg outside. The cause is the nature of its body: it has a head many times the size of the rest of its body, and this head is spiny and extremely rough. That is why it does not take its young back in afterward, nor does it bear live young from the start; for the size and roughness of the head prevents it from going in just as it prevents it from coming out. Now since the egg of the selachians is soft-shelled (for they cannot harden the covering around it, since they are colder than birds), the egg of the frogfish alone is solid and firm, for its safety outside, while the eggs of the others are by nature moist and soft, since they are sheltered inside by the body of the female that holds them. The generation from the egg is the same both for the frogfish, which complete their development outside, and for those that complete it inside; and this generation is in some respects similar to, and in others different from, that of birds.
22| For, first, they do not have the second umbilical cord that stretches to the chorion, which lies beneath the enclosing shell. The cause of this is that they do not have a surrounding shell. For it would be of no use to them: the mother provides shelter, whereas the shell is, for eggs laid outside, a protection against harm from without. Next, generation proceeds from the tip of the egg in these too, but not at the point where it is attached to the uterus; for birds develop from the pointed end, and that was the point of the egg's attachment. The cause is that the egg of birds separates from the uterus, whereas in these fish, not all of them but most, the complete egg remains attached to the uterus. As the animal develops at the tip, the egg is used up, just as in the case of birds and the other fish whose eggs have been released, and finally, once they are already complete, the umbilical cord is attached to the uterus. The same holds also for those whose eggs are released from the uterus; for in some of them, once the egg becomes complete, it is released. One might then raise the difficulty of why the modes of generation differ between birds and fish in this respect.
23| The cause is that the eggs of birds have the white and the yolk separated, whereas those of fish are of a single color, this substance being mixed throughout, so that nothing prevents the embryo from having its origin at the opposite point; for the substance is not of this uniform kind only at the point of attachment but also at the point directly opposite, and it is easier to draw nourishment from the uterus, by certain passages, from this opposite point of origin. This is clear in the case of eggs that are not released: in some of the selachians the egg is not released from the uterus but, remaining attached, moves down toward the place of live birth, and in these, once the animal is complete, it has its umbilical cord attached to the uterus, the egg having been used up. It is clear, then, that even earlier, while the egg still existed, the passages stretched from around it to the uterus. This occurs, as we said, in the smooth dogfish. So the generation of fish differs from that of birds in these respects, and for the reasons stated; but in other respects it occurs in the same way. For they too have the second umbilical cord in the same way: just as birds have theirs going to the yolk, so fish have theirs going to the whole egg (since it does not have a white part and a yolk part, but is entirely of one color), and they are nourished from this, and as it is used up the flesh likewise advances and grows around it.
24| Concerning, then, those fish that lay a complete egg within themselves but bear live young outside, generation occurs in this way, but most of the other fish lay their eggs outside, and all of them lay an incomplete egg except the frogfish; the cause concerning this one has been stated earlier. The cause has also been stated concerning those that produce incomplete eggs. The generation of these too from the egg occurs in the same way as that of the selachians that lay their eggs internally, except that their growth is rapid and starts from small beginnings, and the outer part of the egg is harder. The growth of the egg is similar to that of larvae: for animals that produce larvae also bring forth something small at first, and this grows through itself and not through any attachment. The cause is similar to what happens with leaven: for leaven too becomes large from a small amount, as its more solid part is moistened and its liquid part is turned into breath. In animals it is the nature of the vital heat that produces this, while in leaven it is the heat of the juice that has been mixed in. So the eggs grow of necessity for this reason (for they contain a leaven-like residue), but also for the sake of the better;
25| for it is impossible for them to receive their whole growth within the uterus, because of the great fecundity of these animals. For this reason they are secreted extremely small and undergo rapid growth: small, because the uterus is too cramped in relation to the multitude of eggs, and rapid, so that the offspring should not perish by lingering too long over their growth in the process of generation, since even as it is, many of the embryos that are produced perish; and that is why the class of fish is highly prolific. For nature counters the destruction by sheer numbers, and there are some fish that burst apart, such as the one called the garfish, because of the size of their eggs; for this fish, instead of having many embryos, has few large ones. For nature, taking away from their number, has added to their size.
26| We have said, then, that eggs of this sort grow, and for what cause. That these fish too lay eggs is shown by the fact that even the fish that bear live young, such as the cartilaginous fish, first lay eggs inside themselves. For it is clear that the whole class of fish is egg-laying, though none of these eggs reaches completion — in those kinds where there is a female and a male and the young are produced from mating — unless the male sprinkles his milt on them. There are some who say that all fish except the cartilaginous ones are female; they are not right. For they suppose that what are called their females differ from the males the way plants do, in cases where one bears fruit and the other is fruitless, for example the olive and the wild olive, the fig and the wild fig. And they suppose the same of fish, except the cartilaginous ones; about these they do not dispute. And yet the males are disposed in the same way as regards their milt-organs, both the cartilaginous kind and those belonging to the egg-laying class, and seed is seen being pressed out of both at the proper season. And the females also have wombs. But if the whole class really were female, then not only the egg-layers but the others too ought to have wombs — though wombs differing from those of the egg-layers, as mules do within the crested-tailed kind — with some of them simply barren.
27| As it is, some have milt-organs and others wombs, and in all cases except two, the red mullet and the channa, this is the difference: some have milt-organs, others wombs. The difficulty that leads people to suppose otherwise is easily resolved once one hears what actually happens. They say that none of the animals that mate produce many offspring, and in this they are right; for whatever generates complete animals or complete eggs from itself does not bear as many young as the egg-laying fish do, since the number of their eggs is immense. But they had failed to see this: that the case of fish eggs is not the same as that of birds' eggs. For birds, and such four-footed animals as lay eggs, and any of the cartilaginous fish that do so, produce a complete egg, which does not grow further once it has come out; but fish produce incomplete eggs, and the eggs get their growth outside, once laid. Further, the case is the same with the soft-bodied creatures and the crustaceans, which are actually seen mating, because their coupling lasts a long time; and among these it is evident that the one is male, and the other has a womb. And it would be absurd for this capacity not to exist throughout every class in the same way it does among the live-bearers, where one is male and the other female.
28| The cause of the ignorance of those who speak that way is that the differences bearing on the mating and generation of animals, being of every kind, are not obvious, and that, having observed only a few cases, they suppose things must hold the same way in all. That is also why those who say that female fish become pregnant by gulping down the seed speak this way without having grasped certain facts. For the males have their milt and the females their eggs at the same season, and the nearer the female is to laying, the more abundant and moister the milt becomes in the male. And just as the milt in the male and the egg in the female grow over the same period, so too their release happens together: the females do not lay all at once but little by little, nor do the males release their milt all at once. And all this happens for good reason. For just as the class of birds too, in some cases, produces eggs without mating — few, and rarely, though mostly from mating — this same thing happens with fish as well, though less often. And in both cases the spontaneous eggs are infertile unless the male sprinkles them, in whatever of these kinds there is also a male.
29| For birds, then, because their eggs come out complete, this must happen while they are still inside. But for fish, because their eggs are all incomplete and get their growth outside, even when the egg comes from mating, it is nonetheless preserved only by being sprinkled outside, and it is there that the males' milt gets used up. That is why it goes down and diminishes together with the eggs in the females, since the males always follow along, sprinkling the eggs as they are laid. It follows that all fish are male and female and all of them mate, except where in some class male and female are undifferentiated, and without the male's seed none of these creatures comes into being. What contributes to the error about them is also the fact that the coupling of such fish is quick, so that it escapes the notice of many even of the fishermen; for none of them observes anything of this kind for the sake of finding it out. But all the same, the coupling has been observed. For dolphins mate in the same way, coming alongside each other, as do those fish whose tail gets in the way. But in dolphins the separation takes longer, while in such fish it is quick. That is precisely why, not seeing this, but only the gulping-down of milt and of eggs, the fishermen too tell the naive and much-repeated story about the pregnancy of fish — the same one told by Herodotus the storyteller — that fish become pregnant by swallowing the milt, not realizing that this is impossible.
30| For the passage that goes in through the mouth leads to the stomach, not to the wombs; and whatever comes into the stomach must necessarily become food, since it is digested there, while the wombs are seen to be full of eggs — and where would these have entered from? The same holds also regarding the generation of birds. For there are some who say that crows and the ibis mate by the mouth, and that among four-footed animals the weasel gives birth through the mouth. These things are said by Anaxagoras and some of the other natural philosophers, who speak far too simply and without examination — in the case of birds, being deceived by an inference, because the mating of crows is seen rarely, while their touching bills together is seen often, something all crow-like birds do; this is clear in the case of tame jackdaws. The class of pigeons does the same thing, but because they are also seen mating, they have not acquired this reputation. The crow-like class is not much given to mating, since it is among the kinds that produce few young, though this too has in fact already been seen mating. And it is absurd not to reason out how the seed could reach the wombs, given that the stomach always digests whatever comes into it, just as it does food. These birds too have wombs, and eggs are seen near their diaphragms. And the weasel, like the other four-footed animals, has its womb in the same way they do —
31| from which, how could the embryo make its way to the mouth? Rather, it is because the weasel bears altogether tiny young, as do the other cloven-footed animals as well — about which we shall speak later — and because it often carries its young about in its mouth, that this belief has arisen. Also naive and quite mistaken are those who speak about the trochus and the hyena. For many say that the hyena, and Herodorus of Heraclea says that the trochus, has two genital organs, one male and one female, and that the trochus mates with itself, while the hyena mates and is mated in alternate years. But the hyena has been observed to have only one genital organ; for in some places there is no lack of opportunity to observe it. Rather, hyenas have, under the tail, a line resembling the female genital organ. Both the males and the females have this mark, but the males are caught more often; that is why, for those who observe it only in passing, this belief has arisen. But on these matters, enough has been said.
32| About the generation of fish, one might raise the difficulty: for what cause is it that among the cartilaginous fish neither are the females seen discharging their conceptions nor the males their seed, while among those that are not live-bearing, both the females discharge their eggs and the males their seed? The cause is that the cartilaginous kind is not prolific in seed at all. And further, the females among them have their wombs up near the diaphragm. For males differ from males and females from females in a similar way here: the cartilaginous fish are comparatively scant in what they produce toward generation. But the male kind among the egg-laying fish, just as the females discharge their eggs because of their quantity, so those males discharge their seed likewise. For they have more seed than is sufficient for mere copulation; nature prefers to spend the seed on helping the eggs grow further, once the female has laid them, rather than on the original formation alone. For as has been said both in the discussions above and just now, the eggs of birds are brought to completion inside the body, but those of fish outside it. For in a way the fish resemble the animals that produce grubs; for the grub-producing animals emit their conception in a still more incomplete state.
33| The male brings both kinds to completion — both the eggs of birds and those of fish — but for birds it does so inside (for their eggs are completed inside), while for fish it does so outside, because what is emitted is incomplete; since in fact the same thing turns out to hold in both cases. Now among birds, wind-eggs also become fertile, and eggs already covered by one kind of male change their nature toward the male that covers them afterward. And eggs of their own that are not yet grown, if the covering is interrupted, when covering happens again, are made to take on growth quickly — not, however, at every point in time, but only if the covering occurs before the change into the separating-out of the white. But for fish nothing of this sort is fixed; rather, for the sake of preservation the males discharge their seed quickly. The cause is that this is not on account of coloring; and that is why no such fixed season is set for these as for birds. And this comes about reasonably: for when the white has been marked off from the yolk, and the two are separated from each other, the egg already has the principle that comes from the male; for it is into this that the male contributes. The wind-eggs, then, take on generation only up to the point that is possible for them.
34| For it is impossible for them to be brought to completion as an animal (since that requires perception), yet the nutritive power of the soul belongs to females and males and all living things alike, as has often been said; and this is why such an egg, considered as a conception of a plant, is complete, but considered as that of an animal, incomplete. If, then, there were no male present in their kind, it would come about as it does among fish, supposing there really is such a kind as generates without a male; and it has been said about them before that this has not yet been adequately observed. As things stand, however, in all birds there is a female and a male, so that in the respect in which it is like a plant, the egg has reached completion (which is why it does not change again after covering), while in the respect in which it is not like a plant, it has not reached completion, and nothing else comes out of it; for it has come to be neither simply as the conception of a plant nor, from pairing, as that of an animal. Eggs that arise from covering, and that have separated out into a white, come to be according to whichever male covered first; for they already possess both principles.
35| In the same way the soft-bodied animals also produce their offspring — for instance cuttlefish and the like — and the crustaceans, for instance crayfish and their kin; for these too give birth from covering, and the male has often been observed pairing with the female. Hence those who say that all fish are female and give birth not from covering are shown not even to be reporting accurately in this respect either. For to suppose that these creatures give birth from covering, but those others do not, is strange; and if this had escaped notice, it would be a sign of inexperience. The pairing of these animals lasts longer than that of any others, as with insects — reasonably so, since they are bloodless, and therefore cold in nature. Now in cuttlefish and squid the eggs appear as two, because the womb is jointed and appears cleft in two, whereas in octopuses the egg is one. The cause is that its shape is round in form and spherical; for the division is not apparent once it is filled out. The womb of crayfish is likewise cleft in two. These animals too all expel their conception incomplete, for the same cause. Now the crayfish-like animals produce their offspring by themselves, apart from the male (which is why their females have larger tail-flaps than the males, for the sake of guarding the eggs), while the soft-bodied animals produce theirs outside the body.
36| And on the females of the soft-bodied animals the male sprinkles his seed, just as male fish do on the eggs, and it becomes continuous and sticky; but among the crayfish-like animals nothing of this sort has been observed, nor is it reasonable to expect it. For the conception is under the female and is hard-shelled, and it takes its growth, both in these and in the soft-bodied animals, outside the body, just as in fish also; and the cuttlefish that is coming to be grows attached to the eggs at the front part, for only there is this possible, since only there does it have its hind part and its front part meeting at the same place. As for the shape of the position it holds while coming to be, one must examine this from the observed records.
37| Concerning the generation of the other animals, then — land animals, winged animals, and swimming animals — an account has been given. About insects and the shelled animals we must speak according to the method laid down. Let us speak first about insects. That some of these arise from covering and others spontaneously has been said before, and in addition, that they produce grubs, and for what cause they produce grubs. For pretty much all animals seem in some way to produce a grub first; for the most incomplete kind of conception is of this sort. In all animals, both the live-bearing and the egg-laying, the complete egg is a conception that, being at first undifferentiated, takes on growth; and such is the nature of the grub. After this stage, some lay a complete egg, others an incomplete one that becomes complete outside, just as has often been said in the case of fish. Those that bear live young within themselves become, in a way, after the initial formation, egg-shaped; for the fluid is enclosed by a thin membrane, just as it would be if one stripped the shell off an egg — which is why they call the destructions of conceptions that occur at that stage 'discharges.' Insects both produce offspring that produce grubs, and those offspring that come to be not through covering but spontaneously arise first from a formation of this same kind.
38| For one must count caterpillars too as a species of grub, and likewise the offspring of spiders. And yet, because of the roundness of their shape, some of these and many other creatures might seem to resemble eggs; but one should not judge by shape, nor by softness and hardness (for the conceptions of some of these do become hard), but by whether the whole changes, and the animal does not come to be out of some one part. All the grub-like creatures, once they have advanced and reached the limit of their size, become like an egg; for the covering around them hardens, and at that time they become motionless. This is clear in the grubs of bees and wasps, and in caterpillars. The cause of this is that nature, as it were, lays her eggs before their time because of her own incompleteness, the grub being, as it were, still a soft egg in the process of growth. And the same thing happens in the same way in all the other cases of creatures not arising from covering, in wool or in certain other such materials, and in those that arise in water. For all of them, after the nature of the grub has become motionless, and the covering has dried all around, then, once this has broken open, the animal comes out as if out of an egg, brought to completion at this third stage of generation — of which most are winged, among the land animals.
39| What has justly been marveled at by many also turns out to fit the pattern we have described. For caterpillars, once they have taken food at first, later on take none, but become motionless — the things some people call chrysalises — and so do the grubs of wasps and bees. After this the things called nymphs come to be, and these no longer have anything of that sort; for the nature of eggs too, once it reaches its completion, no longer grows, though at first it grows and takes nourishment, until it is marked off and becomes a complete egg. Of the grubs, some have within themselves that from which, as they are nourished, such a residue comes to be added on, as with those of bees and wasps; others take it from outside, as do caterpillars and some of the other grubs. Why, then, such things come to be threefold in kind, and for what cause, having been in motion, they become motionless again, has been stated. Some of them come to be from mating, as with birds and the live-bearing animals and most fish, others spontaneously, as with some of the things that grow.
40| The generation of bees involves a great deal of difficulty. For since there is also, among fish, a certain kind of generation in some of them such that they produce offspring without mating, this appears, from what is observed, to hold also for bees. For necessarily either they bring the brood from elsewhere, as some say — and this either growing up spontaneously or being born of some other animal — or they beget it themselves, or they bring one kind and beget another (for this too some say, namely that they bring only the brood of drones); and if they beget, either while mating or without mating; and if while mating, either each kind begets its own kind by itself, or one of them begets the others, or one kind pairs with a different kind — I mean, for example, that bees come to be from bees pairing, drones from drones, and the kings from the kings, or that all the others come from one kind, namely from the ones called kings and leaders, or from the drones and the bees; for some say that some of these are male and others female, for instance that the bees are male and the drones female. But all these views are impossible for anyone reasoning it out, some on the basis of facts peculiar to bees, others on the basis of facts more common to the other animals.
41| For if, without giving birth themselves, they bring the brood from elsewhere, then bees ought to come to be even without bees bringing it, from the very place from which they bring the seed. For why should there be generation once it has been carried away, but not there in the place itself? For it makes no difference whether it grows spontaneously among the flowers or is born of some animal. And indeed if the seed belonged to some other animal, that animal ought to come to be from it, and not bees. Further, it is reasonable that they should carry off honey (for that is food), but that they should carry off brood belonging to another and not being food is absurd. For what purpose would they do it? For all creatures that busy themselves about their young labor over the brood that appears to be their own. But moreover it is not reasonable either that the bees should be female and the drones male; for nature gives the weapon for fighting to none of the females, yet drones are stingless while all bees have a sting. Nor is the opposite reasonable, that the bees are male and the drones female; for it is not the habit of any of the males to labor over the young, yet as things are the bees do this. And in general, since it is evident that the brood of drones comes to be even when there is no drone present, while that of bees does not come to be without the kings — which is why some say that only the drones' brood is carried in from outside — it is clear that they are generated neither from mating, nor from each kind pairing with its own kind, nor from bees and drones together.
42| That they carry in only this brood is impossible for the reasons stated, and it is not reasonable that a like state of affairs should not hold for their whole kind. But moreover it is not possible either that the bees themselves should be some male and some female; for in all kinds the female differs from the male. And in that case they would be begetting themselves; but as it is, their brood evidently does not come to be unless the leaders are present, as they say. And common to both the theory of generation from one another and that from the drones — whether apart or together — is the fact that none of them has ever been observed mating; whereas if there were among them a female element and a male element, this would often have been observed happening. It remains, then, if generation is by mating, that the kings beget by pairing. But drones are evidently generated even when no leaders are present, and it is not possible either for the bees to bring in their brood or for them to beget them by mating. It remains, then — just as appears to happen in the case of certain fish — that the bees beget the drones without mating, being female with respect to begetting, but having within themselves, as plants do, both the female and the male.
43| That is also why they have the organ for fighting; for one ought not call a thing female in which the male is not separated out. And if this evidently holds true of the drones, that they too come to be not from mating, then the same account must necessarily hold also for the bees and the kings, and they too are not generated from mating. If, then, the brood of bees had evidently come to be present without the kings, it would have been necessary that the bees also come to be from themselves without mating. But as it is, since those who occupy themselves with the keeping of these animals say this does not happen, it remains that the kings both beget themselves and beget the bees as well. And since the kind of bees is remarkable and peculiar, their generation too evidently proves to be peculiar. For that bees should beget without mating might occur among other animals as well, but that a kind should beget a different kind is peculiar to them; for red mullets beget red mullets and sea-perch beget sea-perch. The reason is that the bees themselves are begotten not as flies and such animals are, but from a different kind, though one akin to them. For they come to be from the leaders.
44| For this reason their generation stands, in a way, in due proportion. For the leaders are like the drones in size, but like the bees in having a sting. The bees, then, resemble them in this respect, the drones in size. For there must necessarily be some point of divergence, if the same kind is not always to come to be from each; and this is impossible, for then the whole kind would consist of leaders. The bees, then, are made like them in power and in the capacity to give birth, the drones in size; and if the drones also had a sting, they would be leaders. As it is, this remains the residue of the difficulty: the leaders resemble both kinds in the same respect, having a sting like the bees and being of the size of the drones. And it is necessary that the leaders too come to be from something. Since, then, they come neither from the bees nor from the drones, it is necessary that they beget themselves as well. Their cells come to be at the end, and are not many in number. So it turns out that the leaders both beget themselves and beget another kind besides (and this is the kind of bees), while the bees beget another kind, the drones, but no longer beget themselves — this having been taken away from them.
45| Since what is in accordance with nature always has order, it is necessary that the drones too should have been deprived of the power to generate any further kind. And this is in fact what is observed to happen: the drones themselves come to be, but generate nothing else, and generation comes to an end at this third stage in the series. And nature has put things together so well in this respect that the kinds always continue in being and nothing is lacking, even though not all of them generate. It is also reasonable that this should happen: in favorable seasons much honey and many drones are produced, while in rainy seasons offspring in general are abundant. For excessive moisture produces a greater residue in the bodies of the leaders, while favorable seasons do so in the bodies of the ordinary bees; for since the bee is smaller in size, it stands more in need of a favorable season. And it is well arranged, too, that the kings, as though made for the purpose of breeding, remain within, released from the necessary tasks, and that they have size, as though their bodies were constituted with a view to procreation; and that the drones are idle, since they have no weapon with which to fight for food, and because of the slowness of their bodies. The bees are intermediate in size between the two (for in this way they are useful for the work), and are workers, in that they feed both the young and the fathers.
46| It is also agreed that the fact that the generation of the bees follows from the kings is confirmed by what accompanies it: for if there were nothing of this sort, the facts about their sovereignty would make no sense; and so is the fact that the kings are left doing no work, as being parents, while the drones are punished as children — for it is more fitting to punish children, and those who have no function. And the fact that the bees, though few in number themselves, that is the leaders, generate the bees in great numbers, seems to be something like what happens in the generation of lions, which at first produce five cubs, later fewer, and finally one, and then none. The leaders similarly produce a multitude at first, but later few, themselves being few, and their offspring less than that of the lions; but since nature took away from their numbers, it gave them size in return. From argument, then, the facts about the generation of bees appear to be of this character, and also from what is thought to happen concerning them; the facts, however, have not yet been adequately grasped, but whenever they are grasped, then perception is to be trusted more than arguments, and arguments too, provided they are shown to agree with what appears. A sign against their coming to be from mating is also the fact that the brood appears small in the cells of the comb —
47| whereas all the insects that are generated from mating pair for a long time, but give birth quickly, to something worm-shaped in size. Concerning the generation of the kinds related to bees, such as hornets and wasps, it happens in a manner similar in a way to all of them, but the extraordinary element has reasonably been taken away, since they possess nothing divine, as the kind of the bees does. For the ones called mothers generate, and they mold the first parts of the combs, and they generate by mating with one another; for their pairing has often been observed. But how many differences each of these kinds has, either from one another or from the bees, must be studied from what has been recorded in the Researches on Animals.
48| We have now spoken of the generation of all the insects; we must next speak of the testaceans. The facts about their generation are in one respect similar to those of the other animals, in another respect not, and this happens reasonably. For in relation to animals they resemble plants, and in relation to plants they resemble animals, so that in one way they appear to come to be from seed, in another way not from seed, and in one respect spontaneously, in another from themselves — or rather, some in the one way, some in the other. And because their nature stands in an inverse relation to that of plants, for this reason on land either no kind of testacean comes to be, or only a small one, such as that of the snails, and if there is some other such kind, it is rare; whereas in the sea and similar liquids many come to be, and of every sort of shape. The kind of plants, on the other hand, is small in the sea and such liquids, and practically nonexistent, while on land all such things come to be. For nature holds an analogous relation and is divided proportionally: by as much as the moist is more life-giving than the dry, and water than earth, by that much does the nature of the testaceans exceed that of the plants, since it is nature's intent that as plants are to earth, so testaceans should be to the moist, so that plants are, as it were, land-oysters, and oysters are, as it were, water-plants.
49| And for a cause of this sort, the things in the moist are also more varied in form than those on land. For the moist has a nature more easily molded than that of earth, and is bodily not much less so, and this is especially true of the things in the sea. For fresh water is sweet and nourishing, but less bodily and cold. Hence all the bloodless creatures whose nature is not hot do not come to be in lakes, nor among salt waters in the fresher parts, but less so — for example the testaceans, the mollusks, and the crustaceans (for all these are bloodless and cold in nature) — but they come to be in lagoons and near the mouths of rivers. For they seek warmth and nourishment at the same time, and the sea is far more moist and bodily than fresh water, and hot in nature, and shares in all the parts — moisture, breath, and earth — so that it also shares in all the animals that come to be severally in each of these regions. For one might suppose the plants belong to earth, the aquatic creatures to water, and the land animals to air; and the more and less, the nearer and farther, produce a great and remarkable difference.
50| The fourth kind is not to be sought in these regions; and yet it wants, in a way, to hold a rank corresponding to that of fire, for fire is counted as the fourth of the bodies. But fire always appears not to have its own proper form, but to exist in one of the other bodies; for what has been set on fire always appears to be air, or smoke, or earth. But such a kind must be sought in the region of the moon; for the moon appears to share in the fourth remove. But concerning these matters there would be another discussion. The nature of the testaceans is constituted, in some cases spontaneously, in others by certain creatures emitting some power from themselves, and often these too come to be from a spontaneous formation. We must next take up the generation of plants. Of these, some come to be from seed, others from cuttings that are planted out, others by putting out side-growths, as the kind of onions does. It is in this way, then, that the muscle-shells come to be; for smaller ones are always growing on beside the original one. But whelks, purple-fish, and those said to form combs emit, as it were from a seminal nature, mucous fluids. None of these should be thought to have seed, but rather, in the manner described, to share in a likeness to plants.
51| That is also why a multitude of such creatures arises, once one has come to be even a single time. For all of these do in fact happen to arise spontaneously, but it is more in accordance with reason that they should also form once something already exists. For it stands to reason that some residue is produced in addition at each starting-point, from which each of the things that grow alongside it puts out its shoot. And since nourishment and the residue of nourishment have a similar power, it is likely that the substance of the things that form comb-like is similar to the original composition from which it arose. That is why it is reasonable that generation should also occur from this residue. But whatever neither puts out a shoot nor forms comb-like, the generation of all of these is spontaneous. All the things that form in this way appear both in earth and in water, coming to be through a kind of putrefaction, with rainwater mingled in. For when the sweet element is separated off into the forming starting-point, the residue that is left over takes on such a shape. Nothing comes to be by putrefying but by being concocted; putrefaction, and the putrefied residue, belong to what has been concocted. For nothing comes from just anything, any more than in the things fashioned by craft — for then there would be no need to make anything at all; but as it is, craft removes what is useless from the material, and so does nature. Animals and plants come to be in earth and in moisture because water is present in earth, and breath is present in water, and in all of this there is soul-heat, so that in a way everything is full of soul.
52| That is why it forms quickly, whenever it is enclosed all around. And it is enclosed and comes to be, as the bodily fluids are heated, like a frothy bubble. Now the differences by which one kind is more honorable and another less honorable in what forms lie in the enclosure of the soul-starting-point. Responsible for this too are the places, and the body that does the enclosing. In the sea there is much of the earthy element present; that is why the nature of the shellfish forms out of just such a composition: the earthy part hardens all around and sets with the same setting as bones and horns (for these cannot be melted by fire), while inside is enclosed the body that has life. But whether the generation of these creatures comes only from pairing or not has not yet been adequately worked out. Someone wishing to inquire correctly would ask what it is that forms according to the material starting-point in such cases. For in females, this is a certain residue of the animal, which the moving starting-point from the male — being potentially such as that from which it came — brings to completion as the animal. But in this case, what should one call such a thing, and where does it come from, and what is the moving starting-point corresponding to the male?
53| We must grasp that even in the animals that reproduce in the ordinary way, the heat within the animal, by separating off and jointly concocting the nourishment that enters it, produces the residue that is the starting-point of the embryo. It is the same in plants too, except that in plants, and in some animals, there is no need at all for the starting-point from the male (for they have it mixed in within themselves), whereas the residue of most animals does need it. Nourishment is for some water and earth, for others what comes from these; so that what the heat in animals produces out of nourishment, the heat of the season in the surrounding air produces likewise, drawing together matter from sea and earth by concocting it and forming it into a composition. And what is caught and enclosed, or separated off, within the breath belonging to the soul-starting-point produces an embryo and puts motion into it. Now the composition of the plants that come to be spontaneously is uniform in kind, for each comes from some one part, and one portion becomes the starting-point while the other becomes the first nourishment for the things that sprout. But among animals, worm-birth occurs both among the bloodless creatures that do not come from other animals, and among the blooded ones — for example a certain kind of grey mullet and other river fish, and further the kind of eels.
54| For all of these, although their nature has little blood, are nonetheless blooded, and they have a heart, the blood-related starting-point of their parts. What are called earth's-guts have the nature of a worm, and it is within these that the body of eels comes to be. That is also why, concerning the generation of human beings and four-footed animals, one might suppose — if indeed they were once earth-born, as some say — that this happens in one of two ways: either the first thing forms as a worm forms, or it comes from eggs. For it is necessary either that they have the nourishment for growth within themselves (and an embryo of that kind is a worm), or that they receive it from elsewhere, and this either from the thing that bore them or from a part of the embryo itself. So if the one is impossible — flowing in from the earth the way it flows in from the mother in the other animals — it is necessary that it be received from a part of the embryo; and we call generation of this kind generation from an egg. That, then, if there was indeed some starting-point of generation common to all animals, it is reasonable that it be one of these two is clear; but generation from eggs has the lesser claim to reason. For we see no animal generated in that way, but rather in the other way, both among the blooded creatures just mentioned and among the bloodless ones.
55| Such are some of the insects, and the shellfish, which are our subject here; for they do not come to be from any one part, as egg-born creatures do. And they carry out their growth in the same way as worms do. For worms grow upward from the start, since the nourishment for the upper part lies in the lower part. And this holds in the same way for creatures from eggs too, except that in those the whole is used up, whereas among the worm-born creatures, once the upper part has grown from the composition in the lower part, the lower part is then in turn articulated out of what remains. The reason is that in all of them, afterward, the nourishment comes to be in the part beneath the diaphragm. That the worm-like creatures carry out their growth in this way is clear in the case of bees and the like: at the start they have the lower part large and the upper part smaller. And in the shellfish too, the process of growth works the same way. This is also evident in spiral-shelled creatures, in their coils: for as they keep growing, more coils form toward the front and toward what is called the head. The manner, then, in which generation occurs both for these and for the other spontaneously-generated creatures has, roughly speaking, now been stated.
56| That all shellfish form spontaneously is clear from facts of the following kind: they form near ships when the frothy slime putrefies, and in many places where previously nothing of the sort existed, later, because the place lacked moisture and turned to mud, the so-called lagoon-oysters among the shelled creatures came to be — for example near Rhodes, when a naval fleet put in and earthenware jars were thrown into the sea, and after time had passed and mud had gathered around them, oysters were found inside. And here is proof that such creatures release nothing generative from themselves: when some Chians transported live oysters from Pyrrha in Lesbos and released them into certain strait-like places of the sea resembling their original habitat, no greater number of them came to be over time, though their size increased considerably in growth. What are called their eggs contribute nothing to their generation, but are a sign of good nourishment, like fatness in blooded creatures; that is also why they become good-flavored for eating at these seasons. A sign of this is that some always have them, such as the pinna, the whelk, and the purple-shell, except that at one time they are larger, at another smaller. Others do not always have them, but have them in spring, and as the season advances they diminish, and in the end disappear altogether — for example scallops, mussels, and the so-called lagoon-oysters.
1| For this season is beneficial to their bodies. In others nothing of this sort is noticeably apparent, as with the sea-squirts. The particulars about these matters, and the places in which they occur, should be studied from the History.
2| Book IV. We have now spoken about the generation of animals, both in common and separately concerning them all. But since in the most perfect of them the female and the male are separated, and we say that these two capacities are principles for all things, both animals and plants, though some have them inseparable and others separate, we must speak first about the generation of these. For even while animals are still incomplete in their kind, the female and the male are already differentiated. But whether, even before the difference is evident to our perception, one is female and the other male — having taken on the difference in the mother, or earlier — is disputed. For some say that this opposition is present in the seeds straightaway, as Anaxagoras and other natural philosophers say; for they say the seed comes from the male, while the female provides the place, and that the male comes from the right-hand parts and the female from the left, and that in the womb the males are on the right and the females on the left. Others locate it in the womb, as Empedocles does; for he says that those that come into a warm womb become male, and those into a cold one female, and that the cause of the heat and cold is the flow of the menstrual discharge, whether it is colder or warmer, and older or more recent.
3| Democritus of Abdera says that the difference between female and male comes about in the womb, though not that one becomes female and the other male on account of heat and cold, but rather whichever seed prevails — the one that comes from the part in which male and female differ from each other. For Empedocles has really assumed this too carelessly, thinking that they differ from each other only in heat and cold, though he can see that the parts as a whole have a great difference — both the genitals and the womb. For if the animals were already molded, one having all the parts of the female, the other all the parts of the male, and then were placed into the womb as into a furnace, the one having a womb going into the warm place, the one not having one into the cold — then what has no womb would turn out female, and what has one would turn out male. But this is impossible. So on this point Democritus would speak better; for he seeks out the difference belonging to this generation and tries to state it. But whether he states it well or not is another matter. But indeed, even if heat and cold are the cause of the difference of these parts, this is what those who speak in that other way ought to have said.
4| For this is, so to speak, tantamount to speaking about the generation of male and female; for this plainly makes no small difference — the work of gathering, starting from that principle, the cause for the generation of these parts, so that it should follow of necessity that when the animal is chilled this part called the womb comes to be, but when it is heated it does not come to be. And in the same way concerning the parts that contribute to intercourse; for these too differ, as has been said before. Further, twins, female and male together, are often produced in the same part of the womb at the same time, and we have observed this adequately from dissections in all the live-bearing animals, both the land animals and the fish. Now if he had not observed this, he was reasonably mistaken in stating this cause; but if he had observed it, it is absurd still to think that the heat or cold of the womb is the cause. For both would have become either female or male, but as it is we do not see this happening. And to one who says that the parts of the offspring are torn apart (for he says that some are in the male and some in the female, and that this is why they desire intercourse with each other), it is necessary that the size of such things also be divided and that a union come about — but not on account of chilling or heating.
5| But about this sort of cause of the seed there would perhaps be much to say; for on the whole the manner of this causal account seems to be fanciful. But if the truth about seed is as we in fact have stated it — that it does not come from every part, and that what comes from the male does not provide any matter at all to the offspring — then the same answer must be given both to him and to Democritus, and to anyone else who happens to speak this way. For the body of the seed cannot be torn apart, part in the female and part in the male, as Empedocles says when he says, "but the nature of the limbs is torn apart, the one in the man's," nor can the whole be secreted from each, one part of it prevailing over another part so that the one becomes female and the other male. In general, to say that the prevailing excess of a part produces the female is better than to give no thought to the matter and blame heat alone — but it still requires an account of why the difference in the shape of the genitals happens at the same time, so that these things always follow together. For if it is because they are close together, then each of the remaining parts too ought to follow suit. For one part is near another among those that are winning out, so that the offspring would at once be both female and resemble the mother, or male and resemble the father.
6| Further, it is also absurd to suppose that only these parts come to be so, and that the body as a whole has not changed, and above all and first the veins, around which, as around an outline, the body of the flesh lies. It is not reasonable that these should have come to be of a certain quality on account of the womb, but rather the womb on account of them. For each of the two is a receptacle for a certain blood, but the veins come first. And the moving principle must always come first, and be the cause of generation by being of a certain quality. Now this difference between these parts as against one another does indeed occur in females and males, but it must not be thought to be a principle or a cause — rather there is another cause — even if no seed at all is secreted either from the female or from the male, but however it is that the seed which comes to be is constituted. And the same account applies also against those who say that the male comes from the right-hand parts and the female from the left, just as against Empedocles and against Democritus. For either the male contributes no matter at all, in which case those who speak this way would be saying nothing; or it does contribute, as they say, in which case the same answer must be given equally against the account of Empedocles too, who distinguishes female from male by the heat and cold of the womb.
7| Others do the same thing, defining by right and left, though they see that female and male differ even in whole parts. For what cause will there be why the body of the womb will belong to those coming from the left, but not belong to those coming from the right? For if it comes but this part does not take hold, there will be a female without a womb, and, as it happens, a male with one. Further, as has also been said before, a female has been observed on the right side of the womb and a male on the left, and both in the same side — and this not once but many times — or the male on the right side and the female on the left; and no less often both occur on the right side. Some people, persuaded of things much like these, likewise say that those who tie off the right testicle or the left, when they mate, come to produce males or females accordingly; for this is what Leophanes used to say. And concerning those who have one testicle removed by castration, some say the same thing happens, not speaking the truth but rather divining what will happen from what seems plausible, and assuming beforehand that it is so before actually seeing it come about that way — and moreover being ignorant that these parts contribute nothing at all to the production of male offspring or female offspring in animals.
8| A sign of this is that many animals are themselves both female and male, and produce some female and some male offspring, without having testicles, just as animals without feet do — for example the class of fishes and of snakes. Now, to suppose that heat and cold are the cause of male and female, and that the secretion comes from the right side or the left, has some reason to it; for the right side of the body is hotter than the left, and concocted semen is hotter, and what has coagulated is of this kind, and what has coagulated more is more generative. But to speak in this way is to grasp the cause from too far off; one must, so far as the available options allow, come as close as possible to the first causes. Now concerning the whole body and its parts, what each is and for what cause, this has been stated earlier elsewhere. But since male and female are distinguished by a certain capacity and incapacity (for that which is capable of concocting and forming and secreting semen possessing the principle of the form is male — by principle I mean not the sort of thing from which, as from matter, something comes to be such as the begetter is, but the first moving principle, whether it is able to do this in itself or in another —
9| while that which receives it but is unable to form and secrete it is female) — further, if all concoction is worked by heat, then among animals too the males must necessarily be hotter than the females. For on account of coldness and incapacity the female has more blood in certain places; and this is itself the opposite sign to the one on account of which some suppose the female to be hotter than the male, namely the discharge of the menses. For blood is hot, and what has more of it is hotter. They suppose that this condition comes about through an excess of blood and heat, as though all blood could equally count as blood so long as it is merely liquid and blood-colored, and as though it did not become both less in quantity and purer in well-nourished animals. And they suppose that, as with the residue in the belly, the greater amount rather than the lesser is a sign of a hotter nature. And yet the opposite is the case. For just as, in the working of crops, out of a great quantity of the first material only a little of the useful part is separated off, and in the end the final part is a small fraction of the original quantity, so too again in the body, as the parts take over the work in succession, the final product that comes from all the nourishment is altogether small.
10| This, in some animals, is blood, and in others what is analogous to it. Since the one is capable and the other incapable of secreting the residue pure, and every capacity has some organ — the same organ belonging both to the capacity that achieves the result worse and to the one that achieves it better — and since male and female are opposed in just this way ('capable' and 'incapable' being said in several ways), it is necessary that both female and male have organs: for the one, then, the organ is the womb, and for the other, the perineum. And nature assigns to each at the same time both the capacity and the organ; for it is better so. That is why each of these regions comes to be together with both the secretions and the capacities, just as sight does not come to be without eyes, nor is the eye completed without sight, and the belly and the bladder come to be together with the capacity to hold the residues. And since that from which each thing comes to be is the same as that from which it grows — and this is nourishment — each of the parts would come to be from that kind of matter of which it is receptive, and from that kind of residue. Further, again, as we say, it comes to be in a way out of its contrary. A third point, in addition to these, must be grasped: that if destruction is into the contrary, then what is not mastered by the formative agent must necessarily change into the contrary.
11| With these points laid down, it should now be clearer for what cause the one becomes female and the other male. For whenever the principle does not master the material, nor is able to concoct it on account of a deficiency of heat, nor bring it to its own proper form, but is defeated in this respect, it necessarily changes into the contrary. And the female is contrary to the male, precisely in respect of that by which the one is male and the other female. And since it differs in its capacity, it also has a different organ; so that it changes into that kind of organ. And when one critical part changes, the whole constitution of the animal differs greatly in form. One can see this in eunuchs, who, when a single part is mutilated, change so much from their original form that they come close to having the appearance of the female. The cause of this is that some parts are principles; and when a principle is disturbed, many of the things that follow from it must necessarily shift as well. If, then, the male is a certain principle and cause, and is male in respect of some capacity it has, while it is female in respect of an incapacity, and the boundary between the capacity and the incapacity is being able or not being able to concoct the final nourishment — which in blooded animals is called blood, and in the others what is analogous to it — and the cause of this lies in the principle, in the part that holds the principle of natural heat, then it is necessary that in blooded animals a heart forms, and that what comes to be will be either male or female.
12| In the other kinds, the female and the male belong to whatever is analogous to the heart. The principle of female and male, then, and this cause, lies here too. But an animal is already female or male when it also has the parts by which the female differs from the male. For it is not male or female in virtue of just any part whatever, any more than it sees or hears in virtue of just any part. Taking the matter up again, we say that semen has been posited as being the final residue of nourishment. By final I mean what is carried to each part. That is also why the offspring resembles the parent. For it makes no difference whether it is said to come away from each of the parts or to be added to each part, though the latter is the more correct way of putting it. The semen of the male differs in that it has within itself a principle of such a kind as to set in motion, even within the animal itself, and to concoct through to the final nourishment, whereas that of the female provides only matter. If it masters the matter, then, it brings it over into itself, but if it is mastered, it changes into its contrary, or into destruction. And the female is the contrary of the male. It is female by the lack of concoction and the coldness of its blood-like nourishment. And nature assigns to each of the residues its receptive part.
13| Semen is a residue. In the hotter and male blooded animals this is of moderate bulk in amount, which is why the receptive parts in males are ducts for this residue. In females, on account of lack of concoction, there is a bulk of blood-like matter (for it is unworked), so that some receptive part is also necessary, and that this be unlike the male's duct and have some size. That is why the nature of the womb is of this kind. And it is in this part that the female differs from the male.
14| For what cause, then, one becomes female and the other male has been stated. And what actually happens provides evidence for what has been said. For young animals produce more females than those in their prime do, and so do aging animals; for in the former the heat is not yet complete, while in the latter it is failing. And bodies that are more moist and more feminine produce more females, and so does moist semen more than semen that has coagulated; for all these things happen on account of a deficiency of natural heat. And it is evidence that north winds produce more males than south winds do; hence such offspring are also fuller of residue. And the greater residue is harder to concoct; that is why in males the semen is then more liquid, and in women the discharge of the menses is greater. And the fact that the natural menses occur more as the months wane happens for the same cause. For this period of the month is colder and moister, on account of the waning and disappearance of the moon; for the sun produces winter and summer over the whole year, while the moon does so within the month. And this happens not on account of solstices, but the one condition occurs while the light is waxing, the other while it is waning. And herdsmen say that it makes a difference for the production of females and males not only whether the mating happens to occur in north or south winds, but also whether the animals, while mating, look toward the south or the north;
15| So it is that sometimes a small tilt becomes the cause of coldness and heat, and these in turn the cause of generation. Now the female and the male are, on the whole, opposed to each other with respect to the generation of males and the generation of females, for the causes already stated; nonetheless, there must also be a due proportion between them, for everything that comes to be, whether by craft or by nature, comes to be in accordance with some ratio. Heat, when it is too dominant, dries up the moist matter, and when it falls far short, it fails to bring it together; rather, in relation to what is being fashioned, it must have the ratio of the mean. If not, then just as in the case of things being boiled, too much fire scorches while too little fails to cook, and in both cases the result is that the thing coming to be is not brought to completion, so too in the mixture of male and female there must be due proportion. And this is why it happens that many men and many women fail to produce offspring with each other but do produce offspring once separated and paired with others, and why these contrarieties occur sometimes when they are young and sometimes when they are older, alike with respect to fertility and infertility and the generation of males and of females. And region differs from region, and water from water, with respect to these things, for the same causes; for the food that results is of a certain quality, and so is the condition of the body, on account of the mixture of the surrounding air and of what is taken in, but above all on account of the nourishment supplied by water,
16| for this is what is taken in in the greatest quantity, and it is nourishment in all cases, even in dry foods. This is why hard and cold waters cause childlessness in some cases and the birth of females in others. The same causes also explain why some offspring come to resemble those who bore them and others do not, some resembling the father and others the mother, both with respect to the whole body and with respect to each part, and why they resemble their own parents more than their more remote ancestors, and these ancestors more than chance persons, and why males resemble the father more and females the mother, while others resemble none of their kin, yet still resemble some human being, and others do not even resemble a human being in shape but are already a monstrosity. For even one who does not resemble his parents is already, in a way, a kind of monstrosity, for in such cases nature has in a way departed from the genus. Now the first principle at work is that the offspring should become female rather than male. But this is a necessity imposed by nature, for the class of things divided into female and male must be preserved. Since it is possible for the male principle sometimes to fail to gain mastery, either on account of youth or old age or some other such cause, it is necessary that the generation of females should occur among animals. But the monstrosity is not necessary with a view to the end and the cause that is for the sake of something, but is necessary in the sense of being accidental, since this is the point from which its origin must be understood.
17| For when the residue in the menstrual fluid, the spermatic residue, is well concocted, the motion deriving from the male will produce the shape entirely on its own terms. For it makes no difference whether one speaks of the seed or of the motion that causes each of the parts to grow, nor whether one speaks of the motion that causes growth or the motion that constitutes the parts from the start, for the account of the motion is the same in either case. So then, if this motion prevails, it will produce a male and not a female, and one resembling the begetter and not the mother; but if it fails to prevail, then with respect to whatever capacity it fails to prevail in, it produces the deficiency corresponding to that capacity. I mean the following by each capacity. The begetter is not only male but a male of a certain kind, for instance Coriscus or Socrates, and he is not only Coriscus but also a human being. And in this way some characteristics belong to the begetter more closely and others more remotely, in virtue of his being a begetter, and not accidentally, as would be the case if the begetter happened to be literate or someone's neighbor; and for the purpose of generation, what is proper and particular to him always has more force. For Coriscus is both a human being and an animal, but he is closer to what is proper to him as human being than as animal. Both the particular individual and the genus beget, but the particular individual does so more,
18| for this is the substance. For what comes to be, comes to be a thing of a certain quality, but it is a this-something, and this-something is the substance. This is why the motions present in the seeds of all such things derive from the capacities, but potentially they also derive from the ancestors, and more so, always, from whichever of the particular individuals is closer. By the particular individuals I mean Coriscus and Socrates. Now since everything that departs from its state departs not to any chance state but to its opposite, that which is not mastered in the process of generation must necessarily depart and become the opposite, in respect of whatever capacity the begetter and mover failed to master. If, then, it is qua male that it fails, the offspring becomes female; but if it is qua Coriscus or Socrates that it fails, the offspring comes to resemble not the father but the mother, for the mother is opposed to the father as a whole, just as the particular female begetter is opposed to the particular male begetter. And the same holds with respect to the capacities next in line, for the transition is always rather to the next in the line of ancestors, both on the father's side and on the mother's. Some of the motions are present as actuality and others as potentiality: as actuality, the motions belonging to the begetter and to the universals, such as human being and animal; as potentiality, the motions belonging to the female and to the ancestors.
19| It changes, then, by departing toward the opposites, but the motions that do the fashioning, when they are dissolved, resolve into the ones nearest to them; for instance, if the motion of the begetter is dissolved, it passes over, by the smallest difference, into the motion of the father, and secondly into that of the grandfather; and in the same way, both among males and among females, the motion of the female begetter passes into that of the mother, and if not into that, into that of the grandmother; and likewise for those further up the line. Now it is most natural, qua male and qua father, for mastery and being mastered to occur together, for the difference is small, so that it is no great matter for both to occur at once, since Socrates is a man of a certain kind. This is why, for the most part, males resemble the father and females the mother. For the departure occurs in both respects at once, and the female is opposed to the male, and the mother to the father, and departure is toward the opposites. But if the motion deriving from the male masters while the motion deriving from Socrates does not, or the reverse, then it happens that males come to resemble the mother and females the father.
20| And if the motions are dissolved, and the offspring remains male, but the motion of Socrates is dissolved into that of the father, the male offspring will resemble the grandfather, or some other of the more remote ancestors, according to this same account. But if it is mastered qua male, the offspring will be female, resembling above all the mother; and if this motion too is dissolved, the resemblance will be to the mother's mother, or to some other ancestor further up the line, according to the same account. The same manner of explanation applies also to the parts of the body, for of the parts too, some often resemble the father, others the mother, and others some of the ancestors; for of the parts also, some motions are present as actuality and others as potentiality, as has often been said. In general one must grasp these underlying assumptions: one, the one already stated, that of the motions some are present as potentiality and others as actuality; and two others, that what is mastered departs toward the opposite, while what is dissolved passes into the motion next to it, and passes less into the nearer one when the dissolving is slighter, and more into the more remote one when it is greater. In the end things become so blended together that the offspring resembles none of its own kin and relations, but only what is common is left, and it is simply a human being.
21| The cause of this is that this attaches to all particulars: for man is universal, but Socrates, the father, and the mother, whoever she was, belong to particulars. The cause of the motions being undone is that the agent is also acted on by the patient: for example, the cutting thing is blunted by what is cut, and the heating thing is cooled by what is heated, and in general whatever moves something, apart from the first mover, is moved back by some counter-motion — for example, what pushes is in turn pushed back somewhat, and what presses is pressed back. And sometimes it is acted on more than it acts altogether: the heating thing is cooled and the cooling thing is heated, at times doing nothing at all, at times doing less than it suffers. This has been discussed in the works that determine acting and being acted on, as to which existing things admit of acting and being acted on. The thing acted on departs from its course and is not mastered either through a deficiency in the power of the agent that concocts and moves it, or through the quantity and coldness of the thing being concocted and differentiated. For mastering it in one respect but not in another makes what is being formed take on many shapes, as happens with athletes because of their heavy eating. For because their nature is unable to master the quantity of food, so as to grow proportionately and keep the same shape, the parts become different — and sometimes so much so that they resemble their former selves not at all.
22| Similar to this is also the disease called satyriasis: for in this case too, because of a quantity of unconcocted discharge or breath falling in upon the parts of the face, the animal's face comes to look like a satyr's. As to the cause, then, why females and males come to be, and why some offspring resemble their parents — females resembling females and males resembling males — while others are the reverse, females resembling the father and males the mother, and in general why some resemble their ancestors and others resemble none of them, both as regards the whole body and each of the parts — all this has been determined. Some of the natural philosophers, and others too, have spoken about these matters, about the cause why offspring come to be like and unlike their parents. They state the cause in two ways. For some say that, from whichever parent more seed comes, the offspring resembles that one more, the whole resembling the whole and part resembling part in like manner, on the ground that seed departs from each of the parts; and if an equal amount comes from each, the offspring resembles neither. But if this is false, and seed does not depart from every part, then it is clear that what has been said could not be the cause of resemblance and unresemblance either.
23| Further, they cannot easily explain how it can happen at the same time that a female offspring resembles the father and a male offspring resembles the mother. For those who, like Empedocles or Democritus, give the cause of female and male in another way, say things that are impossible. And those who say that female and male come to be through more or less coming from the male or the female, and that this is why one offspring is female and another male, would not be able to demonstrate how the female is to resemble the father and the male the mother; for it is impossible for more to come from both at the same time. Again, what is the cause why offspring commonly resemble ancestors, even remote ones? For no seed at all has come from those ancestors. Rather, those who state the remaining account of resemblance speak better both on the other points and on this one. For there are some who say that the seed, though one, is a kind of assemblage of many seeds. Just as, if someone were to mix many flavors into one liquid, and then draw a portion from it, he could draw not always an equal amount from each ingredient, but sometimes more of this one, sometimes more of that one, and sometimes some of one and none at all of another — this, they say, happens also with the seed, since it is a mixture of many things.
24| For from whichever of the parents the greatest portion is present, the offspring's form comes to resemble that one. This account is unclear and fanciful in many respects, but it also wants to say something better, namely that this exists not in actuality but in potentiality, which is what it calls the 'assemblage of many seeds.' For in the former way it is impossible, but in this way it is possible. Nor is it easy, giving a single account of the cause, to state the causes for everything at once: for the coming to be of female and male, and why the female is often like the father and the male like the mother, and again the resemblance to ancestors, and further the cause why sometimes the offspring is a human being but resembles none of these, and sometimes, proceeding in this way to the end, what is produced turns out not even to be a human being but only some kind of animal — the things which are in fact called monstrosities. For it also follows from what has been said to state the causes concerning such things. For in the end, when the motions are being undone and the matter is not mastered, what remains is above all the universal, and this is 'the animal.' They say the creature produced has the head of a ram or of an ox, and likewise in other cases the head of some other animal — a calf with a child's head, or a sheep with an ox's head.
25| All these things happen because of the causes already stated, but none of them is actually what people say, they are only similar to it. This happens even in creatures that are not deformed at all, which is why jokers often liken some who are not good-looking to a goat blowing fire, or a ram butting. And a certain physiognomist reduced all faces to the appearances of two or three animals, and often persuaded people by what he said. That it is impossible for such a monstrosity to occur, one animal within another, is shown by the periods of gestation, which differ greatly between man and sheep and dog and ox; and it is impossible for each to be produced except according to its own proper time. Some monstrosities, then, are spoken of in this way; others are so called because they have a form with too many parts, being produced with many feet and many heads. The accounts of the cause are closely related, and in a way similar, both for monstrosities and for maimed animals.
26| For a monstrosity too is a kind of deformity. Democritus, then, said that monstrosities come about because two seeds fall, one setting out earlier and the other later, and that the later one, coming out, enters the womb so that the parts grow together and overlap. And since in birds mating happens quickly, he says that their eggs and their coloring always overlap as a result. But if it happens that several offspring are produced from a single seed and a single mating, which is evidently the case, it is better not to go the long way round, passing over the short one. For it is most necessary for this to happen in just such cases, whenever the seeds are not kept separate but come together at the same time. If, then, one must locate the cause in the seed from the male, it should be stated in this way. But in general one should rather suppose the cause to lie in the matter and in the embryos as they are being formed. That is why such monstrosities occur very rarely among animals that bear a single offspring, but more often among those that bear many, and most of all among birds, and among birds most of all in hens. For hens produce many offspring, not only by laying often, as the pigeon family does, but also by having many embryos at once and by mating at every season.
27| This is also why they often produce twins: for the embryos grow together because they are close to one another, just as sometimes happens with a number of fruits growing together. Among these, whenever the yolks are separated by the membrane, two chicks are formed, distinct from each other, having nothing abnormal about them; but whenever they are continuous and nothing divides them, the chicks that come from these are monstrous, having one body and one head but four legs and wings, because the upper parts are formed from the white and are formed earlier, the nourishment for them being dispensed from the yolk, while the lower part comes later, and the nourishment is one and undivided. Already, too, a two-headed snake has been observed, for the same reason; for this kind also lays eggs and produces many at a time. But the monstrous is rarer among snakes because of the shape of the uterus: the mass of eggs is arranged in a row because of its length. And among bees and wasps nothing of this sort occurs, for their brood is laid in separate cells. But among hens the opposite is the case, and from this too it is clear that one must suppose the cause of such things lies in the matter; for indeed this happens more, among the other animals too, in those that produce many young at a birth.
28| This is why it happens less in the human being: for the human, for the most part, produces one offspring at a birth and produces it fully formed, since even among human beings, in whatever places women bear many at a birth — as around Egypt — this occurs more often. Among goats and sheep it occurs more, for these produce many young. And still more among the many-toed animals; for such animals produce many young and do not produce them fully formed, as with the dog: for a dog bears most of its young blind. But the cause for which this occurs, and the cause for which these animals produce many young, must be stated later. But nature has already paved the way toward producing monstrosities in the fact that these animals do not generate offspring like themselves, on account of their incompleteness; and the monstrous, too, belongs among things unlike their parents. This is why this occurrence attaches itself especially to the nature of such animals. For it is especially among these that the so-called "between-litters" occur. These are creatures that have suffered something monstrous in some respect; for a lack or an excess of some part is monstrous. For the monstrous is one of the things contrary to nature — not contrary to nature as a whole, but to nature as it holds for the most part; for concerning what is always and what is of necessity, nothing occurs contrary to nature, but among things that occur in one way for the most part, while admitting also of occurring otherwise — since even among these, in as many cases as depart from this normal order, yet do so always and not by chance, the thing seems less a monstrosity, because what is contrary to nature is in a certain way also in accordance with nature, whenever the nature according to form fails to master the nature according to matter.
29| This is why people do not call such things monstrosities, nor do they in the other cases where something regularly occurs, as with fruits. For instance there is a vine that some call the "smoke-vine": if it bears black clusters, they do not judge this a monstrosity, because this vine is accustomed to do this quite often. The cause is that it is by nature intermediate between the white and the black variety, so that the change is not a great remove, nor, as it were, contrary to nature; for it does not pass into another nature altogether. Among animals that produce many young the same thing occurs, and moreover, because of the multiplicity of the litter, the young hinder one another's completion and their generative motions. Now concerning the multiplicity of offspring and the excess of parts, and the paucity or singleness of offspring and the deficiency of parts, one might raise a difficulty. For sometimes some are born having more fingers, others only one, and similarly with the other parts: for there occurs both excess and stunting, and some are even born having two sets of genitals, one male and one female, both among human beings and especially among goats. For there occur what are called "she-goat-bucks" because they have both female and male genitals; and there has already occurred a goat that had a horn growing at its leg.
30| Changes and defects also occur with regard to the internal parts, in that some animals lack certain of them, or have them stunted, or have more than the normal number, or have them displaced in position. No animal has ever been born without a heart; but some are born without a spleen, some with two, and some with only one kidney; none is born without a liver at all, though some are born without the whole of it. All these cases occur among animals that have reached completion and are alive. Animals are also found lacking gall, though naturally suited to have it; and others have more than one gall-bladder. There have already occurred cases of displacement in position too, the liver being on the left and the spleen on the right. Now these cases have been observed in animals that have reached completion, as has been said; but among animals still being born there is much confusion of every kind. Those that depart from the normal nature only slightly are generally found to live, while those that depart more do not live, whenever what is contrary to nature affects the parts that control life. The inquiry concerning these matters is whether one must suppose the same cause for the singleness of offspring and the deficiency of parts, and for the excess and the multiplicity of offspring, or not the same cause. First, then, why some animals produce many young and others only one — this is a question one might reasonably find surprising.
31| For the largest animals produce only one offspring at a birth — for example the elephant, the camel, the horse, and the solid-hoofed animals generally; and of these, some are larger than the rest, and some differ greatly from the others in size. The dog and the wolf and all the many-toed animals produce many young, nearly without exception, and so do the small ones among these, for instance the mouse kind. The cloven-hoofed animals produce few young, except the pig; the pig belongs among those that produce many. For it stands to reason that the large animals should be able to generate more and to carry more seed. But the very thing that causes the wonder is the cause of there being nothing to wonder at: it is precisely because of their size that they do not produce many young; for in such animals the nourishment is used up for the growth of the body. But from the smaller animals nature, taking away from their size, adds the surplus to the seminal residue. Further, the seed produced by the larger animal must necessarily be more in quantity, and that of the smaller animals less. Now it is possible for many small young to come to be in the same womb at once, but many large ones is difficult; and to animals of middling size nature has assigned the middling number. We have already stated earlier the cause why some animals are large, others smaller, and others of middling size.
32| Among animals, some produce only one offspring, some few, and some many, and for the most part the solid-hoofed animals produce one, the cloven-hoofed produce few, and the many-toed produce many. The cause of this is that, for the most part, size is determined along these same lines of difference. This is not, however, the case with all of them without exception: for the cause of producing few or many young is the largeness or smallness of the bodies, not the fact of the kind being solid-hoofed, many-toed, or cloven-hoofed. Here is evidence of this: the elephant is the largest of animals, yet it is many-toed; and the camel, though cloven-hoofed, is the largest of the rest. And not only among land animals but also among winged and swimming creatures, the large ones produce few young and the small ones many, for the same cause. Likewise too among plants, it is not the largest that bear the most fruit. We have now stated, then, why some animals are by nature prolific and others produce few young. But one might be more surprised at the difficulty just mentioned in the case of the animals that produce many young, since it appears that such animals often become pregnant with many from a single mating; and — whether the male's seed contributes to the matter by becoming a part of the embryo and being mixed with the female's seed, or whether it does not do so in this way, but rather, as we say, gathers together and forms the matter present in the female — the seminal residue acting the way rennet acts on the fluidity of milk — for what cause, in either case, does it not produce a single animal of large size instead of many small ones?
33| Just as there the sap does not separate out by forming some fixed amount, but the more of it there is, the greater the curdled mass becomes, so too here: to say that the regions of the uterus draw the seed, and that this is why more offspring come to be, on account of the number of the regions and because the cotyledons are not one, is not a unified account. For often two offspring come to be in the same region of the uterus, while in animals that bear many young, once it is filled with embryos, they are seen lying in a row. This is clear from dissections. But just as, when animals reach their full growth, each has some size that admits of a greater and a lesser degree—sizes than which it could become neither greater nor smaller, but within the intervening range of size they take on excess and deficiency relative to one another, and so one man becomes bigger and another smaller, and likewise with any of the other animals—so too the seminal matter out of which an animal comes to be is not unlimited in either direction, greater or smaller, such that it could come to be out of any quantity whatever. So then, whichever animals emit more residue than what suffices for the origination of a single animal, for the reason stated, it is not possible for a single animal to come to be from the whole of it, but only as many as are marked off by the sizes that are reached.
34| Nor does the seed of the male, or the power in the seed, put together anything more or less than what its nature allows. Likewise, if the male emits more seed, or more powers within the seed when it is divided, the greater amount will not produce anything bigger—rather the opposite, it will destroy it by drying it out. For fire, too, does not heat water more the more of it there is; rather there is a limit to the heat, and once that limit is reached, if one increases the fire further, the water no longer becomes hotter, but evaporates more, and in the end disappears and becomes dry. Since, then, it appears that the residue of the female and that from the male need a certain proportion relative to one another, those of the males that emit seed—the animals that bear many young at once emit, on the one hand, male seed capable, when divided up, of forming several offspring, and, on the other hand, so much female matter that several formations come to be. The example given about milk is not a parallel case: for the heat of the seed forms not only a certain quantity but also a certain quality, whereas the heat in the sap and in rennet forms only the quantity. So then, this is itself the cause of many fetuses coming to be, rather than one continuous whole out of all of it, in animals that bear many young: that a fetus does not come to be out of just any quantity whatever, but if it is too little, there will be none, and likewise if it is too much;
35| for the power both of what is acted upon and of the heat that acts is fixed within limits. Likewise too, in animals that bear a single offspring and are large, many offspring do not come to be out of a large quantity of residue; for in those animals too, a fixed quantity produces a fixed quantity. So then, such an animal does not emit more of this matter, for the reason already stated; but whatever it does emit is, by nature, just enough that a single fetus comes to be from it. But if on some occasion more comes, it then bears twins. This is why such cases are thought to be rather monstrous, because they occur contrary to what happens in most cases, and to what is usual. Man, however, straddles all the kinds: for he sometimes bears one, sometimes many, and sometimes few, though by nature he is most a bearer of a single offspring; on account of the moistness and heat of his body he is a bearer of many (for the nature of seed is moist and hot), but on account of his size he is a bearer of few, or of one. And on account of this it has come about that man alone among animals has irregular periods of gestation. For the other animals have a single fixed time, but human beings have several: for children are born at seven months and at ten months, and at the times in between;
36| for even eight-month children live, though less often. One might grasp the cause of this from what has just been said, and it has been discussed in the Problems. Let this, then, be settled in this manner concerning these matters. As for parts that are in excess contrary to nature, the same cause accounts also for the bearing of twins. For the cause already operates at the level of the fetuses, if the fetus forms more matter than accords with the nature of the part. For then it comes about that one part is bigger than the others—a finger, say, or a hand or a foot or one of the other extremities or limbs—or, if the fetus is split apart, that several come to be, just as eddies do in rivers. For in rivers too, when the moving current, carried along and possessing motion, meets an obstruction, two formations come to be out of one, each possessing the same motion; and the same thing happens in the case of fetuses. They grow together mostly close to one another, but sometimes also at a distance, on account of the motion that occurs in the fetus—and above all because the excess of matter, from wherever it was taken away, is restored there, while the form belongs where the excess occurred. Whenever it happens that such creatures have two sets of genitals, one male and one female, of the excess parts one is always dominant and the other non-functional, since it is always weakened as regards nourishment, being contrary to nature, but it does grow attached, the way tumors do;
37| for these too take on nourishment, even though they arise later and are contrary to nature. And it comes about that if the formative agent prevails on both sides, two similar offspring result, and if it is overpowered on both sides, likewise two similar offspring; but if it prevails on one side and is overpowered on the other, one is female and one is male. For it makes no difference whether one states this cause, on account of which the one comes to be female and the other male, in application to the parts or to the whole. And in cases where such parts come to be deficient, such as some extremity or other limb, the cause must be thought the same, for it is a similar case, even where the offspring is aborted altogether. Many abortions of fetuses do occur. Now supplementary growths differ from twin-bearing in the manner stated, and monstrosities differ from these in that a number of them are grown together as one. And some cases occur in this way too, when it happens in connection with the larger and more governing parts—for instance some creatures have two spleens and several kidneys. Further, there are shiftings of parts when the motions are diverted and the matter shifts its place. Whether the monstrous animal is to be reckoned one, or several grown together, must be judged by reference to the governing principle: for example, if the heart is such a part, then a creature having one heart is one animal, while the parts in excess are supplementary growths, but creatures having several hearts are to be reckoned as several, though grown together on account of the joining of the fetuses.
38| It happens often, too, in the case of animals not thought to be defective, that in many that have already reached maturity some of the passages have grown together while others have grown awry. For in some females the mouth of the uterus has actually remained grown shut, and then, once the season for the menses has come and pains set in, in some cases it has burst open of itself, in others it has been opened by physicians; and in some cases it has turned out that the woman was destroyed, either because the rupture occurred by force or because it could not occur. And in some boys the opening of the genitals and the passage by which the residue from the bladder passes out do not coincide at the same point, but the latter lies lower down; this is why they urinate sitting down, and, since their testicles are drawn up high, they appear to those observing from a distance to have both a female and a male organ at once. There have also been cases where the passage for solid food has grown shut in certain animals, both in sheep and in others, since there was even an ox at Perinthus through which the food, strained fine, passed out by way of the bladder; and when the anus was cut open it quickly grew together again, and those who kept cutting it open could not get the better of it.
39| We have discussed few offspring and many offspring, and the outgrowth of parts that are in excess or deficient, and further the monstrous births. Of animals, some do not superfetate at all, others do; and of those that superfetate, some are able to rear the fetuses further, others sometimes can and sometimes cannot. The cause of not superfetating is that they bear one at a time. For the solid-hooved animals do not superfetate, nor do those larger than these; for because of their size the residue is used up entirely into the fetus. For all these have bodily size, and in the large animals the embryos too are correspondingly large; this is why the elephant's embryo is as large as a calf. Animals that bear many at a time superfetate because what is more than one is, for each, a superfetation upon the other. Of these, whichever have size, as man does, if the second mating comes close upon the first, the animal rears the superfetated offspring too; for such a thing has actually been observed to happen. The cause is what has been stated: for even in a single act of intercourse more semen comes out than is needed, and this, when divided, produces multiple births, of which one lags behind the other. But when the mating happens to occur once the fetus has already grown, superfetation sometimes occurs, though rarely, because the womb closes up, as it does for the most part in women once they are pregnant, right up to the time of delivery.
40| But if it should ever happen (for this too has already occurred), the animal cannot bring it to completion, but fetuses fall away resembling what are called miscarriages. For just as in the single-bearing animals, because of their size, all the residue is diverted into the pre-existing fetus, so it is with these too, except that in the former case this happens at once, in the latter only once the embryo has grown; for at that point they are in a condition similar to the single-bearing animals. Likewise, because man is by nature multiparous, and there is something left over both in the size of the womb and in the residue, though not so much as to rear a second offspring to term, woman and the mare are the only animals that admit mating while already pregnant — the woman for the reason stated, the mare both because of the hardness of her nature and because there is something left over in the size of the womb, more than for one, but less than enough for another to be brought to completion by superfetation. And the mare is by nature given to sexual desire because she is affected in the same way as hard-natured animals are; for those are as they are because no purgation occurs in them (this being for them what intercourse is for the males), and mares among females least of all discharge a purgation. In all live-bearing animals the hard-natured females are given to sexual desire, because they are in a condition similar to the males, namely that the semen has collected but is not being separated off.
41| For in females the purgation of the menses is an exit of semen; for the menses are unconcocted semen, as has been said before. This is why, among women, those who are intemperate in this kind of intercourse, when they bear many children, cease from their excitement; for once the seminal residue has been secreted out, it no longer produces desire for this intercourse. Among birds, the females are less given to sexual desire than the males, because they have their wombs near the diaphragm, whereas with the males it is the opposite; for they have their testicles drawn up inside, so that if the kind of such birds is by nature seminal, they always need this intercourse. So it happens that, in preparation for mating, in females the womb descends downward, and in males the testicles are drawn up. The cause, then, why some animals do not superfetate at all, while others do superfetate but sometimes rear the fetuses further and sometimes not, and the cause why some of these are given to sexual desire and others not, has been stated. Some of the animals that superfetate can rear the fetuses further even when a long interval separates the matings — namely, those whose kind is seminal, whose body does not have size, and which are multiparous.
42| For because they are multiparous they have roominess in the womb, and because they are seminal they discharge much residue in the purgation; and because their body does not have size, but the purgation exceeds by a greater ratio the nourishment needed for the fetus, animals can be formed even later and these too can be reared. Further, the wombs of such animals do not close up, because there is residue of the purgation left over. This has actually happened in the case of women too; for some pregnant women have purgation even throughout. But for them this is contrary to nature (which is why it harms the fetus), whereas for such animals it is in accordance with nature; for their body is constituted this way from the start, as is the hare's. For this animal superfetates; for it is not among the large animals, and it is multiparous (for it is many-toed, and many-toed animals are multiparous), and it is seminal. Its shagginess makes this clear; for it exceeds in the quantity of its hair, and indeed it is the only animal that has hairs under its feet and inside its jaws. Shagginess is a sign of an abundance of residue, which is why among men the hairy are more given to sexual desire and more full of semen than the smooth. The hare, then, often has some of its fetuses incomplete, while it brings forth others of its offspring fully completed.
43| Of the live-bearing animals, some bring forth incomplete animals, others complete ones: the solid-hooved and the cloven-hooved bring forth complete ones, while among the many-toed many bring forth incomplete ones. The cause of this is that the solid-hooved bear one at a time, while the cloven-hooved bear either one or, for the most part, two, and it is easy to rear a small number. Of the many-toed animals, all that bear incomplete young are multiparous; this is why, while the fetuses are still young, the mother can go on rearing them, but once they have grown and taken on size, since the body is no longer able to rear them, she brings them forth, just as the worm-bearing animals do. For of these too, some produce young that are almost entirely unarticulated, as the fox, the bear, and the lion do, and some of the others do similarly; and almost all are born blind, such as these and also the dog, the wolf, and the jackal. The pig alone, though multiparous, bears its young complete, and it alone straddles both categories; for it is multiparous like the many-toed animals, yet it is both cloven-hooved and solid-hooved — for there are, in fact, solid-hooved pigs somewhere. It is multiparous because the nourishment that would go to size is diverted into the seminal residue; for as a solid-hooved animal it does not have this size. And at the same time, as though disputing the nature of the solid-hooved, it is all the more cloven-hooved.
44| It is for this reason, then, that most pigs bear one, or two, or many at a time, but rear them to completion because of the good feeding condition of the body; for the body is like rich soil for plants, having sufficient and abundant nourishment. Some birds also bring forth young that are incomplete and blind, namely those among them that are multiparous without having bodily size, such as the crow, the jay, sparrows, and swallows; and also among the animals that bear few, those that do not bring forth abundant nourishment along with their young, such as the wood-pigeon, the turtle-dove, and the pigeon. And this is why, if someone pierces out the eyes of swallows while they are still young, they heal again; for while the eyes are still in process of forming, and not yet fully formed, they are destroyed, and so they grow and sprout afresh from the beginning. In general, incompleteness in birth comes about because of the inability to rear the young further, and the young turn out incomplete because of this earliness. This is clear also in the case of seven-month children; for because they are incomplete, many of them are born without their passages yet fully articulated, such as those of the ears and nostrils, but these become articulated as the children grow, and many of them go on living. Among human beings, the males become maimed more often than the females, while among the other animals this is no more so. The cause is that among human beings the male differs greatly from the female in the heat of its nature, which is why the males are more prone to movement while in the womb than the females.
45| But because of this motion it is broken more easily; for the young is easily broken because of its weakness. And for this same cause the females reach completion not in the same way as the males in women; for in the mother the female is differentiated from the male over a longer time, but once they have come out, everything is completed earlier in females than in males—for instance puberty, the prime of life, and old age. For females are by nature weaker and colder, and one must suppose that femaleness is, as it were, a natural incapacity. Now inside the womb the female is differentiated slowly because of its coldness (for differentiation is a kind of concoction, and heat concocts, and what is hotter is easily concocted), but outside the womb it reaches its prime and old age quickly because of its weakness; for all lesser things come to their end more quickly, just as in works made by craft, so too in things put together by nature. And because of the cause stated, among human beings twin births of a female and a male survive less often, while among other animals this is no less so; for in humans it is contrary to nature for the two to run an equal course, since the differentiation does not occur in equal times, but the male must necessarily lag behind or the female get ahead, whereas in the other animals this is not contrary to nature.
46| There also occurs a difference regarding pregnancy between human beings and the other animals; for the other animals are in better bodily condition for most of the time, while most women find pregnancy burdensome. Now one cause of this lies also in their way of life; for women who lead sedentary lives are laden with more residue, since among peoples where women's lives involve hard labor, pregnancy is not equally noticeable, and both there and everywhere those accustomed to labor give birth easily; for labor uses up the residues, whereas in sedentary women much of this sort of thing accumulates because of their lack of exertion and because purgations do not occur while they are pregnant, and the labor pain is severe. For labor exercises the breath so that it is able to be held, and it is in this that easy or difficult childbirth consists. Now these factors, as has been said, also contribute to the difference in this affection between the other animals and women, but the chief cause is that in some of the other animals a small purgation occurs, in others none noticeable at all, while in women it is the greatest of all animals; so that when the discharge does not occur because of the pregnancy, it causes disturbance in women; for indeed even when they are not pregnant, when the purgations fail to occur, illnesses result;
47| and at first, most women are disturbed more when they conceive; for the fetus is able to block the purgations, but because of its smallness it does not at first use up any quantity of the residue, while later it relieves them by drawing on it; but in the other animals, because the residue is small, it becomes proportionate to the growth of the embryos, and since the residues that impede nutrition are used up, they are in better bodily condition. And it is the same way among water animals and among birds. But once the fetuses become large, in the cases where the good condition of the body no longer results, the cause is that the growth of the fetus then requires more of the residual nourishment. In a few women it happens that their bodies are in better condition while pregnant; and these are the ones in whom the residues in the body are small, so that they are used up along with the nourishment going to the embryo.
48| We must now speak of the so-called mole, which occurs rarely in women, but occurs as an affection in some who are pregnant. For they give birth to what is called a mole. For it has actually happened to a woman who had intercourse with her husband and believed she had conceived: at first the bulk of her belly grew and everything else proceeded as expected, but when the time for delivery came, she neither gave birth nor did the bulk grow smaller, but continued this way for three or four years, until dysentery set in, and, being in danger from it, she gave birth to a mass of flesh which they call a mole. Moreover this affection grows old along with the woman and dies along with her. Such masses, when they come out into the open, become so hard that they can scarcely be cut through even with iron. Now the cause of this affection has been discussed in the Problems; for the fetus in the womb undergoes the very same thing that things being boiled undergo when they go bad, and this is not because of heat, as some say, but rather because of a weakness of heat. For nature seems to be unable, and incapable of bringing the process to completion or of setting a limit to the generation. This is why it grows old along with the woman or persists for a long time; for it has a nature that is neither that of something completed nor that of something wholly foreign. For the cause of its hardness is failure to concoct; and spoiling too is a kind of failure to concoct. There is a puzzle as to why this does not occur in the other animals, unless it has simply gone unnoticed. We must suppose the cause to be that woman alone among the other animals is subject to disorders of the womb, and has an excess in her purgations and is unable to concoct them; whenever, then, the fetus is formed out of a moisture that is hard to concoct, then what is called the mole occurs in women reasonably either most of all or in them alone.
49| Milk occurs in those females that bear their young alive within themselves, and it is useful for the time of birth. For nature made it, in the form that comes out externally, for the sake of nourishment for animals, so that it neither falls short at all nor is in excess during this period—which is in fact what is seen to happen, unless something occurs contrary to nature. Now in the other animals, because the period of gestation is single, the concoction of it arrives to meet this occasion; but in human beings, since there are several periods, it must be present by the first. This is why before seven months milk is useless to women, but from then on it already becomes useful. And this reasonably comes about also through the cause that operates of necessity, concocted as it is toward the final periods. For at first the secretion of this sort of residue is used up for the generation of the embryos. And of all things, nourishment is the sweetest and most concocted, so that when this power is taken away, what remains must necessarily become salty and bad-tasting. But as the fetuses reach completion, the residue left over becomes greater; for what is used up is less, and it is sweeter, since what is easily concocted is not taken away in the same degree. For the expenditure is no longer directed toward the shaping of the embryo, but toward a small increase, since the embryo is now, so to speak, stationary because it has reached its end.
50| For there is also a kind of completion belonging to the fetus. This is why it comes out and changes the manner of its generation, as having what belongs to it, and no longer taking what does not belong to it, and it is at this time that the milk becomes useful. It collects in the upper region and in the breasts because of the arrangement of the constitution laid down from the beginning. For the region above the diaphragm belongs to the governing part of the animal, and the region below to nourishment and residue, so that whatever animals are capable of locomotion, having in themselves a sufficiency of nourishment, may change places. And it is from here too that the seminal residue is secreted, for the cause stated in the arguments at the beginning. Now both the residue of the males and the menstrual fluid in females are of the nature of blood. And the source of this, and of the veins, is the heart; and this is located among these parts. This is why it is here that the change in this kind of residue must first become noticeable. This is why the voices of both males and females change when they begin to produce seed (for the origin of the voice is from here; and it becomes different as that which moves it becomes different), and the region about the breasts is raised noticeably even in males, but more so in females;
51| For because the excretion occurs downward, the region of the breasts becomes empty in these animals and spongy. And it is the same with those that have their breasts lower down. Now both the voice and the changes about the breasts become noticeable in the other animals too, in those that are experienced about each kind, but in the case of humans it differs most of all. The cause is that in these the residue is greatest in the females among females and in the males among males, in proportion to size — for the females, the residue is the discharge of the menses, for the males, the emission of seed. When, then, the embryo does not take up such a secretion, but prevents it from passing out, the whole residue must necessarily be collected into the empty places — all those that lie on the same passages. And in each case the region of the breasts is of this kind for both causes — it has come to be such both for the sake of the best and from necessity. And it is there that nourishment, once concocted, is already constituted and comes to be for the animals. Of this concoction one can give the cause already stated, and also the opposite one. For it is reasonable that the embryo, being larger, should take up more nourishment, so that less is left over as surplus around this time —
52| and the lesser amount is concocted more quickly. That milk has the same nature as the secretion out of which each thing comes to be is clear, and this has been said before as well. For the matter that nourishes is the same as that out of which nature constitutes the generation. And this, in the blooded animals, is the blood-like fluid. For milk is concocted blood, but not corrupted blood. Empedocles either supposed wrongly or expressed himself badly when he made a poem saying that milk "on the tenth day of the eighth month became white pus." For putrefaction and concoction are opposites, and pus is a kind of putrefaction, while milk belongs among the things concocted. Now the purgations do not occur naturally in nursing women, nor do nursing women conceive; and if they do conceive, the milk is extinguished, because milk and the menses have the same nature. For nature is not able to be so abundant as to serve both purposes at once, but if the secretion goes in one direction, it must necessarily fail in the other, unless this happens under compulsion and contrary to what occurs for the most part. But this is already contrary to nature; for among things that are not incapable of being otherwise but admit of being otherwise, what is in accordance with nature is what occurs for the most part.
53| The generation of animals has also been well determined as to its times. For when, on account of size, the nourishment through the navel is no longer sufficient for the thing carried in the womb, but the milk becomes useful for the nourishment now taking place — and since nourishment no longer enters through the navel — the veins around which the so-called navel-cord is a covering collapse, and it is because of these things that the exit to the outside occurs at that time. The generation of all animals is, in accordance with nature, head-first, because the parts above the navel are larger than those below. For just as things hung from a balance incline toward the weight, so it is here — and the larger parts have more weight.
54| The periods of gestation are, for each of the animals, determined for the most part in accordance with their lifespans. For it is reasonable that the generations of long-lived things should also take longer. This, however, is not really the cause, but it is what happens for the most part; for the larger and more complete of the blooded animals also live for a long time — not, however, that all the larger ones are longer-lived. For of all animals whose experience we have reliable evidence of, man lives the longest time, except for the elephant; yet than that of the bushy-tailed animals and many others. The cause of any animal whatever being long-lived is its being blended in a manner similar to the surrounding air, and certain other natural circumstances, about which we shall speak later; but the cause of the length of the periods of gestation is the size of the things generated. For it is not easy for large compounds — whether of animals or, one might almost say, of anything else — to attain completion in a short time. This is why horses and the animals akin to them, though living a shorter time, are carried a longer time in the womb; for the birth of the one kind comes at a year, while for the other ten months is the longest. For the same cause the gestation of elephants is also long —
55| for the gestation is two years, on account of the excess of size. It is reasonable that the periods of all things — both of gestations, of generations, and of lifespans — should tend to be measured in accordance with nature by cycles. I mean by cycle a day and a night, and a month and a year, and the times measured by these, and further the cycles of the moon. And the cycles of the moon are the full moons and the wanings, and the halvings of the times in between; for it is by these that it stands in relation to the sun, since the month is a cycle common to both. And the moon is a principle on account of its association with the sun and its participation in light; for it comes to be like another, lesser sun; and this is why it contributes to all generations and completions. For heatings and coolings, up to a certain due measure, produce generations, but after this point, destructions. And the movements of these heavenly bodies mark the limit both of the beginning and of the end of these processes. For just as we see the sea, and the whole nature of liquids, standing still and changing in accordance with the movement and rest of the winds, and the air and the winds in accordance with the cycle of the sun and the moon, so too it is necessary that the things growing out of these, and the things within these, should follow suit.
1| For it stands to reason that the cycles of the less authoritative things should follow those of the more authoritative ones. For wind too has a kind of life, and generation and decay. But of the revolution of these heavenly bodies there might perhaps be certain other principles again. Nature, then, wishes to number the generations and endings of things by the numbers proper to these bodies, but does not achieve exactness, both because of the indeterminacy of matter and because many principles arise, which, by obstructing the generations and destructions that occur in accordance with nature, are often the causes of the things that happen contrary to nature. Concerning, then, the nourishment of animals from within and their generation to the outside, we have spoken, both about each severally and in common about all.
2| Now we must consider the affections by which the parts of animals differ. I mean by such affections of the parts, for example, blue-grayness of eyes and blackness, and sharpness and deepness of voice, and difference of color [or of body] and of hairs or feathers. Now it happens that some of such things belong to whole kinds, while in others it is a matter of chance, as this has come about especially in the case of humans. Further, in accordance with the changes of age, some of these belong alike to all animals, while others are opposite, as with voices and with the color of hairs; for some animals do not visibly turn gray toward old age, while man is affected by this most of all animals. And some follow immediately upon birth, while others become evident as age advances and as animals grow old. But concerning these and all such matters we must no longer suppose the cause to be of the same kind. For whatever things are not works of nature in common, nor peculiar to each kind, none of these exists or comes to be for the sake of anything. For the eye exists for the sake of something, but its being blue-gray is not for the sake of anything, except insofar as this affection is peculiar to the kind.
3| But in some cases the account does not bear on substance at all; rather, since these things come about of necessity, the causes must be traced back to matter and to the principle that produced the motion. For as was said at the outset, in the first arguments, it is not because each thing comes to be of a certain quality that it is of that quality—at least as regards all those works that are ordered and determinate products of nature—but rather, because it is of a certain quality, it comes to be such: for generation follows on substance and is for the sake of substance, and substance is not for the sake of generation. But the ancient natural philosophers thought the opposite. The reason for this is that they did not see that the causes are several; they saw only the cause of matter and the cause of motion, and even these without making distinctions, while they gave no consideration at all to the cause that operates through the account and the cause that operates through the end. Each thing, then, exists for the sake of something, but it comes to be for the sake of this cause and also for the sake of the rest, all those that are contained in the account of each thing, whether as being for the sake of something or as being that for the sake of which. But for those things that are not of this kind, of which there is nevertheless generation, the cause must now be sought in the motion and the generation, on the supposition that the differentia is taken in the very process of formation.
4| For an animal will have an eye of necessity (since it is posited as being an animal of a certain kind), but it will have an eye of such-and-such a kind of necessity too—not the same kind of necessity, but in another way, because it is the nature of such-and-such a thing to act on and be acted on by such-and-such another. Now that these points have been distinguished, let us speak of what happens next in order. First, then, when the young of all animals are born—especially the incomplete ones—they are accustomed to sleep, because even in the mother, once they first receive perception, they continue sleeping. But there is a puzzle about the generation from the beginning: whether waking belongs to animals before sleep, or the reverse. Because it is observed that as age advances they wake more, it would seem reasonable that the opposite holds at the beginning of generation—namely sleep. And further, because the transition from not-being to being comes about through an intermediate state; and sleep seems by its nature to be a thing of this kind, a kind of boundary between living and not living, and the sleeper neither altogether is not, nor altogether is. For it is by waking, above all, through perception, that living belongs to a thing. But if it is necessary that an animal have perception, and it is first an animal precisely when perception first arises in it, then the disposition it has from the beginning must be reckoned not as sleep but as something like sleep, the sort of disposition the class of plants also has;
5| for indeed it happens that during this time the animals live the life of a plant. But it is impossible for sleep to belong to plants; for no sleep is unwakable, whereas the affection in plants that is analogous to sleep is unwakable. Now it is necessary that animals sleep for the greater part of the time, because growth and weight bear down on the upper regions—we have stated the cause of sleeping, of this kind, elsewhere. But nevertheless they are observed to wake even in the womb (this becomes clear from dissections and in egg-laying animals), and then immediately they sleep again and sink back down. That is also why, once they have come out, they spend the greater part of the time sleeping. And infants do not laugh while awake, but while asleep they both weep and laugh. For perceptions do occur to animals even while asleep—not only what are called dreams, but also apart from the dream, just as with those who get up and do many things while asleep without dreaming. For there are some who, while sleeping, get up and walk about, seeing as those awake do. In these people perception of what is going on does occur, though they are not awake, yet not in the manner of a dream either. And infants seem, as if unacquainted with waking, to perceive and to live by habit in the state of sleep.
6| As time goes on, and growth shifts toward the lower part of the body, they now wake more, and spend the greater part of the time this way. But more than the other animals, in the first period they continue in sleep, for they are born the most incomplete among complete animals, and have their growth chiefly in the upper part of the body. The eyes of infants are all bluer-gray immediately at birth, but later they change to the coloring that is going to belong to them; in the other animals this does not happen in any noticeable way. The cause of this is that the eyes of the other animals are, on the whole, more single-colored—for example, cattle are black-eyed, the eyes of sheep are all watery-pale, while the whole class of some animals is gray-blue or bluish-gray, and some are goat-eyed, just as the goat kind itself, as a whole, is. But the eyes of human beings turn out to be many-colored: for there are some who are bluish-gray, some gray-blue, some black-eyed, and some goat-eyed. That is also why, just as they do not differ from one another, so too they do not differ from themselves; for it is not natural for an eye to have more than one color. But of the other animals, the horse is the most many-colored: for some of them even have eyes of two different colors. This happens to none of the other animals noticeably, but some human beings are born with eyes of two different colors.
7| Now the fact that the other animals show no noticeable change when young and when older, while this does happen with infants, should be reckoned a sufficient cause too: that the part in question is single-colored in the one case, many-colored in the other. And the cause of their being bluer-gray and not yet having their other color is that the parts of the young are weaker, and bluish-grayness is a kind of weakness. One must grasp, in general, concerning the difference among eyes, for what cause some are bluish-gray, some gray-blue, some goat-eyed, some black-eyed. Now the supposition that the bluish-gray are fiery, as Empedocles says, while the black have more of water than of fire, and that for this reason the bluish-gray do not see sharply by day, from lack of water, while the others do not see sharply by night, from lack of fire—this is not well said, at least if one must posit that vision belongs to water and not to fire, for all eyes alike. Further, it is possible to give the cause of the colors in another way as well; but if it is as was said earlier in the works on the senses, and even earlier than these in the works on the soul, that the organ of sight is of water, and for what cause it is of water and not of air or fire, that must be supposed to be the cause of what has been said.
8| For some eyes have more of the moisture, others less than the proportionate amount of motion, and others a proportionate amount. Now those eyes that have much moisture are black-eyed, because the moisture is for the most part not easily seen through, while those with little are bluish-gray, just as is also apparent in the case of the sea: the part of it that is easily seen through appears bluish-gray, the part that is less watery appears darker, and the part that is indistinct through depth appears black and dark blue. The eyes in between these differ, at this point, by a matter of more and less. And the same cause must be supposed also for the fact that the bluish-gray eyes are not sharp-sighted by day, while the black eyes are not sharp-sighted by night. For the bluish-gray, because of the scantiness of the moisture, are moved more by the light and by visible objects, insofar as it is moist and insofar as it is transparent. And further, the motion of this part is vision insofar as it is transparent, but not insofar as it is moist. The black-eyed, because of the abundance of the moisture, are moved less. For the light at night is weak; and at the same time, at night, the moisture as a whole becomes hard to move. But it must neither fail to be moved at all, nor be moved more than as transparent; for the stronger motion drives out the weaker.
9| This is also why people fail to see when they change from strong colors, and when they pass from sunlight into darkness: since the motion already present in the eye is strong, it blocks the motion coming from outside. And in general, sight that is neither strong nor weak is unable to see bright things well, because the moisture is affected more and set in motion by them. The disorders of each kind of sight make this clear too. For glaucoma occurs more in gray eyes, while what is called night-blindness occurs in black eyes. Glaucoma is rather a kind of dryness of the eyes, and this is why it happens more as people grow old: for these parts, like the rest of the body, dry out toward old age. Night-blindness, on the other hand, is an excess of moisture, and this is why it occurs more in the young, since their brain is moister. The vision that is intermediate between much and little moisture is best: for it is neither so scant that its disturbance impedes the motion of the colors, nor does its abundance make it hard to move. But it is not only the causes stated that account for dull or sharp sight, but also the nature of the skin over what is called the pupil. This must be transparent, and for that it must necessarily be thin and white, and even, so that it does not cast a shadow when it wrinkles (and this, indeed, is why old people do not see sharply
10| — for like the rest of the skin, the skin of the eye too wrinkles and grows thicker as people age), and it must be white because black is not transparent: for this is exactly what black is, that which does not let light show through it. This is also why lanterns cannot give light if they are made from such skin. So in old age and in diseases people do not see sharply for these causes, while children's eyes appear gray at first because of the small amount of moisture. Human beings and horses in particular develop eyes of two different colors, for the same reason that man alone among animals goes gray-haired, while of the other animals only the horse, as it visibly grows old, turns white in its hair. For grayness of hair is a kind of weakness of the moisture in the brain and a failure of concoction, and so is grayness of the eye: for being excessively thin or excessively thick has the same effect, the one through too little moisture, the other through too much. So whenever nature is unable to bring the moisture in both eyes to completion in the same way — either concocting it in both alike, or leaving it unconcocted in both alike, but instead concocts it in one and not the other — then it happens that eyes of two different colors result. As for why some animals have sharp sight and others do not, there are two ways in which the cause is given.
11| For 'sharp' is said in roughly two senses, and the same holds for hearing and smelling. Seeing sharply is said in one sense of being able to see from far off, in another of perceiving the differences among the things seen as precisely as possible. These two do not occur together in the same creatures. For the very same person, shading his eyes with his hand or looking through a tube, judges the differences of colors no more and no less than before, but will see farther. Certainly people at the bottom of pits and wells sometimes see the stars. So if some animal has a great projection to its eye, but the moisture in the pupil is not clear nor proportioned to the motion coming from outside, and the skin covering it is not thin, this animal will not be exact about the differences of colors, but will be able to see far off just as if it were near, more so than animals whose moisture is clear and whose covering of it is clear too, but which have no brow ridge in front of their eyes. For the cause of seeing so sharply as to perceive the differences lies in the eye itself: just as on a clean garment even small stains show up clearly, so too in a clear sight even small motions are conspicuous and produce perception.
12| The cause of seeing far off, and of the motion from far-off visible things arriving at the eye, is the position of the eyes: for prominent, bulging eyes do not see well at a distance, while eyes that are set within, lying in a hollow, are able to see far-off things, because the motion is not scattered into empty space but travels in a straight line. For it makes no difference whether one says, as some do, that seeing occurs by the sight going out (for if there is nothing in front of the eyes, the sight, being scattered, must strike the things seen with less force and see distant things less well), or that seeing occurs by the motion coming from the things seen. For it is equally necessary, either way, that sight sees by means of motion. Now distant things would be seen best of all if there were a continuous channel straight from the sight to the thing seen, like a tube: for then the motion from the visible things would not be dissolved. But since this is not so, the further off the projecting structure extends, the more exactly distant things must be seen. Let these, then, be the causes of the difference among eyes.
13| The same holds in the same way for hearing and smell. For it is one thing to hear and smell precisely — perceiving all the differences among the underlying objects of perception as fully as possible — and another thing to hear and smell from far off. Now the cause of judging the differences well is the sense-organ, just as with sight, provided that it itself and the membrane around it are clear. For the channels of all the sense-organs, as has been said in the works on perception, extend to the heart, or, in animals without a heart, to the corresponding part. Now the organ of hearing, since it is a sense-organ of air, is connected by way of the air through which the connate breath produces, in some animals, the pulse, and in others, respiration and inhalation; it terminates there. This is also why learning of what is said occurs, such that one can echo back what was heard: for whatever sort of motion entered through the sense-organ, the same sort of motion again — as if from one and the same imprint — comes about through the voice, so that one says what one heard. And people yawning and exhaling hear less well than when inhaling, because the origin of the organ of hearing lies at the breath-part, and the breath is shaken and set in motion at the same time as the organ that moves it —
14| — for the organ that moves it is itself moved. And the same affection occurs in moist seasons and climates, and the ears seem to fill up with breath because they lie close to the origin of the breath-region. Now the precision of judgment concerning the differences of sounds and smells lies in the sense-organ and the surface membrane being clear: for all the motions are conspicuous, just as with sight, and the same holds in these cases too. As for perceiving from far off and not perceiving from far off, this occurs in the same way as with sight. For those animals that have, in front of their sense-organs, something like long channels running through their parts, perceive from far off. This is why animals with long nostrils, such as Laconian hound-puppies, have keen smell: for since the sense-organ lies at the far end, the motions from a distance are not dispersed but travel in a straight line, just as happens for people shading their eyes in front. Likewise for those whose ears are long and project out at a distance, as some four-footed animals have, and whose inner coil is long: for these too, receiving the motion from far off, deliver it to the sense-organ. So, one might say, man has the least precision of the senses at a distance, in proportion to his size among animals, but is the most keenly sensitive of all to differences.
15| The cause is that his sense-organ is clear and least earthy and corporeal, and man is by nature the thinnest-skinned of animals in proportion to his size. Nature has also worked out the case of the seal reasonably: for although it is four-footed and viviparous, it has no ears but only passages. The cause is that its life is spent in water: the part that forms the ears is added onto the passages in order to preserve the motion of air coming from a distance; so this part is of no use to the seal, but would even produce the opposite effect, by taking in a quantity of water. So much, then, has been said about sight, hearing, and smell.
16| Coats of hair differ, in human beings themselves, according to age, and they differ also as compared with the other kinds of animals that have hair at all. Now nearly all the animals that bear their young alive within themselves have hair; for even those of this class that have spiny growths instead must be reckoned to have a certain form of hair, for example the spines of land hedgehogs and of any other such live-bearing animal. There are differences among hairs in respect of hardness and softness, length and shortness, straightness and curliness, abundance and scantiness, and besides these in respect of color, in whiteness and blackness and the shades between these. Some of these differences also vary with age, as animals grow young or grow old. This is most conspicuous in human beings; for people grow shaggier as they grow older, and some go bald at the front of the head. Children do not go bald, nor do women; men do, once their age is already advancing. And as people grow old their heads turn gray. In none of the other animals, one may say, is this conspicuous, though it is most so in the horse among the rest. Human beings go bald at the front of the head, and turn gray first at the temples;
17| but no one goes bald either at the temples or at the back of the head. As for the animals that do not have hair but something analogous to it — birds having feathers, for instance, and the class of fishes having scales — some of these same conditions befall them too, in the corresponding way. Now for what end nature made the class of hairs for animals has been stated earlier, among the causes concerning the parts of animals; but to show what conditions must be present, and through what necessities each of these results comes about, belongs to the present inquiry. The chief cause of thickness and thinness of hair is the skin; for in some animals it is thick, in others thin, and in some loose-textured, in others dense. A further contributing cause is the difference in the moisture present in it; for in some it is oily, in others watery. For in general the nature of the skin is, as a substrate, earthy — since, being on the surface, it becomes solid and earthy as the moisture evaporates from it — while the hairs, and what is analogous to them, are formed not out of the flesh but out of the skin, the moisture in them evaporating and rising off as vapor. That is why thick hairs come from thick skin, and thin hairs from thin skin.
18| If, then, the skin is looser-textured and thicker, the hairs are thick, both because of the abundance of the earthy matter and because of the size of the pores; but if the skin is denser, the hairs are thin, because of the narrowness of the pores. Further, if the moisture is watery, since it dries up quickly, the hairs do not attain size; but if it is oily, the opposite happens, for oily matter is not easily dried. This is why, in general, the thicker-skinned animals are the thicker-haired, though not the very thickest-skinned the very thickest-haired, for the reasons stated — for example the pig kind stands to the ox and to the elephant, and to many others, in just this relation. For the same reason the hairs on the head are thickest in human beings; for here the skin is thickest and in the greatest degree of moisture, and besides it has much looseness of texture. The cause of hairs being long or short is also the fact that the moisture which evaporates is not easily dried. Of its not being easily dried there are two causes, quantity and quality; for if the moisture is abundant it is not easily dried, and likewise if it is oily. And this is why, in human beings, the hairs from the head are the longest;
19| for the brain, being moist and cool, supplies a great abundance of moisture. Hair becomes straight or curly because of the vapor rising within the hairs. For if this vapor is smoky, being hot and dry, it makes the hair curly. For the hair bends because it is carried in two motions at once: the earthy element is carried downward, the hot element upward. Being thus easily bent, through weakness it is twisted; and this twisting is the curliness of the hair. It is possible to grasp the cause in this way; but it is also possible that, because there is little moisture but much earthy matter, the hairs are drawn together as they are dried out by the surrounding air. For what is straight bends if it evaporates, and shrinks together just as a hair does when it is burned in fire, curliness being a kind of contraction due to lack of moisture, caused by the heat of the surrounding air. A sign of this is that curly hairs are harder than straight ones; for what is dry is hard. Hair is straight in those animals that have abundant moisture; for in these the moisture proceeds by flowing, not by dripping out drop by drop. And this is why the Scythians about the Pontus, and the Thracians, have straight hair; for they themselves are moist, and the air surrounding them is moist too;
20| whereas the Ethiopians and those who live in hot regions have curly hair; for their brains are dry, and so is the surrounding air. Some of the thick-skinned animals have thin hair, for the cause stated before; for the thinner the pores are, the thinner the hairs must necessarily become. This is why the sheep kind has hair of this sort; for wool is nothing but a mass of hairs. There are some animals that have soft hair but not correspondingly thin, for example the hare kind as compared with sheep; for in animals of this sort the hair lies at the surface of the skin. This is why it does not attain length, but the result is similar to what happens with fibers carded from flax; for these too have no length at all, yet are soft and do not admit of being woven. Sheep in cold regions are affected in the opposite way to human beings: for the Scythians have soft hair, while the Sarmatian sheep have hard hair. The cause of this is the same as in the case of all wild animals generally. For cold hardens by drying, through its freezing action; for as the heat is squeezed out, the moisture evaporates along with it, and both the hairs and the skin become earthy and hard. In wild animals the cause is their living out of doors; in the sheep it is the character of the region itself.
21| A sign of this is also what happens with the sea-urchins that are used against strangury. For these, because they live in cold sea-water on account of the depth (for they occur at sixty fathoms and even more), are themselves small, but have spines that are large and hard — large because the growth of the body is diverted to that point (for having little heat and not concocting their nourishment, they have much residue, and spines and hairs and things of this kind are formed out of residue), and hard and stone-like because of the cold and the freezing. In the same way it happens that other growing things too become harder and more earthy and more stony in northern regions than in southern ones, and in exposed places than in hollows; for everything is chilled more there, and the moisture evaporates. Now both heat and cold produce hardness; for moisture is made to evaporate by both, by heat in its own right, and by cold accidentally (for the moisture departs together with the heat, since no moisture exists without heat). But cold not only hardens but also compresses, whereas heat makes things looser in texture. For this same reason, too, as animals grow older, in those that have hair the hairs become harder, and in the feathered and scaly ones the feathers and the scales become harder.
22| For the skin becomes harder and thicker as animals grow older; for it dries out, and old age is, in accordance with its name, earthy, because heat leaves it and, along with the heat, moisture leaves as well. Humans go bald more conspicuously than any other animal. But this sort of affection is something general: some plants are evergreen while others shed their leaves, and among birds those that hibernate shed their feathers. Baldness in humans, in those to whom it happens, is an affection of the same sort. For leaves fall from all plants gradually, part by part, and so do feathers and hairs from those that have them, but when the affection happens all at once, it takes on the names just mentioned. For it is called going bald, and shedding leaves, [and shedding feathers]. The cause of the affection is a deficiency of hot moisture, and of moist substances the oily is most of this sort. That is why oily plants are more evergreen. But the cause of these matters must be discussed elsewhere; for there are other contributing causes for this affection as well. In plants the affection occurs in winter (for this change is more decisive than age), and likewise in the animals that hibernate (for these too are by nature less moist and hot than humans).
23| But humans have their winter and summer in the stages of life. That is why no one goes bald before engaging in sexual intercourse; it happens then, and more so in those of that natural constitution. For by nature the brain is the coldest part of the body, and sexual intercourse cools it further, for it is a discharge of pure, natural heat. It is reasonable, then, that the brain is affected first; for what is weak and in poor condition is at the mercy of a small cause and a small tipping-point. So if one reasons that the brain itself has little heat, and that the skin surrounding it must be even more so, and the nature of the hair on it, being furthest removed from the source, still more so, it would seem reasonable that going bald happens, around that age, to those capable of producing seed. For the same reason, people go bald only at the front of the head, and among animals humans alone go bald: at the front, because that is where the brain is; among animals, only humans, because a human has by far the largest brain, and the moistest. Women do not go bald, for their nature is similar to that of children: both are incapable of the discharge of seed. A eunuch, too, does not go bald, because he changes over toward the female. And eunuchs either do not grow the later-appearing hairs, or shed them if they happen to have them already, except for the pubic hair.
24| For women too lack some of these hairs, but grow others at puberty. This mutilation is a change from the male toward the female. The reason that hibernating animals grow thick coats again, and plants that have shed their leaves grow leaves again, but bald men do not grow hair again, is that for the former the seasons are more truly turning-points of the body's condition, so that when the seasons change, growing and shedding change with them—feathers and hair in the one case, leaves in plants in the other. For humans, winter and summer and spring and autumn occur according to the stage of life, so that, since the stages of life do not turn back, the affections that depend on them do not change back either, even though the cause is similar. On the other affections of the hair, then, this is roughly what has been said.
25| In the other animals, the cause of their colors—both of being one uniform color and of being variegated—is the nature of the skin. In humans, it is responsible for nothing except gray hairs—not those due to old age, but those due to disease. For in the disease called leuke, the hairs become white. But if the hairs are white, the whiteness does not follow through to the skin. The reason is that the hairs grow out of the skin; so when the skin has become diseased and white, the hair falls sick along with it, and the disease of hair is grayness. But the grayness of hair that comes with age arises through weakness and a deficiency of heat. For every stage of life, as the body declines, tends toward coldness, and in old age especially; for old age is cold and dry. One must understand that the nourishment arriving at each part is concocted by the heat proper to that part, and when that heat is unable to concoct it, the nourishment spoils and a defect or disease results. A more precise account of this sort of cause must be given later, in the treatise on growth and nourishment. So in those people whose hair is by nature low in heat, and in whom the moisture entering is more abundant, since the heat proper to the hair is unable to concoct it, it putrefies through the heat present in the surrounding air.
26| All putrefaction comes about through heat, but not heat that is innate, as has been said elsewhere. Putrefaction occurs in water and earth and all bodily things of that kind, and so also in earthy vapor, such as what is called mold; for mold is the decay of earthy vapor. So the nourishment in the hairs, being of this kind, when it is not concocted, putrefies, and what is called grayness results. And it is white, because mold, too, is practically the only one of decayed things that is white. The cause of this is that it contains much air; for all earthy vapor has the character of thick air. For mold is, as it were, the inverse of frost: if the rising vapor freezes, frost results; if it decays, mold results. That is why both occur on the surface, since vapor is a surface phenomenon. And the poets do well when, joking in comedies, they use the metaphor and call gray hairs the mold and frost of old age. For the one is the same in genus, the other in species: frost is the same in genus (since both are vapor), while mold is the same in species (since both are putrefaction). A sign that this is so is the following:
27| In many people, gray hairs have grown in from illness, and afterward, when they recovered, black hairs grew in place of these. The reason is that in sickness, just as the rest of the body is deficient in natural heat, so too the other parts, even the very small ones, share in this weakness. And a great deal of residue arises in bodies and their parts; that is precisely why the failure of concoction in the flesh produces grayness. But when people recover their health and regain strength, they change back again and become, as it were, young again out of old; and that is why the affections change along with them. It is also correct to say that disease is acquired old age, and old age is natural disease; certain diseases, at any rate, produce the very same effects as old age. People go gray at the temples first. The parts behind are lacking in moisture because they contain no brain, while the crown of the head has a great deal of moisture; and a great abundance is not easily putrefied. But the hairs at the temples have neither so little moisture that it can be concocted, nor so much that it cannot putrefy; for being a place intermediate between the two, it lies outside both of the affections. On the cause of grayness in humans, then, this has been said.
28| In the other animals, the fact that this change does not occur on account of this age has clearly the same cause as was stated in the case of baldness: they have a small brain and a less moist one, so that the heat is not overpowered in concocting it. Horses [of them] show this most markedly of all the animals we know, because they have, relative to their size, the thinnest bone around the brain of any animal. Evidence of this is that a blow struck to this spot proves fatal to them; that is why Homer put it this way: "where the horse's hairs first grow upon the skull, there above all is the fatal spot." Since moisture, then, easily flows in because of the thinness of the bone, while heat runs short because of age, these hairs go gray. Red hair also turns gray faster than black hair; for redness is a kind of weakness in a hair, and weak things all age faster. Cranes are said to grow blacker as they age. The cause of this condition would be that the nature of their feathers is naturally whiter, and that as they age there is more moisture in the feathers than is proportionate, which makes them more prone to decay. That grayness comes about through a kind of decay, and is not, as some suppose, a drying-out, is shown by what was said just before: hairs that are covered by caps or coverings go gray faster (for currents of air hinder decay, and covering shuts the air out), and by the fact that rubbing them with water and oil mixed together helps.
29| For the water cools, while the oil mixed in prevents quick drying; for water dries out readily. That it is not a drying-out, and that hair does not whiten the way grass whitens as it dries, is shown by the fact that some hair grows gray right from the start; and nothing that is only now coming to be is yet dried out. Hairs also whiten most often at the tip; for in the extremities, which are the thinnest parts, the least heat is present. In the other animals, wherever hairs turn white, this comes about by nature and not by an affection. In other animals the cause of their colors is the skin: white animals have white skin, black animals black skin, and dappled animals, which arise from a mixture, show white skin in one place and black in another. In the case of humans, however, the skin is not the cause at all; for even very white-skinned people have black hair. The cause is that, relative to size, a human being has the thinnest skin of all animals, so that it has no power over the change of the hair; rather, because of its weakness the skin itself changes color and grows darker from sun and wind, while the hairs do not change along with it at all. In the other animals the skin, because of its thickness, has the governing power over color.
30| That is why the hairs change to match the skins, while the skins do not change at all to match the winds and the sun. Of animals, some are single-colored (by single-colored I mean those whose whole kind has one color, as lions are all tawny; and this holds equally among birds and fish and other animals), others are many-colored yet uniform in body (I mean those whose whole body has the same color, as an ox may be wholly white or wholly black), and others are dappled. This last happens in two ways: some are dappled by their whole kind, as the leopard and the peacock, and some fish, such as the so-called thrattai; in others the kind as a whole is not dappled, but individuals become dappled, as oxen and goats, and among birds, pigeons; and other kinds of birds undergo the same thing. Uniformly-colored animals change far more than single-colored ones, and change into each other's simple color, for instance from white into black and from black into white, and into mixtures of both, because it belongs to the whole kind by nature not to be fixed to one color; for such a kind is readily moved in both directions, so that it both changes into the other color and becomes more dappled. Single-colored animals are the opposite:
31| for they do not change unless through some affection, and this is rare; a white partridge has in fact been seen before now, and a white raven and sparrow and bear. These occur when the animal has been distorted in its generation; for what is small is easily destroyed and easily moved, and what is coming to be is of just this sort, since for things coming to be, the starting-point lies in something small. Animals single-colored by nature but many-colored by kind change most of all through the action of waters; for warm waters make hair white, cold waters black, just as with plants too. The cause is that warm waters contain more air than water, and air, showing through, produces whiteness, just as it does in foam as well. So just as skins that are white through an affection differ from skins that are white by nature, so too in hairs the whiteness that comes through disease or age differs from the whiteness that comes by nature, in that the cause is different: natural heat makes some hairs white, while a foreign cause makes others white. It is the vaporous air, shut up inside, that supplies the white color in every case; that is why, in animals that are not single-colored, all the parts under the belly are whiter.
32| For, generally speaking, all the white parts are also warmer and sweeter in flesh, through this same cause; for concoction makes things sweet, and heat produces concoction. The same cause applies also to single-colored animals that are black or white: heat and cold are the cause of the nature of the skin and of the hairs, since each of the parts has a heat proper to itself; and further the tongues differ in color too, both among single-colored and among dappled animals, and even among single-colored animals that nonetheless differ, as white-tongued from black-tongued. The cause is what was said before: the skins of dappled animals are dappled, and among white-haired and black-haired animals, some have white skin and some black. One should take the tongue to be like one of the external parts, not on the ground that it is sheltered inside the mouth, but as a hand or a foot is external; so that, since the skin of dappled animals is not single-colored, this same cause accounts for the color of the skin on the tongue. Some birds and some wild quadrupeds also change color with the seasons. The cause is that, just as humans change with age, the same thing happens to these animals with the seasons;
33| for this difference is greater than the change that comes with age. Animals that eat more indiscriminately are, as a rule, more dappled, and reasonably so — bees, for example, are more single-colored than hornets and wasps; for if foods are the cause of the change, then those with varied food are reasonably dappled. Varied foods produce more varied movements, and more varied residues of food, and it is from these residues that hairs and feathers and skins arise. Let colors and hairs be distinguished in this way.
34| Concerning voice — the fact that some animals are deep-voiced, others high-voiced, others well-toned and moderately disposed toward both extremes; further that some are loud-voiced, others soft-voiced, and that they differ from one another in smoothness and roughness and flexibility and inflexibility — we must examine through what causes each of these belongs to them. Now concerning high pitch and low pitch, one should suppose the cause to be the same as for the change that occurs with age, in younger and older animals. For in almost all other animals the younger sound higher-pitched, but the calves of cattle sound lower-pitched. The same thing happens too in the case of males and females: in other kinds the female sounds higher-pitched than the male (this is most evident in humans, since nature has given this capacity to them above all, because they alone among animals use speech, and the matter of speech is voice), but among cattle it is the opposite, for the females sound lower-pitched than the bulls. For what purpose animals have voice, and what voice is, and sound in general, has been discussed partly in the works on perception, partly in the works on the soul.
35| Since lowness of pitch consists in the motion being slow, and sharpness in its being fast, there is some difficulty as to whether the cause of the slowness or the speed is the mover or the thing moved. For some say that what is much moves slowly, and what is little moves quickly, and that this is the cause of some voices being low-pitched and others sharp-pitched — speaking correctly up to a point, but not correctly as a whole. For it does seem rightly said, in general terms, that lowness lies in a certain magnitude of what is moved. For if this is so, it is not easy for something small also to sound low, nor likewise for something to be both low and sharp at once. And low-voicedness seems to belong to a nobler nature, and among melodies the low note is better than the strained one; for the better lies in a kind of superiority, and lowness is a kind of superiority. But since being low or sharp in voice is a different thing from having a loud or a soft voice (for there are sharp voices that are loud, and soft voices that are likewise low, and similarly also with respect to the middle pitch between these), by what else would one distinguish loudness and softness of voice than by the quantity, much or little, of what is moved? If, then, sharpness and lowness are to be distinguished by the distinction just given, it will follow that the same things are low-voiced and loud-voiced, and sharp-voiced and soft-voiced.
36| But this is false, and the cause is that 'great' and 'small', 'much' and 'little', are said in some cases without qualification, in others relative to each other. Loud voices, then, consist in what is moved being much without qualification, soft voices in its being little; but low and sharp voices consist in this differentia held relative to each other. For if what is moved exceeds the strength of the mover, what is carried must be carried slowly, but if it is exceeded, quickly. And what is strong, because of its strength, sometimes, in moving much, makes the motion slow, but sometimes, because it prevails, makes it fast. By the same reasoning, among weak movers, those that move more than their power allows make the motion slow, while those that, through weakness, move little, make it fast. These, then, are the causes of the opposed cases — why not all the young are sharp-voiced nor all low-voiced, nor all the old, nor uniformly the males and the females; and besides these, also the cause of the sick speaking sharply, and those in good bodily condition too, and further of people becoming more sharp-voiced as they become old men, the old age being opposite to the condition of the young.
37| Most young creatures, then, and females, moving little air because of weakness, are sharp-voiced; for what is little moves quickly, and what is quick is sharp in voice. But calves and female cattle — the former because of their age, the latter because of the nature of femaleness — do not have strong the part by which they move breath, but in moving much air they are low-voiced; for what moves slowly is low, and much air moves slowly. These move much air, while the others move little, because the vessel through which the breath first travels has, for these, a large gap, and they are forced to move much air, while for the others it is easily managed. As age advances, this moving part grows stronger in each case, so that they change to the opposite: the sharp-voiced become lower-voiced than they themselves were, and the low-voiced become sharper-voiced than themselves; that is why bulls are sharper-voiced than calves and than female cattle. In all creatures, then, strength lies in the sinews, which is why those in their prime are stronger; for the young are more jointless and more without sinew. Further, in the young the tautness has not yet been stretched taut, while in those growing old the tension is already relaxed;
38| that is why both are weak and incapable with respect to motion. Bulls especially are sinewy, and so is the heart; that is why they have this part, by which they move the breath, taut, like a stretched sinewy string. That the heart of cattle has this nature is shown by the fact that bone forms in some of them; for bones seek out the nature of sinew. All castrated animals change toward the female, and because the sinewy strength relaxes, the source emits, at first, a voice similar to that of females. And the relaxation comes about in much the way it would if one, having stretched a string taut, then slackened it by hanging some weight from it — as women who weave on looms do; for they too stretch the warp taut by attaching what are called the 'weights'. For in just this way the nature of the testicles is attached to the seminal ducts, and these come from the vein whose origin is from the heart, at the very point of the part that moves the voice. That is why, when the seminal ducts change with age, at the age when they are now able to secrete seed, this part changes along with them. And as this part changes, the voice also changes — more in males, though the same thing happens in females too, only less noticeably — and there occurs what some call 'breaking', whenever the voice becomes uneven.
39| After this it settles into the lowness or sharpness proper to the age that follows. When the testicles are removed, the tautness of the ducts is relaxed, just as when the weight is removed from the string and the warp. As this relaxes, the source that moves the voice is slackened by the same reasoning. This, then, is the cause why castrated animals change toward the female both in voice and in the rest of their form — because the source from which the tautness of the body derives happens to be relaxed — and not, as some suppose, because the testicles themselves are a bundle of many sources. Rather, small displacements become causes of great effects, not in their own right, but whenever it happens that a source changes along with them. For sources, though small in magnitude, are great in power; for this is what it is to be a source — itself to be the cause of many things, while nothing further above is the cause of it. As to why some animals are by nature so constituted as to be low-voiced and others sharp-voiced, the heat and the cold of the place also contribute. For hot breath, because of its thickness, produces low-voicedness, while cold breath, because of its thinness, produces the opposite.
40| This is clear also in the case of pipes: those who use hotter breath, and emit such breath as those who wail do, play the pipe in a lower register. The cause of roughness of voice, and of the voice being smooth, and of every such unevenness, is that the part and the instrument through which the voice is carried is either rough or smooth, or altogether even or uneven. This is clear whenever some moisture is present around the windpipe, or roughness arises from some affection; for then the voice too becomes uneven. The cause of flexibility is whether the instrument is soft or hard. For the soft can be managed and become all manner of things, while the hard cannot. And the soft can utter both small and great sounds, and hence both sharp and low; for it manages the breath easily, and itself readily becomes great or small; but hardness cannot be managed. So much, then, concerning voice
41| Concerning teeth, that animals do not have them for one purpose, nor all for the same purpose, but some for the sake of nutrition, others also for defense and for articulate speech, has been said before. But as to why the front teeth come first and the molars later, and why the latter do not fall out while the former fall out and grow again, we must take the cause to be akin to what has been said in our accounts of generation. Democritus too has spoken about these matters, but not well. For he states the cause universally without having examined it in all cases. He says that they fall out because they come to be in animals before their season; since teeth grow, so to speak, according to nature only when the animal is at its prime. And he blames suckling for their coming to be before their season. And yet the pig also suckles, but does not shed its teeth; moreover all the saw-toothed animals suckle, but some of them do not shed their teeth except the canines, as for example lions. In this, then, he erred in speaking universally without examining what happens in every case; and this one must do, for a person who states something universally must speak of all cases. Since we posit nature — positing it from what we observe — as neither falling short nor doing anything in vain of what is possible in each case, and since it is necessary for those animals that are going to take nourishment after the enjoyment of milk to have organs for the working of that nourishment;
42| if then this happened, as he says, only at puberty, nature would be falling short of something possible for it to do, and the work of nature would come about contrary to nature. For what happens by force is contrary to nature, and he says the generation of the teeth happens by force. That this is not true is clear from these considerations and others like them. These come to be before the broad ones, first because their function too is prior (for dividing is prior to grinding smooth, and those serve for grinding smooth, these for dividing), and next because the smaller, even if it starts out at the same time as the larger, is naturally disposed to come to be faster than the larger. These are smaller in size than the molars, and the bone of the jaw is broad there but narrow toward the mouth. From the larger, then, more nourishment must necessarily flow in, and from the smaller, a scantier supply. Suckling itself contributes nothing, but the heat of the milk makes the teeth sprout faster. A sign of this is that even among suckling infants, those that feed on warmer milk cut their teeth faster; for what is warm promotes growth. Once they have come to be, they fall out for the sake of the better, because what is sharp quickly grows blunt;
43| others, then, must succeed them for the task. But there is no such bluntness for the broad teeth; through time, being worn down, they only become smoother. The front teeth fall out of necessity, because the roots of the broad teeth are set in a broad and strong bone, while those of the front teeth are set in a thin one, and are therefore weak and easily dislodged. They grow again because their shedding occurs while the bone is still growing, and while it is still the season for teeth to come to be. A sign of this is that the broad teeth too grow over a long time; for the last of them rise up around the twentieth year, and in some people the very last ones have come up only when they are already growing old, altogether because there is abundant nourishment in the wide space of the bone. The front part of the jaw, on account of its thinness, quickly reaches completion, and no residue forms in it, but its own proper nourishment is used up entirely in growth. Democritus, however, having given up speaking of the that-for-the-sake-of-which, reduces everything to necessity in the things nature makes use of — things that are indeed of a certain sort, but that are nonetheless for the sake of something, and for the sake of what is better in each case. So that nothing prevents their coming to be and falling out in this way, but not on account of these things, but on account of the end;
44| and these factors are causes as movers and instruments, and as matter, since it is reasonable that in most cases the work is done by breath, used as an instrument; for just as some of the tools used in the crafts serve many purposes — as in bronze-working the hammer and the anvil — so too does breath in things constituted by nature. To state the causes as being purely a matter of necessity seems like supposing that it is the knife, and nothing else, that has made the water drain out of a dropsical patient, and not health, for the sake of which the knife made the cut. Concerning teeth, then, why some fall out and grow again while others do not, and in general for what cause they come to be, has been stated. And it has also been stated concerning the other affections that occur in the parts, all those that happen to come about not for the sake of anything but from necessity and through the moving cause.
1| [980a] All human beings by nature desire to know. A sign of this is the delight we take in the senses; for even apart from their usefulness they are loved for themselves, and most of all the sense that comes through the eyes. For not only with a view to action, but even when we intend to do nothing, we choose sight, so to speak, above all the others. The reason is that this, of all the senses, most makes us know things and reveals many differences among them. Now by nature animals are born with sense-perception, but in some of them memory does not arise out of this, while in others it does. [980b] And because of this the latter are more intelligent and more capable of learning than those that cannot remember: those that cannot hear sounds are intelligent without being able to learn (for example the bee, and any other kind of animal of that sort that there may be), while those that, in addition to memory, also have this sense of hearing are capable of learning. So the other animals live by appearances and memories, and share but little in experience; but the human race lives also by craft and reasoning. And experience arises in human beings out of memory; for many memories of the same thing come together to produce the capacity of a single experience. [981a] And experience seems to be pretty much like knowledge and craft, but knowledge and craft come to human beings by way of experience;
2| for, as Polus says, experience made craft, but inexperience made chance. And craft comes to be when out of many notions gained by experience a single universal judgment is formed about things that are alike. For to have the judgment that this particular thing benefited Callias when he was sick with this particular disease, and likewise Socrates, and many other individuals one by one, belongs to experience; but to judge that it benefited all people of a certain kind, marked off as one in form, when sick with this particular disease -- for example the phlegmatic, or the bilious, or those burning with fever -- belongs to craft. Now with a view to action, experience seems no whit inferior to craft, and indeed we see men of experience succeeding more than those who have theory without experience (the reason being that experience is knowledge of particulars, while craft is knowledge of universals, and actions and productions are all concerned with the particular; for the doctor does not heal man, except incidentally, but heals Callias or Socrates or some other individual so named, to whom being a man happens to belong. So if a man has the theory without the experience, and knows the universal but does not know the particular contained in it, he will often go wrong in his treatment;
3| for it is the particular that is to be treated): but nevertheless we suppose that knowing and understanding belong to craft rather than to experience, and we take craftsmen to be wiser than men of mere experience, on the assumption that in all cases wisdom follows more upon knowing; and this is because the former know the cause, while the latter do not. For men of experience know the that but not the why, while the others know the why and the cause. For this reason too we think the master craftsmen in each field are more honorable and know more, and are wiser, than the manual workers,
4| [981b] because they know the causes of the things being produced (whereas the others, like certain inanimate things, produce, but produce without knowing what they produce, as fire burns; only the inanimate things produce each of these effects by a certain nature, while the manual workers produce them through habit), on the assumption that being wiser has to do not with being practical but with having the theory and knowing the causes. And in general the mark of one who knows and one who does not know is the ability to teach, and for this reason we hold that craft, rather than experience, is knowledge; for craftsmen can teach, while men of mere experience cannot. Further, we do not hold that any of the senses is wisdom, even though these are indeed the most authoritative ways of knowing particulars; but they do not tell us the why about anything, for example why fire is hot, but only that it is hot. It is reasonable, then, that the first person to discover any craft whatsoever beyond the common perceptions should be admired by human beings, not only because there was something useful in what was discovered, but as being wise and superior to the rest; and as more crafts were discovered, some directed toward the necessities of life and others toward passing the time pleasantly, the discoverers of the latter were always supposed to be wiser than the discoverers of the former, because their branches of knowledge were not for the sake of usefulness.
5| Hence, once all such crafts had already been established, the sciences that aim neither at pleasure nor at the necessities of life were discovered, and this happened first in those places where people had leisure. This is why the mathematical arts were first put together in Egypt, for there the priestly class was allowed to be at leisure. It has been said in the Ethics what the difference is between craft and knowledge and the other things of the same kind; the point of what we are saying now is this: that what is called wisdom is universally supposed to be concerned with the first causes and the principles. So that, as has been said before, the man of experience is thought to be wiser than those who have any sense-perception whatsoever, the craftsman wiser than the man of experience, the master craftsman wiser than the manual worker, and the theoretical branches of knowledge more so than the productive.
6| [982a] That wisdom, then, is a knowledge concerned with certain principles and causes, is clear. But since it is this knowledge that we are seeking, this is what must be examined: concerned with what sort of causes and what sort of principles is wisdom a knowledge? If, then, one were to take up the conceptions we hold about the wise man, this might perhaps make the matter clearer. We suppose, first, that the wise man knows all things, as far as this is possible, without having knowledge of each of them individually; next, that the man able to know things that are difficult, and not easy for a human being to know, is wise (for perceiving by the senses is common to all, and so is easy, and nothing wise); further, that the man who is more exact and more capable of teaching the causes is wiser in every branch of knowledge; and that among the sciences, the one that is choiceworthy for its own sake and for the sake of knowing is more wisdom than the one choiceworthy for the sake of its results, and that the more governing science is more wisdom than the one that is subordinate; for the wise man ought not to be directed but to direct, and it is not he who ought to obey another, but the less wise man who ought to obey him. Such, then, and so many, are the conceptions we hold about wisdom and the wise. Of these, knowing all things must necessarily belong to the one who has the knowledge of the universal to the highest degree (for this man knows in a way all the things that fall under it), and these things -- the most universal -- are pretty much the hardest for human beings to know (for they are furthest from the senses); the most exact of the sciences are those most concerned with the first things (for the sciences based on fewer principles are more exact than those arrived at by addition, for example arithmetic is more exact than geometry); and moreover the science that is theoretical about causes is more capable of teaching (for those who state the causes concerning each thing are the ones who teach), while knowing and understanding for their own sake belong most of all to the knowledge of the most knowable object (for the man who chooses knowledge for its own sake will choose most of all the knowledge that is most fully knowledge,
7| [982b] and such is the knowledge of the most knowable object); and the things most knowable are the first things and the causes (for it is through these and out of these that the other things come to be known, but not these through the things that fall under them); and the most governing of the sciences, and more governing than the one that is subordinate, is the one that knows for the sake of what each thing is to be done: and this is the good in each case, and in general the best thing in the whole of nature. So from all that has been said, the name we are seeking falls to the same science: for this science must be theoretical about the first principles and causes; for the good, that is, the that-for-the-sake-of-which, is itself one of the causes. And that it is not a productive science is clear even from the case of the first men who philosophized: for it is owing to wonder that human beings both now and at first began to philosophize, wondering originally at the obvious perplexities close at hand, and then advancing little by little in this way and raising difficulties also about greater matters, for example about the affections of the moon, and about the sun and the stars, and about the coming to be of the universe. But the man who is perplexed and wonders thinks himself ignorant (hence the lover of myth is in a sense a lover of wisdom too, for myth is composed of wonders):
8| So if it was to escape ignorance that people philosophized, it is clear that they were pursuing knowledge for the sake of understanding, and not for the sake of any use. The very course of events bears witness to this: for it was when practically all the necessities of life were already in place, and the things that make for ease and pastime as well, that this kind of thinking began to be sought. Plainly, then, we seek it for no other need but its own; but just as we say a man is free who exists for his own sake and not for another's, so too we regard this as the only free science among the sciences, since it alone exists for its own sake. That is why the possession of it might justly be thought not a human thing; for in many ways human nature is a slave, so that, as Simonides says, 'God alone would have this privilege,' and it is not fitting for a man not to seek the knowledge that suits him. Now if the poets are right about something, and the divine is by nature prone to envy,
9| [983a] it would be likely for this to happen above all in this case, and all who excel to be unlucky. But it is not possible for the divine to be envious — rather, as the proverb says, 'poets tell many lies' — nor should we think any other science more honorable than this one. For the most divine science is also the most honorable, and this one alone would be so in two ways: the science that God would have most of all is a divine science, and so is any science concerned with divine things. And this science alone has both of these features: for God is thought to be among the causes of all things, and a kind of principle, and this sort of science either God alone would have, or he would have it most of all. All the other sciences, then, are more necessary than this one, but none is better. Yet the possession of it must in a way come to bring us to a condition opposite to that of our inquiries at the outset. For everyone begins, as we said, from wondering that things are as they are — as with self-moving marvels, for those who have not yet observed their cause, or with the solstices of the sun, or with the incommensurability of the diagonal (it seems astonishing to everyone who has not yet observed the cause that there is something that cannot be measured by the smallest unit); but the outcome must come to the opposite and the better condition, in line with the proverb, as happens also in these cases once people have learned the reason —
10| for nothing would astonish a geometer so much as if the diagonal turned out to be measurable. We have said, then, what the nature is of the science we are seeking, and what the target is that our inquiry and the whole method must hit. Since it is clear that we must acquire knowledge of the primary causes (for we say we know each thing only when we think we recognize its first cause), and causes are spoken of in four ways — of which we say one is the substance, that is, the essence (for the reason why is traced back in the end to the definition, and the primary reason why is a cause and a principle); another is the matter, that is, the substratum; a third is the source of the principle of motion; and a fourth is the cause opposed to this one, namely that for the sake of which, and the good (for this is the end of all generation and motion) — these causes have already been examined adequately by us in our work on nature,
11| [983b] but nonetheless let us also take up those who before us approached the study of the things that are and philosophized about the truth. For it is clear that they too speak of certain principles and causes; so it will be of some use to our present method to go over them, for either we will find some other kind of cause, or we will have more confidence in those we now speak of. Now most of the first philosophers thought that principles in the form of matter were the only principles of all things. For that of which all existing things are composed, that from which they first come to be, and into which they are finally destroyed — the substance persisting while it changes in its attributes — this they say is the element and this the principle of the things that are. And for this reason they think nothing is generated or destroyed, on the ground that this sort of nature is always preserved — just as we say Socrates neither comes to be, without qualification, when he becomes handsome or musical, nor is destroyed when he loses these states, because the substratum, Socrates himself, persists — so too, they say, none of the other things is either, since there is always some nature, either one or more than one, out of which the other things come to be, while it is preserved. As for the number and kind of this sort of principle, however, they do not all say the same thing. Thales, the founder of this kind of philosophy, says it is water (which is why he also declared that the earth rests on water), getting this supposition perhaps from seeing that the nourishment of all things is moist, and that heat itself is generated from moisture and lives by it (and that from which a thing comes to be is a principle of all things) — he got this supposition both for this reason and because the seeds of all things have a moist nature, while water is the principle of the nature of moist things.
12| There are some who think that the very ancients too, long before the present generation, the first to theorize about the gods, held this same opinion about nature. For they made Ocean and Tethys the parents of generation, and made water — what the poets call the Styx — the oath by which the gods swear; for what is most ancient is most honored, and an oath is sworn by what is most honored.
13| [984a] Now whether this opinion about nature happens to be an ancient and early one might perhaps be unclear, but Thales, at any rate, is said to have declared himself in this way about the first cause (Hippo no one would think worthy to rank alongside these, because of the poverty of his thought). Anaximenes and Diogenes make air prior to water, and the principle above all of the simple bodies, while Hippasus of Metapontum and Heraclitus of Ephesus make it fire, and Empedocles makes it the four elements, adding earth as a fourth to those already named (for these, he says, always persist and do not come to be, except in respect of being more or fewer, being combined into one and separated out of one). Anaxagoras of Clazomenae, who was earlier in age than Empedocles but later in his achievements, says the principles are infinite in number; for he says that practically all things composed of like parts, such as water or fire, come to be and perish in this way, only by combination and separation, and in no other way come to be or perish, but persist eternally. From these thinkers, then, one might suppose that the only cause is the one spoken of in the sense of matter. But as they advanced in this way, the very subject matter opened a path for them and forced them to inquire further: for if it is above all true that all generation and destruction come from some one thing or even from several, why does this happen, and what is the cause?
14| For surely the substratum itself does not make itself change; I mean, for instance, that neither the wood nor the bronze is the cause of either changing itself, nor does the wood make a bed nor the bronze a statue, but something else is the cause of the change. And to seek this is to seek the other principle, as we would put it — that from which the principle of motion comes. Now those who from the very beginning took hold of this kind of inquiry, and said that the substratum was one, felt no difficulty about it; but some of those who say it is one, as though defeated by this very inquiry, say that the one is unmoved, and indeed that the whole of nature is unmoved, not only in respect of generation and destruction (for this is an ancient view and everyone agreed on it) but also in respect of every other kind of change as well — and this is peculiar to them.
15| [984b] Now none of those who say that the whole is one hit upon seeing a cause of this kind, except perhaps Parmenides, and he only to the extent that he posits not only one cause but in a way two. But for those who make the principles more than one it is more possible to state such a cause, for example those who posit hot and cold, or fire and earth; for they treat fire as having a nature that is motive, and water and earth and things of that kind as the opposite. But after these thinkers and such principles, since these were not adequate to generate the nature of the things that are, again, compelled by the truth itself, as we said, they went on to seek the next principle. For that some of the things that are should be well and finely disposed, and others should come to be so, is presumably not something for which fire or earth or any other such thing is either a likely cause, nor is it likely that those thinkers thought it was; nor again would it have been well to hand over a matter of such importance to what is automatic and to chance. So when someone said that intellect is present—just as it is in animals—in nature too, as the cause of the world-order and of the whole arrangement, he appeared like a sober man in contrast with the random talk of his predecessors. Now we know that Anaxagoras plainly laid hold of these accounts, but Hermotimus of Clazomenae has the credit of having stated it earlier.
16| Those, then, who understood things in this way laid down the cause of the good, at the same time, as a principle of the things that are, and as that source from which motion belongs to the things that are. One might suspect that Hesiod was the first to seek such a thing—or anyone else who posited love or desire among the things that are as a principle, as Parmenides too did; for he too, in constructing the coming-to-be of the whole, says: 'First of all the gods she devised love' (Parmenides fr. 13), while Hesiod says: 'First of all things Chaos came to be, and then broad-breasted Earth, and Love, who stands out among all the immortals' (Hesiod, Theogony 116-20)—as though it were necessary that among the things that are there should be present some cause which will move and bring things together. How one ought to rank these thinkers as to who was first, let it be left to decide later; but since the contraries of the good things also appeared to be present in nature—not only order and the fine but also disorder and the base,
17| [985a] and the bad things more numerous than the good, and the paltry more than the fine—so another man introduced love and strife, each responsible for one of these two sets. For if one were to follow Empedocles and grasp his meaning rather than what he says haltingly, one will find that love is the cause of good things and strife of bad ones; so that if someone were to say that Empedocles in a way states, and states first, that the bad and the good are principles, he would perhaps be speaking rightly, if indeed the cause of all good things is itself the good, and of bad things the bad. These thinkers, then, as we say, appear to have laid hold, up to this point, of two of the causes we distinguished in our work on nature—matter and that from which motion comes—though dimly and with nothing made clear, but as untrained men behave in fights; for they too, whirling about, often land fine blows, but neither do they fight from knowledge, nor do these thinkers seem to know what they are saying. For they plainly make hardly any use of these causes except to a small degree. Anaxagoras uses intellect as a device for world-making, and whenever he is at a loss as to what cause something is by necessity, then he drags intellect in, but in other cases he attributes what comes to be to anything rather than to intellect; and Empedocles makes more use of the causes than this man does, though not adequately either, nor does he find in them what is agreed upon.
18| At any rate in many places for him love separates and strife combines. For whenever the whole is separated into its elements by strife, then fire is combined into one, and so is each of the other elements; but whenever they again come together into the one under love, the parts must again be separated out of each element. Empedocles, then, in contrast to his predecessors, was the first to introduce the dividing of the cause, not making the principle of motion one but different principles and contrary ones; and further he was the first to speak of the elements said to be in the form of matter as four (though he does not in fact use four, but treats them as only two, fire
19| [985b] by itself, and the things opposed to it—earth and air and water—as a single nature; one could grasp this by studying his verses). This man, then, as we say, spoke of the principles in this way and in this number. Leucippus and his companion Democritus say that the elements are the full and the void, calling the one being and the other not-being—of these the full and solid is the being, the void is the not-being (for which reason they also say that being is no more than not-being, because body is no more than the void); and these they make causes of the things that are, as matter. And just as those who make the underlying substance one generate the other things by its affections, positing the rare and the dense as principles of the affections, in the same way these men too say that the differentiae are the causes of the other things. These differentiae, they say, are three: shape and order and position; for they say that what is differs only by rhythm and by contact and by turning, and of these rhythm is shape, contact is order, and turning is position: for A differs from N in shape, AN from NA in order, and Z from H in position.
20| As for motion—whence or how it will belong to the things that are—these men too, like the others, dismissed carelessly. Concerning the two causes, then, as we say, it appears that the inquiry of the earlier thinkers went this far. But among these thinkers, and before them, those called the Pythagoreans, having taken hold of mathematics, were the first to advance it, and having been brought up in it they thought its principles were the principles of all things that are. Since of these, numbers are by nature first, and in numbers they seemed to observe many resemblances to the things that are and that come to be, more than in fire and earth and water—because such-and-such an affection of numbers is justice, and such-and-such another is soul and intellect, another is opportunity, and likewise, so to speak, each of the other things—and further, since they saw the affections and ratios of harmonies expressed in numbers—since, then, all other things seemed in their nature to be modeled on numbers, and numbers seemed to be first in the whole of nature,
21| [986a] they supposed the elements of numbers to be the elements of all things that are, and the whole heaven to be a harmony and a number; and whatever agreements they could show between numbers and harmonies on the one hand and the affections and parts of the heaven and the whole ordering of the world on the other, these they collected and fitted together. And if anything was missing anywhere, they eagerly supplied it, so that their whole system might be coherent. I mean, for example: since the decad seems to be complete and to comprehend the whole nature of numbers, they say that the bodies that move through the heaven are also ten in number, but since the visible ones are only nine, for this reason they make a tenth, the counter-earth. We have determined about these matters more exactly elsewhere. But the purpose for which we go over this is that we may learn from these men too what principles they lay down, and how they fall under the causes we have mentioned. These men too, then, plainly regard number as a principle, both as the matter for the things that are and as their affections and states; and the elements of number, they hold, are the even and the odd, and of these the one is limited and the other unlimited, and the one arises out of both of these (for it is both even and odd), and number arises out of the one, and numbers, as has been said, make up the whole heaven.
22| Others among these same thinkers say that the principles are ten, arranged in a table of opposites: limit and unlimited, odd and even, one and plurality, right and left, male and female, resting and moving, straight and curved, light and darkness, good and bad, square and oblong. This is apparently the same way Alcmaeon of Croton understood things, and either he took this account over from them or they took it over from him — for Alcmaeon came into his prime when Pythagoras was an old man, and he declared himself in a manner close to theirs. For he says that most human affairs come in pairs, meaning not, as the Pythagoreans do, opposites specifically marked out, but any chance ones — for example white and black, sweet and bitter, good and bad, great and small. He, then, threw out his views about the remaining pairs without giving them any definite order,
23| [986b] whereas the Pythagoreans declared both how many the oppositions are and what they are. From both of these thinkers, then, this much can be gathered: that the contraries are principles of the things that are. But how many these are, and which ones, one must get from the others — for how they can be brought together under the causes we have mentioned is not clearly worked out in their writings, though they appear to rank the elements as belonging under the form of matter, since they say substance is composed and molded out of these as constituents present within it. On the doctrine, then, of those older thinkers who spoke of the elements of nature as more than one, this is enough to consider. But there are some who declared themselves about the universe as being a single nature, though not all in the same way, either as regards doing so well or as regards being in accord with nature. For the present inquiry into the causes their account fits in no way at all (for they do not, like some of the natural philosophers, posit being as one and yet generate it as though out of the one taken as matter; rather they speak in a different way — the natural philosophers add motion, since they do generate the universe, but these thinkers say it is unmoved). Nevertheless this much at least is relevant to the present inquiry.
24| Parmenides, it seems, fastens on the one in point of its account, Melissus on the one in point of its matter (which is why the one says it is limited and the other says it is unlimited). Xenophanes, the first of these to posit unity (for Parmenides is said to have been his pupil), made nothing clear, and does not seem to have grasped the nature of either kind of unity, but looking out at the whole heaven he says the One is God. These men, then, as we said, must be set aside for the present investigation — two of them entirely, as being a bit too crude, namely Xenophanes and Melissus; but Parmenides seems to speak with somewhat sharper vision. For holding that, beside what is, what is not is nothing, he thinks that of necessity what is is one and nothing else exists (on which we have spoken more clearly in our work on nature); but being forced to follow the appearances, and supposing that while what is is one in respect of its account, it is many in respect of perception, he in turn posits two causes and two principles, hot and cold, calling them, for instance, fire and earth.
25| [987a] Of these he ranks the hot under what is, the other under what is not. From what has been said, then, and from the wise men who have already sat in session with us in this discussion, we have gathered this much: from the earliest thinkers, that the principle is bodily (for water and fire and things of that kind are bodies), and that some of them make the bodily principles one, others more than one, though both groups alike posit these as belonging under the form of matter; and from certain others, that besides this cause they also posit the source from which motion comes, and this again some make one and some two. Down to the Italian school, then, and apart from them, the rest have spoken about these matters rather obscurely, except that, as we said, they do happen to have made use of two causes, and of these, the one that is the source of motion, some make one and some two. The Pythagoreans, for their part, have spoken of two principles in the same way as the others, but they added this much, which is peculiar to them: that they did not think the limited and the unlimited and the one were certain other natures, such as fire or earth or something else of that sort, but that the unlimited itself and the one itself are the substance of the things of which they are predicated, and this is why they hold number to be the substance of all things.
26| On these matters, then, they declared themselves in this way; and about the what-it-is they began to speak and to give definitions, but they treated the matter far too simply. For they defined superficially, and thought that whatever thing the stated definition first applied to, that was the substance of the thing — as if one supposed that double and the number two were the same, because double first belongs to two. But presumably being double and being two are not the same thing; if they are not, the one will turn out to be many, which is in fact what happened to them as well. From the earlier thinkers and from the others, then, this much can be gathered. After the philosophies we have mentioned, the work of Plato followed, which in most respects went along with these thinkers, but also had features of its own set apart from the philosophy of the Italians. For having from his youth become familiar first with Cratylus and with the Heraclitean views, namely that all perceptible things are always flowing and that there is no knowledge about them, these views he continued to hold in this same way even later;
27| [987b] and Socrates, who occupied himself with matters of character but not at all with nature as a whole, and who in these matters sought the universal and was the first to fix his thought on definitions — Plato, accepting this from him, supposed that this activity had to do with other things and not with perceptible things, on the ground that it is impossible for there to be a common definition of any perceptible thing, since these are always changing. Such things among the things that are, then, he called Ideas, and he held that perceptible things are all spoken of alongside these and in accordance with them; for it is by participation that the many things existing get their names, which are the same as those of the forms. Only the word 'participation' did he change: for the Pythagoreans say that things exist by imitation of numbers, while Plato says by participation, changing the name. Yet what this participation or imitation of the forms might be, they left to be investigated in common. Further, besides the perceptible things and the forms, he says the objects of mathematics exist as intermediate, differing from perceptible things in being eternal and unmoved, and from the forms in that there are many alike of them, whereas the form itself is in each case one only. And since the forms are causes of the other things, he thought their elements were the elements of all the things that are.
28| As matter, then, the great and the small are principles, and as substance, the one; for it is out of these, by participation in the one, that the forms are numbers. That the one is substance, however, and is not said to be one by being something else, this he said in a manner close to the Pythagoreans; and likewise that the numbers are the causes of substance for the other things — in this too he agreed with them. But making, instead of the unlimited treated as one, a dyad, and constructing the unlimited out of the great and the small — this is peculiar to him; and further, he holds that the numbers exist apart from perceptible things, whereas they say that the things themselves are numbers, and they do not posit the objects of mathematics as intermediate between these. So then, his making the one and the numbers exist apart from things, and not as the Pythagoreans do, and his introduction of the forms, came about because of his inquiry conducted in the sphere of definitions (for the earlier thinkers had no share in dialectic); while his making the other nature a dyad came about because the numbers, apart from the first ones, can be naturally generated out of it as though out of some mold.
29| [988a] Yet in fact the result is the opposite; for it is not reasonable that it should be so. For the causes drawn from matter produce many things, whereas the form generates only once — a single table, for example, seems to come from a single portion of matter, whereas the one who imposes the form, though being one, makes many things. And it is the same with the relation of the male to the female: the female is impregnated by a single mating, but the male impregnates many; yet these are imitations of those principles. Plato, then, made these distinctions about the things under inquiry. It is clear from what has been said that he has made use of only two causes, the cause of the essence and the cause according to matter (for the forms are the cause of the essence for the other things, and the one is the cause of the forms); and what the underlying matter is, of which the forms are predicated in the case of sensible things and the one in the case of the forms, is that it is a dyad, the great and the small. Further, he assigned the cause of good and of bad to the elements respectively, one to each, which we say some of the earlier philosophers also sought to do, such as Empedocles and Anaxagoras. So we have gone through, concisely and in summary, who has spoken and how about the principles and about the truth.
30| Nevertheless, this much at least we have from them: that none of those who speak about principle and cause has spoken outside of what we have distinguished in our works on nature, but all of them appear to be touching on those causes, though dimly. For some speak of the principle as matter, whether they suppose it to be one or several, and whether they posit it as a body or as incorporeal (as Plato speaking of the great and the small, the Italians of the unlimited, Empedocles of fire and earth and water and air, Anaxagoras of the infinity of the homoeomerous parts — all these, then, have grasped this kind of cause, and further, so have those who posit air or fire or water or something denser than fire but finer than air; for indeed some have said the first element is of this sort) — these, then, have grasped only this cause. But others have grasped that from which the principle of motion comes (such as those who make friendship and strife, or intellect, or love, a principle). But no one has clearly given an account of the essence and the substance,
31| [988b] though it is above all those who posit the forms who come closest to saying it (for they do not suppose that the forms are matter for sensible things, nor that the one is matter for the forms, nor that from these comes the principle of motion — they say, rather, that these are causes of being unmoved and at rest — but they supply the forms as the essence for each of the other things, and the one as the essence for the forms). As for that for the sake of which actions and changes and motions occur, they speak of it as a cause in a certain way, but not in the way it is by nature. For those who speak of intellect or friendship posit these causes as a good, yet not as being that for the sake of which any existing or coming-to-be thing exists, but they speak of motions as coming from these. Likewise also those who say that the one or being is of such a nature say that it is the cause of substance, but not that it is for the sake of this that things are or come to be, so that it turns out that they both say and do not say that the good is a cause; for they do not speak of it simply, but only accidentally. On the point, then, that the causes have been correctly distinguished, both as to how many and of what kind, all these thinkers too seem to bear witness for us, since they are unable to lay hold of any other cause; and besides this it is clear that the principles must be sought either in this way entirely, or in some manner of this kind. How each of them has spoken, and how matters stand concerning the principles, let us go through, after this, the difficulties that arise about them.
32| Now those who posit the whole as one and a single nature as matter, and this a bodily one and having magnitude, clearly go wrong in many ways. For they posit the elements of bodies only, not of incorporeal things, though incorporeal things also exist. And in attempting to state the causes of coming-to-be and passing-away, and giving a natural account of all things, they do away with the cause of motion. Further, by not positing substance as the cause of anything, nor the essence, and besides this by readily calling any one of the simple bodies a principle except earth, without examining how they come to be from one another — I mean fire and water and earth and air. For some things come to be from one another by combination and others by separation, and this makes the greatest difference as regards being prior and posterior. For in one sense that from which things first come to be by combination would seem to be the most elemental of all,
33| [989a] and this would be that which has the smallest parts and is the finest of the bodies (this is why those who posit fire as the principle would speak most in accordance with this argument; and each of the others too agrees that the element of bodies is of this sort — at any rate none of those who say the principle is one has thought fit to say it is earth, evidently because of the largeness of its parts; but each of the other three elements has found some judge in its favor, for some say it is fire, others water, others air; yet why then do they not also say it is earth, as most people do? For they say that everything is earth, and Hesiod too says that earth was the first of bodies to come to be — so ancient and popular has this supposition turned out to be). By this reasoning, then, whether one speaks of any of these other than fire, or posits something denser than air but finer than water, one would not be speaking correctly; but if what is later in coming-to-be is prior in nature, and what is concocted and combined is later in coming-to-be, then the opposite of these would be the case — water would be prior to air, and earth prior to water. Let this, then, be said about those who posit a single cause of the sort we have described.
34| The same holds even if one posits several of these, as Empedocles says that matter is four bodies. For in his case too, some of the same difficulties and some peculiar to him must arise. For we see things coming to be from one another, as though the same body of fire and earth does not always persist (this has been discussed in our works on nature); and as regards the cause of things in motion, whether one or two should be posited, one must not think this has been stated either correctly or reasonably at all. And in general, alteration must be done away with for those who speak in this way; for hot will not come from cold, nor cold from hot. For what would the contraries themselves undergo, and what single nature would there be that becomes fire and water, which he denies? But if one were to suppose that Anaxagoras speaks of two elements, one would suppose it most in accordance with reason — a position which he himself did not articulate, but which he would nevertheless have followed of necessity, led on by those who drew him to it. For since it is in other respects absurd to say that all things were mixed together at the beginning,
35| [989b] both because it follows that unmixed things must have preexisted, and because it is not the nature of any chance thing to be mixed with any chance thing, and further because affections and accidents would then be separable from substances (for of the same things there is both mixture and separation) — nevertheless, if one were to follow him and articulate together what he means to say, he would perhaps appear to be saying something rather more up to date. For when nothing was yet separated out, clearly nothing true could be said of that substance — I mean, for example, that it was neither white nor black, nor grey nor any other color, but was necessarily colorless; for otherwise it would have had one of these colors. And likewise, by the same argument, it was also flavorless, and none of the other such things either; for it could not be of any particular quality, nor quantity, nor a "what." For it would have had one of the forms spoken of as partial, and this is impossible if indeed all things were mixed together — for then it would already have been separated out; but he says that all things were mixed except intellect, and this alone was unmixed and pure. From this, then, it follows that he speaks of the principles as being the one (for this is simple and unmixed) and the other, such as we posit the indeterminate to be before it is determined and partakes of some form; so that he speaks neither correctly nor clearly, yet he means something similar to what those who spoke later, and what appears now, mean.
36| But these thinkers happen to be at home only in accounts concerned with coming-to-be and perishing and motion (for they seek principles and causes for substance of that sort alone, and virtually nothing else). But those who make their inquiry about all beings, and who posit that some beings are perceptible and others not perceptible, evidently make their examination about both kinds. This is why one might dwell on them at greater length, to see what they say well and what not well, with a view to the investigation now before us. Now the so-called Pythagoreans use principles and elements stranger than those of the natural philosophers (the reason being that they did not take them from perceptible things: for the objects of mathematics, apart from those connected with astronomy, are without motion); yet they discuss and treat everything with respect to nature. For they generate the heaven,
37| [990a] and with respect to its parts and their affections and functions they keep careful watch on what occurs, and they spend their principles and causes on these, as if agreeing with the other natural philosophers that what is, is only so much as is perceptible and is contained by what is called the heaven. But the causes and principles they speak of, as we said, are adequate to rise even to the higher orders of beings, and are more fitting for these than for accounts concerned with nature. Yet in what way motion is to come about when only limit and the unlimited and odd and even are laid down as underlying, they say nothing, nor how it is possible, without motion and change, for there to be coming-to-be and perishing, or the functions of the bodies carried around the heaven. Further, whether one grants them that magnitude comes from these, or this is demonstrated, still in what way will some bodies be light and others have weight? For from the things they posit and speak of, they say nothing more about mathematical bodies than about perceptible ones; hence about fire or earth or the other bodies of that sort they have said nothing whatsoever, since, I think, they say nothing peculiar to perceptible things. Further, how are we to take it that the affections of number, and number itself, are causes of what exists and comes to be in the heaven, both from the beginning and now, while there is no other number beside this number out of which the world-order is composed?
38| For when in this region they place opinion and opportunity, and a little above or below injustice and judgment or mixture, and say as proof that each of these is a number, while it happens that in this place there is already a plurality of composite magnitudes, because these affections follow each of the places — is this the same number, the one in the heaven, which we must take to be each of these, or is it a different one beside it? For Plato says it is a different one; and yet he too thinks that these are numbers and are causes of these things, but that the intelligible numbers are the causes, and these others the perceptible ones. Let the Pythagoreans, then, be left aside for the present — for it is enough to have touched on them this much.
39| [990b] Those who posit the Forms as causes, in the first place, in seeking to grasp the causes of the things around us, brought in other things equal in number to these, as if someone wanting to count things, when there were fewer of them, thought he would not be able to, but made more and then counted them. For the forms are about as many as — or not fewer than — the things in search of whose causes they proceeded from these to those. For corresponding to each thing there is something else with the same name, apart from the substances — and both among other things there is one over many, and this holds both for things here and for the eternal things. Further, by none of the ways by which we show that the Forms exist does it turn out to be shown. For from some of them no syllogism necessarily follows, while from others forms come to be even of things we do not think have forms. For according to the arguments from the sciences, there will be forms of everything of which there are sciences; and according to the one-over-many argument, forms even of negations; and according to the argument that we can think of something after it has perished, forms of perishable things — for there is some image of these. Further, the more exact of the arguments produce Forms of relatives, of which we say there is no independent class in its own right, while others state the argument of the third man.
40| And in general the arguments about the Forms do away with things whose being we want more than we want the Ideas to exist — those who speak of Forms, that is. For it follows that it is not the dyad that is first but number, and the relative prior to what is in its own right, and all the other things that certain people, by following out the opinions held about the Ideas, have found themselves opposed to the principles. Further, according to the supposition by which we say the Ideas exist, there will be Forms not only of substances but of many other things as well (for the concept is one, not only in the case of substances but also in the case of the others, and there are sciences not only of substance but of other things too, and countless other consequences of this kind follow). But according to what is necessary, and the opinions held about them, if the Forms are things participated in, there must necessarily be Ideas only of substances. For they are not participated in accidentally, but each thing must participate in a Form in that respect in which the Form is not said of a subject (I mean, for example, if something participates in the Doubleness-itself, this also participates in something eternal, but accidentally — for it is accidental to the double to be eternal); so that the Forms will be substance. But the same things signify substance both here and there.
41| [991a] Or what will being something beside these things be, the one over many? And if the form is the same for the Ideas and for the things that participate in them, there will be something common to them (for why should Twoness be one and the same in the case of perishable dyads, and of the many that are yet eternal, any more than in the case of the Idea itself and some particular instance?). But if the form is not the same, they would be things with the same name only, and it would be like calling both Callias and a piece of wood 'man,' having observed no community between them at all. But most of all one might raise the difficulty what on earth the Forms contribute to the eternal things among perceptible things, or to those that come to be and perish; for they are causes neither of any motion nor of any change in them. But then, too, they are of no help toward the knowledge of other things (for they are not even the substance of these, since if they were they would be present in them), nor toward their being, at least not if they are not present in the things that participate in them. For if they were, they might perhaps seem to be causes in the way that white mixed into a white thing is a cause — but this argument is exceedingly easy to overturn, the one Anaxagoras first, and Eudoxus later, and certain others used to state (for it is easy to collect many impossibilities against an opinion of that sort).
42| But moreover, the other things do not come from the Forms in any of the ways commonly spoken of, either. And to say that they are patterns and that the other things participate in them is to speak empty words and use poetic metaphors. For what is it that works while looking to the Ideas? For it is possible for anything at all both to exist and to come to be similar to something without being modeled on it, so that, whether Socrates exists or not, someone such as Socrates might come to be; and likewise it is clear that this would hold even if Socrates were eternal. And there will be several patterns of the same thing, and so several Forms as well — for instance, of man, both Animal and Two-footed, and at the same time Man-itself too. Further, the Forms will be patterns not only of perceptible things but of themselves as well, for instance the genus, as the genus of species: so that the same thing will be both pattern and image.
43| [991b] Further, it would seem impossible for a substance to exist apart from that of which it is the substance. So how could the Forms, being the substances of things, exist apart from them? In the Phaedo the point is made in this way: that the Forms are causes both of being and of coming to be. Yet, even though the Forms exist, the things that participate in them do not come to be unless there is something to move them, and many other things come to be, such as a house and a ring, of which we do not say there are Forms. So it is clear that the other things too can both be and come to be through causes of the very kind just mentioned. Again, if the Forms are numbers, how will they be causes? Is it because existing things are different numbers — this number being man, this one Socrates, this one Callias? Then how are those numbers causes of these things? It will make no difference even if the one set is eternal and the other is not. But if it is because the things here are ratios of numbers, as a musical concord is, then clearly there is some one thing of which they are ratios. If, then, this one thing is the matter, it is evident that the numbers themselves will be ratios of one thing to another. I mean, for example, that if Callias is a ratio in numbers of fire and earth and water and air, then his Form too will be a number of certain other underlying things.
44| And man-himself, whether or not it is some number, will still be a ratio in numbers of certain things, and not a number, nor will it be some number on account of these things. Further, out of many numbers one number comes to be; but how does one Form come to be out of Forms? And if it is not out of the Forms themselves but out of the units within the number — for instance within the myriad — how do the units stand to one another? For if they are alike in kind, many absurd results will follow, and if they are not alike in kind — neither the units within a single number alike to each other, nor all the units of every number alike to all — in what respect will they differ, since they are without qualitative character? These suppositions are neither reasonable nor in accord with our thinking about the matter. Further, it becomes necessary to set up another kind of number besides these, the one arithmetic is concerned with, and all the things that some call intermediates — but how, or out of what principles, do these exist? Or why should there be intermediates between the things here and the Forms themselves? Further, each of the two units in the dyad will come from some prior dyad; yet that is impossible.
45| [992a] Further, why is number, once put together, a unity? And besides what has been said, if the units are different from one another, they ought to speak as those do who say the elements are four or two; for each of these thinkers does not call the common element 'body,' but calls the elements fire and earth, whether or not there is something common to them, namely body. But as it stands, the One is spoken of as if it were homogeneous, like fire or water. If that is so, the numbers will not be substances; rather, if there is some One-itself and this is a principle, plainly 'one' is used in more than one sense — for otherwise it is impossible. And when we wish to reduce substances to their principles, we posit lengths as coming from the long and the short, that is from a kind of small and great, and a plane from the wide and the narrow, and a body from the deep and the low. Yet how will the plane possess a line, or the solid possess a line and a plane? For the wide and narrow, on the one hand, and the deep and low, on the other, belong to a different kind. Just as number does not belong to these — since the many and the few are different from them — it is clear likewise that none of the other higher terms will belong to the lower.
46| But then again the wide is not the genus of the deep, for then the body would be a kind of plane. Further, from what will points come to exist within these? Plato in fact fought against this kind, as being a geometer's dogma, and called it the principle of the line — a position he often maintained — namely the indivisible lines. Yet there must necessarily be some limit of these; so from the very argument by which a line exists, a point exists too. And in general, though wisdom seeks the cause of things that are evident, we have left this question aside — for we say nothing about the cause from which motion has its origin — and thinking we are stating the substance of these things, we say there are other substances distinct from them, but as to how those are the substances of these, we speak in an empty way; for 'participation,' as we said before, is nothing. Nor, indeed, does what we see to be the cause in the sciences, that on account of which every intellect and every nature acts — nor does the Forms touch at all this cause, which we say is one of the principles — but for our contemporaries mathematics has become philosophy, though they say it ought to be pursued for the sake of other things.
47| [992b] Further, one might suppose that the underlying substance taken as matter is too mathematical in character, and is more a predicate and a differentia of the substance and of the matter than it is matter itself — I mean, for instance, the great and the small, just as the natural philosophers speak of the rare and the dense, saying these are the primary differentiae of the substrate; for these are a kind of excess and deficiency. And as for motion: if the great and the small are to be motion, clearly the Forms will be in motion; but if not, from where did motion come? For the whole inquiry concerning nature is thereby done away with. And what seems to be easy, to show that all things are one, does not turn out so; for by the method of setting things forth, not all things become one, but only some one thing itself — if one grants all the premises — and not even this, unless one grants that the universal is a genus, which in some cases is impossible. Nor is there any account at all of the lengths, planes, and solids that come after the numbers — neither how they exist or will exist, nor what capacity they have. For these can be neither Forms — since they are not numbers — nor the intermediates, for those are the objects of mathematics, nor the perishable things; rather, this again appears to be some other, fourth kind.
48| And in general, to seek the elements of existing things without first distinguishing the many senses in which 'existing things' is spoken of is impossible to accomplish, above all when one seeks in this way the elements out of which things are composed. For it is surely not possible to grasp the elements out of which acting or being-acted-on or the straight are composed; rather, if this is possible at all, it is possible only for substances. So to seek, or to think one has, the elements of all existing things is not true. And how, indeed, could one even learn the elements of all things? For clearly nothing already existing could be known beforehand as prior to them. For just as someone learning geometry may already know other things beforehand, but of the things his science is about, and about which he is going to learn, he has no prior knowledge — so it is likewise with everything else. So if there is a science of all things, of the kind some indeed speak of, this person would have no prior knowledge of anything. Yet all learning proceeds through things already known beforehand, either all of them or some, both learning by demonstration and learning by definitions — for the terms out of which a definition is made must be known beforehand and familiar — and likewise learning by induction. But then, even if this knowledge should happen to be innate,
49| [993a] It is astonishing how we go unaware that we possess the most sovereign of the sciences. Further, how will one know what it is composed of, and how will this become clear? For this too raises a puzzle: one might dispute about it just as one does about certain syllables — some say that "za" is made up of s, d, and a, while others say it is a different sound altogether, and none of the familiar ones. Further, the things of which there is perception — how could someone who lacks that perception know them? And yet he ought to, if indeed the elements of all things are the same, just as composite sounds are made of their own proper elements. That all thinkers evidently seek the causes named in the Physics, and that we could name no cause beyond these, is clear also from what has been said before, but they sought them dimly, and in a way all of them have been stated before, yet in another way not at all. For the earliest philosophy, on all subjects, resembles a person lisping, since it was young and just beginning, and at its first stage — since even Empedocles says that bone exists by its ratio, and this is the essence, the what-it-is-to-be, and the substance of the thing. But then it is equally necessary that flesh, too, and each of the other things also be a ratio, or else none of them is; for it is because of this that flesh and bone will exist, and each of the other things, and not because of the matter he names — fire and earth and water and air. But had someone else said this, he would necessarily have agreed with it, though he himself did not state it clearly. On these points, then, we have made things clear already, earlier; but let us return again to the puzzles that one might raise about these same matters, for perhaps from them we may find some resource for the puzzles that come later.
1| The study of truth is in one way difficult, in another way easy. A sign of this is that no one is able to attain it adequately, and yet not everyone fails, [993b] but each person says something about nature, and while individually each contributes nothing or little to it, from all of them taken together a considerable magnitude results. So that if the matter stands as we put it in the proverb, "who could miss the door?" — in this respect the study would be easy; but to be able to grasp the whole while unable to grasp a part shows its difficulty. But perhaps, since the difficulty is of two kinds, its cause lies not in the facts but in us; for just as the eyes of bats are related to the light of day, so too is the intellect of our soul related to the things that are by nature most evident of all. And it is right to feel gratitude not only toward those whose opinions one might share, but also toward those who declared themselves more superficially, for these too contributed something: they trained our state of mind beforehand. For if Timotheus had not existed, we would not have much of our lyric poetry; and if Phrynis had not existed, Timotheus would not have existed. The same holds, in the same way, for those who have declared themselves about the truth:
2| from some of them we have received certain opinions, while others have become the cause of these people's existing. It is also correct that philosophy is called the knowledge of truth. For the end of theoretical knowledge is truth, while that of practical knowledge is action; for even when those engaged in practical matters examine how something stands, they consider not what is eternal but what is relative to something and to the present moment. And we do not know what is true apart from the cause. Now each thing possesses a given attribute most of all among the things to which, by virtue of it, that same attribute belongs synonymously in the others as well (for example, fire is hottest of all things, since it is also the cause of heat in the other things). So too the truest thing is that which is the cause, for the things that come after it, of their being true. Hence the principles of things that always are must always be the truest things (for they are not merely true at some time, nor is there some cause of their being for them, but they are the cause of being for the other things), so that as each thing stands in regard to being, so too it stands in regard to truth.
3| [994a] But surely it is clear that there is some principle, and that the causes of things are not infinite, either in a straight line or in kind. For it is not possible that one thing come from another as from matter and proceed to infinity (for example, flesh from earth, earth from air, air from fire, and this never coming to a stop), nor can that from which the origin of motion comes go on to infinity (for example, man being moved by air, air by the sun, the sun by Strife, and this having no limit). Likewise the that-for-the-sake-of-which cannot go on to infinity — walking for the sake of health, health for the sake of happiness, happiness for the sake of something else, and so on, always one thing for the sake of another. And it is the same with the essence. For among intermediates, where there is some last term and an earlier one, the earlier term must be the cause of what comes after it. For if we had to say which of the three is the cause, we would name the first; certainly not the last, for the last is the cause of nothing; but surely not the middle term either, for it is the cause of only one thing (and it makes no difference whether there is one intermediate or several, or whether they are infinite or finite).
4| But of things infinite in this way, and of the infinite as a whole, all the parts alike are intermediate, right up to the present one, so that if there is no first term, there is no cause at all. But surely neither can one proceed to infinity downward, given that the upward series has a starting point — so that from fire comes water, and from this earth, and thus always some other kind coming to be. For one thing comes to be from another in two ways — not in the sense in which one thing is said to come after another, as the Olympic games come after the Isthmian, but either as a man comes from a boy by change, or as air comes from water. Now in the sense in which we say a man comes to be from a boy, we mean it as what has come to be comes from what is coming to be, or what has been completed comes from what is being completed (for there is always something in between, just as coming-to-be lies between being and not-being, so too what is coming to be lies between what is and what is not; for the learner is one who is becoming a knower, and this is what is meant when we say that a knower comes to be from a learner). But in the other sense — as water comes from air — one of the two is destroyed. That is why the first pair does not revert back into each other,
5| [994b] nor does a boy come to be from a man (for what is coming to be does not come from the process of coming-to-be, but is what exists after that coming-to-be; thus, too, day comes from dawn, because it comes after dawn — which is why dawn does not come from day). But the other pair reverts. In both ways it is impossible to go on to infinity: for in the case of things that are intermediates there must be an end, while the others revert into each other, since the destruction of the one is the coming-to-be of the other. At the same time, it is also impossible for the first term, being eternal, to be destroyed; for since the process of coming-to-be is not infinite in the upward direction, the first thing whose destruction brought something else into being cannot be eternal. Further, that for the sake of which is an end, and such is that which is not for the sake of another thing, but for whose sake the other things exist, so that if there is to be some such last term, the series will not be infinite, while if there is nothing of this sort, there will be no that-for-the-sake-of-which at all. But those who posit an infinite series unwittingly do away with the nature of the good (and yet no one would undertake to do anything unless he expected to reach a limit). Nor, on that view, could there be intellect among the things that are; for whoever possesses intellect always acts for the sake of something, and this is a limit — for the end is a limit.
6| But surely the essence cannot be reduced to another, more expansive definition either: for the earlier definition is always more truly a definition, and the later one is not, and where the first does not hold, neither does what depends on it. Further, those who speak this way do away with knowing altogether, for it is not possible to know before one arrives at the indivisibles. And understanding is likewise impossible, for how can things that are infinite in this way be grasped in thought? It is not the same as with a line: a line does not come to a halt in respect of its divisions, yet it is not possible to think it without bringing the division to a halt (which is why someone traversing the infinite will not end up counting the cuts); rather, one is compelled to think the whole line without traversing it. And nothing infinite can have being; if it could, then being infinite would not, after all, be infinite. But further, even if the kinds of causes were infinite in number, knowing would still be impossible on that basis, for we think we know only when we have come to recognize the causes; and what is infinite by addition cannot be gone through within a finite span. Now our habits of listening are governed by custom: we require things to be said in the way we are accustomed to hearing them,
7| [995a] and whatever departs from this does not seem comparable but, because of its unfamiliarity, seems less knowable and more foreign; for what is customary is what is known. How much power custom has, the laws show, in which the mythical and childish elements carry more weight than our actual knowledge of them, simply through habituation. So some people will not accept what is said unless it is put mathematically, others unless it proceeds by examples, and others demand that a poet be brought in as a witness. Some want everything treated with exactness, while others are put off by exactness, either because they cannot follow a connected chain of reasoning or because they find it petty; for exactness has something about it such that, just as in business dealings, so too in arguments, it strikes some people as ungenerous. Hence one must be trained in how each subject is to be received, since it is absurd to pursue both a science and the proper manner of that science at the same time, and neither of the two is easy to grasp on its own. Mathematical exactness should not be demanded in every case, but only in things that have no matter. That is why this is not the manner proper to natural science, since presumably all of nature involves matter. Hence one must first examine what nature is, for in this way it will also become clear what the subjects of natural science are, and whether it belongs to one science or to several to study the causes and the principles.
1| With a view to the science we are seeking, we must first go over the questions that need to be worked through first. These are all the points on which some thinkers have held differing views, together with anything besides these that happens to have been overlooked. For those who wish to find a good way through, it is useful first to work well through the difficulties; for the later resourcefulness is a resolution of the difficulties raised earlier, and one cannot loosen a knot without knowing it. Rather, the perplexity of our thinking about a subject reveals this very knot; for so far as it is perplexed, thought is in a condition like that of people who are bound, since in both cases it is impossible to go forward. Hence one must have surveyed all the difficulties beforehand, both for these reasons and because those who inquire without first working through the difficulties are like people who do not know where they need to walk, and who moreover cannot even tell, if they should ever find what they are seeking, whether they have found it or not; [995b] for the goal is not clear to such a person, while it is clear to one who has already worked through the difficulties beforehand. Further, one who has heard all the arguments, as if listening to opposing litigants and disputants, is necessarily in a better position to judge. Now the first difficulty concerns the matters we raised in our introductory remarks: whether it belongs to one science or to many to study the causes; and whether it is the task of this science to look only at the primary principles of substance, or also at the principles from which everyone demonstrates things — for example, whether it is possible to affirm and deny the same single thing at the same time, or not, and concerning other such matters.
2| And if it does concern substance, whether there is one science over all substances or several; and if several, whether they are all akin to one another, or whether some of them should be called wisdom and the others something else. And this itself is among the things one must necessarily investigate: whether we should say that only perceptible substances exist, or that there are others besides these as well, and whether there is only one kind of substance or several kinds, as is held by those who posit the forms and also the objects of mathematics as intermediate between these and perceptible things. About these matters, then, as we say, one must inquire, and also whether the inquiry concerns substances alone or also the attributes that belong to substances in their own right; and besides these, concerning sameness and difference, likeness and unlikeness, and contrariety, and concerning prior and posterior and all the other such things about which the dialecticians try to inquire, making their examination out of reputable opinions alone — whose business it is to study all of these. Further, one must consider whatever belongs to these very things in their own right, and not only what each of them is, but also whether one thing is contrary to just one thing; and whether the principles and elements are the genera, or the constituents into which each thing is divided.
3| And if they are the genera, whether they are the ones predicated last of the individuals, or the first ones — for example, whether animal or man is more of a principle, and exists to a greater degree apart from the particular. But above all one must inquire into and work through whether there is, apart from matter, some cause in its own right or not, and whether this is separable or not, and whether it is one in number or more than one, and whether there is something apart from the composite (by "composite" I mean whenever something is predicated of the matter) or nothing at all, or this holds for some things and not for others, and which sorts of beings are of this kind.
4| [996a] Further, whether the principles are determinate in number or in kind — both those in our definitions and those in the underlying subject; and whether the principles of perishable and imperishable things are the same or different, and whether all of them are imperishable, or those of perishable things are themselves perishable. Further, the hardest question of all, and the one containing the greatest difficulty: whether the one and being are not something else but are the substance of the things that are, as the Pythagoreans and Plato said; or whether this is not so, and the underlying subject is something else, as Empedocles says it is Love, another says it is fire, and another water or air. And whether the principles are universal, or particular like the individual things themselves, and whether they exist potentially or actually; further, whether they are principles in some other way, or in respect of motion; for these questions too would furnish much difficulty. Besides these, whether numbers and lengths and figures and points are substances of some sort or not, and if they are substances, whether they are separate from perceptible things or exist within them. For concerning all these matters, it is difficult not only to arrive successfully at the truth, but even to work through the difficulties well in argument is not easy. First, then, concerning the matter we mentioned first: whether it belongs to one science or to several to study all the kinds of causes.
5| For how could it belong to a single science to know the principles, given that they are not contraries? Further, not all of the principles belong to many of the things that are; for in what way is it possible for unmoved things to have a principle of motion, or to have the nature of the good, if indeed everything that is good in its own right and by its own nature is an end, and is in this way a cause because it is for its sake that the other things both come to be and exist — and the end, and that for the sake of which, is the end of some action, and all actions involve motion? So among unmoved things this principle could not exist, nor could there be any good-in-itself. That is why nothing in mathematics is demonstrated by way of this cause, and there is no demonstration there on the grounds that something is better or worse; indeed no one ever makes any mention whatsoever of anything of this sort. That is why, for these reasons, some of the sophists, such as Aristippus, used to disparage the mathematical sciences; for in the other crafts, even the menial ones, such as carpentry and shoemaking, everything is said on the grounds of better or worse, whereas the mathematical sciences take no account at all of goods and evils.
6| [996b] —But then, if there are several sciences of causes, and a different science for a different principle, which of them must we say is the one being sought, or which of those who have them has knowledge in the highest degree of the object sought? For it is possible for all the modes of causes to belong to the same thing — for example, in the case of a house, the source of motion is the craft and the builder, that for the sake of which is the work, the matter is earth and stones, and the form is the account. Now from what has long been determined, it makes sense, on various grounds, to call each of the sciences wisdom: on the one hand, the science which is most sovereign and most authoritative — the one which the other sciences, like slaves, have no right even to contradict — is the science of the end and the good, of this kind (for it is for the sake of this that the other things exist); on the other hand, the science which was determined to be the science of the first causes and of what is most knowable would be the science of substance, of this kind. For since the same thing is known in many ways, we say a person knows more who knows what a thing is by its being than one who knows it by its not being, and among these knowers themselves one more than another — and most of all the one who knows what it is, not the one who knows its quantity or quality or what it is naturally suited to do or undergo. Further, even in the other cases, we think we possess knowledge of each thing, including the things of which there are demonstrations, when we know what it is (for example, what squaring is, namely the finding of a mean proportional;
7| and likewise in the other cases as well), whereas concerning comings-to-be and actions and every kind of change, we think we possess knowledge when we know the principle of the motion; and this is different from and opposed to the end. So it would seem to belong to a different science to study each of these causes. But further, concerning the demonstrative principles too — whether they belong to one science or to several — this is disputable (I call demonstrative principles the common opinions from which everyone demonstrates), for example that everything must either be affirmed or denied, and that it is impossible for the same thing to be and not be at the same time, and all the other premises of this kind: is there one science of these and of substance, or a different one — and if not one, which of the two must we call the science now being sought? Well, it is not reasonable for there to be one science of them: for what makes grasping these any more proper to geometry than to any other science whatever? If then it belongs equally to any science whatever, but cannot belong to all of them,
8| [997a] then just as it is not proper to any of the other sciences, so too it is not proper to the science that knows substances to know about them. And at the same time, in what way will there be a science of them at all? For what each of these happens to be, we know even now (indeed, other crafts too make use of them as things known); but if there is demonstration concerning them, there will have to be some underlying genus, with some of them as affections and others as axioms of it (for it is impossible for there to be demonstration about everything whatever — demonstration must necessarily proceed from certain things, be about some subject, and be of certain things), so that it follows that there is a single genus for all the things that get demonstrated, since every demonstrative science makes use of the axioms. But then, if the science of substance and the science concerning these axioms are different, which of the two is by nature more authoritative and prior? For the axioms are the most universal things of all and the principles of everything; and if this does not belong to the philosopher, to whom else will it belong to study the true and the false about them? And in general, is there one science of substances, or are there several? If there is not one, then to what kind of substance must we assign this science? But it is not reasonable for there to be one science of all of them: for then there would be a single demonstrative science of all accidental attributes, given that every demonstrative science studies, concerning some one underlying subject, the attributes that belong to it in its own right, on the basis of the common opinions.
9| So concerning the same genus, it belongs to one and the same science to study the attributes that belong to it in its own right, on the basis of the same opinions. For the subject about which a science speaks belongs to one science, and the things from which it demonstrates belong to one science too, whether it is the same science or a different one — so the accidental attributes belong to one science as well, whether the very sciences that study the subjects also study these attributes, or a single science does so on the basis of them. Further, is the study concerned only with substances, or also with the attributes that belong to them? I mean, for example: if the solid is a kind of substance, and so are lines and planes, is it the business of the same science to know these and the attributes concerning each genus that the mathematical sciences demonstrate, or of a different one? For if of the same science, then the science of substance too would be a demonstrative science, but it does not seem that there is demonstration of what a thing is; and if of a different science, what will the science be that studies the attributes concerning substance? For this is extremely hard to answer. Further, must we say that only the perceptible substances exist, or that there are others besides these, and whether the kinds of substances that there happen to be are only one, or several,
10| [997b] as for instance those who speak of both the forms and the intermediates, which they say the mathematical sciences are about? Now, the sense in which we speak of the forms as being both causes and substances in their own right has been stated in our first discussions about them; but since they present difficulty in many ways, one of the most absurd things is to say that there are certain natures besides those in the heavens, and yet to say these are the same as the perceptible things except that the former are eternal and the latter perishable. For they say there is a man-itself, a horse-itself, and a health-itself, and nothing else, doing something very like those who say the gods exist but are shaped like men: for the latter were doing nothing other than making eternal men, and the former are doing nothing other than making the forms eternal perceptible things. Further, if someone posits intermediates besides the forms and the perceptible things, he will face many difficulties: for it is clear that there will likewise be lines besides both the lines themselves and the perceptible lines, and so with each of the other genera. So that, since astronomy is one of these sciences, there will be some heaven besides the perceptible heaven, and a sun and a moon and the rest of the things in the heavens in the same way. And yet how are we to believe this?
11| For it is not reasonable for it to be unmoved either, and for it to be moving is altogether impossible. And the same holds for the things that optics deals with, and harmonics among the mathematical sciences: for these too, for the same reasons, cannot exist besides the perceptible things; for if there are intermediate perceptible things and perceptions, clearly there will also be animals intermediate between these and the perishable ones. One might also raise the difficulty of which class of existing things these sciences must be said to investigate. For if geometry differs from land-surveying only in this, that the one is concerned with things we perceive and the other with things not perceived, then clearly there will also be a science besides medicine, and besides each of the other sciences, intermediate between medicine itself and this particular medicine — and yet how is this possible? For then there would be certain healthy things besides the perceptible ones, and the healthy-itself as well. And at the same time it is not even true that land-surveying is concerned with perceptible and perishable magnitudes; for then it would perish as they perish. Nor, again, could astronomy be concerned with perceptible magnitudes, nor with this perceptible heaven.
12| [998a] For neither are the perceptible lines of the sort the geometer speaks of (for nothing among perceptible things is straight or round in that way — the circle touches the straightedge not at a point but as Protagoras used to say in refuting the geometers), nor are the motions and spirals of the heavens like those about which astronomy constructs its accounts, nor do the points have the same nature as the stars. But there are some who say that these so-called intermediates between the forms and the perceptible things do exist, though not separately from the perceptible things but in them; the impossible consequences of this view would take too long to go through in full, but it is enough to consider the following. It is not reasonable for the situation to hold only in this case; rather, it is clear that the forms too might just as well be in the perceptible things (for both claims rest on the same reasoning), and further it would be necessary for two solids to be in the same place, and for these to not be unmoved, given that they exist in things that are moving. And in general, for what purpose would one posit that these things exist, and exist in the perceptible things? For the same absurd consequences already mentioned will result: there will be some heaven besides the heaven, except not separate but in the same place —
13| which is more impossible. So there is much puzzlement both about these matters — how one must proceed if one is to arrive at the truth — and about the principles: whether we should suppose the genera to be elements and principles, or rather suppose as principles those primary constituents present within each thing out of which it is composed. For example, the elements and principles of an utterance seem to be the primary things out of which utterances are put together, not the universal "utterance" itself; and in the case of geometrical diagrams we call elements those propositions whose demonstrations are contained within the demonstrations of the others, either of all of them or of most; and further, in the case of bodies too, both those who say the elements are several and those who say there is one call principles the things out of which a body is composed and constituted — for example Empedocles says that fire and water and what goes with them are elements, as present constituents out of which the things that are, are made, but he does not speak of these as the genera of the things that are. Besides this, if one wishes to examine the nature of anything else as well —
14| [998b] a bed, say — one must ask out of what parts it is constituted and how they are put together, and then one knows its nature. From these arguments, then, the genera would not be the principles of the things that are; but if we know each thing through its definitions, and the genera are the principles of the definitions, then the genera must also be the principles of the things defined. And if to grasp knowledge of the things that are is to grasp the species according to which the things that are, are spoken of, then at any rate the genera are the principles of the species. And it appears that some of those who say that the one, or being, or the great-and-small are the elements of things use them as genera. But surely it is not possible to speak of the principles in both ways at once. For the account of the substance is one; but the definition given through the genera will be different from the one that states the constituents present out of which the thing is composed. Besides this, even granting fully that the genera are principles, must we hold that the first of the genera are the principles, or the last, those predicated of the individuals? For this too admits of dispute. If the more universal is always more a principle, clearly it is the highest of the genera that are the principles;
15| for these are predicated of everything. So there will be as many principles of the things that are as there are primary genera, so that being and the one will be principles and substances; for these are predicated of all the things that are more than anything else is. But it is not possible for either the one or being to be a single genus of the things that are; for it is necessary both that the differentiae of each genus exist and that each be one, but it is impossible either for the species of the genus to be predicated of its own differentiae, or for the genus to be predicated apart from its own species — so that if the one or being is a genus, no differentia will be either a being or a one. But then, if they are not genera, they will not be principles either, since the genera are the principles. Further, the intermediate terms, taken together with the differentiae, will be genera all the way down to the individuals (though at present some seem to be so and some do not); and besides this, the differentiae are even more principles than the genera are. And if these too are principles, the principles become, so to speak, infinite in number — especially if one also posits the first genus as a principle.
16| [999a] But then again, if the one is more of the nature of a principle, and the one is the indivisible, and everything indivisible is so either in quantity or in form, and the indivisible in form is prior, while the genera are divisible into species, then it would rather be the last thing predicated that is one; for man is not a genus of particular men. Further, in cases where there is a prior and a posterior, it is not possible for there to be something over and above these terms applying to them (for example, if the dyad is first among numbers, there will be no number over and above the species of numbers; likewise no figure over and above the species of figures; and if not of these, then hardly will there be genera over and above the species of other things either, since it is of these — numbers and figures — that genera seem most of all to exist); but among individuals there is no prior and posterior. Further, where one thing is better and another worse, the better is always prior, so that of these too there could be no genus. From these considerations, then, it appears rather that what is predicated of individuals is more the principles than the genera are. But again, it is not easy to say how, in turn, we should suppose these to be principles. For the principle and the cause must be over and above the things of which it is the principle, and must be capable of existing separated from them;
17| but why would one suppose that anything of this sort exists over and above the particular, except because it is predicated universally and of all its instances? But then, if that is the reason, the more universal things must be posited as more the principles, so that the first genera would be the principles. There is a puzzle connected with these, and it is the hardest of all and the most necessary to examine — the one our discussion now stands upon. For if there is nothing over and above particulars, and particulars are infinite in number, how can one possibly grasp knowledge of infinite things? For it is insofar as something is one and the same, and insofar as something universal belongs to things, that we know all things. But then, if this is necessary, and there must be something over and above particulars, it would be necessary for the genera to exist over and above particulars, either the last of them or the first; but we have just worked through the puzzle showing that this is impossible. Further, granting fully that there is something over and above the compound whenever something is predicated of the matter, must there — if there is — be something over and above everything, or over and above some things but not others, or over and above nothing at all?
18| [999b] Now if there is nothing over and above particulars, nothing would be an object of intellect, but everything would be an object of perception, and there would be knowledge of nothing, unless someone says that perception is knowledge. Further, nothing would be eternal or unmoved either, for all perceptible things perish and are in motion; but then, if nothing at all is eternal, coming-to-be cannot exist either. For there must be something that comes to be, and something out of which it comes to be, and the last of these must be ungenerated, if indeed the series comes to a stop and it is impossible for something to come to be out of what is not. Further, given that coming-to-be and motion exist, there must also be a limit (for no motion is infinite, but every motion has an end, and it is not possible for what cannot come to be to come to be; and what has come to be must exist as soon as it has come to be). Further, if matter exists because it is ungenerated, it is far more reasonable still that the substance should exist — that which the matter at some point becomes; for if neither this nor that will exist, nothing at all will exist, and if that is impossible, then there must necessarily be something over and above the compound — the shape and the form. But if, in turn, one posits this, there is a puzzle as to in which cases one will posit it and in which not.
19| That it is not possible in every case is clear; for we would not posit some house existing over and above particular houses. Besides this, will the substance of all of them be one, for example of all men? But that is absurd, for all things whose substance is one are one. But will their substances be many and different? This too is unreasonable. At the same time, how does the matter become each of these, and how is the compound both of these together? Further, concerning the principles one might also raise this puzzle. If they are one in form, nothing will be one in number, not even the one itself and being; and how will there be knowledge, if there is not some one thing holding over all instances? But then, if each of the principles is one in number, and not — as with perceptible things — different for different instances (for example, this syllable, being the same in form, has principles that are also the same in form, for even these exist as numerically different in different instances), but if it is not so, and instead the principles of things are one in number, then there will be nothing else over and above the elements; for to say "one in number" and to say "the particular" makes no difference at all, for this is how we speak of the particular — the numerically one — while the universal is what holds over these.
20| [1000a] Just as, if the elements of sound were determinate in number, it would be necessary that all the letters be as many as the elements, provided there are not two identical elements, or more. But no puzzle has been left less important, by either the moderns or their predecessors, than this one: whether the principles of perishable and imperishable things are the same, or different. For if they are the same, how is it that some things are perishable and others imperishable, and for what cause? Now Hesiod's circle, and all who as theologians attended only to what was persuasive to themselves, and had no regard for us — for by making the principles gods, and born of gods, they say that whatever did not taste of nectar and ambrosia became mortal, clearly using these names as familiar to themselves; and yet about the actual application of these causes they have spoken beyond our understanding: for if the gods touch nectar and ambrosia for the sake of pleasure, then nectar and ambrosia are in no way causes of their being; but if for the sake of being, how could they be everlasting when they need food? — but as for those who play the wise man mythically, it is not worth examining them seriously; from those, however, who speak by way of demonstration, one must inquire, pressing the question closely, why on earth, being from the same things, some beings are everlasting in nature while others perish.
21| Since they state neither a cause nor anything to make this reasonable, it is clear that the same principles, nor the same causes, could belong to both. For even the one whom someone might think speaks most consistently with himself, Empedocles, has suffered this very same thing: he posits a certain principle as cause of destruction, strife, but this would seem no less to generate the other things too, apart from the one; for everything else comes from this except god. At any rate he says: from which are all things that were, that are, and that will be hereafter — trees sprang up, and men and women, beasts and birds and water-nourished fish, and even the long-lived gods. (Empedocles, fr. 21.9-12) And apart from this it is clear:
22| [1000b] for if strife were not present in things, all would be one, as he says: but when they had come together, then last of all strife took its stand. (Empedocles, fr. 36.7) Hence it follows for him that the happiest god is less intelligent than the others; for he does not know everything, since he does not have strife in him, and knowledge is of like by like. For by earth, he says, we see earth, by water water, by aither the divine aither, but by fire consuming fire, by love love, and by baneful strife, baneful strife. (Empedocles, fr. 109) But — to return to the point from which this argument started — this much at least is clear: it follows for him that strife is no more a cause of destruction than of being, and likewise love is not a cause of being either, since by drawing things together into the one it destroys the rest. And at the same time he states no cause of the change itself except that this is simply its nature: but when great strife had been nourished within the limbs, it sprang up to its honors as the time was being fulfilled, which is fixed for them in turn by a broad oath. (Empedocles, fr. 30) — as though the change were necessary, yet he shows no cause of the necessity. But still, this much at least he alone states consistently: he does not make some beings perishable and others imperishable, but makes all things perishable except the elements.
23| The puzzle now being stated is this: why are some things perishable and others not, if they come from the same things? That the principles could not be the same, then, let this much suffice to say. But if the principles are different, one puzzle is whether these too will be imperishable or perishable. For if perishable, clearly these too must come from certain things — for everything perishes into the things from which it is — so that it follows that there are other, prior principles of the principles, and this is impossible, whether the series comes to a stop or goes on to infinity. Further, how will perishable things exist at all, if the principles are to be destroyed? But if imperishable, why is it that perishable things come from these imperishable ones, while imperishable things come from the others? For this is not reasonable, but is either impossible or requires a great deal of argument. Further, no one has even attempted different principles, but they all speak of the same principles for everything.
24| [1001a] But they nibble away at the first puzzle raised, as though this were some small matter to grant. Of all questions, the hardest to investigate, and the most necessary for knowing the truth, is whether being and the one are the substances of the things that are — each of them not being something else besides, one being simply the one and the other simply being — or whether one must instead inquire what being and the one are, on the supposition that some other nature underlies them. For some think the nature is the one way, others the other way. Plato and the Pythagoreans think that being and the one are not something else, but that this is their very nature, since their substance is precisely being one and being. But those who study nature — Empedocles, for instance — speak as though reducing it to something more familiar when he says what the one is; for he would seem to be saying that this is love (at any rate this is the cause of being one for all things); others say it is fire, and others say it is air, that is this one and this being, out of which the things that are, both are and have come to be. And likewise, too, with those who posit several elements: for these too must say that the one and being are as many as the number of principles they say there are.
25| It follows that if someone does not posit that the one and being are some substance, then none of the other universals will be substances either — for these are the most universal of all things — and if there is no one itself and no being itself, then scarcely could any of the other things exist apart from the things called particulars. And further, if the one is not a substance, clearly number could not exist either, as a nature separated from the things that are — for number is units, and a unit is precisely a kind of one. But if there is some one itself and being itself, it is necessary that being and the one be their substance; for it is not something else universal that is predicated of them, but these very things. But then, if there is to be some being itself and some one itself, there is great difficulty in how there could be anything else besides these — I mean, how the things that are could be more than one. For what is other than being, is not; so that it necessarily follows, by Parmenides' argument, that all the things that are, are one, and this is being.
26| [1001b] Either way it is difficult. For whether the one is not a substance, or whether it is one and the same one, it is impossible for number to be a substance. If it is not, it has already been said why; but if it is, the same puzzle arises about being as well. For out of what, besides the one, will there be another one itself? For it must not be one; but all the things that are, are either one, or many things of which each is one. Further, if the one itself is indivisible, then by Zeno's axiom it would be nothing at all — for whatever, by being added or by being taken away, makes a thing neither greater nor smaller, he says is not among the things that are, on the assumption, clearly, that what is, is a magnitude; and if a magnitude, then bodily, since that is what is in every respect; while other things, when added, will in some way make a thing greater, in some way not — a plane and a line, for example, but a point and a unit not at all. But since Zeno examines the matter crudely, and it is possible for there to be something indivisible in another sense, so that in this way too there would be some defense against him — for such a thing, when added, will not make a thing greater, but will make it more numerous — the question still stands: how will there be magnitude out of one such thing, or out of several such things? For that is like saying that a line too is made of points.
27| But further, even if someone supposes, as some people say, that number comes to be out of the one itself and something else that is not-one, we must no less inquire why and how what comes to be will sometimes be number and sometimes magnitude, if the not-one was inequality and the same nature in both cases. For it is not clear how magnitudes could come to be either from the one and this not-one, or from some number and this not-one. Next to these is the puzzle whether numbers and bodies and planes and points are substances at all, or not. For if they are not, what being is, and what the substances of the things that are, escapes us. For affections and motions and relatives and dispositions and ratios do not seem to signify the substance of anything (for all of these are said of some underlying subject, and none of them is a this); but the things that would most seem to signify substance are water and earth and fire and air, out of which composite bodies are constituted,
28| [1002a] and of these, hot and cold and affections of that sort are not substances, but the body that has undergone them alone persists as something that is and as a kind of substance. Yet the body is less a substance than the surface, and the surface less than the line, and the line less than the unit and the point; for the body is bounded by these, and it seems possible for these to exist without body, but impossible for body to exist without them. This is why most people, and the earlier thinkers, supposed that substance and being were body, and that the other things were affections of it, so that the principles of bodies were also principles of the things that are; while later thinkers, who were held to be wiser than these, supposed them to be numbers. As we said, then, if these are not substance, there is no substance at all and nothing is being; for surely the accidents of these things are not worth calling beings. But if, on the other hand, this is granted — that lengths and points are more substance than bodies — and yet we do not see of what bodies these could be the lengths and points (for it is impossible for them to belong among perceptible things), then there would be no substance at all. Further, all of these evidently are divisions of body, one into breadth, one into depth, one into length.
29| Further, in the same way any shape whatever is present in a solid; so that if Hermes is not present in the stone, neither is the half of the cube present in the cube as something marked off. Then neither is a surface present in it either (for if any surface at all were present, this would be the one marking off the half); and the same argument applies to the line and the point and the unit. So if body is most of all substance, and these are more substance than it, and yet these are not substances at all, then what being is and what the substance of the things that are, escapes us. For besides what has been said, absurd consequences also follow about coming-to-be and passing-away. For it seems that substance, if it now is though it previously was not, or previously was though it later is not, undergoes this along with coming-to-be and passing-away; but points and lines and surfaces cannot either come to be or pass away, though at one time they are and at another they are not. For whenever bodies touch or are divided,
30| [1002b] at the same time one point comes to be when they touch, and two when they are divided; so that they do not exist while the bodies are joined together, but have perished, and when the bodies are divided, points exist that did not exist before (for surely the indivisible point was not divided into two); and if they come to be and pass away, out of what do they come to be? A similar situation holds also for the now in time: this too cannot come to be and pass away, yet it always seems to be something different, not being some one substance. It is clear that the same holds likewise for points and lines and planes, for the argument is the same, since all of these alike are either limits or divisions. In general one might also raise the puzzle why we need to look for anything else besides the perceptible things and the intermediates — I mean the things we posit as forms. For if it is because the objects of mathematics differ from the things here in some other respect, but do not differ in there being many of the same kind, so that their principles will not be determinate in number but only in form (just as the principles of the letters here are not determinate in number for all of them, but are determinate in kind — unless one takes the letters of this particular syllable or this particular sound,
31| in which case they will also be determinate in number for these) — and the same holds for the intermediates too, since there also the things of the same kind are unlimited in number — then, if there is nothing besides the perceptible things and the objects of mathematics other than the things some people call the forms, substance will not be one in number but one in form, and the principles of the things that are will not be a certain number of individuals but a certain form. If this is necessary, then it is necessary for this reason to posit the forms as well. For even if those who speak of them do not articulate it well, still this is what they mean, and they must be saying this: that each of the forms is a certain substance, and none of them exists accidentally. But if, on the other hand, we shall posit both that the forms exist and that the principles are one in number and not merely one in form, we have already stated the impossibilities that must follow. Close to these is the puzzle whether the elements exist potentially or in some other way. For if in some other way, something else will be prior to the principles (for
32| [1003a] the potentiality is prior to that cause, and what is possible need not always turn out that way); but if the elements exist potentially, it is possible for none of the things that are to exist. For what is not yet can also be possible to be; for what is not comes to be, but nothing that is incapable of being comes to be. These, then, are the puzzles that must be raised about the principles, and also whether they are universal or are as we say particulars are. For if they are universal, they will not be substances (for none of the common things signifies a this but rather a such, whereas substance is a this; and if what is predicated in common is to be posited as a this and one, Socrates will be many animals — himself, and man, and animal — if each of these signifies a this and a one). If, then, the principles are universal, these consequences follow; but if they are not universal but are as particulars are, they will not be objects of scientific knowledge (for knowledge of everything is universal), so that there will be other principles prior to the principles, namely the ones predicated universally, if indeed there is to be knowledge of the principles.
1| There is a science that studies being as being, and the attributes that belong to it in its own right. This science is not the same as any of the sciences called particular sciences; for none of the others examines being as being universally, but each of them, marking off some part of it for itself, studies the accidental attribute of this part — as, for example, the mathematical sciences do. Since we are looking for the principles and the highest causes, it is clear that these must necessarily belong to some nature in its own right. If, then, those who sought the elements of the things that are were also seeking these same principles, the elements of being must likewise be elements not accidentally but qua being; therefore it is the first causes of being qua being that we too must grasp. Now being is spoken of in many ways, but always with reference to one thing and one single nature, and not homonymously, but just as everything called healthy is so called with reference to health — one thing because it preserves health, another because it produces it, another because it is a sign of health, another because it is receptive of it — [1003b] and as what is called medical is so called with reference to the medical art (one thing being called medical because it possesses the medical art, another because it is naturally well-suited to it, another because it is a function of the medical art), and we shall find other things spoken of in a similar way to these — so too being is spoken of in many ways, but always with reference to one starting point:
2| For some things are called beings because they are substances, others because they are affections of substance, others because they are a path toward substance, or destructions, or privations, or qualities, or things productive or generative of substance or of what is said in relation to substance, or negations of one of these or of substance. That is why we say that not-being is not-being. Just as there is a single science of all healthy things, so it is likewise with the others. For it is not only of things said in one sense that it belongs to a single science to study, but also of things said in relation to a single nature; for these too are said, in a way, in one sense. It is clear, then, that beings too are to be studied by a single science, insofar as they are beings. And everywhere the science, properly speaking, is of the primary thing, of that on which the others depend and through which they are named. If, then, this is substance, the philosopher would need to grasp the principles and causes of substances. Now for every genus there is a single perception of a single thing, and a single science, just as grammar, being one, studies all vocal sounds. That is why to study, as species of being qua being, however many there are, belongs generically to a single science — both the species themselves and the species of the species. If, then, being and the one are the same thing and a single nature, in that they follow upon each other as principle and cause do — though not as things made clear by a single account (and it makes no difference even if we take them in the same way, but rather this is even more to the purpose):
3| for 'one man' and 'man' are the same thing, and 'a man who is' and 'man' are the same, and the doubling in the phrase 'one man' and 'one man who is' does not signify anything different (and it is clear that they are not separated either in coming-to-be or in perishing), and likewise with 'one.' So it is clear that the addition, in these cases, signifies the same thing, and that the one is nothing other than being. Further, the substance of each thing is one, not accidentally, and likewise each is precisely a being, not accidentally; so that however many species there are of the one, there are just as many of being, and to study what each of these is belongs generically to the same science — I mean, for example, sameness and likeness and other such things. And nearly all the contraries are traced back to this principle:
4| [1004a] let these matters have been examined by us in our Selection of Contraries. And there are just as many parts of philosophy as there are substances, so that there must necessarily be some science that is first and one that comes next after it. For being and the one straightaway possess genera; that is why the sciences too will correspond to these. For the philosopher is spoken of in the way the mathematician is; for that discipline too has parts, and there is a first science and a second, and others in succession, among the mathematical sciences. Now since it belongs to a single science to study opposites, and to the one, plurality is opposed — and it belongs to a single science to study negation and privation, because in both cases what is studied is the one of which there is the negation or the privation (for we either say without qualification that that thing does not belong, or that it does not belong to some particular genus; for in privation a differentia is present in addition to what is stated in the negation — negation is simply the absence of that thing, whereas in privation some underlying nature also comes into play, of which the privation is asserted) — and plurality is opposed to the one — so that it belongs to the science we have mentioned to know also the things opposed to what has been said: the different, the unlike, the unequal, and whatever else is said either in accordance with these or in accordance with plurality and the one.
5| Among these is also contrariety; for contrariety is a kind of differentia, and differentia is otherness. So that, since the one is said in many ways, these things too will be said in many ways; nevertheless it belongs to a single science to know all of them. For it is not the case that, if something is said in many ways, it belongs to different sciences — rather that happens if the accounts refer neither to one thing said in one sense nor to one thing in relation to which the others are said. But since all things are referred back to what is primary — for example, whatever is called one is referred to the primary one — the same must be said to hold concerning sameness and otherness and the contraries. So that, having distinguished in how many ways each is said, one must then explain, within each category, how it is said in relation to the primary instance in that category; for some things will be said to be so by possessing that primary thing, others by producing it, and others in other such ways. It is clear, then — just what was said among the puzzles — that it belongs to a single science to give an account both of these things and of substance (this was one of the points among the puzzles), and that it belongs to the philosopher to be able to study all of them.
6| [1004b] For if it does not belong to the philosopher, who else will examine whether Socrates and Socrates-seated are the same thing, or whether one thing is contrary to one thing, or what the contrary is, or in how many ways it is said? And likewise concerning the other such matters. Since, then, these are affections belonging in their own right to the one qua one and to being qua being, and not to number, or lines, or fire as such, it is clear that it belongs to that science both to know what each is and to know their accidental attributes. And those who inquire into these things do not go wrong in this, as though they were not philosophizing, but rather because substance is prior, and about substance they understand nothing, since — just as number qua number has attributes proper to it, such as oddness, evenness, commensurability, equality, excess, deficiency, and these belong to numbers both in their own right and in relation to one another (and likewise the solid, and the unmoved, and the moving, and the weightless, and the thing having weight, each has other attributes proper to it) — so too being qua being has certain attributes proper to it, and it is about these that it belongs to the philosopher to investigate the truth. Here is a sign of this: the dialecticians and sophists put on the very same guise as the philosopher, for sophistry is wisdom only in appearance, and the dialecticians discuss all things, and being is common to all things, and they discuss these matters clearly because these belong properly to philosophy.
7| For sophistry and dialectic turn about the same genus as philosophy, but philosophy differs from the one in the manner of its capacity, and from the other in the choice it makes about its way of life; dialectic is a testing art concerning the very things of which philosophy has knowledge, while sophistry only appears to be such knowledge, without actually being it. Further, of the contraries, the one column is privation, and all things are traced back to being and not-being, and to the one and plurality — rest, for instance, belonging to the one, motion to plurality. And nearly everyone agrees that beings and substance are composed out of contraries; at any rate, everyone speaks of the principles as contraries: some say odd and even, others hot and cold, others limit and the unlimited, others love and strife. And all the other principles too are evidently traced back to the one and plurality (let this reduction stand as accepted by us),
8| [1005a] and the principles given by the others fall, quite completely, under these as under genera. It is clear, then, from these considerations too, that it belongs to a single science to study being qua being. For all things are either contraries or composed of contraries, and the principles of the contraries are the one and plurality. And these belong to a single science, whether they are said in one sense or not — which is perhaps in fact how the truth stands. But nevertheless, even if the one is said in many ways, the others will be said in relation to the primary sense, and the contraries likewise, and for this reason, even if being or the one is not a universal, the same in all cases, or separable — as indeed perhaps it is not, but rather some things are so in relation to one thing and others by succession — and it is for this reason that it does not belong to the geometer to study what the contrary is, or the complete, or the one, or being, or the same, or the different, except from a hypothesis. That it belongs, then, to a single science to study being qua being, and the attributes that belong to it qua being, is clear; and that this same science is theoretical not only of substances but also of their attributes — both those already mentioned, and those concerning prior and posterior, genus and species, whole and part, and the other such matters.
9| We must state whether it belongs to one science or to a different one to study both the things called axioms in mathematics and substance. It is clear that the inquiry into these belongs to one science, and to that of the philosopher; for they hold of all things that are, and not of some genus apart, peculiar to itself, separate from the rest. And everyone makes use of them, because they hold of being qua being, and each genus is a kind of being; but people use them only to the extent that is sufficient for their purposes, that is, to the extent that the genus about which they bring their demonstrations reaches. So since it is clear that these hold of all things insofar as they are beings (for this is what is common to them), the study of them belongs to the one who has knowledge of being qua being. That is why none of those who investigate some part attempts to say anything about them, whether they are true or not — neither the geometer nor the arithmetician — but only some of the natural philosophers do, and reasonably so, since they alone supposed that they were studying the whole of nature and being. But since there is one who stands still higher than the natural philosopher (for nature is one genus of being among others), the study of these axioms would belong to the one who studies universally and studies the primary substance:
10| [1005b] Natural science too is a kind of wisdom, but not the primary kind. As for those who attempt to say in what manner one ought to accept the truth, some do this out of a lack of training in analytics; for one ought to come to these questions already knowing them, not seeking to learn them while listening. That it belongs to the philosopher, and to the one who studies all substance according to its nature, to investigate the principles of syllogistic reasoning as well, is clear. And it is fitting that the one who knows most about each genus should be able to state the most secure principles of that subject matter, so that the one who studies beings qua being should state the most secure principles of all. This person is the philosopher. Now the most secure principle of all is one about which it is impossible to be mistaken; for such a principle must be the most familiar of all (for people are always deceived about the things they do not know) and it must not rest on any hypothesis. For whatever a person must possess in order to understand anything whatsoever of the things that are, this is not a hypothesis; and whatever a person must know in order to know anything at all, this too he must already possess on arrival. That such a principle is the most secure of all, then, is clear; but let us next state what it is. It is impossible for the same thing at the same time to belong and not to belong to the same thing in the same respect (let all the further qualifications we might add be understood as added, to meet the logical difficulties):
11| This, then, is the most secure of all principles; for it has the qualification just stated. For it is impossible for anyone to suppose that the same thing is and is not, as some think Heraclitus said; for it is not necessary that whatever a person says he also supposes. And if it is not possible for contraries to belong to the same thing at the same time (let the usual qualifications be understood as added to this premise as well), and the opinion contradicting a given opinion is its contrary, then it is clear that it is impossible for the same person at the same time to suppose that the same thing is and is not; for the one who was mistaken about this would hold contrary opinions at the same time. That is why all who offer demonstrations trace their argument back to this as the ultimate opinion; for by nature this is the starting point even of all the other axioms as well. But there are some who, as we said, themselves claim that it is possible for the same thing to be and not to be,
12| [1006a] and to suppose it in this way. And many even of those who study nature make use of this argument. But we have now taken it as impossible for the same thing at once to be and not to be, and through this we have shown that this is the most secure of all principles. Now some, out of lack of training, demand that this too be demonstrated; for it is a lack of training not to know for which things one ought to seek a demonstration and for which one ought not. For in general it is impossible for there to be a demonstration of everything (it would proceed to infinity, so that there would be no demonstration even so); and if there are some things for which one ought not to seek a demonstration, these people would not be able to say what principle they claim has a better right to be exempt than this one. Yet it is possible to prove even this by refutation, that it is impossible, provided only the disputant says something; but if he says nothing, it is absurd to look for an argument to address to one who has no argument on the point where he has none, since such a person, in that respect, is by now no better than a plant. I say that proving by refutation is different from demonstrating, because someone giving a demonstration might seem to be assuming what is at issue, whereas if someone else is responsible for such an assumption it would be a refutation and not a demonstration. The starting point for all such cases is not the demanding that the opponent say either that something is or that it is not (for one might suppose this to be assuming what is at issue), but that he signify something both to himself and to another;
13| for this is necessary, if he is to say anything at all. For if he does not, there would be no argument for such a person, neither to himself nor to anyone else. But if someone grants this, there will be a demonstration; for something will already have been fixed. But the one responsible is not the one giving the demonstration but the one who holds his ground; for in trying to do away with argument he still holds his ground on argument. Further, whoever grants this has granted that something is true apart from demonstration, so that not everything could be both so and not so. First, then, it is clear that this itself is true: that the name signifies the being or not-being of this particular thing, so that not everything could be both so and not so. Further, if 'man' signifies one thing, let this be 'two-footed animal.' By 'signifies one thing' I mean this: if this is what man is, then whatever is a man, this will be what being a man is for it (and it makes no difference even if someone should say that the name signifies more than one thing, so long as they are definite in number,
14| [1006b] for then a different name could be assigned to each definition. What I mean is this: if someone should say that 'man' does not signify one thing but many, of which one has as its single definition 'two-footed animal,' while there are also several others, definite in number, then a distinct name could be assigned to each definition. But if no such name were assigned, and instead he said it signifies infinitely many things, it is clear that there could be no argument at all; for not to signify one thing is to signify nothing, and if names do not signify, discourse with one another has been abolished, and, in truth, discourse with oneself as well; for it is not possible to think anything unless one thinks one thing, and if it is possible, a single name could be assigned to this thing). Let it be granted, then, as was said at the outset, that the name signifies something, and signifies one thing. It is not possible, then, for 'being a man' to signify exactly what 'not being a man' signifies, if 'man' signifies not only something predicated of one subject but also one thing (for we do not take 'signifying one thing' to mean 'being predicated of one subject,' since in that sense even 'musical' and 'white' and 'man' would signify one thing, so that all things would be one; for they would be synonymous). And the same thing will not be able both to be and not to be, except by homonymy, as when what we call a man, others might call not-a-man:
15| The point at issue is not whether the same thing can at once be called and not be called 'man,' but whether it can at once be, and not be, the thing itself. But if 'man' and 'not-man' do not signify something different, then clearly 'not being a man' does not differ from 'being a man' either, so that being a man will be the same as not being a man; for they will be one thing. For this is what being one signifies — as with 'cloak' and 'garment' — if the account is one; and if they will be one, then being a man and being not-a-man will signify one thing. But it has been shown that they signify something different. It is necessary, then, if it is true to say of something that it is a man, that it be a two-footed animal (for this is what 'man' signified); and if this is necessary, then it is not possible for the same thing at that time not to be a two-footed animal (for this is what 'being necessary' signifies: that it is impossible for it not to be so); it is not possible, then, for it to be true at the same time to say of the same thing that it is a man and that it is not a man. And the same argument holds also for its not being a man:
16| [1007a] For being a man and not being a man mean something different, if indeed being white and being a man also mean something different; for the former pair is far more opposed, so that it means something different. But if he will say that being white and this signify the same and one thing, again we will say the same thing we said before, that all things will be one, and not only the opposites. But if this is not possible, then what was said follows, if the person answers what is asked. And if, when someone asks a question simply, one adds the negations too, then he is not answering what is asked. For nothing prevents the same thing from being both a man and white and countless other things besides; but nevertheless, when asked whether it is true to say that this is a man or not, one must answer with what signifies one thing, and not add that it is also white and large. For it is indeed impossible to run through the accidents, since they are infinite in number; so let him either run through all of them or none. Likewise, then, even if the same thing is a thousand times over both man and not-man, one must not, in answering whether it is a man, add that it is at the same time also not a man, unless one is also going to add in answer all the other things that hold of it, all that it is and is not; and if one does this, one is not conversing.
17| And in general, those who say this do away with substance and the essence. For they are compelled to say that everything is accidental, and that being just what it is to be a man or to be an animal is not a thing. For if there is going to be some thing which is just what it is to be a man, this will not be the same as not being a man or as not being what it is to be a man (and yet these are the negations of it); for it was one thing that it signified, and this was the substance of something. And to signify substance is for its being to be nothing other than itself. But if being just what it is to be a man is going to be, for it, the same as being just what it is to be not-a-man, or the same as not being a man, then it will be something else, so that they are forced to say that for nothing will there be an account of this kind, but that everything is said accidentally; for it is by this that substance and accident are distinguished: for being white is accidental to man, because he is white but is not just what it is to be white. But if everything is said accidentally, there will be nothing that is primary, that of which the accident is said, if the accidental always signifies a predication holding of some underlying subject.
18| [1007b] It is therefore necessary to go on to infinity. But that is impossible; for not even more than two accidents are combined together: for an accident is not an accident of an accident, unless it is because both are accidents of the same thing—I mean, for example, that the white is musical and this is white because both are accidents of the man. But it is not the case that Socrates is musical in this way, namely because both are accidents of some other thing. Since, then, some things are called accidental in this way and others in that other way, those which are called accidental in the way white is of Socrates cannot go on to infinity upward—for instance, there is not some other accident belonging to white Socrates; for no one thing arises out of all of them together. Nor again will there be some other accident belonging to the white, such as the musical; for this is no more an accident of that than that is of this, and at the same time it has been distinguished that some things are accidental in this way and others as the musical is accidental to Socrates: and whichever are accidental in the latter way are not accidents of an accident, but only those in the former way are, so that not everything will be spoken of accidentally. There will therefore also be something that signifies substance. And if this is so, it has been shown that it is impossible for the contradictories to be predicated at the same time. Further, if all the contradictories are true of the same thing at the same time, it is clear that all things will be one. For the same thing will be both a trireme and a wall and a man, if it is possible either to affirm or to deny anything of anything, as is necessary for those who state the doctrine of Protagoras.
19| For if it seems to someone that a man is not a trireme, clearly he is not a trireme; so that he also is one, if indeed the contradiction is true. And so we get the doctrine of Anaxagoras, that all things are together, so that nothing truly exists. They seem, then, to be speaking of the indeterminate, and while thinking they are speaking of what is, they are speaking of what is not; for the indeterminate is what exists potentially and not in actuality. But surely they must say of everything either the affirmation or the negation with regard to everything; for it would be absurd if for each thing its own negation held, while the negation of something else which does not hold of it did not hold—I mean, for instance, if it is true to say of the man that he is not a man, clearly it is also true that he is either a trireme or not a trireme. If, then, the affirmation holds, the negation must hold necessarily too; but if the affirmation does not hold, then at least the negation will hold more than the negation of the thing itself does.
20| [1008a] If, then, that negation also holds, the negation of trireme will hold too; and if this holds, so will the affirmation. These things, then, follow for those who state this doctrine, and also that it is not necessary either to affirm or to deny. For if it is true that something is a man and not a man, clearly it will also be neither a man nor not a man; for to the two affirmations there correspond two negations, and if the former is one thing composed of both, this too would be one thing, opposed to it. Further, either this holds concerning all things—and a thing both is white and not white, and both is and is not—and likewise for the other affirmations and negations, or it does not, but holds concerning some things and not concerning others. And if it does not hold concerning all, then these exceptions would be agreed upon; but if it holds concerning all, then again either it holds for everything of which one can affirm and deny, and for everything of which one can deny and affirm, or it holds for those of which one can both affirm and deny, but not for everything of which one denies does one also affirm. And if the latter, there would be something fixed that is not, and this would be a firm belief; and if not-being is something firm and known, the opposed assertion would be more knowable still.
21| But if, alike, whatever can be denied can also be affirmed, then one must necessarily, in stating them separately, be speaking truly—saying, for instance, that it is white, and again that it is not white—or not. And if it is not true to state them separately, then he is not saying these things at all, and nothing exists (for how could things that do not exist speak or walk?); and all things would be one, as was said before, and man and god and trireme would be the same thing, and so would their contradictories (for if the same holds alike of each, nothing will differ from anything else; for if it will differ, this will be something true and particular). And likewise, if it is possible to speak truly by stating them separately, what was said follows, and in addition to this, that everyone would speak truly and everyone would speak falsely, and each person agrees that he himself is speaking falsely. At the same time it is also clear that there is nothing for the inquiry to be about with respect to this man; for he says nothing. For he says neither that it is so nor that it is not so, but that it is both so and not so; and again he denies both of these, saying that it is neither so nor not so; for if he did not, then something would already be determinate. Further, if when the affirmation is true the negation is false, and when this in turn is true the affirmation is false, then it would not be possible to affirm and deny the same thing truly at the same time.
22| [1008b] But perhaps they would say that this is just what was assumed from the start. Further, is it that the one who supposes that something either holds in a certain way or does not is mistaken, while the one who supposes both is right? For if the latter is right, what could be meant by saying that such is the nature of the things that are? And if he is not right, but is more right than the one who supposes in the other way, then things that are would already be in some determinate condition, and this would be true, and not at the same time also not true. But if everyone alike is both wrong and speaks the truth, then such a person will be able neither to utter a sound nor to say anything; for at the same time he is saying both this and not this. And if he supposes nothing, but thinks and does not think alike, in what way would he differ at all from the plants? Hence it is above all clear from this that no one is in this condition, neither anyone else nor those who state this doctrine. For why does a man walk to Megara instead of staying put, if he thinks he ought to walk? Nor, first thing in the morning, does he walk into a well or off a cliff if he happens upon one, but he plainly takes care to avoid it, as one who does not think alike that falling in is not good and is good. It is clear, then, that he supposes the one to be better and the other not better.
23| But if this is so, one must also hold that one thing is a man and another not a man, and that one thing is sweet and another not sweet. For people do not inquire and hold beliefs about everything on equal terms: when someone thinks it better to drink water and to see a man, he then seeks these things — and yet he ought to have sought them indifferently, if man and not-man were alike the same. But, as was said, there is no one who does not appear to be on guard about some things and not about others; so it seems that everyone holds, without qualification, that some things simply are so — if not about everything, at least about the better and the worse. And if people do this not from knowledge but from opinion, they ought to care about the truth all the more, just as a sick man ought to care about health more than a healthy one does; for the man who has opinion, compared with the man who has knowledge, is not in a healthy relation to the truth. Further, even if it is above all true that all things are both so and not so, still the more and the less are present in the nature of things; for we would not say that two and three are even in the same way, nor is the man who thinks four is five mistaken to the same degree as the man who thinks it is a thousand. If, then, they are not mistaken to the same degree, clearly one of them is less mistaken, so that he speaks the truth more. If, then, the more is nearer,
24| [1009a] there would then be something true, and the truer would be nearer to it. And even if there is no such thing, still there is already something more stable and truer, and we would be free from the unqualified account that prevents the intellect from determining anything. The argument of Protagoras, too, comes from the same opinion, and both of them must alike either hold or not hold: for if all things that seem to be so and appear to be so are true, then everything must be at once true and false (for many people hold beliefs contrary to one another, and think that those who do not hold the same opinions as themselves are mistaken; so that the same thing must both be and not be), and if this is so, then all the things that seem to be so must be true (for those who are mistaken and those who state the truth hold opposite opinions of one another; so if things stand this way, everyone will be stating the truth). That both arguments proceed from the same way of thinking, then, is clear; but the manner of dealing with the people who hold them is not the same in every case: some need persuasion, others force. Those who came to hold this belief because they were genuinely perplexed have an ignorance that is easily cured (for the response to them is directed not at their statement but at their thinking);
25| but those who say it merely for the sake of argument can be cured only by refuting the account as it stands in speech and in the words themselves. Now this opinion has come to those who are genuinely perplexed from the objects of perception: from seeing contradictories and contraries coming to be out of the same thing, they suppose that both hold at once. For if what is not cannot come to be, then the thing must have existed beforehand as both alike — just as Anaxagoras says that everything is mixed in everything, and Democritus too; for he too says that the void and the full are present alike in any and every part, although one of these is what is and the other what is not. Now to those who hold this belief on these grounds we shall say that in one way they speak correctly, and in another way they are ignorant: for being is spoken of in two ways, so that there is a way in which something can come to be out of what is not, and a way in which it cannot; and the same thing can be at once both being and not-being, but not in the same respect — for in potentiality it is possible for contraries to be the same thing at once, but in actuality it is not possible. Further, we shall require them to suppose that there is also some other substance among the things that are, in which there is neither motion nor destruction nor coming to be at all.
26| [1009b] — Likewise the belief about the truth of what appears has come to some people from the objects of perception. For they think that truth ought not to be judged by numbers, few or many, and yet the same thing appears sweet to some who taste it and bitter to others, so that if everyone were sick or everyone were out of their mind, and only two or three were healthy or in their right mind, these would seem to be the sick and the deranged ones, and the others not. Further, the same things appear contrary to many of the other animals and to us, and even to each person himself things do not always appear the same by way of perception. Which of these appearances, then, are true and which false, is unclear; for these are no more true than those, but alike. That is why Democritus says that either nothing is true or, to us at least, it is unclear. And in general, because they suppose that thought is perception, and that perception is a kind of alteration, they say that what appears according to perception must necessarily be true; for it is on these grounds that Empedocles and Democritus and, one might say, each of the others as well have become liable to opinions of this sort. Empedocles, for instance, says that when people's bodily state changes, their thought changes too: 'for according to what is present, cunning grows in men.'
27| (Empedocles, fr. 106) And elsewhere too he says: 'And insofar as men's nature changed, so their thinking too was always changing to match.' (Empedocles, fr. 108) Parmenides too declares the same thing in the same manner: 'For as each man at any time has the mixture of his much-bending limbs, so does thought stand present to men; for the very thing that thinks is the same as the nature of the limbs, in every man and in all — for what is fuller is thought.' (Parmenides, fr. 16) A saying of Anaxagoras to some of his companions is also remembered, that things would be for them such as they supposed them to be. They say Homer, too, appears to hold this same opinion, because he made Hector, when he was knocked senseless by the blow, lie there thinking other thoughts — as though even those out of their mind were thinking, only not the same thoughts. It is clear, then, that if both are forms of thought, the things that are must at once be so and not be so. And this is where the outcome becomes hardest to bear: for if those who have seen most clearly what truth is possible — and these are the very people who most seek it out and love it — hold opinions of this kind and make such statements about truth, how can those who are undertaking to philosophize not lose heart? For seeking the truth would then be like chasing things in flight.
28| [1010a] — The reason for this opinion among these thinkers is that, while investigating the truth about the things that are, they supposed that the things that are are only the objects of perception; and among these there is a great deal of the nature of the indeterminate present, and of being in the manner we described. That is why what they say is reasonable, though not true (for it is more fitting to put it this way than as Epicharmus put it against Xenophanes). Further, seeing this whole realm of nature in motion, and that nothing is truly said of what is changing, they supposed that it is not possible to state the truth about what is in every respect and in every way changing. For out of this supposition blossomed the most extreme of the opinions mentioned, that of those who claim to follow Heraclitus, and the sort of view Cratylus held, who in the end thought one should say nothing, and only moved his finger, and who reproached Heraclitus for saying that it is not possible to step into the same river twice — for Cratylus himself thought one could not do so even once. We, however, shall say in reply to this argument as well that what is changing, at the moment when it is changing, gives them some ground for thinking it does not exist — though this is in fact disputable; for what is losing something still has something of what it is losing, and of what is coming to be, something must already exist; and in general, if a thing is being destroyed, there will be something that is, and if a thing is coming to be, then that from which it comes to be and that by which it is generated must exist, and this cannot go on to infinity.
29| But let us set these points aside and say instead that changing in quantity is not the same as changing in quality: in respect of quantity a thing may well not remain the same, but it is by its form that we come to know everything. Further, it is worth reproaching those who hold this view, because, having seen that this is how things stand among the objects of perception themselves, and among a smaller number of them at that, they made the same pronouncement about the whole heaven; for the region of the perceptible world around us is the only part that continues in a state of destruction and coming to be, yet this is, so to speak, no part at all of the whole; so that it would have been more just for them to acquit this region for the sake of that other one than to condemn that one for the sake of this. Further, it is clear that against these thinkers too we shall say the same things we said earlier to the others: it must be shown to them, and they must be persuaded, that there is some unchanging nature. Indeed it turns out that for those who claim that the same thing at once is and is not, the consequence is rather that all things are at rest than that they are in motion; for there is nothing for a thing to change into, since everything already belongs to everything.
30| [1010b] —Now about truth: not everything that appears is true. First, even if perception is not false of its own proper object, still imagination is not the same thing as perception. Next, it is worth being surprised that they raise this puzzle at all: whether magnitudes and colors are as large and as such as they appear to those far off, or as they appear to those close up; whether they are as they appear to the healthy or as they appear to the sick; and whether things are heavier as they appear to the weak or as they appear to the strong; and whether things are true as they appear to those asleep or as they appear to those awake. For that they do not really believe this is plain: at any rate no one, if he supposes by night that he is in Athens when he is actually in Libya, sets off for the concert hall. Again, concerning the future — as Plato too says — surely the doctor's opinion and the ignorant person's opinion are not equally authoritative, for instance about whether someone is going to be healthy or not. Again, even among the perceptions themselves, the perception of what is foreign and not one's own is not equally authoritative as that of what is proper and one's own, nor the perception of what is near as that of what belongs to the sense itself; rather, sight is authoritative about color, not taste, and taste about flavor, not sight — and neither of these ever says, at the same time, about the same thing, that it is thus and not thus.
31| Nor, indeed, at a different time has there been dispute about the affection itself, but only about that to which the affection belongs. I mean, for example: the same wine might seem, either because it has changed or because the body has changed, at one time sweet and at another time not sweet; but the sweet itself, such as it is whenever it is present, has never yet changed — one is always right about it, and what is going to be sweet is of necessity such. Yet all these arguments do away with this, just as they do away with there being a substance of anything, so too with there being anything of necessity: for what is necessary cannot be now one way and now another, so that if something is of necessity, it will not be both thus and not thus. And in general, if only the perceptible exists, there would be nothing at all if living things did not exist; for there would be no perception. Now that neither the perceptible things nor the perceptions would exist is perhaps true (for this is an affection of the one perceiving), but that the underlying subjects which produce the perception should not exist even apart from perception is impossible. For perception surely is not of itself, but there is something else too besides the perception, which must of necessity be prior to the perception:
32| [1011a] for that which moves is by nature prior to that which is moved, and this holds no less even if these are said relative to each other. But there are some who raise this puzzle, both among those persuaded of these views and among those who merely state these arguments: they ask who is to judge the healthy person, and in general who is to judge correctly about each thing. But such puzzles are like puzzling over whether we are now asleep or awake, and all puzzles of this kind come to the same thing: for these people demand an account of everything; for they seek a starting point, and to get hold of this through demonstration, although it is plain from their actions that they are not really persuaded. But, as we said, this is their affliction: they seek an account of things of which there is no account; for the starting point of demonstration is not itself a demonstration. These people, then, could easily be persuaded of this (for it is not hard to grasp); but those who seek only compulsion in argument are seeking something impossible: for they demand to be told the opposite of what they say, while straightaway saying the opposite themselves. But if not all things are relative, but some things also exist just in themselves, then not everything that appears would be true; for what appears is an appearance to someone: so that the person who says all appearances are true makes all existing things relative.
33| Hence one must also be on guard, in dealing with those who seek compulsion in argument and at the same time demand that an account be given, that they are told: it is not the appearance that exists, but the appearance to the one to whom it appears, and when it appears, and in the respect and manner in which it appears. And if they demand an account, but do not demand it in this way, it will quickly turn out that they say contrary things themselves. For it is possible for the same thing to appear as honey to sight but not to taste, and, there being two eyes, for the same thing not to appear the same to each of the two, if they are unlike. Since, then, against those who, for the reasons stated long ago, assert that what appears is true, and that on account of this all things are alike false and true: the same things do not appear to everyone, nor do the same things always appear to the same person, but often contrary things appear at the same time (for touch says there are two, in the crossing of the fingers, while sight says one); but not, at any rate, to the same sense, in the same respect, in the same way, and at the same time — so that this, at least, would be true.
34| [1011b] But perhaps for this very reason it is necessary for those who speak this way not from puzzlement but for the sake of argument to say that this is not true, but is true for this person. And, as has been said before, they must of necessity make everything relative, both to opinion and to perception, so that nothing has come to be nor will come to be unless someone has first held an opinion about it. But if it has come to be or will come to be, it is clear that not everything can be relative to opinion. Again, if a thing is one, it is relative to one thing or to something determinate; and if the same thing is both half and equal, still the equal is not relative to the double. If, then, in relation to the one who forms the opinion, man and the object of opinion are the same, then the one forming the opinion will not be man but will be the object of opinion. And if each thing is going to be relative to the one forming the opinion, then the one forming the opinion will be relative to things infinite in kind. That the firmest opinion of all is that opposite statements are not true at the same time, then, and what follows for those who speak this way, and why they speak this way — let this much be said. But since it is impossible for the contradiction to be truly asserted at the same time of the same thing, it is clear that contraries too cannot belong to the same thing at the same time: for of contraries, one is no less a privation — a privation of substance —
35| and privation is a denial applying to some determinate genus. If, then, it is impossible to affirm and deny truly at the same time, it is also impossible for contraries to belong to a thing at the same time, but either both hold in a qualified way, or one holds in a qualified way and the other without qualification. But indeed there can be nothing in between a contradiction either; rather, of any one thing, it is necessary either to affirm or to deny any single predicate whatever. This is clear, first, once we have defined what the true and the false are. For to say of what is that it is not, or of what is not that it is, is false; while to say of what is that it is, and of what is not that it is not, is true; so that also the person who says that a thing is or is not will either speak truly or falsely — but it is not the case that what is is said not to be or to be, nor is this said of what is not. Again, either there will be something in between the contradiction, as gray is between black and white, or there will be nothing, as with what is neither man nor horse. If, then, it is like the latter, there could be no change (for a thing changes from not-good to good, or from this to not-good), but as things now stand, change is always apparent (for there is no change except into opposites and into what is intermediate); but if there is something in between, in this way too there would be a coming-to-be into white not out of not-white, but as things now stand this is not observed.
36| [1012a] Further, every object of thought and of intellect, thought either affirms or denies — this is clear from the definition — whenever it speaks truly or falsely: when it combines thus, affirming or denying, it speaks truly, but when it combines otherwise, it speaks falsely. Further, there must be something alongside every contradictory pair, unless one speaks merely for argument's sake; so that a person will neither speak truly nor fail to speak truly, and there will be something alongside being and not-being, so that there will also be some kind of change alongside coming-to-be and passing-away. Further, in all cases where the negation brings in the contrary with respect to coming-to-be, it will hold in these cases too — for example among numbers there will be a number that is neither odd nor not-odd; but that is impossible, as is clear from the definition. Further, it will proceed to infinity, and the things that are will not only be half again as many but more. For again it will be possible to deny this in relation to the affirmation and the negation, and this denial will be something in its own right; for its substance is some further thing. Further, when someone asks whether a thing is white and he says no, he has denied nothing other than its being; and the negation is its not being. This opinion has come to some people, as other paradoxes have too: for when they cannot refute eristic arguments, they give in to the argument and agree that what has been deduced is true.
37| Some, then, speak this way for such a reason, others because they demand an account of everything. The starting point against all of them is from a definition. A definition arises from its being necessary for them to signify something: for the account of which the name is a sign will be the definition. Heraclitus's account, which says that all things are and are not, seems to make everything true; Anaxagoras's, that there is something in between a contradictory pair, seems to make everything false: for whenever things are mixed, the mixture is neither good nor not-good, so that one can say nothing true. Once these points are distinguished, it is clear that it is impossible for what is said to hold in only one way and yet apply to everything, as some claim — some asserting that nothing is true (for they say nothing prevents all things from being that way, just as it is claimed the diagonal is commensurable), others that everything is true. These arguments are much the same as Heraclitus's: for the one who says that all things are true and all things false, and asserts each of these claims separately,
38| [1012b] so that if those claims are impossible, these must be impossible too. Further, there are plainly contradictory pairs that cannot both be true at once — nor can all pairs be false either, though from what has been said that would seem more possible. But against all such arguments one must demand, as was said in the arguments above as well, not that something is or is not, but that it signifies something, so that one must argue from a definition, having grasped what "false" or "true" signifies. If to state what is true is nothing other than to state the denial of what it is false to affirm, then it is impossible for all things to be false: for one part of the contradiction must necessarily be true. Further, if it is necessary either to affirm or to deny everything, it is impossible for both parts to be false: for one part of the contradiction is false. So there results the thing commonly said against all such arguments, that they destroy themselves. For the one who says all things are true makes the statement contrary to his own true as well, so that his own is not true (for the contrary speaker denies that his is true); and the one who says all things are false destroys himself in the same way. And if they make exceptions — one saying only that the contrary statement is not true, the other that his own is not false — it results none the less that they must posit infinitely many statements as true and false:
39| for the one who says that the true statement is true is himself speaking truly, and this will proceed to infinity. It is also clear that neither those who say all things are at rest speak truly, nor those who say all things are in motion. For if all things are at rest, the same things will always be true and false, but this plainly changes (for the one speaking once did not exist and again will not exist); and if all things are in motion, nothing will be true, so all things will be false — but it has been shown that this is impossible. Further, what is must necessarily change: for change is from one thing into another. But moreover it is not the case that all things are at rest, or in motion, at some time and at no time always at rest or in motion: for there is something that always moves the things that are in motion, and the first mover is itself unmoved.
1| "Principle" is said, in one sense, of that from which a person would first be moved with respect to the thing — for instance, of a length or a road, starting from this point is one principle, and from the opposite end another; [1013a] and of that from which each thing would best come about — for instance of learning, one must sometimes begin not from the first point and the principle of the thing itself but from wherever one would most easily learn; and of that from which a thing first comes to be, this being present within it, as the keel is of a ship and the foundation of a house, and among animals some suppose it to be the heart, others the brain, others whatever else happens to be of that sort; and of that from which a thing first comes to be, this not being present within it, and from which motion and change naturally begin, as the child comes from the father and the mother, and the fight from the verbal abuse; and of that by whose choice the things that are moved are moved and the things that change, change, as for instance the offices in cities and the ruling powers and kingships and tyrannies are called principles, and so are the crafts, and among these especially the architectonic ones. Further, that from which a thing is first knowable is also called a principle of the thing, as for instance the hypotheses are of demonstrations. Causes are spoken of in an equal number of ways:
2| for all causes are principles. Common, then, to all principles is this: to be the first point from which a thing either is, or comes to be, or is known. Of these, some are present within the thing, others are outside it. That is why nature is a principle, and the element, and thought, and choice, and substance, and that for the sake of which something is; for of many things both the coming to know and the motion have as their principle the good and the fine. "Cause" is spoken of, in one way, as that out of which something comes to be, this being present within it, as the bronze is of the statue and the silver of the bowl, and the genera of these; in another way, as the form and the pattern, and this is the account of the essence, and the genera of this — as for instance of the octave the ratio two to one, and number in general — and the parts that are in the account. Further, as that from which the first principle of change or of rest comes, as for instance the one who deliberated is a cause, and the father is a cause of the child, and in general the maker is a cause of the thing made and the changer of the thing changed. Further, as the end: this is that for the sake of which something is, as for instance health is the cause of walking.
3| For why does he walk? We say: in order to be healthy. And having said this, we think we have given the cause. And so too with all the things that come to be along the way toward the end once something else has set them in motion, [1013b] as thinning, or purging, or drugs, or instruments are causes of health: for all these exist for the sake of the end, but they differ from one another in that some are instruments and others are actions. The causes, then, are spoken of in about that many ways, but since causes are spoken of in many ways, it results that there are also many causes of the same thing, and not accidentally — for instance both the art of statue-making and the bronze are causes of the statue, not in virtue of anything else but in that it is a statue, though not in the same way, but the one as matter, the other as that from which the motion comes; and things can also be causes of one another, as for instance exertion is a cause of good condition, and good condition of exertion, but not in the same way — the one as end, the other as principle of motion. Further, the same thing is the cause of contraries: for what, being present, is the cause of this thing, we sometimes blame, being absent, for the contrary, as for instance we blame the pilot's absence for the capsizing, whose presence was the cause of safety; both the presence and the privation are causes, as sources of motion. All the causes just mentioned fall under four ways, the most evident ones. For the elements of syllables, and the matter of manufactured things, and fire and earth and all such things among bodies, and the parts of a whole, and the premises of a conclusion, are causes as that out of which a thing comes.
4| Of these, some are causes as the substrate, for example the parts, others as the essence — the whole, the composition, and the form. The seed, the doctor, the one who deliberated, and in general the agent — all these are causes as that from which the change or the rest originates. Others are causes as the end and the good of the other things: for that for the sake of which tends to be the best and the end of the other things, and it makes no difference whether we call it, itself, a good or an apparent good. These, then, are the causes, and this many in kind, but the ways in which causes are spoken of are numerically many, though when summed up these too are fewer. For causes are spoken of in many ways, and even among causes of the same kind, one is prior and another posterior to another, as the doctor and the expert are both causes of health, and the double and number are both causes of the octave, and in general whatever contains any particular thing is a cause of it. Further, causes are spoken of as the accidental attribute and the genera of these, as, for example, in a different way Polyclitus and in a different way the sculptor are causes of a statue, because it is accidental to the sculptor to be Polyclitus.
5| [1014a] And also the things that contain the accidental attribute, as, for example, man is the cause of a statue, or, more generally, animal, because Polyclitus is a man and man is an animal. And among accidental causes too, some are more remote and others nearer, as, for example, if the white one or the musical one were said to be the cause of the statue, and not only Polyclitus or man. And besides all these, both the things spoken of in their own right and the things spoken of accidentally are spoken of, some as being capable, others as actually operating — for example, the builder, or the building builder, as cause of the thing being built. And the same will be said of the things of which these causes are the causes, as, for example, of this statue, or of a statue, or of an image in general; and of this bronze, or of bronze, or of matter in general; and likewise in the case of accidental attributes. Further, both these and those will be spoken of in combination, as, for example, not Polyclitus, nor the sculptor, but Polyclitus the sculptor. But nevertheless all these are, in number, six, though each is spoken of in two ways: either as the particular or as the genus, or as the accidental attribute or as the genus of the accidental attribute, or as these in combination, or as spoken of simply; and all are spoken of either as actually operating or as in accordance with a potentiality.
6| And they differ to this extent: the causes that are actually operating and the particular causes exist and cease to exist at the same time as the things of which they are the causes — as, for example, this man healing exists together with this man being healed, and this builder together with this thing being built — whereas the causes spoken of in accordance with a potentiality do not always do so; for the house and the builder do not perish at the same time. An element is said to be that out of which a thing is composed as a primary constituent, indivisible in kind into another kind — as, for example, the elements of an utterance are those out of which the utterance is composed and into which it is ultimately divided, while those are no longer divisible into other utterances differing in kind from themselves; but even if they are divided, their parts are of the same kind, as the part of water is water, but not so with the part of a syllable. Similarly, those who speak of the elements of bodies mean the things into which bodies are divided as their ultimate constituents, while those are no longer divisible into other things differing in kind; and whether such things are one or several, these are what they call elements. And in a similar way the elements of geometrical figures are so called, and in general the elements of demonstrations; for the primary demonstrations, present within a number of other demonstrations,
7| [1014b] these are called the elements of demonstrations, and the primary syllogisms of this kind are those made from three terms through one middle term. And by transference people also call by the name element whatever, being one and small, is useful for many purposes; that is why what is small and simple and indivisible is called an element. Hence it has come about that the most universal things are thought to be elements, because each of them, being one and simple, is present in many things, either in all or in most, and because some think that the one and the point are principles. Since, then, what are called genera are universal and indivisible (for there is no single account of them), some call the genera elements, and more so than the differentia, because the genus is more universal; for whatever the differentia belongs to, the genus follows as well, but whatever the genus belongs to, the differentia does not belong to all of it. Common to all cases is that the element of each thing is the first constituent present within it. Nature is spoken of, in one sense, as the coming-to-be of growing things — as if one were to pronounce the upsilon with a lengthened sound — and in another sense as the first thing out of which a growing thing grows, this being present within it; further, as that from which the primary motion in each of the things that exist by nature originates, being present in it as such:
8| Things are said to grow when they receive increase through something else by touching and growing together with it, or growing onto it, as embryos do; growing-together differs from mere touching, for in the case of touching there need be nothing else besides the contact, whereas in things that have grown together there is some one and the same thing in both which, instead of mere contact, produces a growing-together and makes them one in respect of continuity and quantity, though not in respect of quality. Further, nature is spoken of as the first thing out of which any of the things that exist by nature either is or comes to be, this thing being unformed and unchangeable out of its own potentiality — as, for example, in the case of a statue and bronze utensils, the bronze is called the nature, and in the case of wooden things, the wood; and likewise in the other cases; for each thing consists of these, the primary matter being preserved throughout. In this way people also say that the elements of the things that exist by nature are their nature — some saying fire, others earth, others air, others water, others some other such thing, others some of these, and others all of them. Further, in another sense, nature is spoken of as the substance of the things that exist by nature, as, for example, those who say that nature is the primary composition,
9| [1015a] or, as Empedocles says, that nature is of none of the things that are, but only mixture and separation of the things mixed exist, and nature is merely a name given to these by human beings (Empedocles, fr. 8). Hence too, whatever exists or comes to be by nature, even when the thing already exists out of which it is natural for it to come to be or to exist, we say does not yet have its nature unless it has its form and shape. So what exists by nature is what comes from both of these together — for example, animals and their parts; and nature is both the primary matter (and this in two senses: either what is primary relative to the thing itself, or what is primary absolutely — as, for example, in the case of bronze works, bronze is primary relative to them, but water is perhaps primary absolutely, if all meltable things are water) and the form, that is, the substance; and this is the end of the coming-to-be. Indeed, by an extension of the term, every substance whatsoever is now called nature because of this, since nature too is a kind of substance. From what has been said, then, nature in the primary sense, and the sense properly so called, is the substance of things that have within themselves, as such, a principle of motion; for matter is called nature because it is receptive of this principle, and comings-to-be and growings are called motions because they proceed from this principle.
10| And this is the principle of motion in things that exist by nature, present within them in some way, either potentially or as a realization. The necessary is said to be that without which it is not possible to live, as a contributing cause — for example, breathing and food are necessary for an animal, since it is impossible to exist without these — and also that without which the good cannot exist or come to be, or without which the bad cannot be got rid of or removed (for example, drinking the medicine is necessary in order not to be ill, and sailing to Aegina is necessary in order to recover the money). Further, there is the forced and force: this is what impedes and hinders contrary to impulse and choice; for what is forced is called necessary, and hence also painful, as Evenus too says: 'for every necessary thing is by nature grievous'; and force is a kind of necessity, as Sophocles also says: 'but force compels me to do this'; and necessity is thought to be something that cannot be persuaded otherwise, and rightly so, for it is opposed to motion in accordance with choice and reasoning. Further, what cannot be otherwise we say is necessarily so; and it is in accordance with this sense of the necessary that all the other things too are, in a way, all called necessary: for what is forced is called necessary either as making something happen or as undergoing something at that time,
11| [1015b] when the impulse cannot proceed because of the compelling force, so that this is a necessity because of which there is no other way — and it is the same way with the joint causes of living and of the good. For when it is not possible for the good to exist here, or for living and being to exist there, without certain things, these are necessary, and this cause is a kind of necessity. Again, demonstration deals with necessary things, because it is not possible for the thing demonstrated to be otherwise, if it has been demonstrated without qualification; and the causes of this are the primary premises, if it is impossible for the things from which the syllogism proceeds to be otherwise. Now of some things something else is the cause of their being necessary, but of others nothing is, and rather it is because of these that other things exist of necessity. So that what is primarily and properly necessary is the simple: for this does not admit of being in more than one way, so that it cannot be one way and then another — for then it would already be in more than one way. If, then, there are certain eternal and unmoved things, nothing is forced or contrary to nature for them. One thing is said to be one in one sense accidentally, in another sense in its own right. Accidentally, for example, Coriscus and the musical, and musical Coriscus (for it is the same thing to say Coriscus and the musical, and musical Coriscus), and the musical and the just, and musical Coriscus and just Coriscus:
12| for all these are said to be one accidentally, the just and the musical because they are attributes of one substance, the musical and Coriscus because the one is an attribute of the other; and likewise, in a way, musical Coriscus is one with Coriscus because one of the parts of the account is an attribute of the other, namely the musical is an attribute of Coriscus; and musical Coriscus is one with just Coriscus because a part of each is an attribute of the same one thing. Similarly, whether the accident is predicated of a genus or of one of the universal names, for example that man is the same thing as musical man — either because musical is an attribute of man, which is one substance, or because both are attributes of some particular thing, for example Coriscus. Except that both do not belong in the same way, but the one, presumably, as a genus and within the substance, the other as a state or affection of the substance. All the things, then, that are called one accidentally are called so in this way; but of the things called one in their own right, some are called so because they are continuous, for example a bundle by a binding and pieces of wood by glue:
13| [1016a] and a line, even if it is bent, provided it is continuous, is called one, just as each of the parts is, for example a leg or an arm. And of these very things, those continuous by nature are more one than those continuous by craft. A thing is called continuous when its motion is one in its own right and cannot be otherwise; and it is one when it is undivided, and undivided with respect to time. Things are continuous in their own right when they are not one by contact; for if you were to posit pieces of wood touching one another, you would not say these are one, either one piece of wood or one body or any other continuous thing. Things that are continuous in a full sense are called one even if they have a bend, and still more those that have no bend, for example the shin or the thigh rather than the leg, because it is possible for the motion of the leg not to be one. And the straight line is more one than the bent; but the bent line, the one having an angle, we call both one and not one, because it is possible for its motion to be not simultaneous and also to be simultaneous; whereas that of the straight line is always simultaneous, and no part of it having magnitude is at rest while another is in motion, as is the case with the bent line. Again, in another sense a thing is called one because the substrate is undifferentiated in form; and things are undifferentiated of which the form is undivided as perceived by the senses:
14| and the substrate is either the first or the last in relation to the end; for wine is called one, and water one, insofar as it is undivided in form, and all liquids are called one, for example oil and wine, and all things that melt, because the ultimate substrate of all of them is the same — for all these are water or air. And things are also called one of which the genus is one, differing by opposite differentiae — and all these are called one because the genus, which is the substrate for the differentiae, is one (for example horse, man, dog are one something because all are animals), and in a way rather similar to how the matter is one. And these things are sometimes called one in this way, but sometimes the higher genus is said to be the same — if the species are the last in the genus — namely the genus above these, for example the isosceles and the equilateral are the same and one figure because both are triangles, but they are not the same triangles. Again, things are called one whose account, stating the essence, is undivided in relation to another account that makes clear what the thing's essence is (for every account, taken by itself, is divisible). For in this way both what has grown and what is diminishing are one, because the account is one, just as with plane figures the account of the form is one.
15| [1016b] And in general, those things of which the thought that thinks the essence is undivided, and cannot separate the thing either in time or in place or in account, are most of all one, and among these, those that are substances. For universally, whatever has no division, insofar as it has none, is on that account called one — for example, if insofar as it is man it has no division, it is one man; if insofar as it is animal, one animal; if insofar as it is a magnitude, one magnitude. Now most things are called one because they either do or have or undergo or stand in relation to some other thing that is one; but the things called one in the primary sense are those whose substance is one, and one either by continuity or in form or in account. For we count as more than one either things that are not continuous, or things whose form is not one, or things whose account is not one. Again, in one sense we say a thing is one, whatever it is, if it is a quantity and continuous; in another sense we say it is not, unless it is somehow a whole, and this it is not unless it has a form that is one — for example we would not say we see it as equally one if we saw the parts of a shoe put together in just any way, unless it were through their continuity, but rather if put together so as to be a shoe and already have some one form:
16| and this is why the line of the circle is, above all, the most one of lines, because it is whole and complete. And to be one is to be a certain principle of number; for the first measure is a principle, since that by which we first come to know each genus is the first measure of that genus. The one, then, is the principle of what is knowable about each thing. But the one is not the same in all genera; for in one place it is the quarter-tone, in another the vowel or the consonant; and of weight it is something else, and of motion something else again. But everywhere the one is undivided either in quantity or in form. Now of what is undivided in quantity, that which is undivided in every way and has no position is called a unit; that which is undivided in every way and has position is a point; that which is divisible in one direction is a line; that which is divisible in two directions is a plane; and that which is divisible in every way and in three directions in respect of quantity is a body. And conversely, that which is divisible in two directions is a plane, that which is divisible in one direction is a line, and that which is not divisible at all in quantity is a point and a unit — the one without position being a unit, the one with position a point. Again, some things are one in number, some in form, some in genus, some by analogy: in number, those whose matter is one; in form, those whose account is one; in genus, those that have the same figure of predication; and by analogy, whatever stands to one thing as another thing stands to a third.
17| And the later always follows on the earlier: for example, whatever is one in number is also one in species, but not everything one in species is one in number; [1017a] but everything one in species is also one in genus, while not everything one in genus is one in species, but rather by analogy; and not everything one by analogy is one in genus. It is also clear that the many will be spoken of as opposed to the one, in ways corresponding to the ways the one is spoken of: some things are called many because they are not continuous, others because their matter is divisible in respect of form — either the primary matter or the last — and others because there are several accounts stating the essence. Being is spoken of partly accidentally, partly in its own right. Accidentally, for example, we say the just man is musical, and the man is musical, and the musical is a man, speaking in much the same way as when we say the musical builds, because it is accidental to the builder to be musical, or to the musical to be a builder (for 'this is that' signifies that this is accidental to that); and so too in the cases mentioned: for when we say the man is musical, and the musical is a man, or the white is musical, or this is white, in one case it is because both are accidental to the same thing, in another because it is accidental to a thing that is, and in the case of the musical man, because the musical is accidental to this man (and in the same way we also speak of the not-white as being, because that to which it is accidental itself is). So the things said to be accidentally are said to be so either because both belong to the same existing thing, or because they belong to something that is, or because the thing itself is that to which belongs the thing of which it is itself predicated.
18| Things are said to be in their own right in as many ways as the figures of predication signify: for in as many ways as being is spoken of, in that many ways it signifies being. Since, then, of things predicated some signify what a thing is, others of what quality, others of what quantity, others a relation, others doing or being acted on, others where, others when, being signifies the same as each of these: for it makes no difference to say 'the man is being-well' or 'the man is-well', nor 'the man is walking' or 'is cutting' rather than 'the man walks' or 'cuts', and likewise in the other cases. Further, 'to be' and 'is' signify that a thing is true, and 'not to be' that it is not true but false — likewise with affirmation and negation: for example, that Socrates is musical signifies that this is true, or that Socrates is not white, that this is true; but 'the diagonal is commensurable' signifies that this is false.
19| [1017b] Further, 'to be' and 'being' signify, of the things spoken of, that which can be said potentially and that which can be said actually: for we say that a thing sees both when it is capable of seeing potentially and when it is seeing actually, and likewise that a thing knows both when it is capable of using the knowledge and when it is using it, and that a thing is at rest both when rest already belongs to it and when it is capable of being at rest. And likewise with substances: for we say that Hermes is in the stone, and the half is in the line, and that grain not yet ripe is grain. When a thing is already possible and when it is not yet, must be determined elsewhere. Substance is spoken of as the simple bodies — for example earth, fire, water, and the like — and bodies in general, and the things composed of these, both animals and divine beings, and the parts of these; all these are called substance because they are not said of a subject, but the other things are said of them. In another way, substance is whatever is the cause of being, present within such things as are not said of a subject — for example the soul in the case of an animal. Further, whatever parts are present within such things, bounding them and signifying a this, and whose removal removes the whole — for example, as some say, the surface is substance of body, and the line of the surface.
20| And in general, number seems to some to be of this kind (for when it is removed, they say, nothing is, and it bounds everything). Further, the essence — whose account is a definition — this too is called the substance of each thing. It follows, then, that substance is spoken of in two ways: as the ultimate subject, which is no longer said of anything else, and as whatever is a this and separable — and of this kind in each case is the shape and the form. Things are called the same partly accidentally, as when the white and the musical are called the same because they are accidental to the same thing, and man and musical because the one is accidental to the other, and the musical man is called the same as man because the musical is accidental to the man; and each of these is called the same as this one, and this one the same as each of those — for the man and the musical are both said to be the same as the musical man, and this in turn is said to be the same as them (which is why none of these is said universally: for it is not true to say that every man is the same as the musical, since universal terms belong in their own right, while accidents do not belong in their own right;
21| [1018a] but of particulars it is said without qualification: for Socrates and musical Socrates seem to be the same; but 'Socrates' is not said of many, and so we do not say 'every Socrates' as we say 'every man'). Some things, then, are called the same in this way, but others are called the same in their own right, in as many ways as the one is: for things whose matter is one, either in species or in number, are called the same, and things whose substance is one; so that it is clear that sameness is a kind of oneness of the being either of more than one thing, or of a thing treated as more than one — as when someone calls a thing the same as itself, for then he treats it as two. Things are called different whose forms are more than one, or their matter, or the account of their substance; and in general 'different' is spoken of as opposed to 'the same'. Things are called distinct which, while being the same something, are different — not only in number but in species or genus or by analogy; further, things whose genus is different, and contraries, and whatever has otherness in its substance. Things are called similar which have undergone entirely the same affections, and those which have undergone more of the same affections than different ones, and those whose quality is one; and, of the contraries in respect of which alteration is possible, whatever has more of them, or the more decisive ones, is similar in virtue of this.
22| Opposed to the similar are the dissimilar. Things called opposed are: contradiction, contraries, relatives, privation and possession, and the extremes from which and into which generations and destructions occur; and whatever cannot be present at the same time in that which is receptive of both is said to be opposed — either the things themselves, or that from which they are. For grey and white do not belong to the same thing at the same time; that is why the things from which they come are opposed. Things are called contrary which, differing in genus, cannot be present at the same time in the same thing; and things that differ most among those in the same genus; and things that differ most among those in the same recipient; and things that differ most among those falling under the same power; and those whose difference is greatest, either without qualification, or in genus, or in species. Other things are called contrary — some because they have such contraries, others because they are receptive of them, others because they are productive or affective of them, or are producing or undergoing them, or are losses or acquisitions, or are possessions or privations of them. And since the one and being are spoken of in many ways, it necessarily follows that the other terms spoken of in relation to them also do so — so that the same and the different and the contrary do too, so that each is different according to each category.
23| Things are called different in species which, being of the same genus, are not subordinate to one another, [1018b] and which, being in the same genus, have a differentia, and which have a contrariety in their substance; and contraries are different in species from one another, either all of them or those called so primarily; and things are different in species whose accounts are different even in the ultimate species of the genus (for example, man and horse are undivided in genus, but their accounts are different); and so are things which, though in the same substance, have a differentia. Things called the opposites of these are the same in species. Some things are called prior and posterior on the ground that there is some first thing and starting point in each genus, by being nearer to some determinate starting point, either without qualification and by nature, or in relation to something, or in some place, or by certain agents — for example, some things are prior in place by being nearer, either by nature to some determinate place (for example, the middle or the extreme) or to some chance place, while what is farther off is posterior; others are prior in time, and this in two ways (some by being farther from the now, as with things that have already happened — for example, the Trojan War is prior to the Persian Wars, because it is farther removed from the now; others by being nearer to the now, as with things that are going to happen — for example, the Nemean games are prior to the Pythian, because they are nearer to the now, the now being used as a starting point and a first thing):
24| others are prior in respect of motion (for what is nearer to the first mover is prior — for example a child is prior to a man; and this too is in a way a starting point without qualification); others in respect of capacity (for what exceeds in capacity is prior, that is, the more powerful; and a thing of this sort is one on whose choice the other, posterior thing must necessarily follow, so that if the first does not cause motion the second does not move, while if the first does cause motion the second moves — and the choice is a starting point); others in respect of order (these are things which, in relation to some one determinate thing, stand apart from one another according to some ratio — for example, the man next to the leader is prior to the one three places off, and the second-from-last string is prior to the last; for in the one case the leader is the starting point, in the other the middle string is). These things, then, are called prior in this way; but there is another way, that of being prior in knowledge, as also being called prior without qualification. And of these, again, things prior in account and things prior in perception differ: for according to account the universals are prior, but according to perception the particulars are. And according to account the accident is prior to the whole — for example, the musical is prior to the musical man, since the account will not be whole without the part; and yet it is not possible for the musical to exist without some musical person existing. Again, the affections of prior things are themselves called prior — for example, straightness is prior to smoothness:
25| for the one is an affection of a line in its own right, the other of a surface. [1019a] These things, then, are called prior and posterior in this way; but other things are so called in respect of nature and substance, namely all such as admit of being without other things, while those other things cannot be without them — a division Plato used. (Since being is spoken of in many ways: first, the substrate is prior, and this is why substance is prior; then, in another way, things are prior according to potentiality and according to actuality — for some things are prior in potentiality, others in actuality; for example, in potentiality the half is prior to the whole, and the part to the whole, and the matter to the substance, but in actuality they are posterior, since it is only when the whole has been broken up that they will exist in actuality.) In a certain way, then, all the things called prior and posterior are so called according to these senses: for some things, in respect of coming to be, can exist apart from the others — for example the whole in relation to the parts — while others, in respect of perishing, can exist apart from the others — for example the part in relation to the whole. And likewise with the rest. Capacity is spoken of, in one sense, as a starting point of motion or change that is in another thing, or in the thing itself insofar as it is other — for example, the art of building is a capacity that does not exist in the thing being built, whereas the art of medicine, being a capacity, might exist in the person being healed, though not insofar as he is being healed. The starting point of change or motion in general, then, when it is in another thing, or in the thing itself insofar as it is other, is called capacity; and the starting point of being acted on by another thing, or by the thing itself insofar as it is other, is also called capacity (for it is in virtue of this that what is acted on is acted on in some way — sometimes we say a thing is capable of undergoing anything whatever that happens to it, sometimes not in respect of every affection, but only if the affection is for the better):
26| again, capacity is the capacity of doing this well, that is, according to choice: for sometimes we say of those who could only walk or speak, but not well, or not as they had chosen, that they are not able to speak or walk; and likewise in the case of being acted on. Again, all those states in virtue of which things are wholly unaffected, or unchangeable, or not easily moved for the worse, are called capacities: for a thing is broken, and crushed, and bent, and altogether destroyed, not by being able but by not being able and by falling short in something; and things are unaffected by such things which are only hardly and slightly affected, on account of a capacity, and by being able, and by being in a certain state. Since capacity is spoken of in so many ways, the capable too will be spoken of, in one sense, as that which has a starting point of motion or change (for even what stands still is capable of something) in another thing, or in itself insofar as it is other; in another sense, if some other thing has such a capacity over it,
27| [1019b] in another sense, if it has the capacity to change into anything whatever, whether for the worse or for the better (for even what is being destroyed seems to be capable of being destroyed — otherwise it would not have been destroyed, if it were incapable of it; but as it is, it has some disposition and cause and starting point of such an affection; and sometimes it seems to be so by having something, sometimes by being deprived of something; and if privation is in a way a state, everything would be capable by having something; but if not, then a thing is capable in one sense by having some state and starting point, and, in another sense, homonymously, by having the privation of this, if it is possible to have such a privation — but if not, then only homonymously); and in another sense, by not having in it, or in what is other than it, a capacity or starting point that is destructive of it. Further, all these are so called either because the thing would merely happen to come to be or not come to be, or because it would happen well. For even in things without soul such a capacity is present, for example in instruments: for they say that one lyre is capable of being sounded, and another capable of nothing, if it is not tuneful. Incapacity is a privation of capacity, and of such a starting point as has been described, either altogether, or in the case of a thing naturally fitted to have it, or even at the time when it is already naturally fitted to have it:
28| for they would not say in the same way that a child and a man and a eunuch are unable to beget. Again, corresponding to each of the two capacities there is an opposed incapacity, both to the capacity that merely causes motion and to the capacity that causes motion well. And so some things are called incapable in accordance with this incapacity, others in a different way, along with capable and incapable in this further sense: a thing is impossible of which the contrary is necessarily true (for example, it is impossible for the diagonal to be commensurable, because this is false, and its contrary is not only true but necessarily true, namely that it is incommensurable; so the commensurable is not only false but necessarily false); the contrary of this, the possible, holds when it is not necessary that the contrary be false — for example, it is possible for a man to be sitting, since it is not necessarily false that he is not sitting. The possible, then, means in one sense, as has been said, what is not necessarily false; in another, what is true; in another, what admits of being true. (It is by metaphor that capacity is spoken of in geometry.) These things, then, are called possible not in accordance with capacity in the strict sense; but all the things that are called possible in accordance with capacity are so called with reference to the one primary sense:
29| [1020a] This is a principle of change in another thing, or in the thing itself as other. For other things are called potential because some of them have some such power in another, some do not have it, and some have it in a certain way. And likewise for the incapable. So that the governing definition of the primary sense of potentiality would be: a principle capable of producing change in another thing, or in the thing itself as other. Quantity means what is divisible into constituent parts, each or every one of which is by nature some one thing and a this. A plurality is a quantity if it is countable, a magnitude if it is measurable. A plurality means what is divisible potentially into non-continuous parts, a magnitude what is divisible into continuous parts. Of magnitude, that which is continuous in one dimension is length, in two breadth, in three depth. Of these, plurality bounded is number, length is a line, breadth is a surface, depth is a body. Further, some things are called quantities in their own right, others accidentally, for instance the line is a quantity in its own right, the musical is a quantity accidentally. Of those in their own right, some belong to the substance, for instance the line is a quantity of this sort (for it is present in the account that states what a thing is), while others are affections and states of a substance of this kind, for instance the much and the little, the long and the short, the broad and the narrow, the deep and the shallow, the heavy and the light, and other such things.
30| The large and the small, and larger and smaller, both said in their own right and said relative to one another, are affections of quantity in their own right; but these names are also transferred to other things. Of the things called quantities accidentally, some are called so in the way it was said the musical and the white are quantities because that to which they belong is a quantity, others as motion and time are called quantities: for these too are called a certain amount and continuous, because the things of which these are affections are divisible. I mean not the thing that is moved but the distance it was moved through: for because that is a quantity, motion too is a quantity, and time is a quantity because motion is. Quality is said in one way of the differentia of substance, for instance man is a certain sort of animal because two-footed, the horse because four-footed, and a circle is a certain sort of figure because it has no angles — quality here being the differentia relative to substance;
31| [1020b] — quality is said in this one way, then, as the differentia of substance; in another way as applied to unchangeable things, the objects of mathematics, as numbers are of a certain quality, for instance the composite numbers, which are not only in one dimension but of which the plane and the solid are copies (these are the numbers that are so-many-times-so-many, or so-many-times-so-many-times-so-many), and generally whatever belongs to the substance apart from quantity: for the substance of each thing is what it is taken once, for instance of the number six it is not what it is taken twice or three times but what it is taken once, for six taken once is six. Further, quality includes all the affections of changeable substances, for instance hotness and coldness, whiteness and blackness, heaviness and lightness, and all such things, in respect of which bodies are also said to be altered when they change. Further, it includes quality in respect of virtue and vice, and generally the bad and the good. Quality, then, would be spoken of in roughly two ways, and of these one is the most proper: for the primary quality is the differentia of substance (and the quality found in numbers is a part of this, being a certain differentia of substances, though of substances either not changing or not qua changing), while the other sense covers the affections of things that are changing, qua changing, and the differentiae of motions.
32| Virtue and vice are a part of these affections: for they make plain the differentiae of the motion and the activity, in respect of which things that are in motion act or are acted upon well or badly. For what is capable of being moved or of acting in this way is good, what is capable in this other and contrary way is bad. The good and the bad signify quality especially in the case of ensouled things, and among these especially in those that have choice. Relative things are called so in one way as the double is relative to the half and the triple to the third, and generally the multiple to what it is a multiple of, and the exceeding to what it exceeds; in another way as the productive of heat is relative to what can be heated, and the cutting to what can be cut, and generally the active to the passive; in another way as the measurable is relative to the measure, the knowable to knowledge, and the perceptible to perception. Things are called relative in the primary sense according to number, either simply or determinately, either relative to themselves or to one — for instance the double is a determinate number relative to one, while the multiple is relative to one according to number, though not determinately, being, say, this number or that;
33| [1021a] while the sesquialterate is relative to the subsesquialterate according to a determinate number relative to a number; and the superparticular is relative to the subsuperparticular according to an indeterminate number, as the multiple is relative to one; and the exceeding is relative to the exceeded altogether indeterminately in respect of number: for number is commensurable, and of what is not commensurable there is no number spoken of, but the exceeding is, relative to the exceeded, just so much and something more, and this is indeterminate: for it may be either equal or not equal, whichever happens to be the case. All these relatives, then, are spoken of according to number and are affections of number; and further the equal and the like and the same are spoken of relative in another way (for all these are spoken of in respect of the one: things are the same whose substance is one, alike whose quality is one, equal whose quantity is one; and the one is the principle and measure of number, so that all these are called relative according to number, though not in the same way); and the active and the passive are called relative according to an active and a passive power and the activities of these powers, for instance what is capable of heating is relative to what can be heated because it has the capacity, and again what is heating is relative to what is being heated, and what is cutting to what is being cut, as things actually engaged in activity.
34| Of the things spoken of according to number there are no activities, except in the way spoken of elsewhere; but relatives according to motion have no such activities. Of the relatives according to a capacity, some are also spoken of according to times, as what has produced is relative to what has been produced, and what will produce to what will be produced. For it is in this way too that a father is called father of a son: the one has produced something, the other has undergone something. Further, some relatives are so according to a privation of capacity, as the incapable and whatever is spoken of in this way, for instance the invisible. Now the things spoken of as relative according to number and according to capacity are all relative in that the very thing they are is spoken of as belonging to another, and not in that something else is relative to it; but the measurable and the knowable and the thinkable are called relative in that something else is spoken of as relative to them. For the thinkable signifies that there is a thought of it, but the thought is not relative to that of which it is the thought (for then the same thing would have been said twice); and likewise sight is the sight of something, not of that of which it is the sight (though that too would be true to say), but relative to color or to some other such thing. In the other way the same thing would be said twice, namely that sight is of that of which it is the sight.
35| [1021b] Of things called relative in their own right, some are called so in this way, others because their genera are of this kind — for example medicine is among the relatives because its genus, knowledge, is thought to be relative; further, whatever things are called relative according to the properties they have, for example equality because the equal is relative, and likeness because the like is relative. Others are relative accidentally, for example a man is relative because it is accidental to him to be double something, and this is one of the relatives; or the white is relative if it is accidental to the same thing to be both double and white. Complete is said of one thing in the sense that outside which nothing can be found, not even one part (for example the complete time of each thing is that outside of which no time belonging to it can be found which is a part of that time), and of that which, in respect of virtue and excellence, has no excess relative to its kind, for example a complete doctor and a complete flute-player, when they lack nothing according to the form of their proper virtue (and by this transference we speak the same way even of bad things, calling a complete swindler and a complete thief, since we also call them good — a good thief and a good swindler; and virtue is a kind of completion —
36| for each thing is complete then, and every substance is complete then, when in respect of the form of its proper virtue it lacks no part of its natural magnitude): further, things to which the end belongs — an end that is worthwhile — are called complete, since it is by having the end that they are complete; so that, since the end is one of the extreme things, we also, by transference, speak of a thing as completely ruined and completely destroyed, when nothing is missing from the destruction and the evil but it is at the extreme; hence too the ending of life is called, by transference, an end, because both are extremes; and the end also means that for the sake of which, when this is an extreme. Things, then, called complete in their own right are called so in this many ways: some in that they lack nothing in respect of what is good, and have no excess, and nothing can be found outside them; others, in general, in that they have no excess in their own genus and there is nothing outside them.
37| [1022a] The other things are now called complete in accordance with these, either by producing something of this sort, or by having it, or by being fitted to it, or by being related in some way or other to the things called complete in the primary sense. Limit is said of the extreme of each thing, and of that outside which nothing first can be found, and within which everything first is contained, and whatever is the form of a magnitude or of a thing having magnitude, and the end of each thing (and this is that toward which motion and action tend, and not that from which — though sometimes it is both, both that from which and that toward which, and also that for the sake of which), and the substance of each thing and the essence of each thing; for this is the limit of knowledge, and if of knowledge, then also of the thing. So it is clear that in as many ways as the principle is spoken of, in that many ways the limit is spoken of too, and in still more ways; for the principle is a kind of limit, but not every limit is a principle. 'In virtue of which' is said in many ways: in one way, the form and the substance of each thing, for example that in virtue of which a thing is good is the good itself; in another, that in which a thing first naturally comes to be, for example color in a surface. So what is called 'in virtue of which' in the primary sense is the form, and in a secondary sense it is as the matter of each thing and the substrate proper to each thing.
38| In general, 'in virtue of which' will apply in as many senses as the cause; for it is said in virtue of what he has come, or for the sake of what he has come, and in virtue of what someone has reasoned falsely or has drawn a valid conclusion, or what is the cause of the syllogism or of the false reasoning. Further, 'in virtue of which' is said in respect of position, in virtue of which he stands or in virtue of which he walks; for all these signify place and position. So 'in its own right' must also be said in many ways. For in one sense the essence of each thing is in its own right, for example Callias is in his own right Callias, and so is the essence of Callias; in another sense, whatever belongs in the account of what a thing is, for example Callias is in his own right an animal, for animal is present in the account, since Callias is a kind of animal. Further, if something has received an attribute in itself, first, or in some part of itself — for example a surface is white in its own right, and a man lives in his own right, for the soul is a part of the man, and it is in the soul primarily that life resides. Further, that of which there is no other cause; for of man there are many causes — animal, two-footed — but nevertheless man is a man in his own right. Further, whatever belongs to a thing alone, and insofar as it belongs to it alone, is separate and in its own right.
39| [1022b] Disposition is said of the arrangement of what has parts, whether in respect of place, or of capacity, or of form; for there must be some position, as indeed the name 'disposition' itself indicates. State is said, in one sense, as being a kind of activity of the haver and the thing had, like an action or a motion (for whenever one thing acts and another is acted upon, there is a making between them; so too between the one having clothing and the clothing had there is a having-state) — and it is clear that this sort of state cannot itself have a state, for it would go on to infinity, if what is had could itself have the having; but in another sense, state is said of the disposition in accordance with which the thing disposed is disposed well or badly, and either in its own right or in relation to something else — for example health is a state, for it is a disposition of this kind. Further, state is said of a thing if it is a part of such a disposition; hence too the virtue of the parts is a kind of state. Affection is said, in one sense, of a quality in respect of which alteration is possible, for example white and black, sweet and bitter, heaviness and lightness, and all other such things; in another sense, of the actualizations of these — the alterations already under way. Further, more particularly than these, the harmful alterations and motions, and especially the painful injuries.
40| Further, the magnitudes of misfortunes and painful things are called affections. Privation is said, in one sense, when a thing does not have something that it is natural to have, even if it is not itself the kind of thing naturally suited to have it — for example a plant is said to be deprived of eyes; in another sense, when a thing that is naturally suited to have something, either itself or its genus, does not have it — for example a blind man is deprived of sight in a different way than a mole is, the mole in respect of its genus, the man in his own right. Further, when a thing that is naturally suited to have something, and at the time when it is natural for it to have it, does not have it; for blindness is a kind of privation, but a person is not called blind at every age, but only if he does not have sight at the age when it is natural to have it. Likewise too in respect of that in which, and in virtue of which, and in relation to which, and in the manner in which it is naturally suited to have something, if it does not have it. Further, the forcible removal of anything is called privation. And in as many ways as the negations formed with 'a-' are said, in that many ways privations too are said; for the unequal is so called because it lacks equality, which it is naturally suited to have, the invisible both because it has no color at all and because it has it only faintly, and the footless both because it lacks feet altogether and because it has poor ones. Further, also by having little of something, for example the stoneless (fruit):
41| [1023a] This is being in a poor condition in some way. Again, things are said to lack something by not having it easily or not having it well — for instance, the uncuttable is called so not only because it is not cut but because it is not cut easily or well. Again, by not having it at all: for a person is not called blind for lacking sight in one eye, but only if lacking it in both; that is why not everyone is good or bad, just or unjust, but there is also an intermediate. "To have" is said in many ways: in one way, to lead according to one's own nature or according to one's own impulse — that is why a fever is said to "have" a person, and tyrants are said to have their cities, and those wearing clothes are said to have their clothing. In another way, it is said of that in which something is present as in a receptacle, as the bronze has the form of the statue and the body has the disease. In another way, as the container has the things contained: for that in which something is, as a container, is said to be "had" by it — for instance we say the vessel has the liquid, the city has people, and the ship has sailors; and in this way too the whole has its parts. Again, what prevents something from moving or acting according to its own impulse is said to "have" that very thing — as the pillars are said to have the weights resting on them, and as the poets make Atlas have the sky, on the ground that it would otherwise fall upon the earth, as some of the natural philosophers also say.
42| In this same way, what holds things together is said to have the things it holds together, since each of them would otherwise separate according to its own impulse. And "to be in something" is spoken of in a similar way and follows upon "to have." "To be from something" is said, in one way, of that from which a thing is as from matter, and this in two ways — either according to the first genus or according to the last species: for instance in one sense all meltable things are from water, in another sense the statue is from bronze. In another way, it is said of the first originating principle of motion — for instance, "from what did the fight arise? From abuse, because this was the starting point of the fight." In another way, it is said of the composite, from the matter and the form, as the parts are from the whole, and the verse is from the Iliad, and the stones are from the house: for the form is an end, and what has attained its end is complete. And other things are said to be from the part as the form is, as man is from "two-footed" and the syllable from the letter — for this is different from the way the statue is from bronze.
43| [1023b] For the composite substance is from perceptible matter, but the form too is from the matter of the form. So some things are said to be from something in this way, others if something holds according to a part of these ways — as the child is from father and mother, and plants are from earth, because it is from some part of them. In another way, something is said to be "from" that after which it comes in time — as night is from day, and winter from fair weather, because the one comes after the other. Of these, some are so called because they have a change into one another, as the cases just mentioned, while others are so called only by mere succession in time — as the voyage is said to be "from the equinox" because it took place after the equinox, and the Thargelia are "from" the Dionysia because they come after the Dionysia. "Part" is said, in one way, of that into which a quantity may be divided in any way whatsoever (for what is taken away from a quantity, insofar as it is a quantity, is always called a part of it — for instance two is called in a way a part of three); in another way, only of the things that measure such things exactly — hence two is in one sense said to be a part of three, and in another sense not. Again, a "part" is said of that into which the form might be divided apart from quantity, and these too are called parts of it.
44| That is why the species are said to be parts of the genus. Again, parts are that into which the whole is divided, or of which it is composed — whether the whole is the form, or that which has the form — for instance, of the bronze sphere or the bronze cube, the bronze is a part (this is the matter in which the form is), and the angle is a part. Again, the elements in the account that makes each thing clear are also parts of the whole; that is why the genus too is called a part of the species, though in another sense the species is a part of the genus. A "whole" is said of that from which none of the parts is missing, of which it is naturally called a whole, and of that which contains the things contained in such a way that they are some one thing; and this in two ways — either as each part being one, or as the one being composed out of these. For the universal, and what is called universal as being a certain whole, is universal in this sense: that it contains many things by being predicated of each and by all of them being one, as each one — for instance man, horse, god, because all are animals. But the continuous and limited is a whole when it is some one thing composed of several parts present in it, above all potentially, and if not, actually. Of these themselves, the things that are so by nature are more truly wholes than those that are so by craft, just as we said in the case of the one — on the ground that wholeness is a kind of oneness.
45| [1024a] Further, quantity possesses a starting point, a midpoint, and a final point: wherever arrangement makes no difference, the thing is called "all," and wherever arrangement does make a difference, it is called "whole." Whatever admits of both is called both "whole" and "all"; and these are things whose nature remains the same through transposition, but whose shape does not — for instance wax and a garment: for these are called both whole and all, since they have both. But water and liquids and number are called "all," while "whole number" and "whole water" are not said, except by metaphor. Things are called "all" in the case where the "all" is applied to them as to one thing; "all" in the plural is applied to them as to things divided — "all this number," "all these units." "Maimed" is not said of just any quantity, but it must be a quantity that is both divisible and a whole. For the number two is not maimed when one unit is taken from the other (for the deficiency and the remainder are never equal), nor is any number whatever maimed in this way at all: for the substance too must remain — if a cup is maimed, it must still be a cup; but the number is no longer the same number. Besides this, even if the parts are unlike, not even these wholes are in every case maimed (for a number is, in a sense, such as to have unlike parts too, as two, three); but in general, things whose position makes no difference are not maimed at all, as water or fire — rather, the things that can be maimed must be such as have a position by virtue of their substance.
46| Again, they must be continuous: for a harmony too, though composed of unlike parts and having a position, does not become maimed. Besides this, not even the things that are wholes are maimed by the privation of just any part whatsoever. For it must not be either the dominant parts of the substance, or parts occupying just any location — for instance, if the cup is pierced, it is not maimed, but if the handle or some extremity is removed, it is; and a man is not maimed if he loses flesh or the spleen, but if he loses some extremity — and not every extremity either, but one that, when wholly removed, does not grow back. That is why bald men are not maimed. "Genus" is said, in one sense, when the coming-to-be of things having the same form is continuous — as it is said "as long as the human race exists," meaning as long as their coming-to-be is continuous; and in another sense, of that from which they derive as from the first thing that set them in motion into being — for it is in this way that some are called Greeks by race and others Ionians, because the former are from Hellen and the latter from Ion as the first begetter; and people are called a race more from the begetter than from the matter (for they are also called a race from the female, as those "from Pyrrha").
47| [1024b] Again, as the plane is the genus of plane figures and the solid of solids: for each of the figures is a plane of a certain kind, or a solid of a certain kind; and this is the substrate for the differentiae. Again, as in definitions the first thing present, which is stated in the answer to "what it is," is the genus, of which the qualities are called the differentiae. So genus is spoken of in this many ways: one, in respect of continuous generation of the same form; another, in respect of the first thing that produced motion, being of the same form; another, as matter — for that of which the differentia and the quality are predicated is the substrate, which we call matter. Things are said to differ in genus when their first substrate is different, and neither is resolved into the other, nor are both resolved into the same thing — for example, form and matter differ in genus, and so do all the things spoken of according to a different figure of the category of being (for some signify what a thing is, among beings, others a quality, others as was distinguished earlier); for none of these are resolved either into one another or into some one thing. Falsity is spoken of, in one way, as a false state of affairs, and of this, one kind consists in not being put together, or in being impossible to put together (as when it is said that the diagonal is commensurable, or that you are sitting —
48| for of these the one is always false, the other only sometimes; for in this way these things are not-beings), while others are things that indeed are, but are naturally such as to appear either not as they are, or as things that do not exist (for example, a sketch in perspective, and dreams — for these are indeed something, but not what they produce the appearance of). States of affairs, then, are called false in this way, either by not existing, or by the appearance arising from them being of what does not exist. A statement is false which is a statement of things that are not, insofar as it is false; hence every statement is false of something other than that of which it is true — for example, the statement of a circle is false of a triangle. Of each thing there is, in one sense, a single statement — that of its essence — but in another sense there are many, since the thing itself and the thing itself as modified are somehow the same, for example Socrates and musical Socrates (but the false statement is, without qualification, a statement of nothing). Hence Antisthenes held, foolishly, that nothing should be predicated except by its own proper statement, one of one; from which it followed that there could be no contradiction, and scarcely even falsehood. But it is possible to speak of each thing not only by its own statement but also by that of something else — falsely, indeed, and altogether so, but in a way also truly, just as eight is double by the statement of two.
49| [1025a] Things, then, are called false in this way; and a false man is one who is ready and inclined toward such statements, not for some other reason but for their own sake, and one who is apt to produce such statements in others — just as we say that things are false which produce a false appearance. Hence the argument in the Hippias misleads, in taking it that the same man is both false and true. For it takes as false the man who is capable of lying (and this is the man who has knowledge and is prudent); and further, that the man who is voluntarily bad is better than one who is bad involuntarily. But it arrives at this falsely by induction — for the man who limps voluntarily is better than the man who limps involuntarily — calling the limping an act of imitation; whereas if a man is actually lame voluntarily, he is presumably worse, just as with character, so too here. An accident is said of what belongs to something and can truly be said of it, yet neither of necessity nor for the most part — as when someone digging a hole for a plant finds a treasure. This finding of the treasure is then accidental to the man digging the hole: for it does not follow from that by necessity, nor does one generally find a treasure when planting. And a man might be both musical and pale; but since this comes about neither of necessity nor for the most part, we call it accidental.
50| So then, since there is what belongs to a thing, and belongs to a particular thing, and some of these also belong somewhere and at some time, whatever belongs to a thing but not because it was this, or now, or here, will be accidental. Nor indeed is there any determinate cause of the accidental, but a chance one; and this is indeterminate. It happened to someone to arrive at Aegina if he did not arrive there in order to go there, but was driven off course by a storm, or was seized by pirates. This accident has come about, or is, but not qua itself, but qua something else: for the storm was the cause of his not arriving where he was sailing to, and that was Aegina. But accident is also spoken of in another way, namely whatever belongs to each thing in its own right without being in its substance — for example, having its angles equal to two right angles belongs to the triangle. And these can be eternal, but none of the former can. The account of this is given elsewhere.
1| [1025b] The principles and the causes of beings are sought, but clearly as beings. For there is a cause of health and of good condition, and there are principles and elements and causes of mathematical things, and in general every discursive science, or one that partakes to some degree in thought, is concerned with causes and principles, either more precise or simpler. But all these sciences, marking off for themselves some being and some genus, occupy themselves with this, but not with being without qualification, nor qua being, nor do they give any account of the what-it-is; rather, starting from this — some making it clear by perception, others taking the what-it-is as a hypothesis — they thus demonstrate, more necessarily or more loosely, the things that belong in their own right to the genus with which they are concerned. Hence it is plain that there is no demonstration of substance, nor of the what-it-is, from induction of this kind, but some other manner of making it clear. Likewise they say nothing as to whether the genus with which they deal exists or does not exist, because it belongs to the same act of thought to make the what-it-is clear and to make clear whether it is. And since natural science too happens to be concerned with a certain genus of being (for it is concerned with that substance in which the principle of motion and rest is present in itself), it is clear that it is neither practical nor productive (for of things produced the principle is in the producer — either intellect, or craft, or some power — while of things done the principle is in the one who does them, namely choice —
2| for what is done and what is chosen are the same thing). So that if all thought is either practical, or productive, or theoretical, natural science would be a kind of theoretical science — but theoretical about that sort of being which is capable of motion, and about substance as defined in its account, for the most part, as not separable only. And one must not fail to notice how the essence and the account stand, since without this, to inquire is to accomplish nothing. Now among things defined, and among things that state what a thing is, some are like the snub, others like the concave. These differ in that the snub is taken together with matter (for the snub is a concave nose), while concavity is without perceptible matter.
3| [1026a] If, then, all natural things are spoken of in the same way as the snub — for example, nose, eye, face, flesh, bone, and in general animal; leaf, root, bark, and in general plant (for the account of none of these is without motion, but it always has matter) — it is clear how one must seek and define the what-it-is in the case of natural things, and why it belongs to the natural scientist to study even some part of the soul, namely as much of it as is not without matter. That natural science, then, is theoretical, is clear from this; but mathematics too is theoretical. But whether it is concerned with things immovable and separable is not clear at present — though it is clear that some branches of mathematics study their objects as immovable and as separable. But if there is something eternal and immovable and separable, it is clear that knowledge of it belongs to a theoretical science — not, however, to natural science (for natural science is concerned with certain movable things), nor to mathematics, but to a science prior to both. For natural science is concerned with things that are separable but not immovable; and some parts of mathematics are concerned with things immovable but perhaps not separable, but as existing in matter; while the first science is concerned with things both separable and immovable. Now all causes must be eternal, but these most of all: for these are the causes of the visible things among the divine.
4| So there would be three theoretical philosophies: mathematics, natural science, and theology (for it is not unclear that if the divine is present anywhere, it is present in a nature of this kind), and the most honorable science must concern the most honorable genus. Now the theoretical sciences are more worth choosing than the other sciences, and this one more than the other theoretical sciences. For one might raise the question whether first philosophy is universal, or concerned with some one genus and a single nature (for the case is not the same even among the mathematical sciences: geometry and astronomy are concerned with some particular nature, while the universal mathematical science is common to all of them). Now if there is no substance other than those constituted by nature, natural science would be the first science; but if there is some substance that is unmoved, this would be prior, and would be first philosophy, and would be universal in this way, because it is first. And it would belong to this science to study being qua being — both what it is, and the things that belong to it qua being. But since being spoken of without qualification is spoken of in many ways, one of which was the accidental, another the true (and non-being as the false), and besides these there are the figures of predication (for instance, the what, the of-what-kind, the how-much, the where, the when, and whatever else signifies in this way),
5| [1026b] and besides all these, the potential and the actual — since, then, being is spoken of in many ways, first something must be said about the accidental, namely that there is no theoretical study of it. Here is a sign of this: no science concerns itself with it, whether practical, productive, or theoretical. For the person who builds a house does not make everything that happens to occur along with the house as it comes to be (for these are unlimited: nothing prevents the house that has been made from being pleasant to some, harmful to others, beneficial to others, and different, so to speak, from every other thing that is — and house-building is the making of none of these). In the same way the geometer does not study the attributes that so happen to belong to figures, nor whether a triangle is different from a triangle having its angles equal to two right angles. And this happens reasonably: for the accidental is, in a way, a mere name. That is why Plato, in a way, was not wrong to assign sophistic to the sphere of non-being. For the arguments of the sophists are concerned with the accidental about as much as with anything, such as whether musical and literate are different or the same, and whether musical Coriscus and Coriscus are the same, and whether everything that is, but is not always, has come to be, so that if someone who is musical has become literate, then someone who is literate has thereby become musical, and all the other arguments of this kind are of the same sort;
6| for the accidental appears to be something close to non-being. This is clear also from arguments of the following kind: of things that are in another way, there is coming-to-be and passing-away, but of things that are accidentally there is not. Nevertheless we must still say, so far as is possible, what the nature of the accidental is and through what cause it exists; for perhaps at the same time it will also become clear why there is no science of it. Since, then, among the things that are, some are always in the same state and of necessity — not the necessity spoken of as the forced, but the one we mean by not admitting of being otherwise — while others are neither of necessity nor always, but for the most part, this latter is the starting point and this is the cause of the being of the accidental. For whatever is neither always nor for the most part, this we say is accidental. For example, if in a heat wave there should be a storm and cold, we say this is accidental, but not if there is stifling heat and warmth, because the latter occurs always or for the most part, but not the former. And it is accidental that a man is pale (for this is neither always nor for the most part), but that he is an animal is not accidental.
7| And it is accidental that the builder heals, [1027a] because it does not belong to the builder by nature to do this but to the doctor — but it turned out by accident that the builder was also a doctor. And a cook aiming at pleasure might produce something healthy, but not in virtue of the art of cooking; hence we say it happened by accident, and it does so in a sense but not without qualification. For of other things there are sometimes productive capacities, but of accidental things there is no art nor any determinate capacity; for of things that are or come to be accidentally, the cause too is accidental. So since not all things are or come to be of necessity and always, but most things are for the most part, it is necessary that the accidental exist: for instance, the pale man is neither always nor for the most part musical, but since this sometimes happens, it will be accidental (otherwise everything would be of necessity); so the matter will be the cause that admits of variation, alongside what happens for the most part, of the accidental. But this must be taken as a starting point: whether nothing is either always or for the most part. Or is this impossible? There is, then, something besides these, namely the fortuitous and the accidental. But is it the case that the for-the-most-part belongs to some things while always belongs to none, or are there some eternal things?
8| These questions must be examined later; but that there is no science of the accidental is evident: for every science is of what is always or of what is for the most part — for how else will one learn from another, or teach another? For it must be marked out either by always or by for the most part, as, for example, that honey-water is beneficial to one with a fever, for the most part — but the science will not be able to state the exception, when it is not so, for instance at the new moon; for what happens at the new moon too occurs either always or for the most part, and the accidental lies beside these. What the accidental is, then, and through what cause, and that there is no science of it, has been stated. But that there are starting points and causes that are subject to coming-to-be and passing-away without themselves ever coming to be or passing away, is evident. For if this were not so, everything would be of necessity, if it is necessary that of what comes to be and passes away there be some cause that is not accidental. For will this thing be or not? It will, if this other thing comes to be; but if not, it will not. And this will happen if some other thing does. And thus it is clear that, time always being subtracted from a limited time, we shall arrive at the present moment,
9| [1027b] so that this man will die by disease or by violence, if he goes out; and this, if he becomes thirsty; and this, if something else happens: and thus we shall arrive at what is now present, or at something that has already happened. For example, if he becomes thirsty: this, if he eats pungent food; and this either is the case or is not; so that of necessity he will die or will not die. And likewise, even if one jumps ahead to things that have already happened, the argument is the same; for this already belongs to something, I mean to what has happened: so of necessity all future things will come to be, for instance that the living man will die; for something has already happened, for instance the presence of contraries in the same thing. But if it is by disease or by violence, this is not yet necessary, but only if this other thing occurs. It is clear, then, that the regress goes back to some starting point, but this no longer goes back to anything else. This, then, will be the starting point of what happens by chance, and nothing else will be the cause of its coming-to-be. But into what kind of starting point and what kind of cause this reduction leads — whether as into matter, or as into that for the sake of which, or as into what set the motion going — must especially be considered. Concerning being in the sense of the accidental, then, let it be dismissed (for it has been sufficiently determined); but being as the true, and not-being as the false, since these depend on combination and division, and as a whole concern the division between the two sides of a contradiction (for the true has affirmation in the case of what is combined and negation in the case of what is divided, while the false has the contradictory of this division):
10| But how it comes about that thinking occurs together or separately is another discussion — I mean the "together" and the "separate" such that it is not a succession but becomes some one thing. For falsity and truth are not in the things themselves — as if the good were true and the bad were straightaway false — but in thought; and concerning simple things and what-a-thing-is, not even in thought. What must be examined about being and non-being in this sense must be considered later. But since combination and division are in thought and not in the things, and being in this sense is different from being in the strict sense (for thought either joins or removes what-a-thing-is, or its being-such, or its being-so-much, or something else), we must set aside being as accident and being as true — for the cause of the one is indeterminate, and of the other some affection of thought, [1028a] and both concern the remaining genus of being, and do not show that being has some nature outside them — so these must be set aside, and we must examine the causes and principles of being itself, qua being. It is clear from what we distinguished about how many ways each thing is said, that being is said in many ways.
1| Being is said in many ways, just as we distinguished earlier in the discussion of how many ways each thing is said. For it signifies, on the one hand, what a thing is and a this-something, and on the other, being-such or being-so-much or each of the other things predicated in this way. Since being is said in this many ways, it is clear that of these the primary being is what a thing is, which signifies substance (for when we say what sort of thing this is, we say it is good or bad, but not three cubits long or a man; but when we say what it is, we say not white nor hot nor three cubits long, but a man or a god), while the other things are called beings because they belong to what is primarily in this way — some being quantities, others qualities, others affections, others something else. Hence one might raise the question whether walking and being healthy and sitting each signify a being, and likewise with any of the other things of this sort; for none of them is either naturally in its own right or capable of being separated from substance, but rather, if anything, it is the walking thing, the sitting thing, and the healthy thing that are among beings. These appear to be beings to a greater degree because there is something definite underlying them (and this is the substance and the particular thing), which is manifest in a predication of this kind:
2| For the good, or the sitting thing, is not said apart from this. It is clear, then, that it is on account of this that each of those other things exists, so that what is primarily being, and not a being-something but being without qualification, would be substance. Now "primary" is said in many ways; but nevertheless substance is primary in every way — in account, in knowledge, and in time. For of the other predicates none is separable, but this alone is; and it is primary also in account (for the account of substance must be present in the account of each thing); and we think we know each thing most fully when we know what a man is, or what fire is,
3| [1028b] rather than when we know its being-such or its being-so-much or its being-somewhere, since we know each of these latter, too, only when we know what the quantity or the quality is. And indeed the question asked long ago and now and always, and always a puzzle — what being is — is just this: what substance is (for on this point some say it is one, others more than one, and some say a finite number, others an infinite number). Hence for us too, above all and first and, one might almost say, alone, we must investigate what it is that is in this way. Substance seems to belong most evidently to bodies (which is why we say animals and plants and their parts are substances, and natural bodies such as fire and water and earth and each such thing, and whatever are parts of these or composed of these, whether of parts or of all of them, such as the heaven and its parts, the stars and the moon and the sun) — but whether these are the only substances, or there are others too, or some of these and others besides, or none of these but certain others, must be examined. Some think that the limits of a body, such as surface and line and point and unit, are substances, and more so than body and solid.
4| Further, beyond the perceptible things, some think there is nothing of this sort, while others think there are more such things, and more truly beings, and eternal ones — as Plato posits the forms and the mathematical objects as two substances, and as a third the substance of perceptible bodies; while Speusippus posits even more substances, starting from the one, and principles for each substance, one for numbers, another for magnitudes, and then for soul; and in this way he extends the substances further. And some say that the forms and the numbers have the same nature, and that the other things — lines and planes — are dependent on these, down to the substance of the heaven and the perceptible things. Concerning these matters, then, what is said rightly or not rightly, and which things are substances, and whether there are certain substances besides the perceptible ones or not, and how these exist if they do, and whether there is some separable substance, and why and how, or none, besides the perceptible ones, must be examined, after first sketching out what substance is. Substance is spoken of, if not in more ways, then in four especially: for the essence and the universal and the genus are each thought to be the substance of a thing, and a fourth of these is the substrate.
5| The substrate is that of which the other things are said, while it itself is no longer said of anything else. Hence we must first determine the matter concerning this; [1029a] for the primary substrate seems most of all to be substance. Now in one way matter is spoken of as being of this sort, in another way the form, and in a third way the composite of these (I mean by matter, for instance, the bronze; by form, the shape of the figure; and by the composite of these, the statue taken as a whole) — so that if the form is prior to the matter and is being to a greater degree, then by the same reasoning it will also be prior to the composite of both. Now then, we have said in outline what substance is, namely that which is not said of a substrate but of which the other things are said; but it must not be defined only in this way, for this is not sufficient — the point itself is unclear, and further, matter comes out as substance. For if this is not substance, no other candidate is left standing; for when the other things are stripped away, nothing appears to remain. For the other attributes of bodies are affections and products and capacities, while length and breadth and depth are certain quantities but not substances (for the quantity is not substance), but rather that to which these primarily belong is substance. But then again, when length and breadth and depth are taken away, we see nothing remaining, except, if there is anything, that which is bounded by these — so that to those who look at it this way, matter necessarily appears to be the only substance.
6| By matter I mean that which in its own right is called neither a something nor a so-much nor anything else by which being is marked off. For there is something of which each of these is predicated, whose being is different from each of the categories (for the others are predicated of substance, while this one is predicated of matter), so that the ultimate substrate in its own right is neither a something nor a so-much nor anything else; nor indeed are the negations, for these too will belong to it only accidentally. From this line of reasoning, then, it results that matter is substance; but this is impossible. For being separable and being a this-something are thought to belong to substance most of all, which is why the form and the composite of both would seem to be substance to a greater degree than matter. The substance composed of both, then — I mean the substance from matter and form — must be set aside, for it is posterior and evident; and matter too is in a way evident. It is about the third that we must inquire, for this is the most puzzling. Substances among the perceptible things are agreed to exist, so we must look among these first.
7| [1029b] For it is worthwhile to move to what is more knowable. For learning always comes about in this way for everyone: proceeding through things less knowable by nature to things more knowable. And this is the work to be done, just as in the sphere of action the work is to produce, out of the things good for each person, the things that are good absolutely, so, out of the things more knowable to a given person, the work is to produce as knowable to him the things knowable by nature. Now the things knowable and primary to particular people are often only slightly knowable, and have little or nothing of being in them; but nevertheless one must try to know the things that are knowable absolutely by starting from the things poorly known but known to oneself, passing, as has been said, by means of these very things. And since at the start we distinguished the number of ways in which we mark off substance, and one of these seemed to be the essence, we must examine it. And let us first say something about it in a dialectical way: that the essence of each thing is what it is said to be in its own right. For your being is not the same as being-musical; for you are not musical in your own right. What you are in your own right, then, is your essence. But not this whole either: for it is not in its own right in the way that a surface is white, because being-a-surface is not the same as being-white. But then neither is it the compound of both, being-a-white-surface, because the word 'white' is added on to it.
8| So that in which, in stating the thing itself, the thing itself will not be present in the account — that account is the account of the essence for each thing, so that if being-a-white-surface is the same as being-a-smooth-surface, then being-white and being-smooth are the same and one. But since there are also compounds according to the other categories as well (for there is some underlying subject for each, for instance for quality and quantity and time and place and motion), we must examine whether there is an account of the essence for each of these, and whether the essence belongs to these too — for instance, whether there is an essence-of-a-white-man. Let its name be 'cloak.' What is being-a-cloak? But surely this too is not among the things said in their own right. Now 'not in its own right' is said in two ways, and of this one kind is by addition and the other is not. For a thing is said to be by addition when what is being defined is attached to something else — for instance, if in defining being-white one were to state the account of a white man; and it is said the other way when something else is attached to it — for instance, if 'cloak' signified white man, and one were to define cloak as white. Now 'white man' is indeed white,
9| [1030a] but its essence is not the same as being-white. But is being-a-cloak an essence of something at all, or not at all? For essence is precisely what a thing is; but when one thing is said of another, it is not precisely a this — for instance, the white man is not precisely a this, if indeed the 'this' belongs only to substances. So essence belongs to those things whose account is a definition. But it is not a definition merely because a name signifies the same as an account (for then every account would be a definition — for there will be a name for any account whatever, so that even the Iliad will be a definition), but only if it is the account of some primary thing; and things of this sort are those that are said without being said of something else as of another. There will therefore be no essence belonging to any of the things that are not species of a genus, but only to these (for these seem to be spoken of not by participation, nor as an affection, nor as an accident); but for each of the other things too there will be an account of what it signifies, if it has a name — that a certain this belongs to a certain that — or, instead of a simple account, a more precise one; but there will be no definition of it, nor any essence. Or is it that 'definition,' like 'what a thing is,' is said in several ways?
10| For indeed 'what a thing is' signifies in one way substance and a this, and in another way each of the things predicated — quantity, quality, and all the others of this sort. For just as 'is' belongs to all things, though not in the same way, but to some primarily and to others derivatively, so too 'what a thing is' belongs simply to substance, but in a qualified way to the other things: for we would ask even of quality what it is, so that quality too is among the things of which one asks 'what is it,' but not simply — rather, just as some say of not-being, speaking logically, that it is, not simply, but is not-being, so too with quality. Now we must consider both how one ought to speak about each thing, and, no less, how the matter actually stands: hence, since what is meant is now clear, essence too will belong in the same way, primarily and simply to substance, and then to the other things as well, just as 'what a thing is' does — not essence simply, but the essence of a quality or of a quantity. For we must say that these are beings either homonymously, or by adding and subtracting qualifications — as we call even the unknowable knowable — since the correct thing is to say neither homonymously nor in the same sense, but as 'medical' is said in relation to one and the same thing, though it is not itself one and the same thing, yet not homonymously either;
11| [1030b] for a body, a procedure, and an instrument are called medical neither homonymously nor in virtue of one thing, but in relation to one thing. But it makes no difference which way one chooses to put this; what is clear is that definition, and essence, in the primary and simple sense, belong to substances. Not but what they belong to the other things as well, in a like way, only not primarily. For it is not necessary, if we grant this, that there be a definition of anything whose account signifies the same as some name, but only of an account of a certain kind — and this holds if it is an account of one thing, not one thing by continuity, as the Iliad is, or as things are one by being tied together with a connective, but in however many ways 'one' is said to be one; and 'one' is said in the same ways as 'being.' Now 'being' signifies in one sense a this, in another a quantity, in another a quality. Hence there will be an account and a definition even of white man, but in another way than there is of white, and of substance. There is a puzzle, if one denies that the account by addition is a definition, as to what will then be the definition of the things that are not simple but coupled together; for it is necessary to make them clear by addition. I mean, for instance, there is nose, and concavity, and snubness, which is said of the two together, this in that — and neither concavity nor snubness is an accidental affection of the nose, but belongs to it in its own right;
12| not as whiteness belongs to Callias, or to man, because Callias, who is white, happens to be a man, but as the male belongs to animal, and the equal to quantity, and everything else that is said to belong to a thing in its own right. And these are the cases in which either the account or the name of that of which this is an affection is present, and it is not possible to make it clear apart from it — as it is possible to speak of white apart from man, but not of female apart from animal. So that of these, essence and definition either belong to none of them, or, if they do belong, belong in another way, as we have said. And there is another puzzle about them as well. For if a snub nose and a concave nose are the same thing, then snub and concave will be the same; but if not — because it is impossible to speak of snub apart from the thing of which it is an affection in its own right (for snub is concavity in a nose) — then either it is impossible to say 'snub nose,' or the same thing will have been said twice: nose-nose-concave (for the snub nose will be a nose-nose-that-is-concave). Hence it is absurd for essence to belong to things of this kind; if not, we go on to infinity:
13| For in "nose," there will again be another "snub nose" present in it. [1031a] It is clear, then, that definition belongs to substance alone. For if it belonged to the other categories as well, it would have to be by addition, as in the case of the quality and the odd — for the odd cannot be defined apart from number, nor the female apart from animal (I call it "by addition" in cases where it turns out that the same thing is said twice, as in these). But if this is true, then not even the combined terms will have definitions, e.g. "odd number" — but it escapes notice that the accounts here are not stated with precision. And if these too have definitions, then either they are definitions in some other way, or else, as was said, "definition" and "essence" must be said to be spoken of in several senses, so that in one sense there will be no definition of anything, and essence will belong to nothing but substances, while in another sense there will be. It is clear, then, that definition is the account of the essence, and that essence belongs either to substances alone, or above all, primarily, and without qualification, to substances. But whether the essence and the thing itself are the same or different must be examined. For this is not without use for the inquiry concerning substance — each thing seems not to be other than its own substance, and the essence is said to be the substance of each thing.
14| Now in the case of things spoken of accidentally, there would seem to be a difference — for instance, "pale man" is different from "being a pale man" (for if they were the same, then "being a man" and "being a pale man" would be the same too; for man and pale man are the same, as people say, so that "being a pale man" and "being a man" would also be the same — or is it not necessary that things accidentally the same be the same, since the extreme terms do not become the same in the same way? But perhaps it would seem to follow that the extreme terms become accidentally the same, e.g. "being pale" and "being musical" — yet this does not seem to be so). But in the case of things spoken of in their own right, must they be the same — for instance, if there are certain substances than which there are no other, prior substances or natures, of the kind some say the Forms are? For if the good itself will be different from being good, and animal from being an animal, and being from being,
15| [1031b] then there will be other substances and natures and Forms besides the ones spoken of, and those will be prior substances, if essence is substance. And if they are severed from one another, then of some of them there will be no knowledge, and the others will not be beings (I call them "severed" when neither does being good belong to the good itself, nor does being good belong to this thing here); for there is knowledge of each thing when we know its essence, and the case holds alike for the good and for the rest, so that if being good is not good, then neither is being a being a being, nor is being one one; and in the same way essence holds of all things alike or of none, so that if being a being is not a being, none of the others is either. Further, that to which being good does not belong is not good. It is necessary, then, that the good and being good be one, and the fine and being fine be one, and likewise whatever is not spoken of in virtue of something else but in its own right and primarily — for this is enough even if there are no Forms, and perhaps even more so if there are Forms (and at the same time it is clear also that, if the Forms are of the kind some say, the substrate will not be substance;
16| for these must be substances, but not said of a substrate — for they will exist by participation). From these arguments, then, it is one and the same thing, and not accidentally so — each thing itself and its essence — and also that to know each thing is just this, to know its essence, so that even by the method of setting out an example, the two must be one thing (but what is spoken of accidentally, e.g. "the musical" or "the pale," because it signifies two things, is not truly said to be the same as its essence and itself; for that to which the pale belongs and the accident are both there, so that it is in one way the same, and in another way not the same, that the essence and the thing itself are the same — for "man" and "pale man" are not the same, but the affection is the same). It would also appear absurd if one were to give a name to the essence of each thing; for then there would be yet another thing besides that one — for instance, besides "the essence of horse" there would be another "essence of horse." Yet what prevents some things from being, straightaway, their own essence even now, if indeed essence is substance? But moreover, not only are they one, but their account is also the same, as is clear from what has been said as well;
17| [1032a] for "being one" and "one" are not accidentally one. Further, if there is to be something else, it will go on to infinity — for the one thing will be the essence of the one, and the other will be the one, so that the same account will apply to those as well. It is clear, then, that in the case of primary things spoken of in their own right, "being for each thing" and "each thing" are the same and one. And it is clear that the sophistical refutations directed against this position are resolved by the same solution, and likewise the question whether Socrates and being Socrates are the same — for it makes no difference either from what premises one might raise the question, or from what premises one might succeed in resolving it. In what way, then, essence is the same as each thing, and in what way it is not the same, has been stated. Of the things that come to be, some come to be by nature, some by craft, and some spontaneously, and everything that comes to be comes to be by something, and from something, and comes to be something. By "something" I mean in accordance with each category — for it becomes either a this, or a quantity, or a quality, or a somewhere. The natural comings-to-be are those whose generation is from nature; and that from which a thing comes to be we call matter, that by which it comes to be is one of the things that exist by nature, and the "something" is a man or a plant or something else of this kind, which we say are substances above all — and all things that come to be, whether by nature or by craft, have matter;
18| for each of them is capable both of being and of not being, and this capacity is the matter present in each. And, generally speaking, both that from which nature comes and that in accordance with which it is nature (for the thing that comes to be has a nature, for instance a plant or an animal), and that by which the so-called specific nature — the nature that is the same in form — comes to be (this being present in something else): for man begets man. In this way, then, the things that come to be come to be through nature, while the other comings-to-be are called productions. All productions proceed either from craft, or from a capacity, or from thought. Some of these also come about spontaneously and by chance, in a way much like the things that come to be from nature — for there too some of the same things come to be both from seed and without seed. About these matters we must inquire later,
19| [1032b] but from craft come to be those things whose form is in the soul (by "form" I mean the essence of each thing and its primary substance); for in a way even contraries have the same form — for the substance of a privation is the opposite substance, as health is the substance opposite to disease, since disease is the absence of that, while health is the account in the soul and the knowledge. The healthy comes to be when one has thought in this way: since this is health, then if the thing is to be healthy, this must be present, for instance uniformity, and if this, then heat — and one keeps thinking in this way until one is brought to that which one is oneself finally able to produce. Then the motion from this point on is called production, namely the motion toward being healthy. So it turns out that, in a way, health comes to be from health, and a house from a house — the one that has matter from the one without matter; for the medical art and the building art are the form of health and of the house, and by substance without matter I mean the essence. Of comings-to-be and motions, one is called thinking and the other production — the one proceeding from the starting point and the form is thinking, and the one proceeding from the final stage of the thinking is production.
20| Similarly, each of the other intermediate steps also comes to be. I mean, for example: if a person is to become healthy, he would need to be brought into balance. What, then, is being brought into balance? This — and this will happen if he is heated. And what is that? This. And this is present potentially, and this at last is up to him. Now the thing that acts, and the point from which the motion toward health begins, if it comes from craft, is the form in the soul; but if it comes from chance, it comes from that starting point from which the doing begins for the one who acts from craft — just as in the practice of medicine the starting point is perhaps from heating (and the physician produces this by rubbing). The heat, then, that is in the body is either a part of health, or something of that sort follows on it which is a part of health, or it produces health through several further steps. This is the last thing, the thing that produces the part of health — and likewise of the house (for example, the stones) and of the other cases: so that, as it is said, it is impossible for something to come to be if nothing pre-exists. That some part will of necessity be present beforehand is clear, then, for the matter is such a part — for this is present in the thing and it is this that comes to be.
21| [1033a] But is this true also of the elements in the definition? We do in fact speak of what bronze circles are in both ways: naming the matter, saying it is bronze, and naming the form, saying it is a shape of such-and-such a kind, and this is the genus into which it is first placed. The bronze circle, then, has its matter within its definition. But some things, when they come to be out of something as their matter, are named, once they have come to be, not by the name of that thing but by a name derived from it: for example, the statue is not called stone but 'of stone,' while the man who is becoming healthy is not called by the name of that from which he comes. The reason is that a thing comes to be both from the privation and from the substrate, which we call the matter (for both the man and the sick man become healthy), yet it is more properly said to come to be from the privation — for example, the healthy man comes from the sick man rather than from the man — hence the healthy man is not called 'the sick man' but 'the man,' and 'the man is healthy.' But in cases where the privation is unclear and has no name — for example, whatever shape there was in the bronze before, or the house that was in the bricks and timbers — these are thought to come to be out of these materials in the same way that the healthy man comes from the sick man. Hence, just as in that case the thing is not called by the name of that from which it comes, so here too the statue is not called wood, but is said to be produced as 'wooden,' not 'wood'; and 'of bronze,' not 'bronze'; and 'of stone,' not 'stone'; and the house is 'of brick,' not 'bricks' — since, if one looks closely, one would not say without qualification that a statue comes to be out of wood, or a house out of bricks, because what a thing comes to be out of must undergo change, and not persist unchanged.
22| This, then, is why things are spoken of in this way. Now since what comes to be comes to be both by the agency of something (I mean by this: that from which the starting point of the coming-to-be is) and out of something (and let this not be the privation but the matter — for we have already distinguished the sense in which we mean this), and becomes some particular thing (this being either a sphere or a circle or whatever else it may turn out to be), then, just as the maker does not make the substrate — the bronze — so too he does not make the sphere, except accidentally, in that the bronze sphere happens to be a sphere, and it is that he makes. For to make a particular this out of the substrate taken generally is to make a particular this (I mean that to make the bronze round is not to make the round itself, or the sphere itself, but something else — namely, this form in something else; for if he were making the round or the sphere itself, he would have to be making it out of something else again, since that would then have to be presupposed as substrate):
23| [1033b] for example, he makes a bronze sphere, and does so in this way: out of this — which is bronze — he makes this — which is a sphere. If, then, he had also to make the bronze itself, clearly he would make it in the same way, and the comings-to-be would proceed to infinity. It is clear, then, that the form — or whatever we ought to call the shape present in the perceptible thing — does not come to be; there is no coming-to-be of it, nor of the essence either (for this is what comes to be present in something else, whether by craft or by nature or by a power). What one makes is the bronze sphere's being: for one makes it out of bronze and sphere; one produces this form in this matter, and the result is a bronze sphere. But of a sphere's being taken simply, if there is to be a coming-to-be of it, something must come to be out of something. For what comes to be must always be divisible, and there must be one part that is this and another that is this — I mean, one part matter and the other form. If, then, a sphere is a shape all of whose points on the surface are equidistant from the center, then of this, one part is that in which what makes it produces the shape, another part is the shape itself in that matter, and the whole is the thing that has come to be — for example, the bronze sphere. It is clear, then, from what has been said, that what is spoken of as form, or as substance, does not come to be, but the composite spoken of in accordance with it does come to be, and that in everything generated matter is present, and one part is this and another is this.
24| Is there, then, some sphere over and above these particular spheres, or a house over and above these bricks? Or would nothing ever have come to be a particular this at all, if that were so — rather, the form signifies a such, and is not a this and a determinate thing, but the maker produces and generates a such out of this, and once it has been generated, it is a this such? The whole particular thing, Callias or Socrates, is like this particular bronze sphere, while man and animal in general are like bronze sphere in general. It is clear, then, that the causal role assigned to the forms — as some are accustomed to speak of the Forms, if there are indeed certain things over and above particulars — is of no use whatsoever with respect to comings-to-be and to substances; nor, for this reason at least, would they be substances in their own right. In some cases, indeed, it is even evident that what generates is of the same kind as what is generated, though not the same individual, nor one in number but one in form — for example, among natural things, since man begets man, unless something occurs contrary to nature, as when a horse begets a mule (and this case is similar too: for whatever would be common to horse and donkey, the nearest genus, has no name, though it would presumably be both — that is, 'mule'):
25| [1034a] so it is clear that there is no need at all to posit a form as a pattern (for it is above all in these cases that one would look for it, since these are substances most of all), but it is enough that the begetter produce it and be the cause of the form's being present in the matter. The whole thing, now — this such-and-such form in this flesh and these bones — is Callias and Socrates: and they are different because of their matter (for their matter is different), but the same in form (for the form is indivisible). One might raise the difficulty why some things come to be both by craft and by chance, for example health, while others do not, for example a house. The reason is that, in the case of things belonging to the products of craft, the matter which governs the coming-to-be, in the producing and coming-to-be of something — the matter in which some part of the product is already present — is in some cases of such a kind as to be moved by itself, and in others not; and of the former kind, some can be moved in this particular way and some cannot: for many things are capable of being moved by themselves, but not in this particular way — for example, to dance. So whatever has matter of this sort, such as stones, cannot be moved in this particular way except by something else, though it can be moved in that other way — and fire is the same. For this reason, some things will not come to be without someone possessing the craft, while others will:
26| For it will be moved by these things which do not possess the craft, though they are capable of being moved by other things which do not possess the craft, or possess it only in part. It is also clear from what has been said that in a way everything comes to be from something with the same name, as is the case with things that come to be by nature, or from something that has the name in part (for example, a house comes from a house, insofar as it comes to be by intellect — for the craft is the form) or from a part, or from something that has some part, provided that it does not come to be accidentally: for the cause of the making is, primarily, in its own right, a part. For the heat that is in the motion produced heat in the body; and this heat either is health, or a part of it, or some part of health follows upon it, or it is health itself: that is why it is said to produce health — because it is that thing to which heat is attached, and to which heat belongs accidentally, that produces health. So, just as in syllogisms, the substance is the starting point of everything: for syllogisms proceed from what a thing is, and here too, comings-to-be proceed from this. Things that are constituted by nature stand in the same relation as these. For the seed produces just as things that come from craft do (for it has the form potentially,
27| [1034b] and that from which the seed comes has, in a way, the same name — for one should not look for this in all cases in the way that a human comes from a human: for a woman too comes from a man — unless there is some deformity; that is why a mule does not come from a mule): as for things that come to be spontaneously, just as in that case, this happens with those things whose matter is capable of being moved by itself with the very motion that the seed imparts; but for those whose matter is not capable of this, it is impossible for them to come to be in any other way than from the parents themselves. But the argument shows not only concerning substance that the form does not come to be, but the argument applies commonly and alike to all the primary things — for example, to quantity, quality, and the other categories. For what comes to be is the bronze sphere, but not sphere, nor bronze as such — and the same holds for bronze, if it comes to be (for the matter and the form must always pre-exist) — and it is the same way with what a thing is, and with quality and quantity, and likewise with the other categories: for it is not the qualified that comes to be, but the qualified wood, nor the quantified, but the quantified piece of wood or animal. But what one can grasp as peculiar to substance, from these cases, is that it is necessary for another substance to pre-exist in actuality, which produces it — for example, an animal, if an animal comes to be:
28| whereas for a quality or a quantity, it is not necessary — only potentially. Since a definition is an account, and every account has parts, and as the account stands to the thing, so the part of the account stands, in like manner, to the part of the thing, the question now arises whether the account of the parts must be present within the account of the whole, or not. For in some cases they evidently are present, in others not. For the account of the circle does not contain the account of its segments, whereas the account of the syllable does contain the account of its letters; and yet the circle too is divided into its segments, just as the syllable is divided into its letters. Further, if the parts are prior to the whole, and the acute angle is a part of the right angle, and the finger a part of the animal, then the acute angle would be prior to the right angle, and the finger prior to the man. But those are thought to be prior: for the parts are described in terms of them, and they are also prior in being, since they can exist without one another. Or rather, 'part' is said in many ways, one of which is that which measures according to quantity — but let this be set aside; what we must examine is that from which substance is composed as from parts.
29| [1035a] If, then, one thing is matter, another form, and another the compound of these, and substance is both the matter and the form and the compound of these, then in one sense matter too is said to be a part of something, but in another sense it is not, but rather it is that of which the account of the form is composed. For example, flesh is not a part of concavity (for this is the matter in which concavity comes to be), but it is a part of snubness: and bronze is a part of the composite statue, but not of the statue spoken of as form (for one must speak of the form, and of each thing insofar as it has form, but the material element must never be spoken of in its own right): that is why the account of the circle does not contain the account of the segments, while the account of the syllable does contain the account of the letters: for the letters are parts of the account of the form, and not matter, whereas the segments are parts in the sense of matter, in which the circle comes to be present: though they are nearer to the form than bronze is, when roundness comes to be present in bronze. But in another sense, not even all the letters of the syllable will be present in the account — for example, these particular letters in wax, or these in the air:
30| for these too are already a part of the syllable only as perceptible matter. For even though a line, when divided, perishes into its halves, or a man into bones, sinews, and flesh, it does not follow from this that they are composed of these as parts of the substance, but rather as out of matter; and they are parts of the composite, but no longer of the form and of that which the account is of — which is why they are not present in the accounts either. So in some cases the account of such parts will be present, but in others it need not be present, unless it is the account of the combined thing: and it is for this reason that some things are composed of these as principles into which they perish, while others are not. Accordingly, whatever is a combination of form and matter, such as the snub, or the bronze circle, these things perish into these components, and the matter is a part of them: but whatever is not combined with matter but is without matter, whose accounts are of the form alone, these do not perish — either not at all, or at least not in this way: so that these are principles and parts of the former, but neither parts nor principles of the form. And this is why the clay statue perishes into clay, and the sphere into bronze, and Callias into flesh and bones, and again the circle into its segments:
31| for there is a kind of circle that is combined with matter:
32| [1035b] for 'circle' is used homonymously, both of the circle spoken of simply and of the particular circle, because there is no distinct name for particular circles. The truth, then, has now been stated; but let us go over it again and state it still more clearly. For whatever are parts of the account, and that into which the account is divided, these are prior, either all of them or some: but the account of the right angle is not divided into the account of the acute angle, whereas the account of the acute angle is divided into the right angle; for one who defines the acute angle uses the right angle, since the acute angle is less than a right angle. The circle and the semicircle stand in a similar relation: for the semicircle is defined by the circle, and the finger by the whole; for a finger is such-and-such a part of a man. So whatever are parts as matter, and that into which a thing is divided as matter, are posterior; but whatever are parts as belonging to the account, and to the substance in accordance with the account, are prior, either all of them or some. Now since the soul of animals (for this is the substance of the ensouled thing) is the substance in accordance with the account, and the form, and the essence of a body of a certain kind (at any rate, if each part is to be defined well, it will not be defined without reference to its function, which will not belong to it apart from perception), it follows that the parts of the soul are prior, either all of them or some, to the composite animal — and likewise in each particular case — while the body and its parts are posterior to this substance, and it is not the substance but the composite that is divided into these as into matter. These, then, are in one sense prior to the composite, but in another sense they are not (for they cannot even exist when separated:
33| For a finger in any and every condition is not a part of an animal, but a dead finger is one only in name. Some parts exist at the same time as the whole, namely the controlling ones, those in which the account and the substance are primarily present — for example, whether this is the heart or the brain, for it makes no difference which of the two it is. But man and horse and things of this sort, taken as particulars, yet spoken of universally, are not substance but a composite made of this particular account and this particular matter, taken universally; while as a particular, Socrates is already composed of the ultimate matter, and similarly with the others. Now a part may be a part both of the form (and by form I mean the essence) and of the composite made of the form and the matter, and of the matter itself. But only the parts of the form are parts of the account, and the account is of the universal.
34| [1036a] For being-a-circle and a circle, and being-a-soul and a soul, are the same. But when we come to the composite — for example, this particular circle, and any of the particulars, whether perceptible or intelligible (I mean by intelligible ones such as the mathematical objects, and by perceptible ones such as those of bronze or of wood) — of these there is no definition, but they are known with the aid of intellect or of perception; and once they have departed from actuality it is not clear whether they still exist or not, but they are always spoken of and known by the universal account. Matter in itself is unknowable. And matter is of two kinds, perceptible and intelligible: perceptible matter, for instance bronze and wood and whatever matter is subject to motion, and intelligible matter, which is present in perceptible things but not insofar as they are perceptible, as with the objects of mathematics. How things stand, then, with regard to whole and part, and to prior and posterior, has been stated. But one must answer the question, when someone asks whether the right angle, the circle, and the animal are prior, or the parts into which they are divided and out of which they are composed, that the answer is not simple. For if the soul is the animal, or the besouled thing, or each thing is identical with its own essence, and a circle is being-a-circle, and a right angle is being-a-right-angle and the substance of the right angle, then one must say that a this and a this-of-something are posterior — for instance, posterior to the parts in the account, and to a particular right angle (for the right angle taken with matter, the bronze right angle, and the right angle in particular lines, belong here); but the right angle apart from matter is posterior to the parts in the account, and prior to the parts in a given particular instance — one must not say, without qualification, which is prior.
35| But if the soul is different from the animal and is not identical with it, even so one must say that some things are prior and others not, as has been stated. And it is reasonably a puzzle which parts belong to the form and which do not, but belong instead to the thing taken together with matter. Yet if this is not clear, it is not possible to define each thing; for definition is of the universal and of the form. So if it is not evident which of the parts are present as matter and which are not, the account of the thing will not be evident either. Now in the case of things that evidently occur, the same in form, in things of different kinds — for example, a circle occurring in bronze and in stone and in wood — it seems clear that neither the bronze nor the stone is any part of the substance of the circle, because they can be separated from it. But in the case of things not seen to be separated, nothing prevents their being in the same condition as these — just as if all circles were seen to be of bronze.
36| [1036b] For the bronze would be none the less no part of the form; but it is difficult to strip it away in thought. For example, the form of man always appears in flesh and bones and parts of that kind. Are these, then, also parts of the form and of the account? Or are they not, but rather matter, and we are simply unable to separate them out because the form does not also occur in other kinds of matter? Since this seems possible, though it is not clear when it occurs, some people already raise a puzzle even about the circle and the triangle, arguing that it is not fitting to define them by lines and by the continuous, but that these too should all be spoken of in the same way, as flesh and bones are said to belong to man and bronze and stone to the statue. And they reduce everything to numbers, and say that the account of a line is that of the number two. And among those who speak of Ideas, some say the Dyad is the Line-itself, others say it is the form of the line — for in some cases, they say, the form is the same as that of which it is the form (for example, the Dyad and the form of the Dyad), but in the case of the line this is no longer so. It follows, then, that there is one form for many things whose form appears to be different (which is what happened to the Pythagoreans too), and it becomes possible to make this single thing the form of everything, while the rest are not forms at all.
37| Yet in that way all things will be one. That the questions concerning definitions involve a certain puzzle, and for what reason, has been stated. That is why reducing everything in this way and stripping away the matter is a superfluous exercise; for perhaps in some cases a thing really is this in this, or these things standing in this condition. And the comparison with the animal that the younger Socrates used to make is not a good one. For it leads away from the truth, and makes one suppose that it is possible for man to exist without his parts, just as a circle can exist without the bronze. But the cases are not alike; for the animal is something perceptible, and it cannot be defined apart from motion, and hence not apart from its parts being in some condition either. For the hand is not a part of man under any and every condition, but only when it is capable of performing its function — that is, when it is besouled; if it is not besouled, it is not a part. But regarding mathematical objects, why are the accounts of the parts not parts of the account of the whole — for example, why are the semicircles not parts of the account of the circle? For these are not perceptible objects. Or does it make no difference? For there will be matter even of some things that are not perceptible.
38| [1037a] For indeed everything has some matter that is not itself an essence and a form in its own right, but is a this. So for the universal circle these will not be parts, but for the particular circles they will be parts, as has been said before; for matter is of two kinds, perceptible and intelligible. It is also clear that the soul is the primary substance, the body is matter, and man or the animal is what is composed of both, taken universally. As for Socrates or Coriscus, if the soul too is Socrates, then the name is used in two ways (for some mean by it the soul, others the composite); but if it simply means this particular soul together with this particular body, the relation is the same one that holds between the universal and the individual. Whether, besides the matter of substances of this kind, there is some other substance, and whether one must look for some further substance such as numbers or something of the sort, must be considered later. For it is for the sake of this that we are also trying to give a determination concerning perceptible substances, since in a certain way the study of perceptible substances is the task of natural science, that is, of the second philosophy. For the natural philosopher must have knowledge not only of the matter but also of the substance that accords with the account — indeed, more so.
39| As for definitions, how the parts within the account are parts, and why the definition is a single account (for it is clear that the thing is one — but in virtue of what is the thing one, given that it has parts?), must be considered later. What the essence is, then, and how it is itself in its own right, has been stated universally about every case, and why in some cases the account of the essence contains the parts of the thing defined and in others it does not, and that in the account of the substance the parts that are present as matter will not be included — for they are not parts of that substance but of the composite, and of this composite there is in a way an account and in a way there is not: for taken along with the matter there is no account of it (since matter is indeterminate), but in respect of the primary substance there is, for example the account of the soul is the account of man; for the substance is the form that is present within, from which, together with the matter, the composite is called substance — for example, concavity (for from this together with the nose comes the snub nose and snubness, since the nose will be present twice over in these) — but in the composite substance, for example in the snub nose or in Callias, the matter too will be present.
40| And that the essence and the thing itself are, in some cases, the same — [1037b] as with primary substances, for example curvature and being curvature, if it is primary (and I call primary that which is not spoken of by one thing being in another and in a substrate as in matter) — but whatever is spoken of as matter or as taken together with matter is not the same, nor is it the same if it is one by accident, as Socrates and the musical are; for these are the same by accident. Let us now speak first about the point that has not been discussed in the Analytics concerning definition: for the puzzle raised there is useful for the accounts concerning substance. I mean this puzzle: why on earth is that of which we say the account is a definition one thing — for example, of man, "animal, two-footed": let this be its account. Why then is this one thing and not many, "animal" and "two-footed"? For in the case of "man" and "pale," there are many when the one does not belong to the other, but one when it belongs and the substrate, the man, is affected by it (for then it becomes one and there is the pale man); but here neither shares in the other, for the genus does not seem to share in the differentiae (for then the same thing would at once share in the contraries —
41| for the differentiae by which the genus differs are contraries). And if it does share in them, the same account holds if the differentiae are more than one, as with "footed, two-footed, wingless." For why are these one and not many? Not because they are present in it — for on that basis everything would be one from all the things present in it. But it is necessary that whatever is in the definition be one; for a definition is a single account, and of substance, so that it must be the account of some one thing: for substance signifies some one thing and a particular thing, as we say. We must examine first the definitions arrived at by division. For there is nothing else in the definition except the genus that is stated first and the differentiae: the other genera consist of the first genus together with the differentiae taken along with it, for example the first term is "animal," the next is "animal, two-footed," and again "animal, two-footed, wingless"; and likewise however many terms it is stated through.
42| [1038a] And in general it makes no difference whether it is stated through many terms or through few, so that it makes no difference whether through few or through two: and of the two, the one is the differentia, the other the genus, for example, of "animal, two-footed," "animal" is the genus and the other is the differentia. If, then, the genus simply does not exist apart from the species that fall under it as genus, or if it does exist but exists as matter (for the vocal sound is a genus and matter, and the differentiae make the species and the elements out of this), it is clear that the definition is the account made out of the differentiae. But indeed the division must also proceed by the differentia of the differentia, for example the differentia of "animal" is "footed": again, the differentia of "footed animal" must be taken insofar as it is footed, so that one must not say of the footed that one part is "winged," the other "wingless," if one is to speak correctly (though one will do this out of inability), but rather that one part is "cloven-footed," the other "not cloven"; for these are differentiae of the foot, since cloven-footedness is a kind of footedness. And in this way one always wishes to proceed until one arrives at the terms that admit of no further differentiation: at that point there will be as many forms of foot as there are differentiae, and the footed animals will be equal in number to the differentiae.
43| If then this is so, it is clear that the last differentia will be the substance of the thing and its definition, provided that the same things need not be said many times over in the definitions — for that is superfluous. Yet this does in fact happen: for when one says "footed, two-footed animal," one has said nothing other than "animal having feet, having two feet" — and if one divides this by the division proper to it, one will say it more than once, as many times as there are differentiae. If, then, differentia is taken of differentia in succession, the last one will be one thing, the form and the substance; but if it is taken accidentally, as if one divided the footed into the pale and the dark, there will be as many as there are cuts. So it is clear that the definition is the account made out of the differentiae, and, properly speaking, out of the last of these. This would be plain if one rearranged such definitions, for example that of man, saying "footed, two-footed animal": for "footed" is superfluous once "two-footed" has been said. But there is no order in the substance — for how are we to conceive one part as later, another as earlier? Concerning the definitions arrived at by division, then, let so much be said as a first account of what sort they are.
44| [1038b] But since our inquiry concerns substance, let us return to it again. It is said that substance is the substrate, and the essence, and what is composed of these, and also the universal. Concerning two of these we have spoken already — concerning the essence and the substrate, that the substrate underlies in two ways, either as being a particular thing, as the animal underlies its affections, or as matter underlies actuality — but to some the universal too seems above all to be a cause, and the universal seems to be a principle; so let us take this up as well. For it seems impossible for any of the things called universal to be a substance. For, in the first place, the substance of each thing is that which is peculiar to it, which does not belong to another, whereas the universal is common; for that is called universal which is naturally such as to belong to more than one thing. Of which thing, then, will this be the substance? For it will be the substance either of all or of none, and it cannot be of all; but if it is to be the substance of one, then the others too will be this thing — for things whose substance is one and whose essence is one are themselves one. Further, substance is said to be that which is not said of a substrate, whereas the universal is always said of some substrate. But perhaps it cannot be a substance in that sense, as the essence is, but it can be present in the essence, as animal is present in man and in horse?
45| Well then, clearly there is some account of it. And it makes no difference even if it is not the account of everything in the substance; for none the less it will be the substance of something, as man is the substance of the man in whom it is present, so that the same consequence will result again: for it will be the substance of that thing — animal, for instance — in which it is present as its own. Further, it is both impossible and absurd that the particular thing and the substance, if it is composed of certain things, should not be composed of substances nor of a particular thing but of a quality; for then what is not a substance, namely the quality, will be prior to substance and to the particular thing. Which is impossible: for neither in account, nor in time, nor in coming-to-be can the affections be prior to the substance, since then they would also be separable. Further, in Socrates there will be a substance present in a substance, so that it will be the substance of two things. And in general it follows, if man is a substance, and whatever else is spoken of in this way, that none of the things in the account is the substance of anything, nor exists apart from them, nor in anything else — I mean, for example, that there is no animal apart from the particular animals, nor anything else among the things in the accounts. From these considerations, then, it is evident to those who examine them that nothing that belongs universally is a substance, and that none of the things predicated in common signifies a particular thing,
46| [1039a] but of such-and-such a kind. Otherwise many other things follow, and also the third man. Further, it is clear in this way too: it is impossible for a substance to be composed of substances present in it in actuality; for two things that are actual in this way are never in actuality one, but if they are two in potentiality, they will be one (for example, the double is composed of two halves — in potentiality, that is; for actuality separates them), so that if the substance is one, it will not be composed of substances present in it, on this account too — the very point Democritus makes correctly: for he says it is impossible for one to come from two or two from one; for it is the indivisible magnitudes that make the substances. So it is clear that the same will hold in the case of number too, if number is a composition of units, as some say; for either the dyad is not one, or there is no unit present in it in actuality. But what follows presents a difficulty. For if no substance can be composed out of universals, because a universal signifies a such-and-such and not a this, and no composite substance can be composed of substances in actuality, then every substance would be incomposite, so that there would be no account of any substance. But it is held by everyone, and was said long ago, that either only substance has a definition, or substance has one most of all —
47| but now it seems not even substance has one. There will then be a definition of nothing — or rather, in one way there will be, in another way there will not. What is being said will become clearer from what follows. And it is evident from these very points what happens also to those who say that the Forms are separate substances and at the same time make the species out of the genus and the differentiae. For if the Forms exist, and animal is present in man and horse, it is either one and the same in number, or different; in account it is clearly one, for whoever states it goes through the same account in each case. If, then, there is a man-himself, a this and separate in its own right, then the things it is composed of, such as animal and two-footed, must also signify a this and be separate and substances; so animal too must be. If, then, what is in the horse and in the man is the same and one, just as you are one with yourself, how will the one that is in things that exist apart be one,
48| [1039b] and why will this animal not also be separate from itself? Next, if it is to participate in two-footed and many-footed, something impossible follows, for contraries will belong at once to it, though it is one and a this; and if not, what is the way of it, when one says that animal is two-footed or footed? But perhaps the parts are put together and touch, or are mixed; but all of these are absurd. But suppose it is different in each case: then there will be, so to speak, infinitely many things whose substance is animal; for it is not accidentally that man comes from animal. Further, animal-itself will be many things; for the animal present in each case is a substance (for it is not called so in virtue of something else; otherwise man will be composed of that, and that will be his genus), and further, all the things man is composed of will be Forms; so then a Form will not be the Form of one thing and the substance of another (for that is impossible); animal-itself, then, will be each one of the animals present in the animals. Further, out of what is this, and how does it come from animal-itself? Or how can there be an animal whose substance is this very thing, existing apart from animal-itself? And further, in the case of perceptible things these same consequences follow, and even more absurd ones than these.
49| If, then, it is impossible for things to be so, it is clear that there are no Forms of them in the way some people say. Now since substance is of two different kinds — the compound and the account (I mean that in one sense substance is the account taken together with the matter, in another sense it is simply the account) — those substances, then, that are spoken of in the first way admit of destruction (for they also admit of coming-to-be), but the account is not such as to be destroyed in this way (for there is no coming-to-be of it either — it is not being-a-house that comes to be, but this particular house), rather, without coming-to-be or destruction, such things both are and are not; for it has been shown that no one generates or makes these. For this reason, too, there is neither definition nor demonstration of the perceptible particular substances, because they have matter whose nature is such that it admits of both being and not being; hence all their particulars are perishable. If, then, demonstration is of necessary things, and definition is a matter of scientific knowledge, and it is not possible — just as knowledge cannot at one time be knowledge and at another ignorance, but what changes in that way is opinion — so too neither demonstration nor definition can be of such things, but it is opinion that concerns what admits of being otherwise,
50| [1040a] it is clear that there could be neither definition nor demonstration of them. For things that perish become unclear to those who have knowledge of them, once they have passed out of perception, and though the accounts are preserved in the soul, there will no longer be either definition or demonstration of the same things. Hence, whenever someone offers a definition of a particular thing, among the terms relevant to defining it, he must not fail to notice that it is always possible to refute it; for it is not possible to define a particular. Nor indeed is it possible to define any Form. For the Form, as they say, is of a particular, and is separate; but the account must be composed of names, and the one defining will not coin a name (for it would be unknown), while the names already established are common to all things; so these must necessarily belong to something else as well: for example, if someone were to define you, he would say 'a lean animal' or 'a pale animal' or something else that will belong to something else too. But if someone were to say that there is nothing to prevent all the attributes taken separately from belonging to many things while together belonging only to this one, it must be said, first, that they belong to both components as well — for example, two-footed animal belongs to animal and to two-footed (and in the case of eternal things this is even necessary, since they are prior and are parts of the compound; but indeed they are also separate, if man is separate —
51| for either neither is separate or both are; if, then, neither is, the genus will not exist apart from the species, while if it is, the differentia will be too): and second, that they are prior in being; and these are not mutually eliminated with one another. Next, if Forms are composed of Forms (for the things a thing is composed of are less composite), then further, the things a Form is composed of — for example animal and two-footed — will also have to be predicated of many things. But if not, how will it be known? For there will then be some Form that it is impossible to predicate of more than one thing. But this is not the accepted view — rather, every Form is held to be participable. As has been said, then, it goes unnoticed that it is impossible to define things among the eternal, especially those that are unique, such as the sun or the moon. For people go wrong not only by adding features such that, when they are removed, there will still be a sun — as, for instance, 'traveling around the earth' or 'hidden by night' (for if it should stop, or appear by night, it would no longer be the sun; but it is absurd if it would not be — for 'sun' signifies a certain substance); but also by including such features as could apply to something else — for instance, if another thing came to be like this, it is clear that it would be a sun; the account, then, is common —
52| [1040b] but the sun was one of the particulars, like Cleon or Socrates. For why does no one produce a definition of the Form of them? For it would become clear, if they tried, that what has just been said is true. It is evident, too, that most of the things thought to be substances are potentialities — both the parts of animals (for none of them exists in separation; and when separated, they too then exist merely as matter) and earth, fire, and air; for none of them is one, but they are like a heap, until they are concocted and something one comes to be out of them. One might most readily suppose that the parts of ensouled things, and the corresponding parts of the soul, come to be as both actuality and potentiality at once, close together, since they have principles of motion from something at their joints; which is why some animals go on living when divided. Nevertheless, all of them will exist only potentially, whenever the thing is one and continuous by nature, and not by force or by mere growing-together; for a thing joined in that way is a mutilation. Since one is spoken of in as many ways as being is, and the substance of the one is one, and things whose substance is numerically one are numerically one, it is clear that neither the one nor being can be the substance of things, any more than being-an-element or being-a-principle can be.
53| But we are inquiring what the principle is, so that we may lead it back to something more knowable. Now being and the one are more truly substance than the principle and the element and the cause are, but not even these are yet substance, if indeed nothing else that is common is substance either; for substance belongs to nothing except itself and to what has it, that of which it is the substance. Further, the one could not exist in many places at once, but what is common does exist in many places at once; so it is clear that none of the universals exists apart from the particulars, separately. But those who speak of the forms are right in one respect, in separating them, if indeed they are substances, but not right in another respect, in that they call the one over many a form. The reason is that they cannot state what these imperishable substances are, apart from the particular and perceptible ones; so they make them the same in form as the perishable things (for these we know), man-itself and horse-itself, adding the word 'itself' to the perceptible things. And yet even if we had not seen the stars,
54| [1041a] there would be, I think, no less eternal substances beside the ones we knew of; so that even now, if we do not have them, still it is perhaps necessary that some exist. That, then, none of the things called universal is substance, and no substance is composed of substances, is clear. But we must say what substance is and of what sort, taking up the inquiry again as it were from another starting point; for perhaps from this it will become clear also about that substance which is separated from perceptible substances. Since, then, substance is a certain principle and cause, we must proceed from there. The 'why' is always sought in this form: why does one thing belong to another? For to inquire why the musical man is a musical man is either to inquire the very thing just stated, why the man is musical, or something else. Now to ask why a thing is itself is to ask nothing at all (for the fact and the being must be evident beforehand -- I mean, for example, that the moon is eclipsed -- but as to why a thing is itself, there is one account and one cause for all cases, why the man is a man or the musical is musical, unless someone should say that each thing is indivisible in relation to itself, and this is what it is to be one:
55| but this at least is common to all cases and stated briefly): but someone might ask why a man is an animal of such-and-such a kind. This much, then, is clear, that he is not asking why one who is a man is a man; he is asking, then, why something belongs to something (and that it does belong must be evident: for if it does not, he is asking nothing at all), for example, why does it thunder? Why does a noise occur in the clouds? For here what is sought is one thing predicated of another. And why are these things -- bricks and stones, say -- a house? It is clear, then, that he is seeking the cause; and this, speaking in terms of logical form, is the essence, which in some cases is that for the sake of which, as perhaps in the case of a house or a bed, and in other cases is what first set the thing in motion; for this too is a cause. But this latter sort of cause is sought in cases of coming-to-be and passing-away, while the former is sought also in the case of being. What is sought is most easily overlooked in cases where the terms are not predicated of one another,
56| [1041b] for example, what a man is is inquired into because the term is used simply, without distinguishing that this belongs to that. But one must inquire by articulating the question; otherwise the result is common to inquiring into nothing and inquiring into something. Since, then, being must be had and must belong, it is clear that one is seeking why the matter is some particular thing; for example, why are these things a house? Because what it is to be a house belongs to them. And why is this a man, or why does this body have this? So the cause that is sought is that of the matter (and this is the form) by which it is something; and this is the substance. It is clear, then, that in the case of simple things there is no inquiry and no teaching, but a different manner of inquiry applies to such things. Since a thing composed out of something is such that the whole is one, not as a heap is one but as a syllable is one -- and a syllable is not the same as its elements, nor is ba the same as b and a, nor is flesh the same as fire and earth (for once they are dissolved, some things no longer exist, such as the flesh and the syllable, but the elements do exist, both the fire and the earth) -- the syllable, then, is something, not only the elements, the vowel and the consonant, but also something else besides, and flesh is not only fire and earth, or the hot and the cold, but also something else besides -- if, then, that something else must be either an element or composed of elements, if it is an element, the same account will apply again (for out of this and fire and earth flesh will come to be, and out of something further still, so that the process will go on to infinity):
57| But if it is composed of an element, clearly it is composed not of one but of several, or that element itself will be the thing in question, so that again we shall give the same account regarding this as regarding the flesh or the syllable. It would seem that this is something, and not an element, and indeed the cause of this being flesh and that being a syllable; and likewise in the other cases too. Now the substance of each thing is this (for this is the primary cause of its being) -- and since some things are not substances among existing things, but those that are substances are constituted according to nature and by nature, this nature too would appear to be substance, which is not an element but a principle -- and an element is that into which a thing is divided, being present in it as matter, as alpha and beta are elements of the syllable.
1| [1042a] From what has been said we must now draw our conclusions, and, gathering the sum of it, put a final point on it. It has been said, then, that what is sought for substances are their causes, principles, and elements. Now some substances are agreed on by everyone, while about some others certain thinkers have made their own separate declarations: agreed on are the natural substances, such as fire, earth, water, air, and the other simple bodies, then plants and their parts, and animals and the parts of animals, and finally the heaven and the parts of the heaven; but some thinkers separately say that the forms and the objects of mathematics are substances. Others turn out to hold, on the basis of their arguments, that still other things are substances -- the essence and the substratum; and again, in another way, that the genus is substance rather than the species, and the universal rather than the particulars; and with the universal and the genus the Ideas too are connected (for by the same reasoning they are held to be substances). And since the essence is substance, and the account of this is the definition, for this reason a determination has been made concerning definition and concerning what belongs to a thing in its own right; and since a definition is an account, and an account has parts, it was necessary also to look into the question of parts, which parts belong to the substance and which do not, and whether these same parts also belong to the definition.
2| Further, then, neither the universal nor the genus is substance; but about the Ideas and the objects of mathematics we must inquire later, for it is beside the perceptible substances that some say these exist. For now let us go over the substances that are agreed on. These are the perceptible ones; and all perceptible substances have matter. Now the substratum is substance -- in one sense the matter (and by matter I mean that which, not being a particular thing in actuality, is a particular thing in potentiality), in another sense the account and the shape, which, being a particular thing, is separable in account; and third, the thing composed of these, of which alone there is coming-to-be and passing-away, and which is separable without qualification; for of the substances that exist according to the account, some are separable and some are not. That matter too is substance is clear: for in all the opposed kinds of change there is something that underlies the changes, for example in respect of place, what is now here and again elsewhere, and in respect of growth, what is now of such a size and again smaller or larger, and in respect of alteration, what is now healthy and again sick:
3| [1042b] And the same holds with respect to substance: what is now in the process of coming to be is again, at another time, in the process of passing away, and what is now a subject in the sense of a this is again, at another time, a subject in the sense of a privation. And the other kinds of change follow upon this one, but this one does not follow upon one or two of the others; for it is not necessary that whatever has matter for locomotion should also have matter for coming to be and passing away. Now the difference between coming to be without qualification and coming to be in a qualified sense has been stated in the works on nature. But since substance in the sense of subject and matter is agreed upon, and this is the substance that is potential, it remains to say what the substance of perceptible things is as actuality. Now Democritus seems to have thought there are three differentiae (for the underlying body, the matter, is one and the same, but things differ either by rhythm, which is shape, or by turning, which is position, or by inter-contact, which is arrangement): but there evidently are many differentiae. For example, some things are said to differ by composition of their matter, as many as are by blending, like honey-water; others by binding, like a bundle of sticks; others by gluing, like a book; others by nailing, like a chest; others by several of these together; others by position, like threshold and lintel (for these differ by being situated in a certain way); others by time, like dinner and breakfast; others by place, like the winds;
4| and others by the affections proper to perceptible things, such as hardness and softness, density and rarity, dryness and wetness — some things by some of these, others by all of them — and in general some by excess, others by deficiency. So it is clear that 'is' is also spoken of in just as many ways: for a threshold is because it is situated thus, and to be means to be situated in this way, and for ice to be is to have been condensed thus. And for some things being will be defined by all of these together, some being mixed, some blended, some bound, some condensed, some using the other differentiae, as with a hand or a foot. We must therefore grasp the genera of the differentiae (for these will be the principles of being), for example those that differ by the more and the less, or by dense and rare and other such things; for all of these are excess and deficiency. And if a thing differs by shape or by smoothness and roughness, all of these are excess and deficiency of straight and curved. And for other things being will be being mixed, and not-being will be the opposite of this.
5| [1043a] It is clear from this, then, that if substance is the cause of each thing's being, we must look among these differentiae for what is the cause of the being of each of these things. None of them by itself, then, nor any combination of them, is substance, yet in each case there is something analogous to substance; and just as in the case of substances what is predicated of the matter is the actuality itself, so too, most of all, in the other definitions. For example, if we had to define a threshold, we should say: wood or stone situated in such-and-such a way; and a house: bricks and wood situated in such-and-such a way (or, in some cases, we should add also the end for the sake of which); and if ice: water congealed or condensed in such-and-such a way; and a musical concord: a mixture of high and low pitch of such-and-such a kind; and the same way in the other cases too. It is clear from this, then, that the actuality is different for different matter, and so is the account. For in some cases it is composition, in others mixture, in others some other of the things mentioned. Hence, among those who give definitions, those who say what a house is by saying that it is stones, bricks, and wood are speaking of the house potentially, for these are matter; those who propose instead that it is a receptacle for sheltering possessions and bodies, or something else of this kind, are stating the actuality; and those who combine both of these are stating the third kind of substance, the one composed of these (for the account given through the differentiae seems to be that of the form and the actuality, while the account given from the constituents seems to be rather that of the matter):
6| and likewise the definitions Archytas used to accept were of this same sort, for they are of the combination of both. For example, what is windlessness? Stillness in a quantity of air: the air is the matter, but the actuality and substance is the stillness. What is a calm sea? Levelness of the sea: the underlying thing as matter is the sea, while the actuality and the shape is the levelness. It is clear, then, from what has been said, what perceptible substance is, and in what way: for one kind is as matter, another as shape and actuality, and the third is the one composed of these. And we must not fail to notice that sometimes it escapes notice whether the name signifies the composite substance or the actuality and the shape — for example, whether 'house' signifies the compound, that it is a shelter made of bricks and stones situated thus, or the actuality and the form, that it is a shelter; and whether a line is a duality in length, or simply that it is a duality; and whether an animal is a soul in a body, or simply a soul — for this is the substance and actuality of a certain body. 'Animal' could apply to both, not as being spoken of by a single account, but as related to one thing. But these questions, though they matter for another purpose, matter not at all for the inquiry into perceptible substance:
7| [1043b] for the essence belongs to the form and the actuality. For soul and being-a-soul are the same, but man and being-a-man are not the same, unless the soul too is to be called man; and so in this way for one thing they are the same, for another they are not. Now if we investigate it, a syllable does not appear to be its letters plus composition, nor does a house appear to be bricks plus composition. And this is correct: for the composition or mixture is not made up of the very things of which it is the composition or mixture. And likewise none of the other cases either — for example, if the threshold is defined by its position, the position does not come from the threshold, but rather the threshold from the position. Nor, then, is man the animal plus two-footed, but there must be something besides these, if these are matter — something that is neither an element nor made of an element, but is the substance; and it is this that people leave out when they speak of the matter. If, then, this is the cause of the thing's being, and this is substance, they would not be stating the substance itself. (This substance must necessarily be either eternal, or perishable without ever perishing, and must have come to be without ever coming to be. It has been shown and made clear elsewhere that no one makes or generates the form, but rather it is the this that is made, and what comes to be is the compound of these.
8| Whether the substances of perishable things are separable is not yet at all clear; except that it is clear that at least for some of them it is not possible — namely, all those that cannot exist apart from the particular things, such as a house or a piece of furniture. Perhaps, then, neither these things themselves nor any of the other things that are not constituted by nature are substances at all; for one might hold that nature alone is the substance present in perishable things.) So the puzzle that the followers of Antisthenes and other such unschooled people used to raise has some point to it — namely, that it is not possible to define what a thing is (for they said the definition is a long account), but it is possible even to teach what sort of thing something is — for example, of silver, not what it is, but that it is like tin. So of substance there is one kind of which a definition and an account can exist, namely the composite kind, whether it is perceptible or intelligible; but of the primary constituents from which this composite is made, there can no longer be a definition, if indeed a defining account signifies something predicated of something, and one part must be, as it were, matter and the other, form. And it is clear too why, if substances are in some way numbers, they are so in this way and not, as some say, numbers of units: for a definition too is a kind of number — for it is divisible, and divisible into indivisible parts (since accounts are not infinite), and number too is of this kind.
9| And just as, when something is taken away or added to the units a number consists of, the number is no longer the same but a different one, even if the smallest amount is taken away or added, [1044a] so too the definition and the essence will no longer be the same if something is taken away or added. And the number must be something by which it is one, which people now are unable to say — by what it is one, if indeed it is one (for either it is not one but like a heap, or, if it is one, one must say what it is that makes it one out of many): and the definition too is one, and likewise they cannot say this either. And this happens reasonably: for by the same argument, substance too is one in this way, but not as some say, as being a kind of unit or point, but each substance is a realization and a nature of a certain kind. And just as number does not admit of more and less, neither does substance according to form, but if any substance does, it is the substance taken along with matter. Concerning the coming-to-be and passing-away of what are called substances, then — how it is possible and how impossible — and concerning the reduction to number, let this much stand as determined. But concerning material substance one must not overlook that, even if all things come from the same primary thing, or from the same things as primary, and the same matter is the principle for the things that come to be, nevertheless there is a matter proper to each thing — for example, the primary matter of phlegm is the sweet or the fatty, and of bile the bitter, or certain other things:
10| though perhaps these too come from the same thing. There come to be several matters of the same thing when one is the matter of the other — for example phlegm comes from the fatty and the sweet if the fatty comes from the sweet, and comes from bile in that bile is resolved into its primary matter. For 'this from that' is said in two ways: either because the one will be prior in the process, or because the other, when resolved, goes back to the starting point. And it is possible, when the matter is one, for different things to come to be from it because of the moving cause — for example, from wood come both a chest and a bed. But for some things, since they are different, the matter is necessarily different — for example a saw could not come to be from wood, nor is this within the power of the moving cause: for it will not make a saw out of wool or wood. But if it is indeed possible to make the same thing out of different matter, clearly the craft and the principle as mover are the same; for if both the matter and the mover are different, so too is the thing that has come to be. So whenever one seeks the cause, since causes are spoken of in several ways, one must state all the causes that are possible. For example, what is the cause of a human being as matter? Is it the menstrual fluid? What is the cause as mover? Is it the seed? What is the cause as form?
11| The essence. What is the cause as that for the sake of which? The end. [1044b] But perhaps these two are the same. And one must state the nearest causes. What is the matter? Not fire or earth, but the matter proper to the thing. Concerning natural and generable substances, then, one must proceed in this way if one is to proceed correctly, given that these are indeed the causes, and this many in number, and that one must know the causes: but in the case of substances that are natural yet eternal, the account is different. For perhaps some of them have no matter, or not matter of that kind but only matter movable in respect of place. Nor, again, do things that exist by nature but are not substances have matter — rather, the substance is their underlying subject. For example, what is the cause of an eclipse, what is its matter? For there is none — rather the moon is the thing that is affected. What is the cause as that which moved and destroyed the light? The earth. And perhaps there is no cause as that for the sake of which. The cause as form is the account, but it is unclear unless the account includes the cause. For example, what is an eclipse? A privation of light. But if one adds 'coming about through the earth's being in between,' this is the account together with the cause. In the case of sleep it is unclear what is the first thing affected. Is it that the animal is affected? Yes, but the animal in respect of what, and what is the first part affected?
12| The heart, or something else. Then, by what is it affected? Then, what is the affection — the affection of that part, and not of the whole? Is it that it is a certain kind of immobility? Yes, but this immobility comes about through that first part being affected in what way? Now since some things exist and do not exist without coming-to-be and passing-away — for example points, if indeed they exist, and forms in general (for it is not the white that comes to be, but the wood that becomes white, if indeed everything that comes to be comes to be from something and as some thing) — not all contraries would come to be out of one another, but a white man comes from a black man, and white comes from black, in different ways: nor does everything have matter, but only things for which there is coming-to-be and change into one another; things that exist or do not exist without changing have no matter for this. There is a puzzle as to how the matter of each thing stands with respect to its contraries. For example, if the body is potentially healthy, and disease is contrary to health, are both potentially present? And is water potentially both wine and vinegar? Or is it the matter of the one in respect of the state and the form, and of the other in respect of privation and of destruction contrary to nature? And there is also a puzzle as to why wine is not the matter of vinegar, nor potentially vinegar (although vinegar does come to be from it), and why the living thing is not potentially a corpse.
13| Or rather, no — these are destructions that occur accidentally, [1045a] and it is the very matter of the animal that, by way of destruction, is the potentiality and matter of the corpse, and likewise the water is the matter of the vinegar; for these arise from those in the way that night arises from day. And in all such cases where things change into one another in this way, one must go back to the matter — for example, if an animal is to come from a corpse, it must first go back to the matter, and then in this way become an animal; and vinegar must go back to water, and then in this way become wine. Concerning the puzzle mentioned earlier, about definitions and about numbers — what is the cause of their being one? For in the case of all things that have several parts, and where the whole is not like a heap but is something over and above the parts, there is some cause — since even among bodies, in some cases contact is the cause of their being one, in others viscosity or some other affection of that kind. But a definition is a single account, not by way of a connective, as the Iliad is, but by being the account of one thing. What, then, is it that makes man one, and why is he one and not many — for example both animal and two-footed — especially if, as some say, there is an animal itself and a two-footed itself? For why is a human not those things themselves, and human beings will exist by participation not in man, nor in one thing, but in two, animal and two-footed, and in general man would not be one but several things, animal and two-footed?
14| It is clear, then, that for those who proceed in the way they are accustomed to define and speak, it is not possible to give an account and resolve the puzzle; but if, as we say, one part is matter and the other is form, and one is potentially and the other actually, what is being sought would no longer seem to be a puzzle. For this puzzle is the very same one even if the definition of 'cloak' were 'round bronze'; for this name would be a sign standing for that account, so that what is being sought is what is the cause of the round and the bronze being one. So it no longer appears to be a puzzle, because one part is matter and the other is form. What, then, is the cause of this — of what is potentially so being actually so, apart from the agent that makes it so, in cases where there is coming-to-be? For there is no other cause of the potential sphere's being actually a sphere, but this was the essence of each of them. And of matter, some is intelligible and some perceptible, and always, of the account, part is matter and part is actuality — for example, the circle is a plane figure. But things that have no matter, neither intelligible nor perceptible, are each immediately just a one, whatever it is,
15| [1045b] just as it is also a certain being, a this, a quality, a quantity — which is why neither being nor the one is present in definitions —, so too the essence is straightaway a certain one, just as it is also a certain being — which is why there is no other cause of its being one, for any of these, nor of its being a certain being: for straightaway each thing is a certain being and a certain one, not as being in a genus, the genus "being" or the genus "one," nor as though being and one were separate from the particulars. And it is because of this puzzle that some speak of participation, and are puzzled as to what the cause of the participation is and what participating is; others speak of a communion of the soul, as Lycophron says that knowledge is a communion of knowing and of the soul; others say that living is a composition or a binding-together of the soul with the body. Yet the same account applies in all cases: for being healthy too will then be a communion or a binding-together or a composition of the soul and health, and the bronze's being triangular will be a composition of bronze and triangle, and being white will be a composition of surface and whiteness. The cause is that people go looking for a unifying account and a differentia between potentiality and actuality. But, as has been said, the last matter and the shape are the same thing, and one — the one potentially, the other actually — so that seeking what the cause is of the one, and of its being one, is like seeking this in general: for each thing is a certain one, and what is potential and what is actual are in a way one, so that there is no cause here other than something that has moved a thing from potentiality into actuality, if there is anything of the kind. And all things that do not have matter are, without qualification, straightaway a certain one.
1| Concerning that which is primarily, and to which all the other categories of being are referred, we have spoken — that is, concerning substance (for it is in accordance with the account of substance that the other things that are said to be are spoken of, both quantity and quality and the rest of what is so called: for all of them will have the account of substance, as we said in the first discussions). But since being is spoken of in one way as a this, or a quality, or a quantity, and in another way in accordance with potentiality and actuality, and in accordance with function, let us also draw distinctions concerning potentiality and actuality, and first concerning potentiality in the sense in which it is spoken of most properly, though this is not in fact the most useful sense for our present purpose: [1046a] for potentiality and actuality extend further than the things that are so called only in respect of motion. But once we have spoken of this sense, we will make clear the others too in the distinctions concerning actuality. That potentiality and being capable are spoken of in many ways has been distinguished by us elsewhere; of these, let those potentialities that are spoken of merely homonymously be set aside (for some are so called by a certain likeness, just as in geometry we speak of things as possible and impossible by their being or not being in a certain way); but as for those that bear on the same form, all of these are certain principles, and are spoken of with reference to one primary sense, which is a principle of change in another thing, or in the thing itself insofar as it is another.
2| For one kind is the potentiality of being affected — the principle, in the very thing affected, of a passive change brought about by another thing, or by the thing itself insofar as it is another; another kind is the state of not being affected for the worse, and of not being destroyed by another thing, or by the thing itself insofar as it is another, through some principle of change. For in all these definitions there is present the account of the primary potentiality. Again, these are called potentialities either of merely acting or of being acted on, or of doing so well, so that in the accounts of these there are also present, in a way, the accounts of the prior potentialities. It is clear, then, that in one sense there is a single potentiality of acting and being acted on (for a thing is capable both by having in itself a potentiality of being acted on, and by another thing's being acted on by it), but in another sense they are different. For the one is in the thing acted on (for because it has a certain principle, and because the matter too is a certain principle, the thing acted on is acted on, and one thing is acted on by another: for what is greasy is combustible, while what yields in such-and-such a way is crushable, and likewise in the other cases too), while the other is in the thing that acts, as heat and the art of building are: the one in what is capable of heating, the other in what is capable of building.
3| Hence, insofar as a thing is naturally united with itself, it is not acted on at all by itself: for it is one thing and not another. And incapacity and the incapable are the privation contrary to a potentiality of this kind, so that every potentiality is a potentiality of the same thing and in the same respect as some incapacity is an incapacity of it. Privation is spoken of in many ways: for we speak of privation both of what does not have something, and of what would naturally have it but does not have it — either altogether, or at the time it would naturally have it, and either in this or that way, for instance completely, or in however small a degree. And in some cases, if things that would naturally have something do not have it by force, we say that they have been deprived of it. Since some principles of this kind are present in things without soul, while others are present in things with soul, and in soul, and in the part of the soul that has reason,
4| [1046b] it is clear that some of the potentialities too will be non-rational and others will be accompanied by reason. That is why all the crafts, and the productive sciences, are potentialities: for they are principles of change in another thing, or in the thing itself insofar as it is another. And all the potentialities accompanied by reason are the same potentiality for contrary things, whereas the non-rational ones are each a single potentiality for a single effect — for instance the hot is a potentiality only of heating, but the medical art is a potentiality of disease and of health. The reason is that knowledge is a rational account, and the same account makes clear both the thing and its privation, though not in the same way, and is in a sense an account of both, but is more properly an account of the thing that is present; so that such sciences too must be sciences of contraries, but of one contrary in their own right and of the other not in their own right: for the account too is of the one thing in its own right, and of the other in a certain way accidentally; for it makes the contrary clear by way of denial and removal. For the primary privation is the contrary, and this is the removal of the other. And since contraries do not come to be present in the same thing at the same time, while knowledge is a potentiality by virtue of having reason, and the soul has a principle of motion, what is conducive to health produces only health, and what is capable of heating produces heat, and what is capable of cooling produces cold, but the person who has knowledge produces both.
5| For there is a rational account of both, though not in the same way, and this is present in a soul that has a principle of motion; so that the two are joined, by that principle, into motion toward the same end, from the same starting point — which is why the potentialities that go with reason produce the contraries of what the potentialities without reason produce: for they are encompassed by a single principle, the rational account. It is also clear that the potentiality for doing something well follows upon the potentiality for merely doing or being affected, but the latter does not always follow upon the former: for the one who does something well must also do it, but the one who merely does it need not also do it well. There are some, the Megarians for instance, who say that a thing is capable only when it is active, and when it is not active it is not capable — for instance, that a person who is not building a house is not capable of building, but only the person who is building a house, when he is building it; and similarly in the other cases. It is not hard to see the absurd consequences that follow for them. For it is clear that a person will not be a builder if he is not building a house (for being a builder just is being capable of building a house), and likewise with the other crafts. If, then, it is impossible to possess crafts of this kind without ever having learned and acquired them,
6| [1047a] and not have it without at some point losing it (whether through forgetting, or through some affection, or through time — for it is certainly not that the thing itself has perished, since it always exists) — then whenever he stops, he will not have the craft, yet how will he immediately build again, having somehow got it back? And the same holds for inanimate things too: for nothing will be cold or hot or sweet or perceptible at all, if no one is perceiving it; so it will follow that they are committed to saying Protagoras' account. But indeed nothing will even have perception if it is not perceiving or engaged in activity. If then that which lacks sight is blind, though naturally fitted for sight both when it is naturally fitted for it and while it still exists, the same people will be blind many times a day, and deaf too. Again, if what is deprived of a capacity is incapable, then what does not come to be will be incapable of coming to be; and whoever says that what is incapable of coming to be either is or will be will speak falsely (for that is what "incapable" meant), so that these accounts do away with both motion and coming-to-be. For what is standing will always be standing, and what is sitting will always be sitting: for it will not get up if it is sitting, since it will be impossible for it to get up, given that it is not capable of getting up. If then it is not possible to say these things, it is clear that potentiality and actuality are different things (whereas those accounts make potentiality and actuality the same, which is why they are trying to do away with something not insignificant), so that it is possible for a thing to be capable of being and yet not be, and to be capable of not being and yet be, and likewise with the other categories too: capable of walking and yet not walking, and capable of not walking and yet walking.
7| A thing is capable of this: that if the actuality of what it is said to have the potentiality for comes to belong to it, nothing impossible will result. I mean, for example, if a thing is capable of sitting and it is possible for it to sit, then if sitting comes to belong to it, nothing impossible will result; and likewise if it is capable of being moved or moving, standing or making stand, being or coming to be, not being or not coming to be. The word "actuality," which is put together with reference to "realization," has come into use, and has been extended to other things mainly from motions: for actuality seems to be motion above all, which is why people do not attribute being moved to things that do not exist, though they do attribute certain other predicates to them — for instance, that the things that do not exist are objects of thought and objects of desire, but not things in motion — and this is because, although they do not exist actually, they will exist actually.
8| [1047b] For among things that do not exist, some exist potentially; but they do not exist, because they do not exist in realization. If what has been said is what the possible is, or follows from it, it is clear that it cannot be true to say that this is possible but will not be, in such a way that impossible things thereby escape notice. I mean, for example, if someone were to say that it is possible for the diameter to be measured but that it will nevertheless not be measured — someone who does not reckon this to be impossible — on the ground that nothing prevents a thing that is capable of being or coming to be from not being and not going to be. But this must necessarily follow from what has been laid down: that even if we were to suppose that what is not, but is possible, is or has come to be, nothing impossible would result; yet it will result, for the measuring is impossible. For the false and the impossible are not the same thing: that you are now standing is false, but not impossible. At the same time it is also clear that if, A being the case, B is necessarily the case, then, A being possible, B too must be possible; for if it is not necessary that B be possible, nothing prevents its not being possible. Let A, then, be possible. Then, when A is possible to be, if A were posited, nothing impossible would result;
9| but B would necessarily be the case. But suppose this was impossible. Let it, then, be impossible. If, then, it is necessary that B be impossible, it is also necessary that A be impossible. But the first was impossible; therefore the second is impossible too. If, then, A is possible, B too will be possible, provided that things stood so that if A is the case, B is necessarily the case. If, then, though A and B stand thus, B is not possible in this way, neither will A and B stand as was assumed; and if, when A is possible, B is necessarily possible, then if A is the case, B must also be the case. For "it is possible that B necessarily is, if A is possible" signifies this: that if A is, and at the time and in the way in which it was possible for it to be, then B too must be, at that time and in that way. Since of all capacities some are innate, like the senses, some come by habituation, like the capacity for flute-playing, and some come by learning, like the capacities belonging to the crafts — those that come by habituation and reason one must have exercised beforehand in order to have them, but those that are not of this kind, and those that concern being acted upon, need not have been exercised beforehand.
10| [1048a] Since what is capable is capable of something, and at some time, and in some way, and of whatever else must necessarily be included in the definition, and since some things are capable of causing motion in accordance with reason, and their capacities involve reason, while other things are non-rational and their capacities are non-rational, and the former must necessarily be present in something ensouled while the latter are present in both — in the case of capacities of this latter kind, whenever agent and patient come into contact in the way they are capable of, it is necessary that the one act and the other be acted upon, but with the former this is not necessary: for all of these are each a single capacity productive of a single effect, whereas the rational capacities are capacities for contraries, so that they would produce contraries at the same time; but this is impossible. There must, then, be something else that has control; I mean by this desire or choice. For whichever of the two it desires in the controlling sense, this it will do, whenever it is present as it is capable of being present and comes into contact with what can be acted upon; so that everything that is capable in accordance with reason must, whenever it desires that for which it has the capacity, and in the way it has it, do this; and it has the capacity to do it when the patient is present and is disposed in a certain way; if not, it will not be able to act (for there is no further need to add the qualification "if nothing external prevents it"; for it has the capacity in the way in which the capacity is a capacity for acting, and this it is not in every case but when things are disposed in a certain way, among which the external hindrances will also be ruled out;
11| for these are excluded by some of the conditions present in the definition) — that is why, even if it wishes or desires to do two things, or contrary things, at the same time, it will not do them; for it does not have the capacity for them in that way, nor is the capacity a capacity for doing them at the same time, since it will act in the way appropriate to the things whose capacity it is. Since we have spoken of the capacity spoken of in relation to motion, let us determine, concerning actuality, what actuality is and what sort of thing it is. For as we distinguish these things, it will at the same time become clear about what is potential too, that we call potential not only what is naturally such as to move something else, or be moved by something else, either without qualification or in some particular way, but also in another sense — which is why, in our inquiry, we went through these points as well. Actuality, then, is the thing's existing, but not in the way we mean when we speak of it as existing potentially. We speak of something as potential, for example, when we say that there is a Hermes in the wood, or the half in the whole line, because it could be taken out, and we speak of someone as knowing even when he is not contemplating, if he is capable of contemplating; and the other case is actual. What we mean is clear in particular cases by induction, and one need not look for a definition of everything, but grasp the analogy as well: that as that which is building is to that which is capable of building,
12| [1048b] and the waking as against the sleeping, and the seeing as against that which has sight but has its eyes shut, and that which has been marked off from matter as against the matter, and that which has been worked up as against the unworked. Let one member of this differentiation be defined as the actuality, and the other as the potential. But things are not all said to be actual in the same way, but only by analogy — as this is in this or relative to this, so that is in that or relative to that; for some are as motion to potentiality, others as substance to some matter. But the infinite and the void, and other such things, are said to be potential and actual in a different sense from most existing things — for instance, from the seeing thing and the walking thing and the thing seen. For of these it is possible for the statement to be simply true at some time as well (the thing seen is true because it is being seen, the other because it is capable of being seen); but the infinite is not potential in this sense, as though it would at some time exist actually as separate, but only for knowledge. For the fact that the division never gives out is what accounts for this activity's existing potentially, though not for its being separated off. And since of actions which have a limit none is an end but all belong to what is around the end — for instance the making-thin, or thinning itself, and the things themselves, when someone is making them thin, are in motion in this way, without the things for the sake of which the motion occurs yet being present — these are not action, or at least not complete action (for it is not an end);
13| but that is action in which the end is also present. For instance, one is at the same time seeing and has seen, is understanding and has understood, is thinking and has thought — but one is not at the same time learning and has learned, nor being healed and has been healed. But one is living well and has lived well at the same time, and is happy and has been happy. If this were not so, the activity would have had to stop at some point, as when one is making something thin; but as it is, it does not, but one lives and has lived. Of these, then, we must call some motions, others actualities. For every motion is incomplete — thinning, learning, walking, building; these indeed are motions, and incomplete ones. For one is not at the same time walking and has walked, nor building and has built, nor coming to be and has come to be, or being moved and has been moved, but they are different things, and one is moving something and has moved it; but one has seen and is seeing the same thing at the same time, and is thinking and has thought. This sort of thing, then, I call an actuality, and that sort a motion. What actuality is, then, and of what kind, let this and the like make clear to us. But when each thing is potential and when it is not must be determined; for it is not at just any time whatever.
14| [1049a] For instance, is earth potentially a man? Or rather is it not, but rather when it has already become a seed — and perhaps not even then? Just as, then, not everything could be made healthy by the medical art, nor by chance, but there is something that is capable of it, and this is what is potentially healthy — the boundary for that which comes to be in actuality from thought out of what exists potentially is this: when, the person having willed it, it comes about with nothing external hindering; and there, in the case of what is being made healthy, when nothing among the things in it hinders. Similarly too a house is potential: if nothing among the things in this — that is, in the matter — hinders it from becoming a house, and there is nothing that needs to be added or taken away or changed, this is potentially a house; and likewise in the other cases, of all things whose principle of coming-to-be is external. And of all things whose principle is in the very thing that has it, they are potential whenever, with nothing external impeding, they will come about through themselves; for instance, the seed is not yet potentially a man (for it must still fall into something else and change), but when already through its own principle it is of such a kind, then it is already potential; but that former state needs another principle, just as earth is not yet potentially a statue (for it will become bronze only by changing). What we call a thing seems not to be this but rather to be made-of-that — for instance the chest is not wood but wooden, nor is wood earth but earthen; and again earth, if it is similarly not something else but made-of-that — that other thing is always, without qualification, the potentiality of what comes after it.
15| For instance, the chest is not earthen nor earth but wooden; for this is potentially a chest, and this is the matter of a chest — the matter of a chest without qualification being wood without qualification, but the matter of this particular chest being this particular wood. But if there is some first thing which is no longer called, in terms of something else, made-of-that, this is prime matter; for instance, if earth is airy, and air is not fire but fiery, fire is prime matter, not being a this. For the substrate and the attribute differ in this respect, in being a this or not being one; for instance, the substrate of the affections is a man, and body and soul, while the affection is the musical and the white (and when musicality has come to be present in it, it is called not musicality but musical, and the man is not whiteness but white, nor is it walking or motion but walking or being moved, in the way the made-of-that was said). Whenever, then, it is like this, the ultimate substrate is substance; but whenever it is not like this, but what is predicated is some form and a this, the ultimate substrate is matter and material substance. And it is right, then, that the made-of-that designation should be used in accordance with the matter and the affections,
16| [1049b] for both are indeterminate. When, then, one should speak of something as potential and when not has been stated. And since it has been previously determined in how many ways the prior is spoken of, it is clear that actuality is prior to potentiality. And I mean by potentiality not only the definite kind which is called a principle of change in another thing, or in the thing itself qua other, but in general every principle of motion or of rest. For nature too falls into the same class; for it is in the same genus as potentiality, since it is a principle of motion — though not in another thing, but in the thing itself qua itself. Actuality, then, is prior to every such potentiality, both in account and in substance; but in time it both is and is not prior in a way. That it is prior in account is clear (for it is because the thing that is capable in the primary sense admits of being actualized that it is called capable — I mean, for instance, capable of building is that which is capable of building, and capable of seeing is that which can see, and visible is that which is capable of being seen; and the same account holds in the other cases too, so that the account and the knowledge of the actuality must exist before the knowledge of the potentiality). But it is prior in time in the following way: the thing that is actual and is the same in form, though not in number, is prior. I mean this: prior in time to this man who already exists in actuality, and to the grain, and to the seeing thing, are the matter and the seed and the thing capable of sight, which are potentially a man and grain and a seeing thing, but not yet actually so;
17| but prior in time to these are other things which exist in actuality, from which these came to be; for always out of that which exists potentially there comes to be that which exists actually, through the agency of something that exists in actuality — for instance man from man, the musical man by the agency of a musical man — some first mover always being present; and the mover already exists in actuality. It has been said in the discussions concerning substance that everything that comes to be comes to be something out of something and by the agency of something, and that this agent is the same in form as the product. This is why it is also thought to be impossible to be a builder without having built anything, or a lyre-player without ever having played the lyre; for one who is learning to play the lyre learns to play it by playing it, and likewise in the other cases too. From this arose the sophistical refutation, that one who does not possess the knowledge will do that of which there is knowledge; for the one learning does not possess it. But because, of that which is coming to be, something has come to be, and of that which is in motion generally, something has been moved (this is clear in the discussions concerning motion),
18| [1050a] and the one learning must presumably already possess some part of the knowledge. But at any rate it is clear in this way too that actuality is prior to potentiality, both in coming-to-be and in time. But it is prior in substance as well, first because the things that are later in coming-to-be are prior in form and in substance (for example, a man is prior to a boy, and a human being is prior to seed: for the one already has the form, the other does not), and because everything that comes to be moves toward a principle, that is, an end (for the principle is that for the sake of which, and coming-to-be is for the sake of the end), and the end is actuality, and it is for the sake of this that the potentiality is acquired. For animals do not see in order that they may have sight, but have sight in order that they may see; and likewise people have the art of building in order to build, and the capacity for theoretical study in order to study; but they do not study in order to have the capacity for theoretical study, except those who are practicing — and these are not really studying, but only in a certain way, or because they have no need to study. Further, matter exists potentially because it might come to be in the form; but when it exists actually, then it is in the form. And likewise too in the other cases, including those whose end is motion; hence, just as teachers think they have delivered their end when they have shown the pupil in action, so too does nature.
19| For if it did not come about in this way, there would be a Hermes of Pauson: for it would be unclear whether the knowledge is inside or outside, just as with that Hermes. For the work is an end, and the actuality is the work; that is why the name 'actuality' is derived from 'work,' and it points toward 'realization.' Now since in some cases the ultimate thing is the use — for example, seeing is the use of sight, and nothing else comes to be from sight besides this — while in other cases something does come to be from it — for example, a house comes to be from the art of building, besides the act of building — nonetheless in the one case it is the end, and in the other it is more the end than the potentiality is: for the building is in the thing being built, and it comes to be and exists together with the house. So wherever what comes to be is something other than the use, in these cases the actuality is present in the thing being made — for example, building is in the thing being built, and weaving is in the thing being woven, and likewise in the other cases, and in general motion is in the thing being moved — but wherever there is no other product besides the actuality, in these cases the actuality is present in the agents themselves — for example, seeing is in the one seeing, and contemplation is in the one contemplating, and life is in the soul, and hence so too is happiness, for
20| [1050b] happiness is a certain kind of life. So it is clear that substance and form are actuality. By this argument, then, it is clear that actuality is prior in substance to potentiality; and, as we said, in time one actuality always precedes another, all the way back to the actuality of that which first and always causes motion. But it is prior also in a more authoritative sense: for things that are eternal are prior in substance to things that are perishable, and nothing eternal exists potentially. The argument is this: every potentiality is at the same time a potentiality for the contradictory. For what is not capable of belonging could not belong to anything, but everything that is capable admits of not being actual. So what is capable of being admits both of being and of not being; the same thing, then, is capable both of being and of not being. But what is capable of not being admits of not being; and what admits of not being is perishable, either without qualification, or in the very respect in which it is said to admit of not being — either in place, or in quantity, or in quality; and without qualification means with respect to substance. Nothing, then, that is imperishable exists potentially without qualification (though nothing prevents it from existing potentially in some respect, for example in quality or in place); all such things, then, exist actually. Nor do the things that exist of necessity exist potentially (and yet these are primary:
21| for if these did not exist, nothing would exist); nor does motion, if any motion is eternal; nor, if anything that is eternal is in motion, does it move in virtue of a potentiality, except with respect to 'from where to where' (and nothing prevents there being matter for this). That is why the sun and the stars and the whole heaven are always in actuality, and there is no fear that they will ever stop — the fear that the natural philosophers have. Nor do they grow weary in doing this: for the motion involved for them does not concern a potentiality for the contradictory, as it does for perishable things, such that the continuity of the motion would be a strain; for it is the substance, being matter and potentiality and not actuality, that is responsible for this strain. The perishable things imitate the imperishable, even those that are involved in change, for example earth and fire. For these too are always in actuality: for they have their motion in their own right and in themselves. But the other potentialities, as we have distinguished them, are all potentialities for the contradictory: for what is capable of moving in this way is also capable of moving not in this way, at least those that accord with reason; while the non-rational potentialities will be potentialities for the contradictory only by being present or absent. If, then, there are certain natures or substances of the sort that those who speak of the Forms describe in their arguments, something would be far more a knower than knowledge itself is, and something more in motion than motion is:
22| [1051a] for these would be actualities rather, while those Forms are potentialities relative to them. It is clear, then, that actuality is prior both to potentiality and to every principle of change. But that it is also better and more honorable than a good potentiality is clear from the following. For whatever is spoken of in terms of being capable, the same thing is capable of the contraries; for example, what is called capable of being healthy is the same thing as what is capable of being sick, and at the same time: for the same potentiality is a potentiality for being healthy and for being ill, for being at rest and for being in motion, for building and for tearing down, and for being built and for collapsing. So the capacity for contraries belongs to a thing at the same time; but the contraries themselves cannot belong to it at the same time, and the actualities too cannot belong to it at the same time (for example, being healthy and being ill), so that one of these two must be the good, whereas the potentiality is alike a potentiality for both, or for neither: the actuality, then, is better. And in the case of bad things too, the end and the actuality must necessarily be worse than the potentiality: for what is capable of both is the same for both contraries. It is clear, then, that the bad does not exist apart from actual things; for by nature the bad is posterior to the potentiality. So neither in the things that exist from the beginning, that is, the eternal things, is there anything that is either bad, or erroneous, or corrupted (for corruption too is one of the bad things).
23| Geometrical diagrams too are found by an activity: for it is by dividing that people find them. If they were already divided, the result would be obvious; as it is, it is present only potentially. Why does the triangle have angles equal to two right angles? Because the angles about a single point are equal to two right angles. So if the line parallel to the side had been drawn, it would have been immediately obvious to anyone looking at it, why this is so. Why is the angle in a semicircle universally a right angle? If three lines are equal — the two forming the base and the one set up from the midpoint — it is obvious to one who looks at it, provided he knows that fact. So it is clear that the things that exist potentially are discovered by being brought into actuality: and the reason is that thinking is an actuality; so that the potentiality comes from the actuality, and this is why people come to know by making (for the actuality that is numerically distinct is posterior in coming-to-be). Since being, and not-being, are spoken of in one sense with reference to the figures of the categories, and in another sense with reference to the potentiality or actuality of these or their contraries,
24| [1051b] while being in the most authoritative sense is being true or false — and this, in the case of things, consists in their being combined or separated, so that he who thinks the separated to be separated and the combined to be combined speaks truly, while he whose thought is contrary to how the things actually are is in error — when, then, does what is called true or false exist, or not exist? For we must consider what we mean by this. For it is not because we think truly that you are white that you are white; rather, it is because you are white that we, in saying this, speak truly. If, then, some things are always combined and incapable of being separated, while others are always separated and incapable of being combined, and others admit of the contraries, then to be is to be combined and to be one, and not to be is not to be combined but to be more than one: so, concerning things that admit of being otherwise, the same opinion and the same statement come to be both false and true, and it is possible at one time to speak truly and at another time to speak falsely; but concerning things incapable of being otherwise, it is not the case that they are at one time true and at another time false, but the same things are always true or always false. But concerning things that are without composition, what is it for them to be or not to be, and what is the true and the false?
25| For it is not composite, so that it would exist when put together and not exist when it is divided, as the white wood is, or the incommensurable diagonal; nor will the true and the false still hold in the same way for those things either. Rather, just as the true is not the same in these cases, so too being is not the same; instead, one thing is true or false in this way: touching and asserting is true (for affirmation and assertion are not the same thing), while not touching is failing to know (for it is not possible to be deceived about what a thing is, except accidentally; and the same holds for the non-composite substances too, for it is not possible to be deceived about them: and they all exist actually, not potentially, for otherwise they would come to be and perish, but as it is, being itself does not come to be nor perish, for it would have to come to be out of something: so about whatever things are precisely what it is to be something, and are actualities, it is not possible to be deceived, but only to think them or not; rather, what is sought about them is what they are, whether they are of such a kind or not): but being in the sense of the true, and not-being in the sense of the false, is one thing, if it is composite, true, and if it is not composite, false.
26| And the one, if indeed it is, is so in this way, and if it is not so, it is not. [1052a] And the true is thinking these things; but the false does not exist, nor does deception, but only ignorance — not the kind of ignorance that is like blindness. For blindness is as it would be if someone had no capacity for thought at all. And it is clear too that about unchanging things there is no deception with respect to time, if one supposes them to be unchanging. For example, if someone thinks the triangle does not change, he will not think that it has two right angles at one time and not at another (for it would be changing), but rather that one thing holds and another does not — for example, that no even number is prime, or that some are prime and some are not; but about a single number not even this holds, for he will no longer think that some are so and some are not, but will state truly or falsely as though it always held so.
1| That the one is spoken of in many ways has been said earlier, in the discussions of how many ways a thing is divided; but though it is spoken of in more ways, the modes that sum it up are four, for things spoken of as one primarily and in their own right, and not accidentally. For one thing is the continuous, either simply, or especially that which is continuous by nature and not by contact or by a bond (and among these, more one and prior is that whose motion is more indivisible and more simple); further, of this kind, and more so, is the whole, that which has some shape and form, most of all if something is such by nature and not by force, as things are that are held by glue or a peg or a bond, but rather has in itself the cause of its own being continuous. And a thing is of this kind by having its motion one and indivisible in place and time; so that it is clear that if something has by nature a starting point of motion — the primary starting point of the primary motion, I mean, for instance, of locomotion, circular motion — then this is the primary one magnitude. Some things, then, are one in this way, as continuous or as a whole; others are things whose account is one, and such are things whose thinking is one, and such are things whose thinking is indivisible, and it is indivisible either in species or in number of what is indivisible: in number, then, the indivisible is the particular, while in species it is that which is indivisible with respect to what is knowable and to scientific knowledge; so that what is a cause of the one for substances would be one in the primary sense. The one, then, is spoken of in so many ways: the continuous by nature, and the whole, and the particular, and the universal — and all of these are one by being indivisible, some of them in respect of motion, others in respect of thought or account.
2| [1052b] — And one must understand that it is not to be taken in the same way to say what sorts of things are called one, and what it is to be one and what its account is. For the one is spoken of in so many ways, and each of these things will be one, whatever it is to which any of these modes belongs; but to be one will sometimes belong to it by one of these modes, sometimes by another, which is even closer to the name, while those others belong to it potentially — just as, concerning element and cause too, if one had to speak while both distinguishing among the things and rendering a definition of the name. For fire is in a way an element (and perhaps the unlimited, or something else of that sort, is also an element in its own right), but in a way it is not: for being fire and being an element are not the same thing; rather, as a thing and a nature, fire is an element, while the name signifies that this belongs to it accidentally, namely that there is something composed out of it as a primary constituent. So too with cause and with the one and with all such things; and this is why to be one is to be indivisible, being just this particular thing and separable either in place or in form or in thought — or else to be whole and indivisible; but above all, to be the primary measure of each genus, and most properly the measure of quantity;
3| for it is from this that the notion has come to the others. For a measure is that by which quantity is known; and quantity, insofar as it is quantity, is known either by a unit or by a number, and every number is known by a unit; so that all quantity, insofar as it is quantity, is known by the one, and that by which quantities are primarily known, this itself is one; hence the one is the starting point of number, insofar as it is number. And from this, in the other cases too, that is called a measure by which each thing is primarily known, and the measure of each thing is one — in length, in breadth, in depth, in weight, in speed (for weight and speed are common terms applying to opposites: for each of these is twofold, as weight is said both of whatever has any downward tendency at all, and of what has an excess of downward tendency, and speed both of whatever has any motion at all, and of what has an excess of motion: for there is a certain speed even of the slow thing, and a weight even of the lighter thing). In all these cases, then, the measure and starting point is some one and indivisible thing, since even in the case of lines they use the foot-length as something indivisible. For everywhere they seek as the measure some one and indivisible thing; and this is what is simple, either in quality or in quantity. Now wherever it is thought that nothing can be taken away or added, this is the exact measure (hence the measure of number is the most exact:
4| [1053a] for they posit the unit as indivisible in every way); and in the other cases they imitate this. For from a stade or a talent, and always from the greater quantity, an addition or subtraction would go unnoticed more than from a lesser one; so that the first quantity from which, as far as perception goes, a change is not possible, this is what everyone makes the measure, both of liquids and of dry things, and of weight and of magnitude; and they think they know the quantity when they know it by means of this measure. And indeed they measure motion too by the simple motion and the fastest one (for this takes the least time); hence in astronomy such a one is a starting point and measure (for they suppose the motion of the heavens to be uniform and the fastest, and by reference to it they judge the others), and in music the quarter-tone, because it is the smallest interval, and in speech the letter. And all these are one in this way — not as something common called 'the one', but as has been said. And the measure is not always one in number, but sometimes several — for instance, the quarter-tones are two, not as perceived by hearing but in their ratios, and the vowel sounds by which we measure are several, and the diagonal is measured by two units, and so is the side, and all magnitudes.
5| So then the one is the measure of all things, because we come to know the substance out of which a thing is composed by dividing it either by quantity or by form. And this is why the one is indivisible—because the first thing in each case is indivisible. But not everything is indivisible in the same way: for instance a foot and a unit are not indivisible in the same way, but the one is indivisible in every respect, while the other must be taken as indivisible relative to perception, as has already been said; for presumably everything continuous is divisible. And the measure is always akin to what it measures: of magnitudes, a magnitude, and in each case a length is measured by a length, a breadth by a breadth, a sound by a sound, a weight by a weight, units by a unit. For this is how we must understand it, and not that number is measured by number—though that would be required if the cases were alike; but the requirement is not the same, but rather as if one required that units be measured by units, and not by a unit; and number is a plurality of units. And we speak of scientific knowledge and of perception as the measure of things for the same reason, because it is by means of them that we come to know something—since they are measured rather than measuring. But it happens with us as it would if someone else were measuring us and we thereby came to know how large we are, by having the cubit-measure applied to us just so many times. Protagoras says that man is the measure of all things, meaning, as it were, the man who knows or the man who perceives:
6| [1053b] and these have it because the one has perception and the other has knowledge, which we say are measures of their underlying subjects. So while they seem to be saying nothing out of the ordinary, they do appear to be saying something. That being one is, above all according to the meaning of the word, in a way a certain measure—most properly a measure of quantity, and secondarily of quality—is clear; and a thing will be such a measure if it is indivisible in respect of quantity, and such if it is indivisible in respect of quality; and this is why the one is indivisible either absolutely or qua one. But as regards substance and nature, we must inquire which way the matter stands, just as we went into it among the puzzles: what the one is and how we must conceive of it—whether the one itself is some substance, as the Pythagoreans say first and Plato afterward, or rather some nature underlies it and it must be stated more intelligibly and more in the manner of the natural philosophers; for among these, one says the one is love, another air, another the unlimited. If, then, none of the universals can be a substance, as has been said in the discussions concerning substance and being, then this itself cannot be a substance either, as being some one thing beside the many (for it is common to them), but can only be a predicate, then clearly the one cannot be a substance either:
7| for being and the one are predicated universally, more than anything else. So neither are the genera certain natures and substances separate from other things, nor can the one be a genus, for the same reasons for which neither being nor substance can be a genus. Further, the same must necessarily hold in all cases alike: being and the one are said in an equal number of ways; so that since among qualities there is some one and some nature, and likewise among quantities, it is clear that we must also inquire generally what the one is, just as what being is, on the ground that it is not enough to say that its nature just is this itself. But indeed among colors the one is a single color, for instance white, and then the others appear to come to be out of this and black, and black is the privation of white, just as darkness is the privation of light: so that if the things that are were colors, the things that are would be a certain number, but a number of what? Clearly of colors, and the one would be some one thing, for instance white. Likewise, too, if the things that are were musical intervals, there would be a number, of quarter-tones indeed, but their substance would not be number:
8| and the one would be something whose substance is not the one but the quarter-tone. [1054a] Likewise also in the case of vocal sounds, the things that are would be a number of letters, and the one would be a vowel letter. And if the things that are were rectilinear figures, there would be a number of figures, and the one would be the triangle. And the same account holds for the other genera as well, so that if indeed among affections too, and among qualities, and among quantities, and in motion there are numbers, and in every case some one thing, and the number is a number of certain things and the one is a certain one, but this is not itself the substance, then the same must necessarily hold in the case of substances too; for the case is alike in all of them. It is clear, then, that the one in every genus is some nature, and that in no case is this itself—the one—the nature of the thing; but just as among colors we must look for the one itself as one color, so too among substances we must look for the one itself as one substance: and that the one and being signify in a way the same thing is clear from the fact that they accompany the categories in an equal number of ways and are present in none of them (for instance neither in the category of what a thing is nor in that of quality, but stand in the same relation as being does), and from the fact that "one man" adds no further predicate beyond "man" (just as being adds nothing beyond what a thing is, or its quality, or its quantity), and from the fact that to be one is just to be a particular thing.
9| The one and the many are opposed in several ways, one of which is the one and the plurality as indivisible and divisible: for what is either divided or divisible is called a plurality of some sort, while what is indivisible, or not divided, is called one. Since, then, oppositions are of four kinds, and one of these two is spoken of in terms of privation, they would be contraries, and neither as contradiction nor as things spoken of relatively. Now the one is spoken of, and made clear, from its contrary: the indivisible from the divisible, because plurality and the divisible are more perceptible than the indivisible, so that in account plurality is prior to the indivisible, on account of perception. And to the one belong—just as we set out in the division of the contraries—the same, the similar, and the equal, while to plurality belong the different, the dissimilar, and the unequal. And since the same is spoken of in several ways, in one way we sometimes speak of it numerically; and a thing is one in this sense if it is one both in account and in number, as for instance you are one with yourself both in form and in matter; and further if the account of the primary substance is one,
10| [1054b] as for instance equal straight lines are the same, and equal and equal-angled quadrilaterals are the same, though there are more than one of them; but in these cases equality is a kind of oneness. Things are similar if, without being simply the same, and without being undifferentiated in respect of their composite substance, they are the same in respect of form—as, for instance, the larger square is similar to the smaller, and so are unequal straight lines; for these are similar, but not simply the same. Other things are similar if, having the same form, in cases admitting of more and less, they are neither more nor less. Others are similar if they have the same affection, and are one in form—for instance white—though intensely and less so; these are said to be similar because their form is one. Others are similar if they have more points that are the same than different, either absolutely or in the obvious respects—for instance tin is similar to silver in that it is white, and gold is similar to fire in that it is yellow and reddish. So it is clear that both the different and the dissimilar are spoken of in several ways. And in one sense the different is opposed to the same, so that everything, in relation to everything else, is either the same or different: but in another sense a thing is different if its matter and its account are not both one; hence you and your neighbor are different:
11| The third sense is as things are in mathematics. Now the other and the same are, for this reason, said of everything in relation to everything, of all that is called one and being: for the contradictory is not the contradictory of the same, and so it is not said of things that are not (though "not the same" is said of them), but of everything that is: for whatever is a being and a one is by nature either one or not one with another. The other and the same, then, are opposed in this way, but differentia and otherness are something else. For that which is other, and that from which it is other, need not be other in respect of anything: for whatever is, is either other or the same, no matter what it is. But that which is different is different from something in some respect, so that there must be something the same in respect of which the differing things differ. And this same thing is genus or species: for everything that differs, differs either in genus or in species — in genus, when things have no matter in common and no coming-to-be into one another, as with things whose figure of predication is different; in species, when things share the same genus (a genus being called the same when the differing things are both said to be the same thing in respect of substance). Contraries are different things, and contrariety is a kind of differentia. That we posit this correctly is clear from induction:
12| For all these too are evidently different, and not merely other, but some other in genus, others within the same coordinate series of the category, [1055a] so that they are the same in genus when they are in the same genus. It has been determined elsewhere which things are the same or other in genus. Since things that differ can differ from one another more or less, there is also a greatest difference, and this I call contrariety. That it is the greatest difference is clear from induction. For things that differ in genus have no path into one another, but stand further apart and are not comparable; while for things that differ in species, comings-to-be proceed from the contraries as extremes, and the interval between extremes is the greatest, so that so too is the interval between contraries. But indeed the greatest thing in each genus is complete. For the greatest is that beyond which there is no excess, and the complete is that outside which it is not possible to take anything further: for the complete differentia has an end (just as other things too are called complete by having an end), and outside the end there is nothing — for the end is the extreme in everything, and contains everything else, and so nothing lies outside the end, and the complete needs nothing further. That contrariety, then, is complete difference, is clear from this. Since "contrary" is said in many ways, completeness will follow in whatever way being contraries belongs to the things in question.
13| Given this, it is clear that a thing cannot have more than one contrary (for nothing could be more extreme than the extreme, and one interval cannot have more than two extremes), and in general, if contrariety is a difference, and difference is between two terms, then so is complete difference. The other definitions of contraries must hold true as well. For the complete difference is the greatest difference (since among things that differ in genus nothing can be taken further out, nor among things that differ in species — for it has been shown that there is no difference with respect to things outside the genus, and within the genus this is the greatest difference), and things within the same genus that differ most are contraries (for the greatest difference among them is the complete one), and things within the same recipient that differ most are contraries (for the matter is the same for contraries), and things falling under the same capacity that differ most are contraries (for the science of one genus is one science): in all these cases the complete difference is the greatest. The primary contrariety is that of possession and privation — not privation in every sense (for privation is said in many ways), but whichever privation is complete. The other contraries will be spoken of by reference to these: some by having the state or its privation, others by producing it or being capable of producing it, others by being acquisitions or losses of these or of other contraries.
14| If, then, contradiction, privation, contrariety, and relative terms are opposed each to its own correlate, [1055b] and of these contradiction is primary, and there is nothing between the terms of a contradiction, while between contraries there can be something, it is clear that contradiction and contraries are not the same thing. Privation is a kind of contradiction: for either a thing is wholly incapable of having an attribute, or, being naturally disposed to have it, does not have it — either altogether or in some defined respect (for we already use this word in many senses, as has been distinguished elsewhere for us) — so that privation is a kind of contradiction, or an incapacity that has been defined, or one taken together with its recipient. Hence there is nothing between the terms of a contradiction, but there is something between the terms of a given privation: for everything is either equal or not equal, but not everything is equal or unequal — rather this holds, if at all, only within what is capable of receiving equality. If, then, comings-to-be in matter proceed from contraries, and things come to be either from the form and the possession of the form, or from some privation of the form and the shape, it is clear that every contrariety would be a privation, though perhaps not every privation is a contrariety (the reason being that what has been deprived can be deprived in many ways): for the things from which changes proceed, taken as extremes, are the contraries. This is clear also from induction. For every contrariety involves privation in one of its two terms, though not all in the same way:
15| For inequality is a privation of equality, unlikeness a privation of likeness, vice a privation of virtue — but they differ as has been said: in the one case the privation holds only if it is total, in the other it holds if it obtains at some time or in some respect, for instance at a certain age or in the governing part, or throughout. Hence for some of these there is something in between, and a person can be neither good nor bad, while for others there is not, but a thing must be either odd or even. Again, some have a determinate underlying subject, others do not. So it is clear that one of the two contraries is always spoken of in terms of privation. It is enough, too, to consider the primary contraries and the genera of contraries, such as the one and the many, for the others are reduced to these. But since one thing is contrary to one thing, one might raise the difficulty of how the one and the many are opposed, and the equal to the large and the small. For if we always use "which of the two" within an opposition — as in "which, white or black?" and "which, white or not white?" (we do not say "which, man or white?" except by supposition, when we are inquiring, for instance, "which came, Cleon or Socrates?" — though this is not necessary in any genus; yet even this usage has come from the same source):
16| For it is only opposites that cannot hold at once, and this is what is being drawn on here too, in "which of the two came?" [1056a] — for if both could hold at once, the question would be absurd; and if it is not the case that both can hold at once, then even this falls likewise into an opposition, into the one or the many, as in "did both come, or one of the two?" If, then, in the case of opposites the inquiry is always "which of the two," and we say "which, greater or smaller or equal," what is the opposition to these terms on the side of the equal? For it is contrary neither to one of them alone nor to both together: for why should it be contrary to the greater any more than to the smaller? Further, the equal is contrary to the unequal, so that it would turn out contrary to more than one thing. But if "unequal" signifies the same thing said of both at once, it would be opposed to both together (and this difficulty supports those who say that the unequal is a dyad), but then it follows that one thing is contrary to two things, which is impossible. Further, the equal evidently lies between the large and the small, but no contrariety appears to lie between its own terms, nor is this possible by definition: for a contrariety that lay between two things would not be complete, but rather a contrariety always has something of itself in between. It remains, then, that the equal is opposed either as a negation or as a privation. It cannot be opposed to one of the two alone (for why should it be opposed to the large any more than to the small?): it is, therefore, a privative negation of both together, and this is why "which of the two" is said with reference to both together, but not with reference to just one of them (for instance, "which, greater or equal?" or "which, equal or smaller?"), but there are always three terms.
17| But privation is not necessarily present: for not everything that is neither greater nor less is thereby equal, but only among things whose nature admits of greater and less. The equal, then, is that which is neither large nor small, though its nature is to be either large or small: and it is opposed to both as a privative negation, and that is why it is also an intermediate. So too what is neither good nor bad is opposed to both, but is nameless: for each of the two is said in many ways, and there is not a single receptive subject, but rather it is whatever is neither white nor black. Nor is even this said as one thing, but the things of which this privative negation is said are in a way determinate: for it must be either gray or sallow or something else of that sort. So those who complain that everything is spoken of alike are not right, on the ground that there would then be, between a shoe and a hand, something that is neither shoe nor hand, just as there is between the good and the bad something that is neither good nor bad, as though there would have to be an intermediate in every case. But this does not necessarily follow. For the joint negation of opposites applies to those between which there is by nature some intermediate and some interval:
18| [1056b] but for others there is no such joint negation; for the things whose joint negations these are belong to a different genus, so that the underlying subject is not one. Similarly one might raise a puzzle about the one and the many. For if the many is opposed to the one without qualification, certain impossibilities result. For then the one will be few, or a few thing: for the many is opposed to the few as well. Further, two will be many, if indeed the double is a case of the manifold, and manifold is said with reference to two: so that the one will be few. For in relation to what is two many, if not in relation to one and to the few? For nothing is fewer. Further, if, as in length there is the long and the short, so in plurality there is the much and the little, and whatever is much is also many, and the many is much (unless indeed there is some difference in the case of a continuum easily bounded), the little will be some plurality. So the one will be some plurality, if indeed it is also few: and this must be so, if two is many. But perhaps the many is in a sense also said of the much, though as a distinct notion—for example water is much, but not many. But wherever things are divisible, the term applies; in one way, if there is a plurality having excess either absolutely or relatively to something (and the little likewise is a plurality having deficiency), in another way as number, which alone is opposed to the one.
19| For it is in this way that we speak of one or many, just as one might say one and ones, or white and whites, and the things measured in relation to the measure and the measurable: it is in this way too that the manifold is spoken of; for each number is many because it is composed of ones and because each is measurable by one, and as the opposite of the one, not of the few. In this sense, then, two also is many, but as a plurality having excess either relatively or absolutely it is not, but is the first case of plurality. But two is few without qualification: for it is the first plurality that has deficiency (hence Anaxagoras did not do right in leaving the matter as it stood when he said that all things were together, unlimited both in plurality and in smallness—he ought to have said, instead of 'and in smallness,' 'and in fewness'; for they are not unlimited), since the little exists not on account of the one, as some say, but on account of two. The one and the many that belong to numbers, then, are opposed as measure to measurable; and these are opposed as things that are relative are opposed, namely as many as are not relatives in their own right. We have distinguished elsewhere that the relative is spoken of in two ways: in one way as contraries, in another as knowledge is related to the knowable, by the fact that something else is spoken of in relation to it.
20| [1057a] But nothing prevents the one from being less than something, for instance than the two: for it does not follow that if it is less it is also few. But plurality is, so to speak, a genus of number: for number is a plurality measurable by one, and the one and number are in a way opposed, not as contrary, but, as has been said, as some relatives are opposed; for insofar as the one is a measure and the other is measurable, in this respect they are opposed. That is why not everything that is one is a number—for instance, if something is indivisible. Knowledge, though spoken of in a similar way in relation to the knowable, does not work out in a similar way. For knowledge would seem to be the measure, and the knowable the thing measured, but it turns out that while every knowledge is knowable, not everything knowable is knowledge, because knowledge is in a way measured by the knowable. But plurality is opposed neither to the few—rather the much is opposed to this, as an excessive plurality to a plurality that is exceeded—nor to the one in every way; but the one is opposed to it, as has been said, in that the one is indivisible and it is divisible, and it is opposed to it also as a relative, as knowledge is to the knowable, if it is a number and the one is a measure. Now since it is possible for there to be something intermediate between contraries, and in some cases there is, the intermediates must be composed out of the contraries.
21| For all intermediates are in the same genus as the things between which they are intermediate. For we call intermediates those things into which what is changing must first change (for example, if something moving from the lowest note to the highest were to change by the smallest interval, it will arrive first at the intermediate notes, and in the case of colors, if it is to move from white to black, it will arrive first at crimson and gray before it arrives at black; and similarly in other cases): but to change from one genus into another genus is not possible, except accidentally, as for instance from color into shape. The intermediates, then, must be in the same genus both as one another and as the things between which they are intermediate. But indeed all intermediates are between certain opposites: for it is only out of these, in their own right, that change is possible (which is why it is impossible for there to be an intermediate between things that are not opposites: for then there would be change even not from opposites). Of opposites, there is no intermediate for contradiction (for this is what contradiction is, an opposition of which either one or the other part is present in anything whatever, having no intermediate); but of the rest, some are relatives, some are privations, and some are contraries. Of relatives, as many as are not contraries have no intermediate:
22| the reason being that they are not in the same genus. For what is intermediate between knowledge and the knowable? But there is something intermediate between large and small. [1057b] But if the intermediates are in the same genus, as has been shown, and are intermediate between contraries, they must be composed out of these contraries. For either there will be some genus of them, or there will be none. And if there is a genus, in such a way that something is prior to the contraries, the differentiae will be prior contraries, which will make the contrary species as differentiae of a genus: for it is out of the genus and the differentiae that the species come (for example, if white and black are contraries, and one is a color that separates the sight and the other a color that concentrates it, these differentiae, the separating and the concentrating, are prior: so that these are contraries to one another, and prior). But indeed those things that differ in a contrary way are more truly contraries: and the remaining cases, the intermediates too, will be composed out of the genus and the differentiae (for example, as many colors as are intermediate between white and black must be spoken of both from the genus—and the genus is color—and from certain differentiae: but these will not be the primary contraries; otherwise each thing would be either white or black: they are therefore other differentiae; these, then, will be intermediate between the primary contraries, and the primary differentiae are the separating and the concentrating).
23| So the first things to investigate are those contraries that are not within a genus, and what the intermediates between them are composed of (for what is within the same genus must either be composed out of things that are not compounds within that genus, or be itself uncompounded). Now the contraries are uncompounded out of each other, and so are starting points; but the intermediates are either all compound or none are. But something comes to be out of the contraries, so that there will be a change into this before there is a change into the contraries themselves; for of each contrary there will be a lesser and a greater degree. So this too will be an intermediate between the contraries. And so all the other intermediates as well are compound; for what is more of one thing and less of another is in some way compounded out of the things of which it is said to be more of the one and less of the other. And since there are no other things prior to the contraries and of the same genus as they, all the intermediates would be composed out of the contraries, so that everything lower down as well — both the contraries and the intermediates — will be composed out of the primary contraries. It is clear, then, that the intermediates are all within the same genus, and are intermediate between contraries, and are all composed out of the contraries. But a thing that is different in species from something is different in some respect, and this must belong to both of them; for instance, if an animal is different in species, both are animals.
24| Things that differ in species must therefore be within the same genus; for I call a genus of this sort one of which both are said to be one and the same thing, having a differentia not accidentally, [1058a] whether the genus is a kind of matter or something else. For it is not enough that the common element be present — for instance, that both are animals — but this same thing, the animal, must also be different for each of them, as being for the one a horse and for the other a man; hence this common element is different in species as between the two. So in their own right the one will be an animal of this sort and the other an animal of that sort, for instance the one a horse and the other a man. This differentia, then, must be an otherness of the genus. For by a differentia of a genus I mean an otherness that makes the genus itself something other. This otherness, then, will be a contrariety (this is also clear from induction); for everything is divided by opposites, and it has been shown that contraries fall within the same genus; for contrariety was a complete differentia, and every differentia in species is a differentia of something in some respect, so that this something is the same and is the genus for both of the contraries (which is why all the contraries in a single line of predication, so far as they differ in species and not in genus, that fall under the same category, are the most different from each other — for the differentia is complete — and do not occur together in the same subject at the same time). The differentia, then, is a contrariety. This, then, is what it is to be different in species: for things that are within the same genus and are indivisible to possess a contrariety (and things are the same in species when, being indivisible, they possess no contrariety):
25| For in the process of division contrarieties arise even in the intermediate stages, before one reaches the indivisibles; so it is clear that, relative to what is called the genus, none of the things that are species of it is either the same in species or different in species (and reasonably so: for matter is made evident by negation, and the genus is the matter of that of which it is called the genus — not in the sense of the genus of the Heraclids, but in the sense of what is meant in the natural world), nor is any species the same or different in species relative to things not within the same genus, but it will differ in genus from those, and in species from things within the same genus. For the differentia by which a thing differs in species must be a contrariety; and this belongs only to things that are within the same genus. One might raise the difficulty why a woman does not differ in species from a man, given that female and male are contrary and their differentia is a contrariety, and why a female animal and a male animal are not different in species; and yet this differentia belongs to the animal in its own right, and does not belong to it the way whiteness or blackness does, but rather female and male belong to it precisely as animal. This difficulty is nearly the same as the question why one contrariety makes things different in species and another does not — for instance, footed and winged do so, but whiteness and blackness do not.
26| Or is it because some affections belong to the genus in its own right, while others belong to it less so? And since one element is the account and the other the matter, [1058b] whatever contrarieties are present in the account produce a differentia in species, while those present in what is taken together with the matter do not. Hence whiteness in a man does not produce a differentia, nor does blackness, and there is no differentia in species between a white man and a black man, not even if one name were assigned to each. For man here functions as matter, and matter does not produce a differentia; and it is for this reason that individual men are not species of man, even though the flesh and bones out of which this man and that man are made are different: rather the composite whole is different, but not different in species, because there is no contrariety in the account. And this account is the ultimate indivisible: Callias is the account together with the matter; and so is the white man, because Callias is white; man, then, belongs to him accidentally. Nor, likewise, is a bronze circle different in species from a wooden one; nor a bronze triangle from a wooden circle — they do not differ in species on account of the matter, but because there is a contrariety in the account. But does matter, being in some way different, fail to produce things different in species, or is there a sense in which it does? For why is this horse different in species from this man? Yet their accounts are bound up with matter.
27| Or is it because there is a contrariety in the account? For that is also true of the white man and the black horse, and they are indeed different in species, though not insofar as the one is white and the other black, since even if both were white, they would still be different in species. Male and female are affections proper to the animal, but not in respect of its substance, but in the matter and the body; hence the same seed becomes female or male by undergoing a certain affection. What it is, then, to be different in species, and why some things differ in species and others do not, has now been stated. And since contraries are different in species, and the perishable and the imperishable are contraries (for privation is a determinate incapacity), the perishable and the imperishable must be different in genus. Now we have so far been speaking of these in terms of the universal names themselves, so that it might seem not necessary for any perishable thing and any imperishable thing whatever to be different in species, just as white and black need not be either (for the same thing can be both, even at the same time, if it is taken universally — just as man may be both white and black — and the same holds for particulars: for the same individual could be, though not at the same time, both white and black);
28| and yet white is contrary to black). But among contraries, some belong to certain things accidentally — as with the cases just mentioned, and many others — while for others this is impossible, and among these are the perishable and the imperishable; [1059a] for nothing is perishable accidentally: for what is accidental admits of not belonging, whereas the perishable belongs, to whatever it belongs to, among the things that belong of necessity; otherwise the very same one thing would be both perishable and imperishable, if it were possible for perishability not to belong to it. So the perishable must belong to the substance, or within the substance, of each perishable thing. And the same account holds for the imperishable as well: for both belong of necessity to what they belong to. So insofar as, and in virtue of that primary respect in which, the one thing is perishable and the other imperishable, there is an opposition, so that they must be different in genus. It is clear, then, that there cannot be Forms of the kind some people speak of; for then there would be a man who is perishable and one who is imperishable. And yet the Forms are said to be the same in species as particular things, and not merely homonymous with them; but things different in genus are further apart than things different in species.
1| That wisdom is a kind of knowledge concerned with principles is clear from the earlier books, in which we raised difficulties about it in relation to what others have said about the principles. One might raise the difficulty whether wisdom should be supposed to be one science or many. For if one, a single science is always of contraries, but the principles are not contraries. But if it is not one, of what sort must we suppose these sciences to be? Again, does it belong to one science or to several to study the principles of demonstration? For if to one, why to this one rather than to any other? But if to several, what sort of sciences must we suppose these to be? Again, is it a science of all substances or not? For if not of all, it is hard to say of which. But if one science is of all, it is unclear how the same science can be of several things. Again, is demonstration concerned only with substances, or also with their accidents? For if there is demonstration about accidents, there is none about substances. But if the two are different, which is which, and which of them is wisdom? Insofar as it is demonstrative, wisdom is the science of accidents; insofar as it is concerned with what is primary, it is the science of substances. But neither should we suppose that the science we are seeking is concerned with the causes discussed in the works on nature. For it is not concerned with the that-for-the-sake-of-which (for the good is of this kind, and this belongs to things that can be done and to things that are in motion; and this is what moves first — for that is the character of an end — but the first mover is not among the unmoved things). And in general it is a difficulty whether the science now being sought is concerned with sensible substances, or not, but with certain others.
2| [1059b] For if it is concerned with others, it would be concerned either with the forms or with the objects of mathematics. Now that the forms do not exist is clear (yet even if one supposes them to exist, it is a difficulty why what holds for the objects of mathematics does not hold likewise for the other things of which there are forms; I mean that they place the objects of mathematics between the forms and sensible things, as a kind of third class besides the forms and the things here, but there is no third man besides the form itself and the individual men, nor a third horse. But if, on the other hand, they do not exist as they say, what must we suppose the objects the mathematician deals with to be? For certainly not the things here; none of these is such as the mathematical sciences seek.) Nor, again, is the science now being sought concerned with the objects of mathematics (for none of them is separate); but neither is it concerned with sensible substances, for they are perishable. And in general one might raise the difficulty, to what science it belongs to raise the problem about the matter of the objects of mathematics. For it does not belong to natural science, since the whole business of the natural scientist is with things that have in themselves a principle of motion and rest; nor yet to the science that studies demonstration and knowledge;
3| for that science makes precisely this class its subject of inquiry. It remains, then, that the philosophy now before us should conduct the inquiry concerning them. One might raise the difficulty whether the science being sought should be supposed to be concerned with the principles which some call elements; for everyone supposes these to be present in composite things. But it would seem, rather, that the science being sought must be a science of universals; for every account and every science is of universals and not of the ultimate individuals, so that on this view it would be a science of the primary genera. And these would turn out to be being and the one; for these above all would be supposed to embrace all existing things, and to resemble principles most closely, because they are first by nature; for if these are destroyed, the rest are destroyed along with them, since everything is both being and one. But insofar as it is necessary, if one supposes them to be genera, that their differentiae should partake of them, and no differentia partakes of its genus, in this respect it would not seem right to suppose them to be genera, or principles either. Further, if what is simpler is more a principle than what is less so, and the ultimate members derived from the genus are simpler than the genera (for they are indivisible, while the genera are divided into several differing species), the species would seem to be more a principle than the genera.
4| But insofar as the species are destroyed along with the genera, the genera would seem to resemble principles more; for what destroys other things along with itself is a principle. [1060a] These, then, and others like them, are the questions that involve difficulty. Again, must we suppose something to exist besides the individuals, or not, and is the science being sought a science of these individuals? But these are infinite in number. Now what exists besides the individuals is genera or species, but the science now being sought is a science of neither of these. Why this is impossible has been stated. For in general it is a difficulty whether we should suppose some substance to exist separately besides the sensible substances, the things here, or not, but rather that these are the things that exist, and that wisdom is concerned with these. For we seem to be seeking some other substance, and this is our task before us, I mean to see whether there is something separate, existing in its own right and belonging to none of the sensible things. Again, if besides the sensible substances there is some other substance, besides which of the sensible things must we suppose it to exist? For why should one suppose it to exist besides men rather than besides horses or the other animals, or indeed besides inanimate things generally? Yet to construct other eternal substances equal in number to the sensible and perishable substances would seem to fall outside what is reasonable. But if the principle now being sought is not separate from bodies, what other than matter could one suppose it to be rather?
5| Yet matter does not exist in actuality, but only in potentiality. And it would seem that the form, or shape, is a more authoritative principle than matter; but this is perishable, so that there is, in general, no eternal substance that is separate and exists in its own right. But this is absurd; for it seems that some such principle and substance is, and is sought by nearly the most refined thinkers, as actually existing. For how will there be order unless something eternal, separate, and abiding exists? Further, if there is some such substance and principle, of the nature we are now seeking, and this is one and the same for all things, both the eternal and the perishable, it is a difficulty why, since the principle is the same, some of the things falling under the principle are eternal and others are not eternal (for this is absurd). But if the principle of perishable things is one and that of eternal things another, then, if the principle of perishable things is also eternal, we will face the same difficulty (for why, since the principle is eternal, are not the things falling under it also eternal?); and if it is perishable, then some other principle is required for it, and another again for that one, and this proceeds to infinity. But if, on the other hand, one supposes the principles that seem most of all to be unmoved — being and the one — first, if neither of them signifies a particular this and a substance,
6| [1060b] how will they be separate and exist in their own right? Yet it is principles of this kind — eternal and primary — that we are seeking. But if each of them does signify a particular this and a substance, then all existing things are substances; for being is predicated of all things (and the one of some), but it is false that all existing things are substances. Further, for those who say that the first principle is the one, and that this is a substance, and who generate number first out of the one and matter, and assert that this number is substance, how can what they say be true? For how must one conceive the dyad, and each of the remaining composite numbers, as being one? For on this point they say nothing, nor is it easy to say. But if one is to suppose lines, or what comes next after them (I mean the primary surfaces), to be principles, these at any rate are not separate substances, but are cuts and divisions, some of surfaces, some of bodies (and points are cuts and divisions of lines), and further, they are the limits of these same things; and all of these belong to other things, and none of them is separate. Again, how must we suppose there to be a substance of the one and of the point? For there is generation of every substance, but there is none of a point.
7| For the point is a division. There is a further puzzle: every science is of the universal and of such-and-such a kind, but substance is not of the universal, but rather a this and something separable, so that if there is a science of the principles, how must one suppose the principle to be a substance? Further, is there anything beside the concrete whole or not (I mean the matter and what goes along with it)? For if there is not, then all things in matter are perishable; but if there is something, it would be the form and the shape. So on what things this holds and on what it does not, it is hard to determine — for in some cases it is clear that the form is not separable, for example that of a house. Further, are the principles the same in species or in number? For if they are one in number, all things will be the same. Since the science of the philosopher is of being qua being, universally and not of a part of it, but being is spoken of in many ways and not in a single way: if, then, it is spoken of homonymously, with nothing in common, it does not fall under one science (for there is not one genus of such things), but if it is spoken of according to something common, it would fall under one science.
8| It seems, then, that being is spoken of in the way just described, in the way that the medical and the healthy are spoken of: for we speak of each of these too in many ways. [1061a] Each is spoken of in this way because the one is referred somehow to the science of medicine, another to health, another in some other way, but each is referred to the same thing. For a medical account and a medical scalpel are so called because the one belongs to the science of medicine, the other is useful to it. And likewise with the healthy: the one because it is a sign of health, the other because it is productive of it. And the same pattern holds in the remaining cases. In this same way all being too is spoken of: for it is because it is an affection or a state or a disposition or a motion or something else of this kind belonging to being qua being that each of these is called being. Since every being is referred back to some one common thing, each of the contrarieties too will be referred back to the primary differentiae and contrarieties of being, whether the primary differentiae of being are plurality and unity, or likeness and unlikeness, or some others — let these be taken as already examined. It makes no difference whether the reference of being is made to being or to the one. For even if they are not the same but are distinct, still they convert with one another:
9| for what is one is in some way also being, and what is being is one. Since it belongs to one and the same science to study all contraries, and each of them is spoken of in terms of privation — though one might raise a puzzle as to how some of them, between which there is something intermediate, are spoken of in terms of privation, as with the unjust and the just — in all such cases the privation must be posited not of the whole account but of the last species: for example, if the just person is, by a certain state, obedient to the laws, the unjust person will not in every way be deprived of the whole account, but will fall short in some respect regarding obedience to the laws, and it is in this respect that the privation will belong to him; and the same holds in the other cases as well. And just as the mathematician conducts his study by way of abstraction (for having stripped away everything perceptible, he studies things — for instance weight and lightness and hardness and its contrary, and further heat and cold and the other perceptible contrarieties — and leaves only the quantitative and the continuous, in one dimension, or two, or three, and studies the affections of these insofar as they are quantitative and continuous, and studies them under no other aspect; and for some he examines their positions relative to one another and what belongs to these positions,
10| [1061b] for others their commensurabilities and incommensurabilities, and for others their ratios — yet all the same we posit geometry as one and the same science of all of these), in this same way matters stand also with regard to being. For it belongs to no science other than philosophy to study the things that belong to being insofar as it is being, and its contrarieties qua being. For to natural science one would assign the study of things not insofar as they are beings, but rather insofar as they partake of motion; while dialectic and sophistic are indeed concerned with the accidents of beings, but not insofar as they are beings, nor with being itself insofar as it is being. It remains, then, that it is the philosopher, insofar as things are beings, who is engaged in studying the matters described. Since being as a whole, though spoken of in many ways, is spoken of with reference to some one common thing, and the contraries are spoken of in the same way (for they are referred back to the primary contrarieties and differentiae of being), and things of this sort admit of falling under one science, the puzzle stated at the outset would be resolved — I mean the one in which it was asked how there could be some single science of things that are many and different in genus. And since the mathematician too makes special use of the common axioms, it would belong to first philosophy to study the principles of these as well.
11| For that when equals are taken away from equals the remainders are equal is common to all quantities, but mathematics, taking off a certain part of its proper matter, makes its study about that — for instance about lines or angles or numbers or some other of the quantities — not insofar as they are beings, but insofar as each of them is continuous in one, two, or three dimensions; whereas philosophy does not examine particular things insofar as something belongs accidentally to each of them, but studies each of them insofar as it is a being, with regard to being. The same relation holds between natural science and mathematics: for natural science studies the accidents and the principles of beings insofar as they are in motion, and not insofar as they are beings (whereas we have said that first science is the science of these insofar as their underlying subjects are beings, and not insofar as they are something else): hence both this science and mathematics must be posited as parts of wisdom. Now there is among beings a certain principle about which it is not possible to be deceived, but about which one must always do the opposite — I mean, speak the truth — namely, that it is not possible for the same thing to be and not be at one and the same time,
12| [1062a] and the other things opposed to one another in this same way. And concerning such things there is no demonstration without qualification, but there is demonstration directed against a particular person: for it is not possible to construct a syllogism of this very thing from some more credible principle, though this is required if there is to be demonstration without qualification. Against the person who asserts the opposed statements, in order to show him that he is wrong, one must take hold of something of such a kind that it will be the same as saying that it is not possible for the same thing to be and not be at one and the same time, yet will not seem to be the same — for only in this way could it be demonstrated against the one who claims that opposed statements can both be true of the same thing. Now those who are going to share an argument with one another must understand something in common; for if this does not happen, how will there be any communication of argument between them? Each of the names, then, must be intelligible and signify something — and not many things, but only one; and if it signifies more than one thing, one must make clear which of these the name is being applied to. So the person who says that this both is and is not is denying what he asserts, so that he is saying that the name does not signify what it signifies — and this is impossible. So if 'being this' signifies something, it is impossible for the contradiction to be true.
13| Further, if the name signifies something, and this is truly asserted, then this must be so of necessity; and what is of necessity cannot ever not be. Therefore it is not possible for opposed affirmations and denials to be true of the same thing. Further, if the affirmation is no more true than the denial, then one who says "man" will be no more speaking truly than one who says "not-man." And it would seem that one who says the man is not a horse speaks no less truly — indeed just as truly — as one who says he is not a man, so that one who says the same thing is a horse will also speak truly (for it was assumed that opposed statements are equally true). It follows, then, that the same thing is both a man and a horse, or any other animal. Now there is no demonstration of these points without qualification, but there is a demonstration directed against the person who maintains them. And indeed, if one questioned Heraclitus himself in this way, one would quickly force him to agree that opposed statements can never be true of the same things. But as it is, not understanding what he himself is saying, he adopted this opinion. And in general, if what he says is true, then not even this very statement could be true,
14| [1062b] I mean the claim that it is possible for the same thing, at one and the same time, both to be and not to be. For just as, when the affirmation and the denial are taken separately, the affirmation is no more true than the denial, in the same way, when both are taken together and combined as if they were a single affirmation, the whole — taken as posited in an affirmation — will be no more true than the denial. Further, if it is impossible to truly affirm anything, then even this very statement — that no affirmation is true — would be false. But if there is something that can truly be affirmed, then what is said by those who raise these objections and who altogether abolish discourse would be refuted. Similar to what has been said is also the statement made by Protagoras. For he too said that man is the measure of all things, meaning nothing other than that whatever seems so to each person is fixedly so. But if this is granted, it follows that the same thing both is and is not, and is bad and good, and likewise for all the other things said according to opposed statements, because a given thing often appears fine to some people and the opposite to others, and what appears to each is the measure. This difficulty would be resolved if we examine where the starting point of this belief came from.
15| For it seems to have arisen for some from the opinion of the natural philosophers, and for others from the fact that not everyone knows the same things about the same objects, but a given thing appears pleasant to some and the opposite to others. For the doctrine that nothing comes to be from what is not, but everything from what is, is a belief nearly common to all who write about nature. Since, then, what is not white comes to be — from something that was entirely white and in no way not white, but has now come to be not white — what comes to be not white would come to be from the not-white not existing; so that, on their view, it would come to be from what is not, unless the same thing were at once white and not white. But it is not hard to resolve this difficulty, for it has been stated in the Physics how things that come to be come to be from what is not and how from what is. But to give equal weight to the opinions and appearances of people who dispute with each other is foolish. For it is clear that one of the two parties must be mistaken. This is evident from what happens in perception: the same thing never appears sweet to some and the opposite to others,
16| [1063a] unless in the one group the sense organ and the faculty that judges the flavors in question has been damaged and impaired. And this being so, we must suppose that the one group is the measure, and not suppose the other group to be. And I say the same in the case of good and bad, and fine and shameful, and other things of this sort. For claiming this is no different from claiming that what appears to those who press a finger under their eye, and thereby make one thing appear as two, must be two because that is how many it appears to be, and then again one — for to those who do not disturb their sight, the one thing appears one. And in general it is absurd to base our judgment about truth on the fact that the things down here appear to change and never remain the same. For we must hunt for the truth among things that always stay the same and undergo no change, and such are the things in the universe. For these do not appear one way at one time and different at another, but are always the same and share in no change. Further, if there is motion, there is also something that moves, and everything moves from something to something; the thing moving, then, must be in that from which it will move and not be in it, and must move toward this other thing and come to be in it — and, on their own principle, the two sides of a contradiction cannot both be true together.
17| And if the things here flow and are continuously in motion with respect to quantity, and someone were to grant this even though it is not true, why should they not remain stable with respect to quality? For it seems that they are led to predicate contradictory pairs of the same thing chiefly from supposing that quantity does not remain stable in bodies, and that is why the same thing is supposed to be four cubits long and not to be. But substance depends on quality, and this belongs to the determinate nature, while quantity belongs to the indeterminate. Further, why, when a doctor prescribes this particular food, do people take it? For why is this any more bread than it is not bread? So that it would make no difference whether one eats it or not. But as it is, they take it as speaking truly about it and as this being the very food prescribed. And yet they should not, if no nature among perceptible things remains fixed but all are always changing and flowing. Further, if we are always altering and never remain the same, what is surprising about our never perceiving the same things, just as with the sick—
18| [1063b] (for in their case too, because their bodily condition is not disposed the same way as when they were healthy, the things perceived do not appear the same to them — though the perceptible things themselves are not on that account undergoing any change at all, but produce different, not the same, sensations in the sick; and presumably it must be the same way, if the change we have described in us occurs). But if we do not change but continue to be the same, there would be something that remains stable. Now against those who raise the difficulties just stated purely from argument, and who refuse to posit anything and demand no further argument for this refusal, it is not easy to resolve the difficulty. For it is in this way — by positing something — that every argument and every demonstration comes about; by positing nothing, they abolish discourse and reasoned argument altogether, so that against such people there is no argument to be had; but against those who raise difficulties out of the traditional puzzles, it is easy to meet them and to resolve what produces the difficulty in their arguments. This is clear from what has been said. So it is evident from these considerations that it is not possible for opposed statements about the same thing to be true at one and the same time, nor for contraries, since every contrariety is stated in terms of privation — and this becomes clear when one traces the accounts of contraries back to their starting point.
19| And likewise, none of the intermediates can be predicated of one and the same subject either: for if the subject is white and we say it is neither black nor white, we shall be speaking falsely, for it follows that it is white and is not white; for one of the two conjuncts will be true of it, and this is the contradictory of "white." So it is not possible to speak truly either following Heraclitus or following Anaxagoras; for otherwise it will follow that contraries are predicated of the same thing. For when Anaxagoras says that in everything there is a portion of everything, he is saying that a thing is no more sweet than bitter, or than any other of the remaining contraries, given that in everything, everything is present not merely potentially but actually and separated out. Likewise, it is not possible for all statements to be either false or true, both because of many other difficulties that would result from this position, and because, if all statements are false, then not even the person who says this very thing will be speaking truly, whereas if all are true, then the person who says they are all false will not be speaking falsely. But every science seeks certain principles and causes concerning each of the objects of knowledge that fall under it,
20| [1064a] for example, medicine and gymnastics, and each of the rest of the productive and mathematical sciences. For each of these, having marked off some genus for itself, occupies itself with that genus as something that exists and is, but not qua being; that is a different science, distinct from these sciences. Each of the sciences mentioned, having grasped in some way the what-it-is within its own genus, tries to demonstrate the rest of its subject matter more loosely or more strictly. Some grasp the what-it-is through perception, others by hypothesis; hence it is clear from such an induction that there is no demonstration of substance and of the what-it-is. Now since there is a science of nature, it is clear that it will be different both from the practical and from the productive sciences. For in the case of the productive sciences, the principle of motion is in the maker and not in the thing made, and this is either some craft or some other capacity; and likewise in the case of the practical sciences, the motion is not in the thing done but rather in the agents. But the science of the natural philosopher concerns things that have within themselves a principle of motion. It is clear from this, then, that natural science must be neither practical nor productive but theoretical (for it must fall into one of these genera):
21| Since it is necessary for each of the sciences, in some way, to know the what-it-is and to use this as a principle, we must not fail to notice how the natural philosopher should define things, and how the account of substance is to be taken—whether as the account of the snub, or rather as that of the concave. For of these, the account of the snub is stated together with the matter of the thing, while the account of the concave is stated apart from the matter; for snubness occurs in a nose, and so its account is considered together with the nose—for the snub is a concave nose. It is clear, then, that the account of flesh and of eye and of the remaining parts must always be given together with the matter. Now since there is a science of being qua being and separable, we must examine whether this science is to be posited as the same as natural science, or rather as a different one. Natural science concerns things that have a principle of motion in themselves; mathematics is theoretical and concerns things that are at rest, but it is not about separable things. About what is separable and unmoved, then, there is some other science, different from both of these, if indeed there exists a substance of this kind—I mean one that is separable and unmoved—which we shall try to demonstrate.
22| And if indeed there is some such nature among the things that are, it is there, presumably, that the divine would be found too, and this would be the first and most authoritative principle. [1064b] It is clear, then, that there are three kinds of theoretical sciences: natural science, mathematics, and theology. Now the class of the theoretical sciences is the best, and of these themselves the one last named is best; for it concerns the most honorable of the things that are, and each science is called better or worse in accordance with its proper object of knowledge. One might raise the question whether the science of being qua being should be posited as universal or not. For each of the mathematical sciences concerns some one delimited genus, while the universal science is common to all. Now if natural substances are the first among the things that are, then natural science would be the first of the sciences; but if there is another nature and substance, separable and unmoved, then the science of it must also be different, and prior to natural science, and universal by being prior. And since what is, simply speaking, is said in several ways, one of which is called being by accident, we must first examine being in this sense. That none of the traditional sciences occupies itself with the accidental is clear (for neither does the science of building consider what will happen to those who will use the house—for example, whether they will live in it unpleasantly or the opposite—nor does weaving, nor shoemaking, nor cookery; each of these sciences considers only what is proper to it in its own right, and this is its proper end;
23| nor does it consider the musical and the literate—nor, concerning a man who is musical, the fact that, on becoming literate, he will at the same time be both, not having been both before; for what does not always exist comes to be, so that he came to be musical and literate at the same time. But none of the sciences that are acknowledged to exist inquires into this, except sophistic; for this alone occupies itself with the accidental, and hence Plato was not wrong in saying that the sophist spends his time on what is not. That it is not even possible for there to be a science of the accidental will be clear to anyone who tries to see what the accidental actually is. We say that everything that is, is either always and of necessity (necessity not in the sense called forced, but in the sense we use with respect to demonstrations), or for the most part, or neither for the most part nor always and of necessity, but as it chances—for example, cold weather might occur during the dog-days, but this happens neither always and of necessity nor for the most part, though it might happen sometimes, by accident.
24| [1065a] The accidental, then, is what comes to be, but not always, nor of necessity, nor for the most part. What the accidental is, then, has been stated; and it is clear why there is no science of such a thing—for every science concerns what is always the case or what is for the most part, and the accidental falls under neither of these. That the causes and principles of what is by accident are not of the same kind as those of what is in its own right is clear; for otherwise everything would happen of necessity. For if this exists because that exists, and that because of something else, and this is not as it chances but of necessity, then that of which this was the cause will also be of necessity, right up to the last thing spoken of as the thing caused (and this was the accidental one), so that everything will be of necessity, and both what happens either way and the possibility of a thing's both coming to be and not coming to be are completely eliminated from among the things that come to be. And even if the cause supposed is not something existing but something coming to be, the same result will follow; for everything will come to be of necessity. For tomorrow's eclipse will occur if such-and-such occurs, and that if something else occurs, and that again if something else; and in this way, subtracting time from the finite stretch running from now until tomorrow, one will eventually arrive at what already exists, so that, since this exists, everything after it will happen of necessity—so that everything comes to be of necessity.
25| Being as true, and being by accident: one of these lies in a combination made by thought, an affection belonging to thought (which is why principles are not sought for being in this sense, but for being that is outside the mind and separable); the other is not necessary but indeterminate—I mean being by accident. Of such a thing the causes are disorderly and unlimited. What happens for the sake of something occurs either among the things that come to be by nature or from thought; and chance is present whenever one of these comes about by accident. For just as being is in one sense in its own right and in another by accident, so too is cause. Chance is a cause by accident among the things done for the sake of something in accordance with choice; hence chance and thought concern the same things, for choice does not occur without thought. The causes from which the effects of chance may arise are indeterminate; hence chance is unclear to human calculation, and is a cause by accident, but of nothing simply speaking. Chance is called good or bad according as the outcome is good or bad; good fortune and misfortune concern the magnitude of these.
26| [1065b] Since nothing accidental is prior to what is in its own right, accidents are not causes either; so if chance or the automatic is the cause of the heavens, intellect and nature are prior as causes. Now some things are actuality only, some are potentiality, and some are both potentiality and actuality — some being (a substance), some a quantity, some one of the remaining categories. There is no motion apart from things: for a thing always changes with respect to the categories of being, and there is nothing common to these that does not itself fall under some one category. Each category belongs to everything in two ways (for instance the this-something — for one is its form and the other its privation; and with respect to quality, one is white and the other black; and with respect to quantity, one is complete and the other incomplete; and with respect to locomotion, one is up and the other down, or light and heavy): so that there are as many species of motion and change as there are of being. Since in each genus a distinction is drawn between what is potentially and what is actually, I call motion the actuality of what is potentially, insofar as it is such. That we speak truly is clear from this: whenever the buildable, in the sense in which we call it such, is in actuality, it is being built, and this is building —
27| likewise learning, healing, walking, leaping, aging, ripening. And motion occurs precisely when this actuality itself occurs, and neither before nor after. The actuality, then, of what is potentially, when it is in actuality and active — not insofar as it is itself but insofar as it is movable — is motion. I mean 'insofar as' in this sense: bronze is potentially a statue, yet the actuality of bronze, insofar as it is bronze, is not motion. For being bronze and being a certain potentiality are not the same; since if they were simply the same in account, the actuality of bronze would be a kind of motion. But they are not the same (this is clear in the case of contraries: being able to be healthy and being able to be sick are not the same — for otherwise being healthy and being sick would be the same — while the underlying subject that is both healthy and diseased, whether it is moisture or blood, is the same and one). Since, then, they are not the same — just as color and the visible are not the same — the actuality of what is potential, insofar as it is potential, is motion. That this is what motion is, then, and that motion occurs precisely when this actuality itself occurs, and neither before nor after, is clear (for it is possible for each thing at one time to be active and at another not,
28| [1066a] for instance the buildable insofar as it is buildable, and the activity of the buildable insofar as it is buildable is building; for it must be either this — the building, the activity — or the house; but when there is a house, there is no longer anything buildable, whereas the buildable is being built; the activity, then, must necessarily be the building, and building is a kind of motion, and the same account holds for the other motions): that this has been stated correctly is clear from what others say about motion, and from the fact that it is not easy to define it otherwise. For no one could place it in any other genus; this is clear from what people say: some posit otherness, inequality, and not-being, none of which is necessarily in motion, nor indeed does change go into these or out of these any more than into or out of their opposites. The reason they place motion under these is that motion seems to be something indefinite, and the principles of this other column are indefinite because they are privative; for none of them is a this-something or a such-and-such, nor does it fall under any of the remaining categories. The reason motion seems to be indefinite is that it cannot be placed either under the potentiality of things or under their actuality:
29| for what is capable of being a quantity is not necessarily in motion, nor is what is actually a quantity; and motion seems to be a kind of actuality, but an incomplete one — the reason being that the potentiality of which it is the actuality is incomplete. And this is why it is hard to grasp what motion is: for it must be placed either under privation, or under potentiality, or under simple actuality, and none of these appears to admit it; so what remains is the account given — that it is, as we said, both actuality and not actuality, hard to see but nonetheless possible. And it is clear that motion is in the movable thing; for it is the realization of this thing, brought about by what can move it. And the activity of what can move it is not a different activity. For there must be a single realization of both: a thing is capable of moving by its power, and moving by its activity, but this activity belongs to the movable; so that in the same way the activity of both is one, just as the same interval is one whether reckoned from one to two or from two to one, and the uphill and the downhill are the same, though their being is not one; and likewise with the mover and the moved. Now the infinite is either what cannot be traversed because it is not of a nature to be traversed at all — as a sound is invisible — or what has a passage that has no end, or one that can barely be traversed, or one which, though of a nature to have a passage or a limit, does not have one;
30| or again what has a passage only by addition, or by subtraction, or by both. [1066b] Now it cannot be something separate, existing in its own right; for if it has neither magnitude nor multitude, but the infinite itself is a substance and not an accident, it will be indivisible (for what is divisible is either a magnitude or a multitude); and if it is indivisible, it is not infinite, unless it is infinite in the way a sound is invisible — but that is not what people mean, nor is it what we are inquiring into, but rather the infinite as that which cannot be traversed. Again, how can the infinite exist in its own right, unless number and magnitude also do, of which the infinite is an attribute? Again, if it exists accidentally, it would not be an element of things insofar as it is infinite, just as the invisible is not an element of speech, even though sound is invisible. And it is clear that the infinite cannot exist in actuality. For then any part of it that is taken would be infinite (for being infinite and being an infinite thing are the same, if the infinite is a substance and not said of a subject); so that it is either indivisible, or divisible into infinitely many parts, if it is divisible at all; but it is impossible for the same thing to be many infinites (for just as air is a part of air, so an infinite would be a part of an infinite, if the infinite is a substance and a principle); it must therefore be unpartitioned and indivisible. But it is impossible for what exists in actuality to be infinite (for it must be a quantity); it exists, then, accidentally.
31| But if this is so, it has been said that it cannot be a principle, but rather that thing to which infinity is an accident — the air, say, or the even. This inquiry, then, is general; but that the infinite does not exist among perceptible things is clear from the following. If the account of body is that which is bounded by planes, then there could be no infinite body, either perceptible or intelligible, nor a number that is infinite when taken as separate; for a number is what is counted, or what has a number. And from the point of view of natural science it is clear from the following: an infinite body could be neither composite nor simple. It will not be a composite body, if the elements are limited in multitude (for the contraries must be equal, and not one of them infinite; for if the power of either body falls short in any degree, the finite will be destroyed by the infinite; and it is impossible for each element to be infinite, since body is what has extension in every direction, and the infinite is what is extended without limit, so that if the infinite is a body, it will be infinite in every direction): nor can the infinite body be one and simple, either as some say, existing beside the elements from which they generate these (for there is no such body beside the elements — for everything is dissolved into that from which it is, and this does not appear to exist beside the simple bodies),
32| [1067a] Nor is it fire, nor any other of the elements. For apart from the fact that none of them can be infinite, it is impossible for the whole—even if it is finite—either to be, or to become, one of them, as Heraclitus says that all things at some time become fire. The same argument applies also to the One that the natural philosophers posit alongside the elements: for everything changes from a contrary, for example from hot to cold. Further, every perceptible body is somewhere, and the whole and the part have the same place—for example, of earth—so that if it is uniform in kind, it will either be motionless or always in motion, and this is impossible (for why should it move down rather than up, or anywhere else? For instance, if it were a clod of earth, where would it move to, or where would it stay? For the place of the body akin to it is infinite: will it then occupy the whole place? And how? What, then, is its staying still and its motion? Either it will stay everywhere—so it will not move at all—or it will move everywhere—so it will never come to rest): but if the whole is not uniform, the places too are not uniform, and, in the first place, the body of the whole is not one except by contact, and further, these kinds will be either finite or infinite in species. Now they cannot be finite (for then some will be infinite and some not, if the whole is infinite—for example, fire or water; and such a thing is destruction for the contraries):
33| but if they are infinite and simple, the places too are infinite, and there will be infinite elements; and if this is impossible, and the places are finite, then the whole too must necessarily be finite. In general, it is impossible for body to be infinite and also for there to be infinite place for bodies, if every perceptible body has either weight or lightness: for it will move either toward the middle or upward, and it is impossible for the infinite—whether the whole of it or half of it, either way—to undergo this: for how will you divide it? Or how will the infinite have a part below and a part above, or an extremity and a middle? Further, every perceptible body is in a place, and there are six species of place, and it is impossible for these to exist in an infinite body. And in general, if it is impossible for place to be infinite, body too is impossible: for what is in a place is somewhere, and this means either up or down or one of the rest, and each of these is a kind of limit. The infinite is not the same thing in magnitude and in motion and in time, as if it were a single nature; rather, the later is spoken of in accordance with the earlier—for example, motion is called infinite in accordance with the magnitude over which the thing moves, or is altered, or grows, and time is called infinite because of the motion.
34| [1067b] Of that which changes, one thing changes accidentally, as when the musical man walks; another is said to change without qualification because something belonging to it changes—things that change part by part are said to change in this way (for the body is healed because the eye is healed), and there is something that is moved first, in its own right, and this is what is movable in its own right. And likewise there is something similar on the side of the mover: one thing moves accidentally, another part by part, another in its own right; and there is something that moves first; and there is the thing moved, and further, the time in which, and the state from which and the state into which. The forms and affections and the place into which the things moved are moved are themselves unmoved—for example, knowledge and heat: for it is not heat that is a motion, but the process of heating. Non-accidental change does not occur in all things, but among contraries, and their intermediates, and in contradiction; and the proof of this is from induction. What changes, changes either from a subject into a subject, or from a not-subject into a not-subject, or from a subject into a not-subject, or from a not-subject into a subject (by "subject" I mean what is indicated by affirmation), so that there must necessarily be three kinds of change:
35| for change from a not-subject into a not-subject is not a case of change at all: for there is neither contrariety nor contradiction, since there is no opposition. Now the change from a not-subject into a subject, according to contradiction, is coming-to-be—unqualified coming-to-be when it is unqualified, coming-to-be of a certain thing when it is of a certain thing; and that from a subject into a not-subject is destruction—unqualified when unqualified, of a certain thing when of a certain thing. If, then, "what is not" is said in several ways, and neither what is not in the sense of composition or division can be moved, nor what is not potentially—that which is opposed to what is without qualification (for what is not-white or not-good can nevertheless be moved accidentally, for the not-white might be a man; but what is without qualification not a "this" cannot be moved in any way)—it is impossible for what is not to be moved (and if this is so, then coming-to-be cannot be a motion either: for what is not comes to be; for even if it comes to be in the highest degree accidentally, still it is true to say that "what is not" holds of what comes to be without qualification): and likewise for being at rest. These, then, are the difficulties that result; and also, if everything that is moved is in a place, but what is not is not in a place—for otherwise it would be somewhere.
36| Nor, then, is destruction a motion: for what is contrary to a motion is a motion or a state of rest, but what is contrary to coming-to-be is destruction. [1068a] Since every motion is a kind of change, and the changes spoken of are three, and of these, those concerned with coming-to-be and destruction are not motions, and these are the ones according to contradiction, it must be that the change from a subject into a subject is the only motion. And the subjects are either contraries or intermediates (for let privation too be counted as a contrary), and they are indicated by affirmation, for example the naked, the toothless, and the black. If, then, the categories are divided into substance, quality, place, acting or being acted on, relation, and quantity, there must necessarily be three kinds of motion: of quality, of quantity, of place; but not with respect to substance, because nothing is contrary to substance, nor with respect to relation (for it is possible that, when one of two related things changes, the statement about the other becomes false though the other has not changed at all, so that the motion in these cases is accidental), nor with respect to what acts and what is acted on, or what moves and what is moved, because there is no motion of a motion, nor coming-to-be of a coming-to-be, nor, in general, change of a change. For there are two ways in which there could be a motion of a motion: either as of a subject (for example, a man is moved because he changes from white to black, so that in the same way motion too would be heated or cooled or change place or grow—but this is impossible, for change is not one of the things that are subjects), or because some other subject changes, by a change, from that change into another form—for example, a man changing from sickness into health.
37| But not even this is possible, except accidentally. For every motion is a change from one thing into another, and coming-to-be and destruction likewise; except that these are changes into opposites in one way, and motion in another way. At the same time, then, a thing changes from health into sickness, and also from this very change into another. It is clear, then, that when it has fallen sick, it will have changed into some further change or other (for it is possible for it to be at rest), and further, always into some change that is not just any chance one; and that further change too will be from something into something else, so that the change that is opposite to falling sick will be the recovery of health—but only accidentally: for example, it changes from remembering into forgetting because that to which the remembering belongs changes, at one time into knowledge, at another into ignorance. Further, it will go on to infinity, if there is to be a change of a change and a coming-to-be of a coming-to-be. For if the later exists, the earlier must exist too: for example, if unqualified coming-to-be was at some time coming to be, then that which was coming to be was also coming to be:
38| [1068b] so that what is coming to be was not yet coming to be without qualification, but was something coming to be, or was already coming to be. And this too was at some point coming to be, so that at that time it was not yet coming to be. But since among an infinite series there is no first term, there will be no first term here either, and so no term next to it. Therefore nothing can come to be, or be moved, or change at all. Again, motion and rest, and coming to be and passing away, are contraries of the same thing, so that what is coming to be, once it has come to be as a coming-to-be, is at that point passing away — for it is not passing away either immediately upon coming to be, or later, since what is passing away must exist. Again, matter must underlie what comes to be and what changes. What, then, will play the role that an alterable body or a soul plays — that is, what is it that is the coming-to-be, as a motion or a coming-to-be? And further, what is it that things are moved into? For there must be a motion or coming-to-be of this thing from this into this. How, then? For there will not be a learning of learning, and so no coming-to-be of coming-to-be. But since coming-to-be belongs neither to substance, nor to the relative, nor to acting and being acted on, it remains that motion is with respect to quality, quantity, and place (for each of these admits of contrariety); and by quality I mean not the quality within substance (for the differentia too is a quality) but the affective quality, in virtue of which a thing is said to be acted on or to be incapable of being acted on.
39| The unmoved is: what is wholly incapable of being moved; what starts moving only with difficulty over a long time or slowly; and what is naturally such as to be moved and capable of being moved but is not being moved when, where, and as it is naturally such to be moved — which last I call being at rest, among things unmoved alone, since rest is the contrary of motion, and so would be a privation in what is receptive of motion. Things are together in place when they are in one primary place, and separate when they are in a different one; things touch when their extremities are together; the intermediate is that which a changing thing naturally arrives at before reaching the point it changes to last, when it changes continuously in accordance with its nature; contrary in place is what is furthest apart along a straight line; and consecutive is that which, coming after the starting point — the order being fixed by position or by form or in some other way — has nothing between it and that to which it is consecutive, among things of the same genus, for example lines to a line, or units to a unit, or houses to a house (nothing prevents there being something between of another kind). For the consecutive is consecutive to something, and is posterior to it — for one is not consecutive to two, nor is the first of the month consecutive to the second.
40| [1069a] Contiguous is whatever, being consecutive, touches. And since every change is among opposites, and these are contraries or a contradiction, and there is nothing intermediate in a contradiction, it is clear that the intermediate lies among contraries. The continuous is a species of the contiguous. I call it continuous when the limit of each of two things, at which they touch and are held together, becomes one and the same, so that it is clear that the continuous occurs among those things out of which some one thing is naturally constituted by their junction. And it is clear that the consecutive is prior (for what is consecutive does not touch, but what touches is consecutive; and if a thing is continuous it touches, but if it touches it is not yet continuous; and where there is no contact, there is no growing-together either). Hence a point is not the same as a unit, for touching belongs to points but not to units — to these belongs only being consecutive; and of the one there is something between, of the other not.
1| The inquiry concerns substance, for it is the principles and causes of substances that are sought. For if the universe is a kind of whole, substance is its first part; and if it is a matter of succession, even so substance is first, then quality, then quantity. At the same time these latter are, so to speak, not even beings without qualification, but qualities and motions — or else the not-white and the not-straight, since we do say these too are, for instance, we say 'it is not white.' Further, none of the other categories is separable. The ancients too testify to this in their practice, for it was of substance that they sought the principles, elements, and causes. Those of the present day tend rather to posit universals as substances (for genera are universal, and these they say are principles and substances more, because they inquire in a logical manner); but the ancients posited particulars, such as fire and earth, and not the common thing, body. There are three substances: one is perceptible — of which one kind is eternal and one kind perishable, the latter acknowledged by everyone, such as plants and animals, the former eternal — of which it is necessary to grasp the elements, whether one or many; another is unmoved, and this some say is separable, some dividing it into two, some positing the forms and the objects of mathematics as a single nature, and some positing only the objects of mathematics among these.
2| The former belong to natural science (for they involve motion), [1069b] but this latter belongs to a different science, if there is no principle common to them. Perceptible substance is subject to change. And if change proceeds from opposites, or from intermediates, and not from all opposites (for a sound is not not-white) but from the contrary, there must underlie it something that changes into the contrary state — for contraries themselves do not change. Further, one thing persists while its contrary does not persist; there is, then, some third thing besides the contraries, namely the matter. Now if changes are fourfold, either with respect to the what, or with respect to the qualified, the quantified, or the where, and coming-to-be without qualification and perishing are change with respect to the this, growth and diminution are change with respect to the quantified, alteration is change with respect to the affection, and locomotion is change with respect to place, then changes of each kind will be into the corresponding contraries. It is therefore necessary that the matter which changes be capable of both states; and since being is twofold, everything changes from what is potentially to what is actually (for example, from potentially white to actually white, and likewise in growth and diminution), so that it is possible for a thing to come to be not only, as an accident, out of what is not, but also everything comes to be out of what is — out of what is potentially, however, and not out of what is actually.
3| And this is Anaxagoras's One (for it is better than 'all things together') — and Empedocles's mixture, and Anaximander's, and as Democritus puts it: 'all things were together, potentially but not actually.' So these thinkers would have had some grasp of matter. Everything that changes has matter, but a different matter in each case; and among eternal things, those that are not subject to coming-to-be but are moved by locomotion have matter too — not matter for coming-to-be, but matter for moving from one place to another. One might raise the difficulty out of what sort of not-being coming-to-be occurs, since not-being is spoken of in three ways. If, then, a thing is potentially something, still it does not come from just anything, but a different thing comes from a different thing; nor is it enough to say that all things were together, for they differ in their matter — since otherwise, why did infinitely many things come to be, and not one? For intellect is one, so that if the matter too were one, that would have come to be in actuality of which the matter was potentially. There are, then, three causes and three principles: two are the contrariety, of which one member is the account, or form, and the other privation, and the third is the matter. Next, that neither the matter nor the form comes to be — I mean the ultimate terms. For everything that changes is something, and is changed by something, and changes into something:
4| [1070a] that by which is the primary mover; that which changes is the matter; and that into which is the form. It would go on to infinity, then, if not only the bronze comes to be round but also the round or the bronze itself came to be; so it is necessary to stop somewhere. Next, that each substance comes to be out of something that shares its name (for things that exist by nature are substances, and so are the other things too). For a thing comes to be either by craft, or by nature, or by chance, or spontaneously. Now craft is a principle in another thing, while nature is a principle in the thing itself (for a human being begets a human being), and the remaining causes are privations of these. There are three substances: matter, which is a this by appearing so (for whatever is one by contact and not by growing together is matter and substrate); nature, which is a this and a certain state toward which it tends; and further, a third, the particular thing composed of these, for example Socrates or Callias. Now in some cases the this is not found apart from the composite substance — for instance the form of a house, unless it be the craft (nor is there coming-to-be and perishing of these, but they exist and do not exist in another way — a house without matter, and health, and everything that exists in accordance with a craft, exist in this other way) — but if it does occur, it occurs among things that exist by nature:
5| Therefore Plato was not wrong to say that there are as many forms as there are natural kinds, if indeed there are forms distinct from these -- for instance, fire, flesh, head: for all these are matter, and it is the last stage of matter that belongs most of all to substance. Now some causes are moving causes, existing as having come into being before their effects, while others exist just as the account does, simultaneously with the effect. For when a person is healthy, then health also exists, and the shape of the bronze sphere exists at the same time as the bronze sphere (but whether something also persists afterward must be considered: for in some cases nothing prevents it -- for instance, if the soul is of this sort, not the whole soul but the intellect; for perhaps it is impossible for the whole soul to persist). It is clear, then, that there is no need, on these grounds at least, for there to be Forms: for man begets man, this particular man begetting some particular man; and likewise too in the crafts -- for the medical craft is the account of health. And the causes and principles are, in one sense, different for different things, but in another sense -- if one speaks universally and by analogy -- the same for all. For one might raise the puzzle whether the principles and elements of substances and of relatives are different or the same, and similarly for each of the other categories. But it is absurd if they are the same for all things,
6| for then relatives and substances would come from the same things. [1070b] What then would this common thing be? For besides substance and the other things predicated, there is nothing common, and the element is prior to the things of which it is an element. But surely substance is not an element of relatives, nor is any of these an element of substance. Again, how can all things have the same elements? For none of the elements can be identical with the thing composed of elements -- for instance B or A cannot be identical with BA (nor indeed is there an element of the objects of intellect, such as being or the one: for these belong to each thing, even to composite things). None of them, then, will be either a substance or a relative -- yet it is necessary that they be something. So it is not the case that all things have the same elements. Or rather, as we say, in one sense they do, in another they do not -- for instance, perhaps, of perceptible bodies, in one sense the hot is the form, and in another way the cold is the privation, while the matter is that which is primarily and in its own right these things potentially; and substances are these things and what is composed from them, of which these are the principles -- or whatever single thing comes to be from hot and cold, such as flesh or bone: for what comes to be must be different from those. Of these, then, the elements and principles are the same, though different for different things, but it is not possible to say this of all things in the same way -- only by analogy, as if one were to say that there are three principles: the form, the privation, and the matter.
7| But each of these is different for each genus -- for instance in color: white, black, surface; light, darkness, air, and from these, day and night. Since the causes are not only those present within a thing but also those from outside, such as the mover, it is clear that principle and element are different, though both are causes, and the principle divides into these; and that which moves or brings to rest is itself a certain principle and substance. So the elements are, by analogy, three, but the causes and principles are four; and they differ from case to case, and the first cause, as mover, is different for different things. Health, disease, body: the mover is medicine. Form, this particular disorder, bricks: the mover is the builder's craft. And into these the principle divides. Since the mover, in the case of natural things, is man for man, while in the case of things that come from thought it is the form or its contrary, in one way there would be three causes, but in another way four. For medicine is, in a sense, health, and the builder's craft is the form of the house, and man begets man; and besides these there is that which, as first of all, moves all things. Since some things are separable and some are not, the former are substances.
8| [1071a] And for this reason the causes of all things are the same, because without substances there are no affections or motions. Then again these will perhaps be soul and body, or intellect and desire and body. Again, in another way, the principles are the same by analogy -- for instance actuality and potentiality; but these too are different for different things, and different in kind. For in some cases the same thing is at one time in actuality, at another in potentiality -- for instance wine, or flesh, or man (and these too fall under the causes already mentioned: for the form is in actuality, if it is separable, and so is that which is composed of both; and privation too is in actuality, as darkness or sickness; while matter is in potentiality, for this is what is capable of becoming both). But in another way actuality and potentiality differ for things whose matter is not the same, and for some of which the form is not the same but different -- as, for instance, the cause of man is the elements, fire and earth, as matter, and his own proper form, and further something else outside, such as the father, and besides these the sun and the oblique circle, which are neither matter nor form nor privation nor of the same species, but movers.
9| Again one must see that some things can be spoken of universally, others not. Now the first principles of all things are the actual particular thing here, and something else which is potential. Those universal things, then, do not exist as such: for the principle of particulars is a particular. For man in general is the principle of man in general, but there is no such man; rather Peleus is the principle of Achilles, and your father of you, and this B of this BA, and B in general of BA taken without qualification. Then again, if this holds for substances, different things have different causes and elements, as was said, for things not in the same genus -- colors, sounds, substances, quantity -- except by analogy; and even for things in the same species the causes are different, not different in species, but because the particulars are different -- your matter and form and mover, and mine -- though they are the same in their universal account. And as for the inquiry into what the principles or elements of substances and of relatives and of qualities are, whether they are the same or different: it is clear that, since each is spoken of in many ways, once these are distinguished the principles are not the same but different, except in this sense -- that they are the same, or analogous, for all things: namely matter, form, privation, and the mover; and in this sense too, that the causes of substances are, as causes of all things, such that when they are removed, all else is removed along with them --
10| further, that the first thing is first in actuality. But in another sense the first things are different, namely all the contraries that are not spoken of as genera and are not spoken of in many ways; and further, there are the various kinds of matter. [1071b] What the principles of perceptible things are, then, and how many there are, and in what sense they are the same and in what sense different, has now been stated. Since there were three substances, two natural and one immovable, concerning this last one must say that there must necessarily be some eternal immovable substance. For substances are the first of existing things, and if all substances are perishable, then everything is perishable; but it is impossible for motion either to come into being or to perish, for it always existed, and the same holds of time. For it is not possible for there to be a before and after without there being time; and motion, therefore, is continuous in the same way that time is -- for either they are the same thing, or time is some affection of motion. But there is no continuous motion except motion in place, and of this, only circular motion. But further, even if there is something capable of moving or capable of acting, yet not actually active, there will be no motion: for it is possible for that which has a capacity not to be actually exercising it. So it will do no good even if we posit eternal substances, as those who posit the Forms do, unless there is present in them some principle capable of causing change; and indeed not even this is sufficient, nor is any other substance besides the Forms: for if it will not be actually active, there will be no motion. Nor again is it sufficient even if it will be actually active, if its substance is potentiality --
11| For there will be no eternal motion; for what exists potentially can also fail to exist. There must, then, be a principle of this kind, whose substance is actuality. Further, these substances must be without matter; for they must be eternal, if indeed anything else is eternal. Therefore they are actuality. Yet there is a difficulty here: it seems that whatever is actual is capable of being so, but not everything capable acts, so that potentiality would seem to be prior. But if this is so, then nothing that exists will exist at all; for it is possible for a thing to be capable of being and yet not yet be. Yet if we go by what the theologians say, those who generate things out of Night, or by what the natural philosophers say, that all things were together, the same impossibility results. For how will anything be moved, if there is not to be some cause in actuality? For matter will not move itself — the carpenter's craft moves it; nor do the menses move themselves, nor the earth, but the seed and the semen do. That is why some thinkers make actuality eternal — Leucippus, for instance, and Plato: for they say that motion always exists. But they do not say why, nor of what kind, nor, if it goes this way or that way, the cause of it. For nothing moves at random, but there must always be something present as a cause, just as at present a thing moves in one way by nature, but in another way by force, or by intellect, or by something else.
12| (Then which motion is primary? For this makes an enormous difference.) But in fact not even Plato can name the thing he sometimes takes to be a principle —
13| [1072a] the thing that moves itself: for the soul, as he says, comes later, and simultaneously with the heaven. Now the view that potentiality is prior to actuality is in one sense correct and in another sense not (we have said in what way). That actuality is prior is attested by Anaxagoras (for intellect is actuality) and by Empedocles with his Love and Strife, and by those who say motion always exists, such as Leucippus: so that chaos or night did not exist for infinite time, but the same things have always existed, either in a cycle or in some other way, given that actuality is prior to potentiality. If, then, the same thing recurs always in a cycle, something must remain always acting in the same way. But if there is to be coming-to-be and passing-away, there must be something else that acts always, but in different ways at different times. This, then, must of necessity act in one way in its own right, and in another way in virtue of something else — either in virtue of some other thing, or in virtue of the first. It must, then, be in virtue of the first; for that in turn is cause both for itself and for the other thing. The first, then, is the better cause; for it was the cause of what is always the same way, while the other thing is cause of variation, and the two together are plainly the cause of what is always varying. This, then, is in fact how the motions stand. Why, then, do we need to look for other principles? Since it is possible in this way, and if it were not, everything would come from night and from all things together and from what is not, these difficulties would be resolved, and there is something that is always in motion with an unceasing motion, and this motion is circular (and this is evident not merely in argument but in fact), so that the first heaven would be eternal.
14| There is, then, also something that moves it. And since what is moved ...is intermediate, then there is something that moves without being moved, something eternal, both substance and actuality. And the object of desire and the object of thought move in just this way: they move without being moved. Of these, the primary objects are the same. For what is desired by appetite is what appears fine, while what is primarily an object of wish is what is truly fine; and we desire a thing because it seems fine to us, rather than its seeming fine because we desire it — for the thinking is the starting point. Now intellect is moved by the object of thought, and one column of the pair of opposites is intelligible in its own right; and within this column substance is first, and within substance the sort that is simple and in accordance with actuality is first (the one and the simple are not the same: for the one signifies a measure, while the simple signifies a certain condition of the thing itself). But in fact the fine, too, and what is choiceworthy for its own sake, belong to this same column; and the first term is always the best, or analogous to the best.
15| [1072b] That the end exists among unmoved things, the following distinction makes clear: for the end is for someone and of something, and of these the one exists, the other does not. It moves, then, as an object of love; but all the other things cause motion by being themselves moved. Now if a thing is moved, it admits of being otherwise; so that if the primary kind of motion is locomotion, then insofar as a thing is moved by this motion, it admits of being otherwise, in place at least, even if not in substance. But since there is something that moves while itself being unmoved, existing in actuality, this admits of being otherwise in no way at all. For locomotion is the primary kind of change, and of locomotion, circular motion is primary; and this is the motion that mover produces. It exists, therefore, of necessity; and insofar as it exists by necessity, it exists well, and in this way it is a principle. For the necessary has these several senses: the forced, because it runs contrary to impulse; that without which the good cannot be; and that which does not admit of being otherwise, but is so simply and without qualification. On a principle of this kind, then, the heaven and nature depend. And its way of life is like the best that we enjoy, though only for a short time (for that being is always in this state, which is impossible for us), since its actuality is also pleasure — and this is why waking, perception, and thinking are the most pleasant things, and hopes and memories are pleasant on account of these.
16| And thinking in its own right is of what is best in its own right, and thinking in the fullest sense is of what is best in the fullest sense. And intellect thinks itself by partaking of the object of thought; for it becomes an object of thought by making contact with and thinking its object, so that intellect and the object of thought are the same thing. For that which is receptive of the object of thought, that is, of substance, is intellect, and it is in actuality when it possesses its object, so that this possessing, rather than the mere receptivity, is the divine element that intellect seems to have, and contemplation is the most pleasant and the best thing there is. If, then, God is always in that good state in which we sometimes are, this is a wonderful thing; and if he is in it to a greater degree, this is still more wonderful. And this is how he is. And life, too, belongs to him: for the actuality of intellect is life, and God is that actuality; and the actuality that belongs to him in his own right is life at its best and eternal. We say, then, that God is a living being, eternal and best, so that life and a continuous and eternal duration belong to God; for this is what God is. But those who suppose, as the Pythagoreans and Speusippus do, that the finest and best does not exist at the beginning, on the ground that the starting points of both plants and animals are causes, while the fine and the complete are found in what comes from these, do not think correctly. For the seed comes from other things that are prior and complete, and the first thing is not the seed but the complete thing —
17| [1073a] for example, one would say that a man is prior to the seed, not the man produced from this seed, but another man from whom the seed comes. That there is, then, a certain substance that is eternal and unmoved and separate from perceptible things, is clear from what has been said; and it has also been shown that this substance cannot have any magnitude at all, but is without parts and indivisible (for it produces motion for infinite time, and nothing finite has infinite power; and since every magnitude is either infinite or finite, it could not have a finite magnitude, for the reason just given, nor an infinite magnitude, because there is no infinite magnitude at all); but further, that it is also unaffected and unalterable: for all the other kinds of motion are posterior to locomotion. These points, then, make clear that this is how the matter stands. But whether we should posit one such substance or several, and how many, we must not overlook, but must recall as well the assertions of others, namely that on the question of number they have said nothing that can even be stated clearly. For the view concerning the Forms has no separate investigation of its own (for those who speak of Forms call the Forms numbers, and concerning numbers they speak at one time as though they were infinite, at another as though bounded by the decad):
18| As to why the number of these substances is just this many, nothing is said with demonstrative rigor; but we must speak from the premises we have laid down and distinguished. The principle and the first of beings is unmoved, both in its own right and accidentally, but it moves the primary, eternal, and single motion; and since what is moved must be moved by something, and the first mover must be unmoved in its own right, and the eternal motion must be moved by something eternal, and the single motion by something single, and we see that besides the simple motion of the universe as a whole, which we say the primary, unmoved substance moves, there are other motions—those of the planets—which are also eternal (for a body moving in a circle is eternal and never at rest; this has been shown in the works on nature), each of these motions too must be moved, in its own right, by something unmoved and by an eternal substance. For the nature of the stars is a kind of eternal substance, and the mover is eternal and prior to the moved, and what is prior to a substance must be a substance. It is clear, then, that there must be substances of just this number, eternal in their nature and unmoved in their own right, and, for the reason already stated, without magnitude, prior to the others.
19| [1073b] That there are substances, then, and that among them one is first and another second, in the same order as the motions of the stars, is evident. But the number of the motions must now be examined from the mathematical science most akin to philosophy, namely astronomy; for this science makes its study concerning a substance that is perceptible yet eternal, whereas the other mathematical sciences deal with no substance at all, for instance those concerning numbers and geometry. That the motions are more numerous than the bodies that are carried is evident even to those who have given the matter only moderate attention (for each of the wandering stars is carried by more than one motion); but as to how many these motions actually are, we shall now state what some of the mathematicians say, for the sake of giving the mind something of a definite number to grasp; for the rest we must partly investigate ourselves and partly learn from those who investigate, and if anything appears, on inquiry, to conflict with what has now been stated, we should esteem both parties but be persuaded by the more exact. Eudoxus, then, held that the motion of the sun and that of the moon each involve three spheres, of which the first is that of the fixed stars, the second moves along the circle through the middle of the zodiac, and the third moves along a circle inclined across the breadth of the zodiac (the circle along which the moon moves being inclined at a greater breadth than that along which the sun moves); and that the motion of the planets involves, for each, four spheres, of which the first and second are the same as those already mentioned (for the sphere of the fixed stars is the one carrying all the others along, and the one placed beneath it, having its motion along the circle through the middle of the zodiac, is common to all), while the poles of the third sphere for all the planets lie on the circle through the middle of the zodiac, and the motion of the fourth sphere runs along a circle inclined to the equator of the third;
20| and the poles of the third sphere are, for the other planets, particular to each, but for Venus and Mercury the same. Callippus set down the same arrangement of the spheres as Eudoxus—that is, the same ordering of the distances—but as to their number, he assigned to the sphere of Jupiter and to that of Saturn the same number as Eudoxus did, while for the sun and the moon he thought two further spheres still needed to be added, if one is to account for the observed appearances, and for each of the remaining planets one more. But it is necessary, if all the spheres together are to account for the observed appearances,
21| [1074a] that for each of the planets there be other spheres, one fewer than those already given, which unwind and restore to the same position the first sphere belonging to the star ranked next below in each case; for only in this way is it possible for the whole motion of the planets to be produced. Since, then, the spheres by which the planets themselves are carried are, in all, eight and twenty-five, and of these only those need not be unwound in which the lowest-ranked planet is carried, the spheres unwinding those of the first two planets will be six, and those unwinding the spheres of the remaining four will be sixteen; so the total number of all the spheres, both those carrying the planets and those unwinding these, will be fifty-five. But if one does not add to the sun and moon the motions we mentioned, the spheres in all will be forty-seven. Let the number of the spheres, then, be taken as this many, so that it is reasonable to suppose the unmoved substances and principles are likewise this many in number as well (let the necessity of this be left for stronger thinkers to state); but if no motion can fail to be directed toward the motion of a star, and further if every nature and every substance that is free from external affection and exists in its own right must be regarded as attaining the best as its end, then there could be no other nature beside these, and this must be the number of the substances.
22| For if there were others, they would move as being the end of some motion; but it is impossible for there to be other motions besides those already mentioned. This is reasonable to suppose on the basis of the bodies that are carried. For if everything that carries exists by nature for the sake of what is carried, and every motion is the motion of some body carried, then no motion could exist for its own sake or for the sake of another motion, but all must be for the sake of the stars. For if there is to be a motion for the sake of another motion, that other motion too will need to be for the sake of something else; and since this cannot go on to infinity, the end of every motion will be one of the divine bodies that are carried through the heaven. That there is one heaven is evident. For if there were several heavens, as there are several men, the principle governing each would be one in form but many in number. But whatever is many in number has matter (for one and the same account applies to many things, for instance to man, though Socrates is one); but the essence has no matter as its primary character, since it is a realization. The primary unmoved mover is therefore one both in account and in number; and therefore so too is that which is moved always and continuously; therefore there is one heaven alone.
23| [1074b] It has been handed down by the ancients, the very ancient ones, and left in the form of myth for later generations, that these bodies are gods and that the divine encompasses the whole of nature. The rest has already been added in mythical fashion, for the persuasion of the many and for use in support of the laws and of expediency; for they say these gods are human in shape, and like certain of the other animals, and add other things consequent upon and similar to what has been said. But if one were to separate out from these and take only the first point by itself—that they believed the primary substances to be gods—one would think this had been said divinely; and since, in all likelihood, each craft and each philosophy has often been discovered to the extent possible and has again perished, these opinions of theirs have survived, like relics, to the present day. So far, then, and only so far, is the ancestral opinion, the one from the earliest thinkers, clear to us. The matters concerning intellect involve certain difficulties; for it seems to be the most divine of the things that appear, but how it must be constituted to be such involves certain difficulties. For if it thinks nothing, what dignity would it have? It would be just like one who is asleep. But if it thinks, and something else has control over this, then—since that which is its substance is not the act of thinking but a capacity—it would not be the best substance;
24| For it is through thinking that what is precious belongs to it. Further, whether its substance is intellect or is thinking, what does it think? For it thinks either itself or something else; and if something else, then either always the same thing or something different. Does it then make any difference, or none, whether it thinks the fine or thinks whatever happens to be the case? Or would it even be absurd for it to think about some things? Clearly, then, it thinks what is most divine and most precious, and it does not change; for change into something worse would be a change, and something of that sort is already a kind of motion. First, then, if it is not thinking but a capacity, it is reasonable that continuity in thinking would be laborious for it; next, it is clear that something else would be more precious than intellect, namely what is thought. For both thinking and the act of thinking will belong even to one who thinks the worst thing, so that if this is to be avoided (and indeed not seeing some things is better than seeing them), thinking would not be the best thing. It thinks itself, then, if indeed it is the most powerful thing, and its thinking is a thinking of thinking. But knowledge, and perception, and opinion, and thought always appear to be of something else, and to be of themselves only incidentally.
25| Further, if thinking and being thought are different, in respect of which does the good belong to it? For being thinking and being thought are not the same thing either. Or is it that in some cases knowledge is the thing itself, [1075a] in the case of things that are made, the substance and the essence being without matter, while in the case of things that are objects of contemplation the account is the thing and is the thinking? Since, then, what is thought and the intellect are not different in the case of things that have no matter, they will be the same, and the thinking will be one with what is thought. There still remains a puzzle: whether what is thought is composite; for it would then change within the parts of the whole. Or is everything that has no matter indivisible — as the human intellect is, or rather as the intellect of composite things is, in a certain span of time (for it does not possess the good in this part or in that, but the best thing, being something else, belongs to it in some whole) — and is the thinking of itself by itself in this same way for the whole of eternity? We must also examine in which of two ways the nature of the whole possesses the good and the best: whether as something separate and itself by itself, or as the order of the parts. Or is it in both ways, as with an army? For the good of an army lies both in its order and in its general, and more in the general; for it is not because of the order that he exists, but the order exists because of him. And all things are ordered together in some way, though not all alike — things that swim, and things that fly, and plants —
26| and it is not the case that there is nothing between one thing and another, but there is something. For all things are ordered together in relation to one thing, but as in a household, where the free persons are least of all permitted to do whatever they happen to, but everything, or most things, are ordered for them, while for the slaves and the animals there is little that bears on the common good, and mostly they do whatever they happen to; for such is the principle that governs each of them, namely their nature. What I mean is that, for instance, it is necessary for all of them to arrive at being separated out into their parts, and there are other things too in which all of them share, in relation to the whole. But we must not fail to notice how many impossible or absurd results follow for those who speak otherwise, and what sort of things the more refined thinkers say, and on what points the fewest difficulties arise. All of them make all things out of contraries. But neither is it right to say 'all things', nor is it right to say 'out of contraries', nor do they explain, in the cases where the contraries are present, how the things will come to be out of the contraries; for contraries are not affected by one another. For us this is resolved reasonably, by there being some third thing. But they make one of the two contraries into matter, as those do who make the unequal matter for the equal, or the many matter for the one. This too is resolved in the same way:
27| for the one matter is contrary to nothing. Further, on their view all things, apart from the one, will partake of the bad; for the bad is itself one of the two elements. But the other thinkers do not even make the good and the bad principles at all; yet in all things the good is above all a principle. These others are right in saying that it is a principle, but they do not say in what way the good is a principle — whether as an end, or as what set things in motion, or as form.
28| [1075b] Empedocles too speaks absurdly; for he makes love the good, yet this is a principle both as moving (for it brings things together) and as matter (for it is a part of the mixture). Now even if it happens to belong to the same thing to be a principle both as matter and as mover, still their being is not the same. In which respect, then, is love a principle? It is also absurd that strife should be indestructible; for strife is, for him, the very nature of the bad. Anaxagoras makes the good a principle as mover; for intellect moves things. But it moves them for the sake of something, so that this something is different, except in the way we ourselves say it, since medicine is in a sense health. It is also absurd that he did not make a contrary to the good and to intellect. But all who speak of contraries make no use of the contraries, unless someone sets this right for them. And no one explains why some things are destructible and others indestructible; for they make all the things that are out of the same principles. Further, some of them make the things that are out of what is not; others, in order not to be forced into this, make all things one. Further, no one explains why there will always be coming-to-be, and what the cause of coming-to-be is. And for those who posit two principles there must necessarily be another principle more sovereign than these, and for those who posit the forms there must be yet another principle more sovereign still:
29| for why did a thing come to partake, or does it partake, of the forms? And for the others it is necessary that there be something contrary to wisdom and to the most precious knowledge, but for us there is not. For there is nothing contrary to the first principle; for all contraries have matter, and these things exist potentially, and ignorance, as the contrary state, is directed toward the contrary object, but to the first principle there is no contrary. Further, if there will be nothing else besides the perceptible things, there will be no principle, no order, no coming-to-be, and no heavenly things, but always a principle of the principle, as with the theologians and all the natural philosophers. But if the forms or the numbers will exist, they are the cause of nothing; or if not that, at least not of motion. Further, how will there be magnitude and continuity out of things that have no magnitude? For number will not produce continuity, either as mover or as form. But then again, none of the contraries will be at once productive and capable of causing motion; for it could then not exist. But then again, acting is posterior to potentiality. The things that are, then, are not eternal. But they are; so one of these claims must be rejected. How this is to be done has been stated. Further, by what are the numbers one, or the soul and the body, or in general the form and the thing, no one at all explains;
30| nor is it possible to explain it, unless one says, as we do, that what moves them makes them one. Those who say that the mathematical number is first, and so on with one substance after another always dependent on it, and separate principles for each, [1076a] make the substance of the universe episodic (for one substance contributes nothing to another, whether it exists or not) and posit many principles; but the things that are do not choose to be governed badly. 'The rule of many is not good; let there be one ruler.'
1| We have said what the substance of sensible things is — in the treatise on natural science, concerning matter, and later concerning substance in accordance with actuality. But since the inquiry is whether there is, besides the sensible substances, some substance that is unmoved and eternal, or whether there is not, and if there is, what it is, we must first examine what others say, so that, if they say anything not well, we may not be liable to the same faults, and if there is some doctrine common to us and to them, we should not for that reason be privately annoyed at ourselves; for it is something to be content with, if one states some things better and others no worse. There are two opinions about these matters: some say that the mathematical objects — numbers and lines and things akin to these — are substances, and again there are the forms. Since some make these two classes, the forms and the mathematical numbers, while others make a single nature of both, and certain others say that only the mathematical objects are substances, we must examine first the mathematical objects, adding to them no other nature — for instance, not asking whether they happen to be forms or not, and whether they are principles and substances of the things that are or not, but treating them only as mathematical objects, asking whether they exist or not, and if they exist, how they exist.
2| Then after this, separately, we must examine the forms themselves, simply and only so far as customary usage requires; for much has already been said repeatedly even in the popular discussions, and besides, the greater part of the discussion must bear on that other inquiry, when we examine whether the substances and principles of the things that are, are numbers and forms; for after the forms this is left as a third inquiry. Now it is necessary, if the mathematical objects exist, that they exist either in sensible things, as some say, or separated from sensible things (some say this too); or if neither, then either they do not exist, or they exist in some other way. So our dispute will not be about whether they exist, but about the manner of their existence. That it is impossible for them to exist within sensible things, and that the account given for this view is at the same time a fabrication, has been said in the difficulties, namely that it is impossible for two solids to be in the same place at once,
3| [1076b] and further that by the same argument the other powers and natures too would have to be in sensible things, and none separated. This has indeed been said before; but besides these points it is clear that it is impossible for any body whatever to be divided in this way: for it will be divided along a plane, and this along a line, and this along a point; so that if it is impossible to divide the point, then it is impossible to divide the line too, and if this, the other things too. What difference, then, does it make whether these are natures of this kind themselves, or whether they themselves are not such, but natures of this kind exist within them? The same result will follow: for when the sensible things are divided, these will be divided too, or else not even the sensible things will be divisible. But surely it is not possible either for natures of this kind to exist as separated. For if there are to be solids apart from the sensible solids, separated from these and prior to the sensible ones, clearly there must also be, apart from the planes of these, other planes, separated, and points and lines (for the argument is the same); and if these, then again, apart from the planes and lines and points of the mathematical solid, there must be other, separated ones (for the incomposite is prior to the composite: and if bodies not sensible are prior to sensible ones, by the same argument the planes that belong to the unmoved solids are, in their own right, prior to those that belong to the moved ones), so that these would be different planes and lines from those that exist together with the separated solids —
4| for some exist together with the mathematical solids, and others are prior to the mathematical solids. Again, then, there will be lines belonging to these planes, and prior to these there will have to be, by the same argument, other lines and points; and of these — the ones belonging to the prior lines — there will have to be other, prior points, than which there are no further prior ones. Now the accumulation becomes absurd: for it turns out that there is only a single class of solids apart from the sensible ones, but three classes of planes apart from the sensible ones — those apart from the sensible ones, and those in the mathematical solids, and those apart from the ones in these — and four classes of lines, and five of points; so which of these will the mathematical sciences be about? For surely not about the planes and lines and points in the unmoved solid — for a science is always about the prior things. And the same argument applies to numbers too: for apart from each set of points there will be different units, and apart from each class of the things that are — the sensible things, then the intelligible ones — so that there will be classes of mathematical numbers. Further, how is it possible to resolve the very difficulties we went over among the puzzles?
5| [1077a] For the objects astronomy studies will likewise exist apart from the sensible things, and so will the objects geometry studies; but how is it possible for there to be a heaven and its parts, or anything else that has motion? And likewise too the objects of optics and of harmonics: for there will be voice and sight apart from the sensible things and the particulars, so that it is clear that the other senses too, and the other objects of sense, will exist apart as well — for why these rather than those? And if this, there will be animals too, if indeed there are perceptions. Further, some universal propositions are written down by the mathematicians applying beyond these substances. There will, then, be some other substance too, an intermediate one, separated both from the forms and from the intermediates, which is neither number nor points nor magnitude nor time. But if this is impossible, clearly it is also impossible for those to be separated from sensible things. And in general the opposite of both the truth and the customary supposition results, if one posits the mathematical objects to exist in this way, as certain separated natures. For it is necessary, because they exist in this way, that they be prior to sensible magnitudes, but according to the truth, posterior: for the incomplete magnitude is prior in generation, but posterior in substance — as the soulless is prior to the ensouled.
6| Further, by what, and when, will mathematical magnitudes be one? For things here are reasonably one by soul, or a part of soul, or something else (otherwise they are many, and dissolve); but for those, being divisible and quantities, what is the cause of their being one and holding together? Further, the processes of generation make this clear. For first a thing comes to be in length, then in breadth, and finally into depth, and then it has reached its end. If, then, what is posterior in generation is prior in substance, body would be prior to plane and to length; and in this respect it is also more complete and more a whole, because it becomes ensouled: but how could a line or a plane be ensouled? The claim would be beyond our powers of perception. Further, body is a kind of substance (for it already has, in some way, completeness), but how are lines substances? Neither as a form, some shape — as, say, the soul might be something of this kind — nor as matter, like body: for nothing appears able to be composed out of lines, or planes, or points, whereas if it were a kind of material substance, this would appear to be able to happen. In definition, then, let them be prior,
7| [1077b] But not everything that is prior in account is also prior in substance. For prior in substance are those things which, when separated, exceed others in being; prior in account are those whose accounts are composed out of other accounts — and these two do not hold together. For if the attributes do not exist apart from the substances (for example something moving, or something white), then the white is prior in account to the white man, but not prior in substance; for it cannot exist separated, but always exists together with the concrete whole (and by concrete whole I mean the white man), so that it is clear that neither what comes from abstraction is prior, nor what comes from addition is posterior; for the white man is spoken of by addition to the white. That, then, mathematical objects are neither substances more than bodies are, nor prior in being to perceptible things but prior only in account, and that it is not possible for them to exist separated anywhere, has been said sufficiently. But since it was not possible for them to exist within perceptible things either, it is clear that either they do not exist at all, or they exist in a certain way and for this reason do not exist without qualification; for we speak of being in many ways. For just as the universals in mathematics too are not about things separated apart from magnitudes and numbers, but are about these — not, however, insofar as they are of such a kind as to have magnitude or be divisible — clearly it is also possible for there to be accounts and demonstrations about perceptible magnitudes, not insofar as they are perceptible but insofar as they are of a certain kind.
8| For just as, insofar as things are only moving, there are many accounts of them apart from what each of them is and apart from the accidents belonging to them, and it is not necessary on this account either that something moving exist separated from perceptible things, or that some determinate nature exist within these — so too in the case of moving things there will be accounts and sciences of them, not insofar as they are moving but insofar as they are only bodies, and again insofar as they are only surfaces and insofar as they are only lengths, and insofar as they are divisible and insofar as they are indivisible but possess position, and insofar as they are only indivisible. So that since it is true to say without qualification not only that separable things exist but also that things which are not separable exist (for example, that moving things exist), it is also true without qualification to say that mathematical objects exist, and that they are of just the sort mathematicians say. And just as it is true to say of the other sciences too, without qualification, that each is a science of this — not of the accidental (for example, of the white, if the healthy happens to be white, and the science is of the healthy)
9| [1078a] but of that of which the science strictly is — if of the healthy insofar as healthy, if of man insofar as man — so too with geometry. If it happens that the things it is a science of are perceptible, though it is not a science of them insofar as they are perceptible, its mathematical sciences will not on that account be sciences of perceptible things — nor, however, will they be sciences of other things separated apart from these. Many attributes belong in their own right to things insofar as each is a certain kind of thing: since even insofar as an animal is female and insofar as it is male there are attributes peculiar to it (and yet there is no female or male existing separated among animals), so too there are attributes belonging to things insofar as they are only lengths and insofar as they are only surfaces. And the more a subject is prior in account and simpler, the more exactness a science dealing with it has (for this simplicity just is exactness), so that a science is more exact without magnitude than with magnitude, and most exact of all without motion; but if it does involve motion, most of all with the primary motion, for this is the simplest, and of this motion the uniform is simplest again. The same account holds also for harmonics and optics; for neither of these studies its subject insofar as it is sight or insofar as it is sound, but insofar as sight and sound involve lines and numbers (these being, however, attributes proper to sight and sound), and mechanics likewise. So that if someone, positing things as separated from their accidents, examines something about them insofar as they are of that kind, he will not for this reason be asserting anything false — just as when someone draws a line on the ground and calls a line a foot long when it is not a foot long,
10| for the falsehood is not in the premises. Each thing would be best studied in this way: if one posits as separated what is not separated, which is exactly what the arithmetician and the geometer do. For man, insofar as he is man, is one and indivisible; and the arithmetician posited him as one indivisible thing, and then examined whether anything belongs to man insofar as he is indivisible. But the geometer considers him neither insofar as he is man nor insofar as he is indivisible, but insofar as he is a solid. For whatever would have belonged to him even if he had not, somehow, been indivisible, clearly can belong to him also apart from these — so that for this reason geometers speak correctly, and discuss things that are, and what they discuss are beings; for being is spoken of in two ways, the one in actuality, the other materially. Since the good and the fine are different (for the good is always found in action, while the fine is found also in unmoved things), those who assert that the mathematical sciences say nothing about the fine or the good are mistaken. For they do speak of these, and demonstrate them most of all: it is not the case that, because they do not name them, but exhibit their works and their ratios, they are not speaking of them. And the greatest forms of the fine are order and symmetry and the determinate,
11| [1078b] which the mathematical sciences exhibit most of all. And since these appear to be causes of many things — I mean, for example, order and the determinate — it is clear that they would also acknowledge this sort of cause, the one whereby the fine is in some way a cause. But we shall speak more intelligibly about these matters elsewhere. Concerning mathematical objects, then, let this much be said: that they are beings, and how they are beings, and how they are prior and how they are not prior. Concerning the forms, we must first examine the doctrine of the form itself, in its own right, connecting it in no way with the nature of numbers, but taking it as those who first said that forms exist originally supposed it. Now the doctrine about the forms occurred to those who stated it because they had been persuaded of the truth of the Heraclitean arguments, that all perceptible things are always flowing, so that if there is to be any knowledge or practical wisdom of anything, there must be some other, abiding natures besides the perceptible ones; for there is no knowledge of things that are flowing. But Socrates was occupied with the ethical virtues, and was the first to seek to define these universally — for among the natural philosophers only Democritus touched on this to a small degree, and in some way defined the hot and the cold,
12| while the Pythagoreans before him had dealt with a few things only, whose accounts they attached to numbers — for example what opportunity is, or the just, or marriage. Socrates, reasonably enough, was seeking the what-it-is; for he was seeking to reason by syllogism, and the starting point of syllogisms is the what-it-is. For the strength of dialectic did not yet exist at that time, such that one could, even apart from the what-it-is, investigate contraries, and ask whether the same science applies to contraries. For there are two things one might justly credit to Socrates: inductive arguments and universal definition; for both of these concern the starting point of scientific knowledge. But Socrates did not make the universals separate, nor the definitions; his successors, however, did separate them, and gave this sort of being the name forms, so that it followed for them, by pretty much the same argument, that there are forms of everything that is spoken of universally — much as if someone wanting to count things thought he could not count them while they were fewer, but could count them once he had made them more; for the forms are, one might say, more numerous than the particular perceptible things,
13| [1079a] in seeking the causes of which they proceeded from these to those. For in the case of each particular thing there is something homonymous with it existing apart from the substances, and likewise for the other things too, there is one thing over many, both among things here and among eternal things. Further, by none of the ways by which it is shown that the forms exist does this appear to follow: for from some of them no syllogism need result, and from others forms result even of things of which they do not think there are forms. For according to the arguments from the sciences, there will be forms of everything of which there are sciences; and according to the one-over-many argument, there will be forms even of negations; and according to the argument from thinking of something once it has perished, there will be forms of perishable things, for there is some image of these. Further, the most exact of the arguments either produce forms of relatives, of which they say there is no genus in its own right, or they state the third-man argument. And in general the arguments about the forms do away with things which those who speak of forms want to exist even more than they want the forms themselves to exist; for it follows that the dyad is not first, but number is, and that the relative is prior to number, and that which is in its own right is prior to the relative — and so too in all the other respects in which certain people, by following the opinions about the forms, ran counter to the first principles.
14| Further, on the assumption by which they say the Ideas exist, there will be forms not only of substances but of many other things as well (for the concept is one not only in the case of substances but also in the case of non-substances, and there are sciences not only of substance; and countless other such consequences follow). But by what is necessary, and by the opinions held about them, if the Forms are participated in, there must be Ideas of substances only; for they are not participated in accidentally, but each thing must participate in a Form in that respect in which the Form is not said of a subject (I mean, for example, if something participates in the double itself, this also participates in the eternal, but accidentally; for it is accidental to the double to be eternal), so that the Forms will be substance. And the same things signify substance here as there; or else what would it mean to say that there is something besides these particulars, the one over the many? And if the form of the Ideas and of the things that participate in them is the same, there will be something common to both (for why should the dyad be one and the same in the case of perishable dyads and of the many but eternal dyads, any more than in the case of the dyad itself and a particular dyad?); but if the form is not the same,
15| [1079b] they would be homonymous, and it would be like calling both Callias and a piece of wood "man," without noting any community between them at all. But if we posit that the common definitions apply to the Forms in other respects — for example, that "plane figure" and the rest of the parts of the definition apply to the circle itself — while "what it is" will be added on besides, we must consider whether this addition is not entirely empty. For to what will it be added? To the middle term, or to "plane," or to the whole of it? For all the elements in the substance are themselves Ideas — for example, animal and two-footed. Further, it is clear that this added element must itself be something, like "plane," some nature that will be present in all the Forms as a genus. But above all one might raise the difficulty: what do the Forms ever contribute, either to the eternal perceptible things or to the things that come to be and perish? For they are the cause of no motion and of no change at all in these things. Moreover they are of no help toward the knowledge of the other things either (for they are not even the substance of those things — otherwise they would be present in them), nor toward their being, at least not if they are not present in the things that participate in them. For if they were present, they might perhaps seem to be causes in the way that white mixed into a white thing is a cause; but this argument is very easily overturned — the one that Anaxagoras used first and Eudoxus later, in raising the difficulty, and certain others too (for it is easy to muster up many impossibilities against a view of that kind).
16| Moreover, the other things do not come from the Forms in any of the senses in which "from" is customarily used. And to say that the Forms are patterns and that the other things participate in them is to speak empty words and to utter poetic metaphors. For what is it that works while looking to the Ideas? For it is possible for anything whatever both to be and to come to be without being modeled on anything, so that whether Socrates exists or not, someone like Socrates could come to be; and it is likewise clear that this would hold even if Socrates were eternal. And there will be several patterns of the same thing, and so several Forms — for example, of man, animal and two-footed, and at the same time man-itself as well. Further, the Forms will be patterns not only of perceptible things but of the Forms themselves too — for example, the genus, being the genus of species that are themselves forms, will be a pattern of those species; so that the same thing will be both pattern and image. Further, it would seem impossible for the substance and that of which it is the substance to exist apart:
17| [1080a] so how could the Ideas, being the substances of things, exist apart from them? Now in the Phaedo it is said in this way, that the Forms are causes both of being and of coming to be; and yet, even though the Forms exist, a thing still does not come to be unless there is something to cause the motion, and many other things come to be, such as a house and a ring, of which they say there are no Forms; so it is clear that it is possible for those very things too, of which they say there are Ideas, both to exist and to come to be through causes of the same kind as those just mentioned, and not through the Forms. But about the Ideas, in this way and also by more logical and more precise arguments, one can gather together many points similar to those already examined. Since these matters have been determined, it is well to examine in turn what happens with regard to numbers for those who say that numbers are separate substances and the primary causes of the things that are. Now if number is a certain nature, and its substance is nothing else but this very thing, as some say, then of necessity either one part of it is first and another next to it, each part differing in kind, and this holds directly of the units themselves — so that any unit whatever is incomparable with any other unit — or else all the units are directly in succession and comparable with one another, as they say mathematical number is (for in the mathematical case no unit differs at all from another):
18| or else some units are comparable and others are not (for example, if after the one the dyad comes first, then the triad, and so on for the rest of number, and the units within each number are comparable with one another — those in the first dyad with one another, and those in the first triad with one another, and so on for the other numbers — but the units in the dyad itself are incomparable with those in the triad itself, and likewise for the other numbers in succession; hence mathematical number is counted, after the one, as two, another one added to the previous one, and three as another one added to these two, and so on for the rest; but this other number, after the one, is two further ones without the first one, and the triad is without the dyad, and likewise for the rest of number); or else one kind of number is such as was first described, another such as the mathematicians speak of, and a third is the kind last mentioned. Further, these numbers must either be separate from things,
19| [1080b] or not separate but present in perceptible things (not in the way we first examined, but as though perceptible things were composed out of numbers present within them), or else one kind of them exists and the other does not, or all kinds exist. These, then, are of necessity the only ways in which it is possible for them to exist, and pretty much all who say that the one is a principle and substance and element of all things, and that number arises from this together with something else, have each stated one or another of these ways, except for the view that all units are incomparable. And this has happened reasonably; for it is not possible for there to be still another way besides those stated. Some, then, say that both kinds of number exist, the one having priority and posteriority being the Ideas, and the mathematical being distinct from both the Ideas and perceptible things, both kinds separate from perceptible things; others say that mathematical number alone exists, as the first of the things that are, separate from perceptible things. And the Pythagoreans too posit one kind, the mathematical, except that they do not hold it separate but say that perceptible substances are composed out of it; for they construct the whole heaven out of numbers — not, however, numbers composed of units, but they suppose the units to have magnitude:
20| but as to how the first one, having magnitude, was composed, they appear to be at a loss. Someone else says that the first number, that of the Forms, is one and the same, while some say that mathematical number is this very same thing too. And likewise concerning lengths, planes, and solids. For some make the mathematical objects different from those that come after the Ideas; and of those who speak otherwise, some speak of the mathematical objects and speak of them in a properly mathematical way — namely those who do not make the Ideas numbers, nor say that Ideas exist at all — while others speak of the mathematical objects, but not in a properly mathematical way; for they say that not every magnitude is divisible into magnitudes, nor do just any two units make a dyad. But all posit that numbers are composed of units, except the Pythagoreans, who say that the one is an element and principle of the things that are; but they hold the units to have magnitude, as has been said before. In how many ways, then, it is possible to speak about these matters, and that all the ways stated have now been enumerated, is clear from this; and all of them are impossible, though perhaps some more so than others. First, then, we must examine whether the units are comparable or incomparable, and if incomparable, in which of the ways we distinguished.
21| [1081a] For it is possible for any unit whatever to be incomparable with any other unit whatever, or for the units in the dyad itself to be incomparable with those in the triad itself, and thus for the units in each of the primary numbers to be incomparable with one another. Now if all the units are comparable and undifferentiated, the number that results is the mathematical number, and only one such number, and the forms cannot be numbers (for what number will man-itself be, or animal-itself, or any other of the forms? For there is one form of each thing—one form of man-itself, and another single form of animal-itself; but numbers that are similar and undifferentiated are unlimited in number, so that this triad is no more man-itself than any other triad whatever), but if the forms are not numbers, then it is not possible for them to exist at all (for out of what principles will the forms come? Number is out of the one and the indefinite dyad, and the principles and elements are said to be principles and elements of number, and it is not possible to rank the forms either as prior to numbers or as posterior to them). But if the units are incomparable, and incomparable in such a way that any one is incomparable with any other, then this cannot be the mathematical number (for the mathematical number is composed of undifferentiated units, and what is demonstrated of it fits it as being of that kind), nor can it be the number of the forms.
22| For the first dyad will not be from the one and the indefinite dyad, with the successive numbers following after it as they are called—dyad, triad, tetrad—since the units in the first dyad come into being together, whether, as the first person to say so held, they come from unequals (for they came to be when the unequals were equalized), or in some other way—since, if one unit is to be prior to the other, it will also be prior to the dyad composed of them: for whenever one thing is prior and another posterior, then what is composed of them will also be prior in respect of the one and posterior in respect of the other. Further, since there is first the one itself, and then among the others there is some one that is first, and a second after that, and again a third that is second after the second one but third after the first one, it follows that the units would be prior to the numbers they are said to belong to: for example, in the dyad there will be a third unit before three exists, and in the triad a fourth and a fifth unit before those numbers exist. Now no one has said in so many words that their units are incomparable, but on their principles it is reasonable that it should turn out so, though in point of truth it is impossible.
23| [1081b] For it is reasonable that the units should be prior and posterior, given that there is a certain first unit and a first one, and likewise for dyads, given that there is a first dyad: for after the first it is reasonable and necessary that there be a second, and if a second, a third, and so on with the rest in sequence (but to assert both at once—that the unit after the one is first and also second, and that there is a first dyad—is impossible). But they make a first unit, a first one, yet no second or third beyond it, and a first dyad, yet no second or third beyond it. It is also clear that, if all units are incomparable, it is not possible for there to be a dyad-itself and a triad-itself, and likewise the other numbers. For whether the units are undifferentiated or each differs from each, the number must be counted by addition—the dyad by adding one further unit to the one, the triad by adding another one to the two, and the tetrad in the same way: but if this is so, it is impossible for the generation of the numbers to be as they generate them, out of the dyad and the one. For on this view the dyad becomes a part of the triad, and the triad a part of the tetrad, and the same thing happens with the numbers that follow.
24| But they say the tetrad came to be out of the first dyad and the indefinite dyad, as two dyads distinct from the dyad itself: otherwise, the dyad itself would be a part of the tetrad, and a second, different dyad would be added to it. And the dyad in turn will be composed of the one itself and another one; but if so, the other element cannot be the indefinite dyad, since it generates a single unit, not a determinate dyad. Further, besides the triad-itself and the dyad-itself, how will there be other triads and dyads? And in what way are they composed of prior and posterior units? All this is absurd and fabricated, and it is impossible for there to be a first dyad, and then a triad-itself. Yet it is necessary, given that the one and the indefinite dyad are to be the elements. But if the consequences are impossible, then it is also impossible for these to be the principles. If, then, the units differ, any one from any other, these and other such consequences necessarily follow: but if the units in one number differ from those in another, while the units within the same number alone are undifferentiated from one another, even so the difficulties that arise are no fewer.
25| [1082a] For example, in the decad-itself there are ten units present, and the decad is composed both of these units and of two pentads. But since the decad-itself is not just any random number, nor is it composed of random pentads, any more than of random units, the units in this decad must differ from those in other decads. For if they did not differ, neither would the pentads of which the decad consists differ; but since they do differ, the units will differ too. But if they differ, will there be no other pentads present in it besides these two, or will there be? If none will be present, that is absurd; but if some will be present, what sort of decad will result from them? For there is no other decad within the decad besides itself. But it is also necessary that the tetrad not be composed of random dyads: for the indefinite dyad, as they say, took the determinate dyad and made two dyads, since it was capable of doubling whatever it took. Further, how is it possible for the dyad to be some nature over and above the two units, and the triad over and above the three units? Either one will partake of the other, as a white man is something over and above white and man (for he partakes of these), or it will be as when one thing is a differentia of another, as man is something over and above animal and biped.
26| Further, some things are one by contact, others by mixture, others by position: none of these can belong to the units of which the dyad and the triad are composed: but just as two men are not some one thing over and above both of them, so it must be with the units too. And it is not because they are indivisible that a further unity will arise from them on that account: points too are indivisible, but all the same the dyad formed of two points is nothing other than the two of them. But this too must not escape notice: that it follows that there are prior and posterior dyads, and likewise the other numbers. For let the dyads in the tetrad be simultaneous with one another; but these are prior to those in the octad, and just as the first dyad generated these, so these generated the tetrads in the octad itself, so that if the first dyad is a form, these too will be forms of a sort. The same account applies to the units as well: for the units in the first dyad generate the four units in the tetrad, so that all the units become forms, and a form will be composed of forms: so that it is clear that the very things of which these happen to be the forms will also be composite—as if one were to say that animals are composed of animals, if there are forms of these.
27| [1082b] —And in general, to make the units differ in any way whatever is absurd and fictitious (I call fictitious whatever is forced to fit a hypothesis): for we observe no unit differing from another either in quantity or in quality, and a number must be either equal or unequal — every number, but above all a number made of units — so that if it is neither more nor less, it is equal; and things that are equal and wholly undifferentiated we take to be the same, in the case of numbers. But if this is not so, then not even the twos within the decad itself will be undifferentiated, though they are equal: for what cause will the person who claims they are undifferentiated be able to give? Further, if every unit together with another unit makes two, then the unit from the dyad-itself and the dyad from the triad-itself will be made of differing units — and is the latter prior to the triad or posterior to it? For it seems more necessary that it be prior: since one of its units coexists with the triad, the other with the dyad. And we ourselves suppose, quite generally, that one and one, whether they are equal or unequal, make two — for example, the good and the bad, or a man and a horse; but those who speak this way do not allow it even for units. And if the number belonging to the triad-itself turns out not to be greater than that belonging to the dyad-itself, that is astonishing —
28| but if it is greater, clearly there is also present in it a number equal to the dyad, so that this equal part is undifferentiated from the dyad itself. But that is not possible, if there is a first number and a second. Nor, again, will the Forms be numbers. For this very point is made correctly by those who insist that the units differ, if indeed there are to be Forms, as has been said before: for the form is one, but if the units are undifferentiated, then the twos and the threes will also be undifferentiated. That is why they are forced to say that counting proceeds like this — one, two — without anything being added to what already exists (for on their view the generation of number cannot come from the indefinite dyad, nor can there be a Form of it: for one Form would then exist within another, and all the forms would be parts of one). So with respect to their own hypothesis they speak correctly, but not correctly without qualification: for they destroy many things, since they themselves will admit that this very point raises a difficulty — whether, when we count and say one, two, three, we count by adding, or by taking portions. We do both; that is why it is absurd to trace this difference back to so great a difference in substance.
29| [1083a] First of all, it is well to determine what the differentia of number is, and of the unit, if it has one. Now it must differ either in quantity or in quality; but neither of these appears possible for it to have. But insofar as it is a number, it differs in quantity. If, then, the units also differed in quantity, one number would differ from another number equal to it in the plurality of its units. Further, are the first units greater or smaller, and do the later ones increase, or the opposite? All this is irrational. But nor can they differ in quality either. For no affection can belong to them: indeed they themselves say that quality belongs to numbers only later than quantity. Further, this could not come to the units either from the one or from the dyad: for the one is not qualitative, while the dyad is quantity-making, since this nature is the cause of the things that are being many. If, then, it is somehow otherwise, this above all needs to be stated at the outset, and the differentia of the unit needs to be determined — above all, why it must exist; and if it does not, what differentia do they mean? It is clear, then, that if the Forms are numbers, it is not possible for all the units to be comparable with one another, nor is it possible for them to be incomparable with one another — neither of the two ways will do:
30| but nor, again, is what certain others say about numbers said correctly. These are those who think there are no Forms, either without qualification or as being certain numbers, but hold that the objects of mathematics exist, and that numbers are the first of the things that are, and that the one itself is their principle. For it is absurd that the one should be something first among ones, as they say, while a dyad is not first among dyads, nor a triad among triads; for all these belong to the same account. If, then, this is how matters stand with number, and one posits that only the mathematical number exists, the one is not a principle (for this particular one must differ from the other units; and if so, there must also be some dyad that is first among dyads, and likewise the other numbers in succession). But if the one is a principle, then matters must rather stand, regarding numbers, as Plato used to say — there must be a first dyad and a first triad, and the numbers must not be comparable with one another. But if, on the other hand, one posits this, it has been said that many impossibilities follow. Yet it is necessary that things stand either the one way or the other, so that if neither, it would not be possible for number to be separate.
31| [1083b] —It is clear from this, too, that the third way of speaking is the worst: that the number of the Forms is the same as the mathematical number. For on this single opinion two errors are bound to fall together: this cannot be the mathematical number in that way, but one who posits it must, by laying down hypotheses of his own, draw things out at length; and he must also state everything that follows for those who speak of number as the Forms. The Pythagorean way has fewer difficulties than those already mentioned, but has peculiar difficulties of its own. For not making number separate removes many of the impossibilities; but that bodies should be composed of numbers, and that this number should be the mathematical one, is impossible. For it is not true to speak of indivisible magnitudes; and even granting that this holds in the fullest sense, the units at least do not have magnitude — and how can magnitude possibly be composed of indivisibles? But the number of arithmetic, at any rate, is made of units. Yet the Pythagoreans say that number is the things that are: at any rate they attach their theorems to bodies as though the numbers were what those bodies are made of. If, then, it is necessary — supposing that number is something that exists in its own right among the things that are — that it be one of the ways stated, and none of these is possible, it is clear that number has no such nature as those construct who make it separate.
32| Further, is each unit composed of the great and the small, equalized, or is one unit from the small and another from the great? If the latter, then each unit is neither composed of all the elements, nor are the units undifferentiated (for the great is present in the one, the small in the other, which is contrary in nature); further, how do matters stand for the units within the triad itself? For one of them is odd — but perhaps it is for this reason that they make the one itself the middle term within the odd. But if each of the units is from both, equalized, how will the dyad, being some single nature, be composed of the great and the small? Or how will it differ from the unit? Further, the unit is prior to the dyad (for when the unit is destroyed, the dyad is destroyed): so the unit must be a Form of a Form, since it is prior to a Form, and must have come to be prior. From what, then, did it come to be? For the indefinite dyad was what made things two. Further, number must necessarily be either infinite or finite: for they make number separate, so that it is not possible for neither of these to hold.
33| [1084a] That number cannot be infinite, then, is clear (for the infinite is neither odd nor even, but the generation of number is always the generation either of an odd or of an even number: in one way, when the one falls upon what is even, an odd number results; in another way, when the dyad is imposed, the number doubled from the one results; and in another way, from odd numbers a different even number results. Further, if every form is the form of something, and numbers are forms, then the infinite too will be the form of something, either of perceptible things or of something else; yet this is possible neither on their own positing nor by their own reasoning, given the way they arrange the forms) — but if number is finite, up to what point? For this must be stated not only as a fact but also with the reason why. But if number goes only up to the decad, as some say, then in the first place the forms will quickly give out — for example, if the triad is man-itself, what number will be horse-itself? For each number up to the decad is itself the form of something; so necessarily some among these numbers must be horse-itself (for these numbers are substances and forms); but still the forms will give out, for the species of animal will exceed them. At the same time it is clear that if the triad is man-itself in this way, so are the other triads, since triads within the same numbers are alike; so there will be infinitely many men — each man himself, if each triad is a form, or at least all men, even if not.
34| And if the smaller number is a part of the greater when it is composed of units commensurable with those in the same number, then, if the tetrad itself is the form of something, say of horse or of white, man will be a part of horse, since man is the dyad. It is also absurd that there should be a form of the decad but none of the hendecad, nor of the numbers that follow it. Further, some things both exist and come to be of which there are no forms; so why are there no forms of these as well? The forms, then, are not the causes. Further, it is absurd if the number up to the decad has more being and is more truly a form than the decad itself, and yet there is no generation of the series as a single thing, while there is of the decad. But they proceed as though the number up to the decad were the complete number. At any rate they generate the derivative items — the void, proportion, the odd, and other things of this kind — within the decad; for some things they assign to the first principles, such as motion and rest, good and bad, and the rest they assign to the numbers. That is why the one is the odd; but if oddness lies in the triad, how is the pentad odd? Further, magnitudes and things of that sort go up to a certain amount —
35| [1084b] for example the first line, the indivisible one, then the dyad, and these too go up to the decad. Further, if number is separate, one might raise the puzzle whether the one is prior, or the triad and the dyad are. Insofar as number is composite, the one is prior; but insofar as the universal and the form are prior, number is prior; for each of the units is a part of number as its matter, while number stands to them as form. And in one sense the right angle is prior to the acute, because it is determinate and definable by an account; but in another sense the acute is prior, because it is a part, and the right angle is divided into it. As matter, then, the acute angle, the element, and the unit are prior; but as form, and as the substance defined by the account, the right angle is prior, and so is the whole composed of matter and form, for what is composed of both is nearer to the form and to that of which there is an account, though it is posterior in generation. How, then, is the one a principle? Because it is not divisible, they say; but the universal too is indivisible, and so is the particular thing, and so is the element — only in a different way, the one indivisible in account, the other in time. In which of these ways, then, is the one a principle?
36| For as has been said, the right angle seems prior to the acute, and the acute seems prior to the right, and each is one. In both ways, then, they make the one a principle. But that is impossible; for in one sense the one is a principle as form and as substance, and in the other sense as part and as matter. Each is in some way one — potentially, in truth, if indeed number is some single thing and not like a heap, but rather distinct in kind from other units, as they say — but not in actuality; each of the two is a unit. The cause of the error that results is that they were hunting at once from mathematics and from arguments about universals, so that from the former they laid down the one and the principle as a point (for the unit is a positionless point; just as certain others too composed the things that are out of the smallest thing, so these men did as well, so that the unit becomes the matter of numbers, and at once prior to the dyad, yet again posterior, inasmuch as the dyad is a kind of whole, a unity, and a form); while because they were seeking the universal, they called what is predicated 'one,' and spoke of it in this way as a part. But it is impossible for both of these to belong to the same thing at once. But if the one itself must be merely positionless (for it differs in nothing except that it is a principle), and the dyad is divisible while the unit is not, the unit would be more like the one itself.
37| But if the unit is more like the one, then the one itself is more like the unit than like the dyad; so that in either case the unit would be prior to the dyad. But they do not say this; at any rate they generate the dyad first. [1085a] Further, if the dyad is itself some one thing, and the triad is likewise itself one thing, then both together are a dyad. From what, then, is this dyad composed? One might also raise the puzzle, since there is no contact among numbers, but there is succession — belonging to those between which no units lie, as with the numbers within the dyad or the triad — whether the dyad is in succession to the one itself or not, and whether the dyad is prior to the numbers in succession, or to whichever of its own units. The same difficulties arise, in like manner, concerning the kinds that come after number — line, plane, and body. For some construct these out of the species of the great and the small: lengths out of the long and the short, planes out of the broad and the narrow, solids out of the deep and the shallow; and these are species of the great and the small. As for the principle corresponding to the one, different thinkers posit it differently for these kinds. And in these matters too countless impossibilities appear, and fictions, and things contrary to everything reasonable. For it turns out that these attributes are disconnected from one another, unless the principles also follow along together, so that the broad-and-narrow is also the long-and-short (and if this is so, the plane will be a line, and the solid a plane —
38| further, how will angles and figures and things of that kind be accounted for?) — and the same thing happens with the numbers as well; for these are attributes of magnitude, but magnitude is not composed out of them, just as length is not composed out of the straight and the curved, nor solids out of the smooth and the rough. Common to all these cases is the same difficulty that arises for forms taken as genera, whenever one posits the universals: whether animal-itself is present within the particular animal, or is something other than the particular animal. If it is not separate, this raises no difficulty; but if it is separate, as those who make these claims about the one and about numbers say, it is not easy to resolve — unless one ought to call the impossible 'not easy.' For whenever one thinks of the one within the dyad, or in general within a number, does one think of that very one, or of a different one? Some, then, generate magnitudes out of matter of this kind, others out of the point (the point seeming to them to be not a one, but something like the one) and out of another kind of matter, one like plurality, but not plurality itself; and concerning these the same difficulties arise no less. For if the matter is one, line and plane and solid will be the same thing, since from the same things the same and a single thing will result.
39| [1085b] But if there are several matters — one for the line, another for the plane, and yet another for the solid — either these follow one another or they do not, so that the same results follow either way: for either the plane will not contain a line, or there will be a line. Again, no one has attempted to explain how it is possible for number to come from the one and plurality: but however they put it, the same difficulties follow as follow for those who derive number from the one and the indefinite dyad. For the one party generates number from what is universally predicated, and not from a particular plurality, while the other generates it from a particular plurality, though the first one (for they say the dyad is a first plurality), so that there is virtually no difference; the same puzzles will attend it — mixture, or juxtaposition, or blending, or generation, and all the other such notions. But the question one would raise most of all is this: if each unit is one, out of what is it? For surely each unit is not the One itself. It must, then, come from the One itself and from plurality, or from a part of plurality. But to say that the unit is a sort of plurality is impossible, since it is indivisible; while deriving it from a part involves many other difficulties:
40| for each of the parts must be indivisible (or else it will be a plurality, and the unit will be divisible), and the one and the plurality will not be elements (for then each unit would not be made of plurality and the one); further, one who says this is doing nothing but making another number, since a plurality of indivisibles is a number. Further, one must ask, in the case of those who speak this way, whether the number is infinite or finite. For there was, it appears, also a finite plurality, from which come the finite units and the One; and plurality itself is one thing, and infinite plurality another: which kind of plurality, then, together with the One, is the element? A similar question would be raised about the point, and about the element out of which they construct magnitudes. For surely this is not the only point there is; then out of what does each of the other points come? Certainly not out of some interval and a point itself. Nor again can there be indivisible parts of the interval, as there are units of which the plurality is composed: for number is composed of indivisibles, but magnitudes are not. All this and other such considerations make it clear that it is impossible for number and magnitudes to be separate,
41| [1086a] and further, that the disagreement among the ways of treating numbers is a sign that it is the facts themselves, not being true, that create the confusion for these thinkers. For those who posit only the objects of mathematics, alongside the objects of perception, seeing the difficulty and the artificiality connected with the forms, abandoned the number of forms and made number mathematical instead; while those who wanted to make the forms and numbers the same thing, without seeing how, if one lays down these principles, mathematical number could exist alongside the number of forms, made the number of forms and mathematical number the same in name — since in fact the mathematical number has been done away with (for the hypotheses they state are peculiar to themselves and not the mathematical ones); while the one who first posited that the forms exist, and that the forms are numbers, reasonably kept the forms and the objects of mathematics apart. So it turns out that everyone is right about something, but not right as a whole. And they themselves confirm this, by not saying the same things but contrary ones. The cause is that their hypotheses and principles are false. And it is hard, as Epicharmus says, to speak well from premises that are not well put: for as soon as a thing is said, it is immediately apparent that it is not well put. But on the subject of numbers, enough has been raised in the way of difficulties and enough has been determined (for one who is already persuaded might still be further persuaded by more arguments, but for persuading one who is not yet persuaded nothing more would be gained):
42| as for the first principles and the first causes and elements, whatever those who define only about perceptible substance say — some of this has been stated in the works on nature, and some of it does not belong to the present inquiry; but whatever those say who assert that there are other substances besides the perceptible ones, this is next to be examined, following on what has been said. Since, then, some say that the Forms and the numbers are such substances, and that the elements of these are the elements and principles of the things that are, we must examine what they say about these and how they say it. Those who make only numbers, and these mathematical, must be examined later; but as for those who speak of the Forms, one can at the same time observe both their manner of proceeding and the difficulty involved in it. For they make the Forms universal, and at the same time treat them as substances, and again as separate and as belonging to particulars. That this is not possible has been argued before. The reason those who speak of universal substances joined these two together is that they did not make the same substances as the perceptible ones: they supposed that the particulars among perceptible things flow, and that none of them remains,
43| [1086b] while the universal exists apart from these and is something different. This, as we said before, Socrates set in motion because of his definitions, though he did not separate it from the particulars — and in this he thought rightly, in not separating it. This is clear from the facts: without the universal it is not possible to acquire scientific knowledge, but separating it is the cause of the difficulties that arise concerning the Forms. Others, thinking it necessary, if indeed there are to be any substances besides the perceptible and flowing ones, that they be separate, had no others to point to, and so set forth these, the ones called universal, so that it follows that the universal natures and the particular natures are practically the same. This, then, would be a difficulty belonging to what has been said, in its own right. But there is a point which raises a puzzle both for those who speak of the Forms and for those who do not, and which was stated earlier at the beginning among the puzzles raised — let us now state it. If one does not posit substances as separate, in the way in which particular existing things are said to be, one will do away with substance as we wish to speak of it; but if one posits substances as separate, how will one posit their elements and principles?
44| For if they are particular and not universal, then the things that are will be exactly as many as the elements, and the elements will not be objects of knowledge (let the syllables in speech be substances, and their letters the elements of the substances: then BA must be one thing, and each of the syllables one, if indeed they are not universal and the same in form, but each one in number, and a this, and not something said in many senses; further, they posit each thing itself as being one; and if the syllables are so, then so too are the things of which they are composed: there will not, then, be more than one alpha, nor any other of the elements, on the same reasoning by which no other syllable is the same as another; but if this is so, there will be nothing besides the elements, but only the elements; and further, the elements will not even be objects of knowledge, for they are not universal, and knowledge is of universals: this is clear from demonstrations and definitions, for there is no syllogism to the conclusion that this triangle has its angles equal to two right angles, unless every triangle has its angles equal to two right angles, nor that this man is an animal, unless every man is an animal):
45| [1087a] But then, if the principles are universal, either the substances derived from them are also universal, or there will be a non-substance prior to substance: for the universal is not a substance, but the element and the principle are universal, and the element and the principle are prior to the things of which they are the principle and element. All this follows reasonably enough, when they make the Forms out of elements and, besides the substances that have the same form, claim that there is some single separate Idea. But if nothing prevents there being many alphas and betas, as with the elements of spoken sound, with no alpha-itself or beta-itself existing besides the many, then for this reason there will be an unlimited number of similar syllables. The claim that all knowledge is universal, so that the principles of the things that are must also be universal and not separate substances, presents the greatest difficulty of those mentioned; yet what is said is in one way true, and in another way not true. For knowledge, like knowing, is twofold: one kind potential, the other actual. The potentiality, then, being like matter, universal and indeterminate, is of what is universal and indeterminate; but the actuality is determinate and of something determinate, being a this of a this, but it is only accidentally that sight sees color-in-general, because the particular color it sees is a color, and what the grammarian studies, this particular alpha, is an alpha. For if the principles must be universal, then what comes from them must also be universal, as in the case of demonstrations; and if this is so, nothing will be separate, nor will there be any substance. But it is clear that in one way knowledge is universal, and in another way it is not.
1| So much, then, let it be said about this kind of substance. Now everyone makes the principles contraries, as they do in the works on nature, and similarly with regard to the unmoved substances. But if nothing can be prior to the principle of all things, it would be impossible for the principle, being something else as well, to be a principle — for example, if someone were to say that the white is a principle not insofar as it is something else but insofar as it is white, yet that it holds of some substrate and, being something else as well, is white: for that substrate will be prior. But indeed everything comes to be out of contraries as out of some substrate; therefore this — having a substrate — must belong above all to the contraries.
2| [1087b] Therefore all contraries always hold of a substrate, and none is separate; but, just as it appears that nothing is contrary to substance, so reason bears this out too. None of the contraries, then, is in the strict sense the principle of all things, but something else is. But they make one of the two contraries matter: some pair the unequal with the one, i.e. with the equal, taking the unequal to be the nature of plurality; others pair plurality with the one (for on the one view numbers are generated from the dyad of the unequal, the great and the small, while on the other they are generated from plurality, but in both cases through the substance of the one): for even the one who calls the unequal and the one the elements, and the unequal a dyad of the great and small, speaks of the unequal and the great and small as being one, and does not distinguish that this is so in account but not in number. Moreover, they do not correctly render the principles they call elements: those who speak of the great and the small along with the one make these three the elements of numbers, the two serving as matter and the one as form, while others speak instead of the many and the few, on the grounds that the great and the small are by nature more proper to magnitude, and others again use a more general term for these, the exceeding and the exceeded.
3| None of these differences make, so to speak, any difference with regard to some of the consequences, but only with regard to the logical difficulties, which they are guarding against because they themselves offer logical demonstrations. Except that it is by the same reasoning that the exceeding and the exceeded, rather than the great and the small, should be the principles, and that number should be prior to the dyad composed of the elements: for both are more universal. But as it is, they assert the one and do not assert the other. Others set the different and the other over against the one, others set plurality and the one over against each other. But if, as they wish, the things that are come from contraries, and to the one either nothing is contrary, or if indeed anything is to be, it is plurality — while the unequal is contrary to the equal, and the different to the same, and the other to itself — then it is above all those who oppose the one to plurality who hold to some plausible view, yet even they do not hold it adequately: for on this view the one will be few: for plurality is opposed to fewness, and the many to the few. But that the one signifies a measure is evident. And in every case there is some other underlying thing — for example, in harmony, the quarter-tone, in magnitude, the finger or the foot or some such unit, and in rhythms, the beat or the syllable;
4| and likewise in weight there is some definite standard weight; and in the same way in every case, [1088a] in qualities some particular quality, in quantities some particular quantity, and the measure is indivisible, in one case in kind, in another to perception — since the one is not, in its own right, some substance. And this is reasonable: for the one signifies that it is the measure of some plurality, and number signifies a measured plurality and a plurality of measures (and so it is also reasonable that the one is not a number: for a measure is not measures, but a measure, like the one, is a starting point). The measure must always be something the same belonging to all the things measured — for example, if they are horses, the measure is a horse, and if men, a man. But if it is a man and a horse and a god, the measure will perhaps be an animal, and their number will be a number of animals. But if it is a man and a white thing and a walking thing, there will least of all be a number of these, because they all belong to the same thing, one in number; yet there will still be a number of these as genera, or of some other such designation. But those who treat the unequal as some single thing, and make the dyad of the great and small indeterminate, say things very far removed from what is plausible and possible: for these — the many and the few of number, and the great and the small of magnitude — are affections and accidents of numbers and magnitudes rather than substrates for them, just as even and odd, smooth and rough, straight and curved are;
5| Further, in addition to this error, the great and the small and all such things must also be relative; and the relative is, of all the categories, least of all some nature or substance, and is posterior to quality and quantity: and the relative is an affection of quantity, as was said, but not matter — if indeed it is at all distinct — belonging to what is relative in general, and to its parts and species alike. For nothing is great or small, many or few, or relative at all, which is not, in being something else, many or few or great or small or relative. A sign that the relative is least of all some substance and some being is that it alone has no coming-to-be, nor passing-away, nor motion belonging to it, as there is, corresponding to quantity, growth and diminution, corresponding to quality, alteration, corresponding to place, locomotion, and corresponding to substance, unqualified coming-to-be and passing-away — but there is none of these corresponding to the relative: for without itself being moved, a thing will at one time be greater, at another smaller or equal, simply because the other thing has changed in respect of quantity.
6| [1088b] Every matter must be that which is potentially the thing in question, and this holds of substances too; but a relative is neither potentially nor actually a substance. It is odd, then—or rather impossible—to make an element and a prior thing out of what is not a substance rather than a substance; for all the categories are posterior to substance. Further, the elements are not predicated of the things of which they are elements, but the many and the few, and apart and together, are predicated of number, and the long and the short of a line, and the plane is both broad and narrow. Now if indeed there is some plurality of which one part is always the few—as with the dyad (for if it were many, the one would be few)—while another is many without qualification, as the decad is many, or anything beyond it, or the myriad, then how will number be composed in this way out of the few and the many? For either both ought to be predicated of it, or neither; but as it is, only one of the two is predicated. But we must consider the matter simply: is it possible for the eternal things to be composed of elements? For then they will have matter, since everything composed of elements is composite. If, then, it is necessary that what a thing is made of—if it is eternal, and even if it came to be, it would come to be out of this same thing—and everything that comes to be comes to be out of what is potentially the very thing that comes to be (for it could not have come to be, nor have existed, out of what is incapable of it), and what is potential admits of both being actual and not being actual, then even if number, or anything else that has matter, is as eternal as can be, it would still admit of not being, just as a thing that lasts one day, or any number of years, admits of not being:
7| And if this is so, so too is the whole length of time which has no limit. They would not, then, be eternal, if indeed what admits of not being is not eternal—as it happened to be argued elsewhere. And if what is now being said is universally true, that no substance is eternal unless it is actuality, while the elements are the matter of substance, then no eternal substance would have elements present in it out of which it is composed. Now there are some who make the indefinite dyad, along with the one, the element, and who reasonably balk at the unequal because of the impossibilities that follow; but they have only rid themselves of as many difficulties as necessarily follow, for those who say this, from making the unequal and the relative an element; those difficulties that are independent of this doctrine must belong to them as well, whether they construct the ideal number or the mathematical number out of these. Now there are many causes of this deviation toward these causes,
8| [1089a] but most of all the raising of the difficulty in an old-fashioned way. For it seemed to them that all things that are would be one—being itself—unless someone should resolve and come to grips with Parmenides' argument: "For this shall never be proved, that things that are not, are"; rather one must show that what is not, is, in some sense—for only in this way, out of being and something else, could the things that are come to be, if indeed they are many. And yet, in the first place, if being is spoken of in many ways (for one sense signifies substance, another quality, another quantity, and so with the other categories), then in what sense will all the things that are be one, if not-being is not to be? Will it be the substances, or the affections and the rest likewise, or all of them—so that the this and the such and the so-much and everything else that signifies some one thing will be one? But it is odd—or rather impossible—that a single nature, once it has come to be, should be the cause of being's being, in one case, a this, in another a such, in another a so-much, in another a somewhere. Next, out of what sort of not-being and being are the things that are? For not-being too is spoken of in many ways, since being also is:
9| Not being a man signifies not being this; not being straight signifies not being such; not being three cubits long signifies not being so much. Out of what sort of being and not-being, then, are the many things that are? Now what they mean is that falsity, and this nature, is the not-being out of which, together with being, the many things that are arise; that is why it was also said that one must posit a falsehood, just as geometers posit that the line which is not a foot long is a foot long. But it is impossible for things to stand this way: geometers posit no falsehood (for the premise is not part of the syllogism), nor do the things that are come to be, or perish, out of not-being in that sense. But since not-being, taken according to its cases, is spoken of in as many ways as there are categories, and beside this, not-being is spoken of as falsity, and also as what exists potentially, it is out of this latter that generation takes place—man out of what is not a man but is potentially a man, white out of what is not white but is potentially white—alike whether one thing comes to be or many. The inquiry evidently concerns how being, spoken of in respect of substances, is many:
10| For what is generated is numbers, lengths, and bodies. It is odd, then, to inquire how being in the sense of the what-it-is is many, but not to inquire how it is many in quality or quantity. For surely the indefinite dyad, or the great and the small, is not the cause of there being two white things, or many colors, flavors, or shapes:
11| [1089b] for then these too would be numbers and units. But if in fact they had gone into these cases, they would have seen the cause at work there as well; for the same cause, or its analogue, is the cause. For this same digression is also the cause of those who, in seeking the opposite of being and of the one, out of which together with these the things that are arise, posit the relative and the unequal—which is neither the contrary nor the negation of these, but a single nature among the things that are, just as the what and the of-what-kind are. And they ought also to have inquired into this: how the relatives are many and not one; but as it is, how there are many units besides the primary one is inquired into, while how there are many unequal things besides the unequal is no longer inquired into. And yet they use and speak of great and small, many and few, out of which come numbers; long and short, out of which comes length; broad and narrow, out of which comes the plane; deep and shallow, out of which come solids; and they speak further of still more kinds of the relative. What, then, is the cause of these being many? It is necessary, then, as we say, to posit for each thing what is potentially it (and the man who says these things went on to declare in addition what the potential this and substance is—that it is not a being in its own right but is the relative, as if he had said the of-what-kind—which is neither potentially the one or being, nor a negation of the one or of being, but one among the things that are); and it would have been far more to the purpose, as was said, if, when inquiring how the things that are are many, he had not inquired into things within the same category—how there are many substances or many qualities—but how the things that are, taken as a whole, are many:
12| For some things are substances, some affections, some relatives. Now in the case of the other categories there is another difficulty as well as to how they are many (for because they are not separable, it is through the subject's becoming many, and existing, that there come to be many qualities and many quantities as well; and yet there must be some matter for each genus, only it is impossible for it to be separable from substances). But in the case of thises, there is some point in asking how the this is many, unless something is going to be both a this and such a nature at once—and this difficulty is really rather that of how there can be many substances in actuality and not one. But further, even if the this and the quantity are not the same, one is not told how or why the things that are are many, but only how quantities are many; for every number signifies a quantity, and so does the unit, if it is not a measure and something indivisible in respect of quantity. If, then, the quantity and the what-it-is are different, one is not told out of what the what-it-is is, nor how it is many:
13| [1090a] But if it is the same, the one who says so faces many contrary difficulties. One might also fix one's inquiry on the question of numbers: from what source we ought to get conviction that they exist. For the one who posits Forms provides a certain cause for their existing, if indeed each of the numbers is a Form, and the Form is in some way or other a cause of being for the other things (let this be assumed as underlying for them). But for the one who does not think this way, because he sees the difficulties inherent in the Forms, so that on account of these he does not posit numbers as Forms, but instead posits mathematical number — from what source must one get conviction that such a number exists, and what use is it to other things? For the one who says it exists does not say it is useful for anything, but speaks of it as being a certain nature in its own right, and it does not appear to be a cause of anything: for all the theorems of arithmetic will hold also of perceptible things, just as was said. Now those who posit the Forms as existing, and hold that they themselves are numbers, do try, by taking the one thing over and above the many in accordance with the abstraction made in each case, in some way to say why number exists; but nonetheless, since these claims are neither necessary nor possible, one must not on that basis say that number exists on their account.
14| The Pythagoreans, because they saw many affections of numbers belonging to perceptible bodies, made the things that are to be numbers — not separate numbers, but the things that are out of numbers. But why? Because the affections of numbers hold in harmony, and in the heaven, and in many other things. But for those who say that number is only mathematical, nothing of this sort can be said, according to their hypotheses, but it was said that the sciences would not belong to them. We, however, say that number exists, just as we said before. And it is clear that mathematical objects are not separate: for if they were separate, their affections would not belong to bodies. Now the Pythagoreans are open to no objection on this score; but insofar as they make natural bodies out of numbers — out of things having no weight or lightness, making things that have lightness and weight — they seem to be talking about some other heaven and about bodies other than the perceptible ones. But those who make number separate, because the axioms will not hold of perceptible things, while the things said about number are true and delight the soul, suppose that numbers exist and are separate; and likewise also the mathematical magnitudes.
15| [1090b] It is clear, then, that the opposing argument will also say the opposite things, and that what was just raised as a difficulty must be resolved by those who speak this way: why, when the affections in no way belong to perceptible things, do their affections nevertheless belong in perceptible things? There are some who, from the fact that points, planes, and solids are limits and extremities — the point being the limit of a line, this of a plane, this of a solid — think it necessary that such natures exist. One must examine this argument too, lest it be too weak. For extremities are not substances but rather all these are limits (since there is also a limit of walking and of motion in general: this, then, will be a this-something and a certain substance — but that is absurd); and moreover, even if they do exist, they will all belong to these perceptible things (for the argument has spoken of these): why then will they be separate? Further, one who is not too easygoing might raise a difficulty about number as a whole and about mathematical objects: that the earlier terms contribute nothing to the later ones (for if number did not exist, magnitudes would exist no less for those who say only mathematical objects exist, and if these did not exist, soul and the perceptible bodies would exist no less);
16| but nature does not seem to be episodic, put together out of appearances, like a bad tragedy. Those who posit the Forms escape this: for they make magnitudes out of matter and number — lengths out of the dyad, planes perhaps out of the triad, solids out of the tetrad, or else out of other numbers (for it makes no difference) — but will these, then, be Forms, or what is their manner of being, and what do they contribute to the things that are? They contribute nothing, just as the mathematical objects do not either; nor indeed does any theorem hold of them, unless someone wants to disturb mathematics and construct opinions of his own. But it is not difficult, taking any hypotheses whatever, to spin things out at length and string them together. These thinkers, then, err in this way by dragging mathematical objects into connection with the Forms; but the first to make two kinds of number, the number of the Forms and the mathematical number, have neither said nor could they say how and from what the mathematical number will exist. For they make it intermediate between the number of the Forms and the perceptible. For if it is from the great and the small, it will be the same as that number of the Forms (but from some other great and small, since it makes magnitudes);
17| [1091a] but if he will say it is something different, he will be speaking of more elements; and if the principle of each is some one thing, then the one will be something common to these, and one must inquire how the one can also be these many things at once, and how, according to him, number can come to be otherwise than from the one and an indefinite dyad — which is impossible. All these claims, then, are irrational, and they conflict both with each other and with reasonable claims, and there seems to be in them the long speech of Simonides: for the long speech arises just as that of slaves does, when they say nothing sound. And the very elements, the great and the small, seem to cry out, as if being dragged along by force: for they are in no way able to generate number except the number produced by continually doubling from one. And it is also absurd to posit generation for things that are eternal — or rather, this is one of the impossibilities. As for the Pythagoreans, there is no need to be in doubt whether they posit generation or not: for they plainly say that when the one was constituted — whether out of planes, or out of color, or out of seed, or out of things they are at a loss to state — immediately the part nearest the unlimited began to be drawn in and limited by the limit. But since they construct a cosmology and want to speak in the manner of natural science, it is fair to examine them somewhat with regard to nature, but to let them off from the present inquiry;
18| for we are seeking the principles that hold among unchanging things, so that we must also examine the generation of numbers of this sort. Now they say there is no generation of the odd, which implies clearly that there is generation of the even; and some construct the even, the first even, out of unequals, the great and the small being equalized. So it is necessary that inequality belong to them prior to their being equalized; but if they were always equalized, they would not have been unequal before (for there is nothing prior to the always), so that it is clear they do not construct the generation of numbers for the sake of theoretical understanding alone. And there is a further difficulty, and one that raises a reproach even against someone who resolves it well: how the elements and the principles stand in relation to the good and the fine. The difficulty is this: whether any of those principles is what we mean by the good itself and the best, or not, but rather is generated later. Among the theologians it seems to be agreed by some of those now living, who say it is not so, but that only as the nature of beings advances do the good and the fine come to appear (and they do this out of caution about a genuine difficulty which befalls those who say, as some do, that the one is a principle:
19| [1091b] But the difficulty is not because they attribute the good to the principle as belonging to it, but because they make the one a principle -- and a principle as an element -- and number as coming from the one. The ancient poets agree with this in a similar way, in that they say it is not the first beings who reign and rule -- such as Night and Heaven or Chaos or Ocean -- but Zeus. Yet it is because the rulers among beings change that these thinkers come to say such things; since those among them who are mixed in kind, and who do not say everything mythically -- such as Pherecydes and certain others -- posit that what generates first is best, and so do the Magi, and among the later wise men, such as Empedocles and Anaxagoras, of whom the one makes love an element and the other makes intellect a principle. But of those who say that there are unmoved substances, some say that the one itself is the good itself; they thought, however, that above all it was the one that was the substance of it. This, then, is the difficulty -- which way one ought to speak: it would be strange if to the first, eternal, and most self-sufficient thing this very thing -- self-sufficiency and preservation -- did not belong first, as a good. But surely it is imperishable for no other reason than that it is in a good state, nor self-sufficient for any other reason; so that while it is reasonable that it is true to say that the principle is of this sort, to say that this is the one -- or, if not this, then at least an element, and an element of numbers -- is impossible.
20| For a great difficulty results -- one which some, fleeing from it, have given up on: those who agree that the one is the first principle and element, but only of mathematical number -- for then every unit turns out to be some good, and there comes to be a great abundance of goods. Further, if the forms are numbers, all the forms are some good; but then let one posit Ideas of whatever one wishes: for if of goods only, the Ideas will not be substances; but if also of substances, then all animals and plants, and the things that participate in them, are good. These consequences, then, are absurd; and so is the opposite element, whether it is plurality, or the unequal and the great-and-small, being the bad itself (which is why one thinker avoided attaching the good to the one, on the ground that this was necessary, since generation is from contraries, so that the bad would be the nature of plurality; while others say that the unequal is the nature of the bad): it follows, then, that all things that exist partake of the bad except the one itself, and that numbers partake of it more unmixed than magnitudes do,
21| [1092a] and that the bad is the region of the good, and that it partakes of and desires what is destructive of it -- for the contrary is destructive of the contrary. And if, as we said, matter is what each thing is potentially -- as, in relation to fire in actuality, potential fire is what corresponds to it -- then the bad will be the potential good itself. All these consequences, then, follow: partly because they make every principle an element, partly because they make the contraries principles, partly because they make the one a principle, and partly because they make numbers the first substances, separate, and forms. If, then, both not positing the good among the principles, and positing it in this way, are equally impossible, it is clear that the principles are not being correctly stated, nor are the first substances. Nor is one's supposition correct if one likens the principles of the whole to those of animals and plants, on the ground that the more complete things always come from the indefinite and the incomplete -- which is why he says the same holds of the first things too, so that the one itself is not even something that exists. For even in that case the principles from which these come are themselves complete: for a man begets a man, and the seed is not first. It is absurd, too, to bring place into being together with the mathematical solids (for place is peculiar to particular things, which is why they are separable in respect of place, whereas mathematical objects are not anywhere), and to say that a thing will be somewhere without saying what place is.
22| Now those who say that beings are made of elements, and that numbers are the first of beings, ought -- having distinguished the ways in which one thing comes from another -- to explain in this way in what manner number comes from the principles. Is it by mixture? But not everything admits of mixture, and what results from mixture is something different, and the one will not be separable, nor will it be a distinct nature -- yet they want it to be. Is it, then, by composition, as with a syllable? But then position must belong to it, and one who thinks of the one and of plurality will think of them separately. This, then, will be what number is: unit and plurality, or the one and the unequal. And since being made out of certain things is in one sense being made out of things that persist in it and in another sense not, in which of these senses is number so made? For it cannot be made in the sense of things persisting in it, except in the case of things of which there is generation. Is it, then, as from seed? But it is not possible for anything to come away from what is indivisible. Is it, then, as from a contrary that does not persist? But whatever comes to be in this way also comes from some other thing that does persist. Since, then, one thinker posits the one as contrary to plurality,
23| [1092b] while another posits it as contrary to the unequal, treating the one as equal -- in either case number would be from contraries: there must therefore be some other thing, over and above these, from which, as persisting, and from the other as well, number consists or has come to be. Further, why is it that all the other things that come from contraries, or that have contraries, perish -- even if made of them entirely -- while number does not? For nothing is said about this. And yet the contrary destroys, whether it is present in the thing or not present in it -- as strife destroys the mixture (though it need not, for strife is not the contrary of that). Nothing has been determined, either, as to in which of two ways numbers are the causes of substances and of being -- whether as boundaries (as points are of magnitudes, and as Eurytus assigned which number belonged to which thing, this one to man, this one to horse, in the way that those who bring numbers into shapes make a triangle and a square, thus likening with pebbles the forms of plants), or because a ratio is the concordance of numbers, and likewise man too, and each of the other things? But how are affections -- the white, the sweet, the hot -- numbers? That numbers are not the substance, nor the causes of form, is clear:
24| for it is the ratio that is the substance, while number is matter. For example, the substance of flesh or of bone is a number in this sense -- three parts of fire and two of earth: and the number, whatever it is, is always a number of certain things -- either of fire, or of earth, or of units -- but the substance is the being of so much in relation to so much according to the mixture: and this is no longer a number but a ratio of the mixture of bodily numbers, or of whatever kind. Number, then, is not a cause either by producing, or as number generally, or as a number of units, nor as matter, nor as the ratio and form of things. Nor, again, is it a cause as the end for the sake of which. One might also raise the question what the good is that comes from numbers by virtue of the mixture being in a number -- whether in one that is easily reckoned or in an odd one. For as it stands, honey-water is no more healthful if it is mixed three times three, but it would do more good if it were watery and in no fixed ratio than if it were unmixed and in a fixed number. Further, the ratios of mixtures consist in an addition of numbers, not in numbers as such -- for example, three to two, not three times two. For the same kind must hold throughout the multiplications, so that the series on which A, B, C stand must be measured by A, and the series D, E, F by D:
25| So all things will belong to the same number. Then the number of fire will not be BEGZ, nor that of water twice three. [1093a] But if all things must share in number, then many things must turn out to be the same, and the same number must belong to this thing and to another. Is this, then, the cause, and is the thing what it is because of this, or is this unclear? For instance, there is a certain number belonging to the sun's revolutions, and again one belonging to the moon's, and one belonging to the life and age of each kind of animal: what, then, prevents some of these numbers from being squares, others cubes, some equal, others double? Nothing prevents it — but it is necessary that things move within these limits, if all things share in number. And it was possible for different things to fall under the same number; so that if the same number happened to belong to several things, those things, having the same form of number, would be the same as one another — for instance, the sun and the moon would be the same. But why are these numbers causes? There are seven vowels, seven strings to the musical scale, the Pleiades are seven, animals shed their teeth at seven (some do, some do not), and there were seven who marched against Thebes. Is it, then, because the number is naturally of this sort, that those men came to be seven, or that the Pleiades consist of seven stars? Or rather, is it that the former are seven because of the gates, or some other cause, while the latter we simply count that way — as we count the Bear as twelve stars, though others count more? Since indeed people say that Ξ, Ψ, Ζ correspond to the musical concords, and that, because those concords are three, these letters too are three.
26| But that there could be countless other correspondences of this kind makes no difference (for Γ and Ρ could equally well be counted as one sign); and if it is said that each of these double letters is double the others while no other letter is, and that the cause is that, there being three places of articulation, one element is added to the sigma at each of the three, and that this is why there are only three — that is not because the concords are three, since the concords are actually more than three, whereas here, with the letters, there cannot be more. These men are like the ancient Homeric scholars, who see small resemblances and overlook large ones. Some say there are many such correspondences — for instance, that the two middle strings are one at nine and the other at eight, and that the epic verse has seventeen syllables, equal in number to these, and that it is scanned with nine syllables in the right half-line and eight in the left.
27| [1093b] And they say that the interval is equal both among the letters, from Α to Ω, and, among flutes, from the lowest note to the highest, whose number is equal to the whole embodied system of the heavens. But one must see that no one would have any trouble either stating or discovering such correspondences among things eternal, since they can be found among perishable things too. But the properties praised in numbers, and their opposites, and in general the things found in mathematics — as some people speak of them and make them causes of nature — seem, when looked at in this way, to slip away as causes (for on none of the ways distinguished concerning the principles is any of them a cause). Still, in a sense they do make it clear that goodness is present, and that the odd, the straight, the equal-times-equal, and the powers of certain numbers belong to the same series as the fine; for at the same time as the seasons come round, a number of a certain kind comes round too. And all the other correspondences they gather from mathematical theorems all have this same character. That is why they look like coincidences: for they are accidental, yet all akin to one another, and one by analogy — for in each category of being there is the analogous term: as the straight is in length, so the level is in breadth, the odd, perhaps, is in number, and the white is in color. Again, the numbers found in the forms are not the causes of harmonic relations and the like (for those numbers which are equal in form differ from one another — for even the units do); so that for these reasons at least, forms should not be posited. These, then, are the things that follow from the theory, and still more could be gathered; but it seems to be evidence that these thinkers suffer much difficulty over the generation of these numbers, and are in no way able to weave together an account, that mathematical objects are not separate from perceptible things, as some say, nor are these the principles.
1| [1094a] Every craft and every inquiry, and likewise every action and choice, seems to aim at some good; and so the good has rightly been declared to be that at which everything aims. But a difference appears among the ends: some are activities, while others are certain products beyond the activities themselves. Where there are ends beyond the actions, in these cases the products are by nature better than the activities. Since there are many actions, and crafts, and branches of knowledge, the ends turn out to be many as well: the end of medicine is health, of shipbuilding a ship, of generalship victory, of household-management wealth. But wherever a number of such pursuits fall under some single capacity — as bridle-making and the other crafts that produce instruments for horsemanship fall under horsemanship, and this itself, along with every action of war, falls under generalship, and so on in the same way, others under still others — in all of these the ends of the master crafts are more choiceworthy than the ends of the crafts subordinate to them, since it is for the sake of the former that the latter too are pursued. And it makes no difference whether the ends of the actions are the activities themselves or something else beyond them, as in the branches of knowledge just mentioned. If, then, there is some end of the things we do that we wish for on account of itself, and the rest on account of it, and we do not choose everything on account of something else (for in that way the process will go on without limit, so that our desire would be empty and pointless), then clearly this would be the good, indeed the highest good. Does knowledge of it, then, have great weight for our life as well, and would we, like archers who have a target to aim at, be more likely to hit what we ought? If so,
2| we must try, in outline at least, to grasp what it is and to which of the branches of knowledge or capacities it belongs. It would seem to belong to the most sovereign one, the one most in the nature of a master craft. And political science appears to be of this kind: for it is this that ordains which of the branches of knowledge are needed in cities, [1094b] and which ones each class of people should learn, and up to what point; and we see that even the most honored of the capacities fall under it, such as generalship, household-management, and rhetoric. Since it makes use of the remaining practical branches of knowledge, and moreover legislates what must be done and what abstained from, its end would encompass the ends of the others, so that this would be the good for man. For even if the good is the same for an individual and for a city, that of the city clearly is the greater and more complete thing, both to achieve and to preserve. For while it is worth loving even for a single individual, it is finer and more godlike for a nation or for cities. This, then, is what our inquiry aims at, being in a sense political science. Our discussion will be adequate if it achieves the clarity that the subject matter allows; for precision should not be sought alike in all discussions, any more than in the products of the crafts. Now the fine and just things, which political science examines, admit of much variation and irregularity, so that they seem to exist by convention only, not by nature. Even the good things admit of a similar irregularity, because harm comes to many people from them: some have perished on account of wealth, others on account of courage. We must be content, then, given that we are speaking about such subjects and from such premises, to indicate the truth roughly and in outline; and given that we are speaking about things that hold for the most part and from premises of the same kind, to reach conclusions of the same kind as well. In the same spirit, each of our claims should be received in the same way; for it is the mark of an educated person to look for just so much precision in each kind of subject
3| so far as the subject matter itself allows for it; expecting a mathematician's arguments to be merely persuasive, while demanding strict proofs from a rhetorician, amounts to much the same mistake. Now each person judges well the things he knows, and of these he is a good judge. [1095a] So in each subject the person educated in that subject is a good judge, and without qualification the person educated about everything is. For this reason a young person is not a suitable student of political science; for he is inexperienced in the actions that make up life, while the arguments proceed from these and are about these. Moreover, since he is apt to be led by his feelings, he will listen in vain and without benefit, since the end of this study is not knowledge but action. And it makes no difference whether he is young in years or immature in character; for the deficiency does not come from time but from living, and pursuing each thing, in accordance with feeling. For such people, knowledge becomes profitless, just as it does for those who lack self-control; but for those whose desires and actions are guided by reason, knowledge about these matters would be of great benefit. Let this much stand as our preface concerning the student — how he should receive our claims, and what we are proposing to do. Let us take up the discussion again: since all knowledge and all choice reach for some good, let us say what it is that we say political science aims at, and what the highest of all goods achievable in action is. As far as its name goes, most people are pretty much agreed; for both the many and the refined call it happiness, and they suppose that living well and doing well are the same as being happy. But about what happiness is, they disagree, and the many do not give the same account as the wise. For some say it is one of the things that are evident and visible, such as pleasure or wealth or honor, and different people say different things — and often the same person says different things at different times: when sick, health,
4| when poor, wealth; and being conscious of their own ignorance, they marvel at those who speak of something great and beyond them. Some, however, thought that beyond these many good things there is some other good, existing in its own right, which is the cause of these all being good as well. Now to examine all the opinions would perhaps be rather pointless; it is enough to examine those that are most current or that seem to have some reason behind them. And let us not overlook the fact that arguments proceeding from the starting points differ from arguments proceeding toward the starting points. For Plato too was right to raise this difficulty and to inquire whether the road runs from the starting points or toward them, [1095b] just as on a racecourse the direction can run from the judges toward the finish, or back again. We must begin from what is known, but this is known in two senses: known to us, and known without qualification. Perhaps, then, we ourselves must begin from what is known to us. This is why a person who is to listen adequately to lectures about what is fine and just, and about political matters generally, must have been brought up well in his habits. The bare fact serves as a starting point, and once it is grasped clearly enough, no further account of the reason why is needed; and a person so disposed either already possesses, or could readily lay hold of, first principles. But whoever has neither of these, let him listen to the words of Hesiod: 'That man is best of all who himself understands everything; good too is he who listens to one who speaks well. But whoever neither understands for himself nor, hearing another, lays it to heart — that man is useless.' Let us return to the point from which we digressed. It is not without reason that people seem to grasp the good and happiness from the lives they lead — the many and the most vulgar suppose it to be pleasure, and that is why they are content with the life of enjoyment. For there are three lives that stand out above the rest: the one just mentioned, the political life, and third, the contemplative life. Now the many are utterly
5| These people show themselves slavish in choosing the life of cattle, though they get some credibility because many of those in positions of power feel as Sardanapallus did. But people of refinement and practical bent choose honor: for this is more or less the end of the political life. Yet it appears to be a shallower thing than the good we are looking for, since it seems to lie more in those who honor than in the one honored, while we divine that the good is something of one's own and hard to take away. Further, people seem to pursue honor in order to convince themselves that they are good: at any rate they seek to be honored by those who are practically wise, and by people who know them, and honored for excellence. So it is clear that, on their own view at least, excellence is the stronger thing. And perhaps one might suppose excellence to be more truly the end of the political life than honor is. But this too appears incomplete: for it seems possible for someone to possess excellence while asleep, or to be inactive throughout life, and beyond this to suffer badly and meet with the greatest misfortunes; [1096a] and no one would call a person living that way happy, except to defend a thesis. But enough about these matters: they have been discussed adequately in the popular works as well. Third is the contemplative life, which we shall examine in what follows. As for the money-making life, it is a life under a kind of constraint, and wealth is clearly not the good we are seeking, for it is useful, and for the sake of something else. So one would rather suppose the ends mentioned before to be the good, since they are cherished for their own sake. But it appears that not even they are the good, though many arguments have been mounted for them. Let these matters, then, be set aside. But it is perhaps better to examine the universal good and go through the puzzles about how it is spoken of, even though such an inquiry proves an uphill business because the men who introduced the forms were friends of ours. Still it would seem better, indeed necessary, for the sake of preserving the
6| truth, even to do away with what is one's own, especially for those who are philosophers: for while both are dear, it is a pious duty to honor truth above friends. The men who brought forward this doctrine did not posit forms in cases where they spoke of prior and posterior, and that is exactly why they did not construct a form of numbers. But the good is spoken of both in the category of what a thing is and in that of quality and in that of relation, and what is in its own right, that is, substance, is prior by nature to what is relative (for the relative is like an offshoot and an accident of being); so there could not be some common form set over these. Further, since the good is spoken of in as many ways as being is (for it is spoken of in the category of what a thing is, as god and intellect are called good; and in the category of quality, the virtues; and in the category of quantity, the moderate amount; and in the category of relation, the useful; and in time, the right moment; and in place, a suitable dwelling, and other things of this kind), clearly it could not be one universal thing held in common; otherwise it would be predicated within a single category alone rather than across every category. Further, since for things falling under a single form there is a single science, there would have to be, for all goods, some one science as well; but as it is there are many sciences even of the things that fall under a single category, for example of the right moment: in war it is generalship, in disease it is medicine; and of the moderate amount, in food it is medicine, in exertions it is gymnastic training. One might also raise the puzzle what in the world they mean by the thing itself, if indeed in man-in-himself
7| [1096b] and in a particular man the account of man is one and the same. For as man, they will differ in no way; and if this is so, neither will they differ as good. But then, too, the good will not be more good by being eternal, if indeed a thing that lasts a long while is no whiter than a thing that lasts a single day. The Pythagoreans seem to speak more persuasively about it, in placing the one in the column of goods; and Speusippus too seems to have followed them. But let there be another discussion of these matters. In what has been said, however, a certain challenge shows itself, on the ground that the arguments were not stated about every good, but that things pursued and cherished in their own right are called good in reference to a single form, while the things productive of these, or in some way protective of them, or preventive of their opposites, are called good on account of those goods, and in a different way. Clearly, then, goods would be spoken of in two ways: some in their own right, the others because of these. Separating off, then, the things useful only for the sake of something else from the things good in their own right, let us consider whether the latter are spoken of in reference to a single form. What sort of things would one posit as good in their own right? Is it whatever is pursued even when isolated, such as thinking well and seeing and certain pleasures and honors? For even if we pursue these also for the sake of something else, still one would posit them among the things good in their own right. Or is nothing else good in its own right except the form? In that case the Form will be pointless. But if these things too are among the things good in their own right, the account of the good will have to show itself the same in all of them, just as the account of whiteness is the same in snow and in white lead. But of honor and practical wisdom and pleasure the accounts are different and distinct, precisely
8| in respect of their being good. The good, therefore, is not something common answering to a single form. But then in what way is it spoken of? For it certainly does not resemble things that are homonymous by chance. Is it, rather, because they all derive from one thing or all contribute to one thing, or is it more by analogy? For as sight is in the body, so is intellect in the soul, and so on, one thing in one case, another in another. But perhaps these matters should be set aside for now, since to work them out precisely would belong more properly to another branch of philosophy. The same holds for the form: granting that a single good is asserted as shared across cases, or that some good stands apart and exists in itself, plainly it could not be attainable through action or something a human being could acquire; but it is a good of that attainable sort that we are now seeking. Perhaps someone might think it better to become acquainted with it [1097a] with a view to the goods that are acquirable and achievable in action; for having this as a kind of pattern we shall know better the things that are good for us as well, and if we know them we shall attain them. This argument does have a certain plausibility, but it seems to be out of tune with what happens in the sciences: for all of them, though aiming at some good and seeking to supply what is lacking, leave aside knowledge of the good itself. Yet it is not reasonable that all the practitioners of the crafts should be ignorant of so great an aid and not even seek it. It is also puzzling what benefit a weaver or a carpenter will get, for his own craft, from knowing this same good, or how a person who has beheld the form itself will be more skilled as a doctor or a general. For the doctor plainly does not study health in this way, but the health of a human being, or rather perhaps of this particular human being; for it is individual by individual that he practices medicine. On these matters, then, let this much be said.
9| Let us return once more to the good we are seeking, and ask what it might be. For it appears to be different in different actions and crafts: it is one thing in medicine, another in generalship, and likewise in the rest. What, then, counts as the good belonging to each? Is it not the very thing for whose sake everything else is done? In medicine this is health, in generalship victory, in house-building a house, in another craft something else, and in every action and choice it is the end; for it is for the sake of this that everyone does everything else. So if there is some end of all the things achievable in action, this would be the good achievable in action, and if there are several, these would be it. Thus the argument, by a different route, has arrived at the same point; but this must be made still clearer. Since there evidently are several ends, and we choose some of these for the sake of another, for example wealth, flutes, and instruments generally, it is clear that not all ends are complete ends; but the best good appears to be something complete. So that if there is some one thing alone that is complete, this would be what we are seeking, and if there are several, the most complete of these. Now we call more complete that which is pursued in its own right more than that which is pursued for the sake of something else, and that which is never chosen for the sake of another more complete than the things that are chosen both in their own right and for the sake of it, and, without qualification, complete is that which is always chosen for its own sake and never for the sake of anything else. Happiness above all seems to be a thing of this sort: [1097b] happiness we always choose for itself and never for the sake of something else, whereas honor, pleasure, intellect, and every excellence we choose indeed for their own sakes (for even if nothing resulted from them we would still choose each of them), but we also choose them for the sake of happiness,
10| supposing that through these they will be happy. But no one chooses happiness for the sake of these things, nor in general for the sake of anything else. And the same conclusion appears to follow from self-sufficiency as well: for the complete good is thought to be self-sufficient. And by self-sufficient we mean not what suffices for a man alone, living a solitary life, but what suffices also for parents and children and wife, and in general for friends and fellow citizens, since man is by nature a political being. Yet some boundary must be drawn here, since stretching the circle to include one's father and mother, their forebears, and the friends of one's friends carries the calculation on forever. This, however, must be examined later; for now we lay it down that the self-sufficient is what taken alone makes life choiceworthy and lacking in nothing, and this is what we think happiness to be. Further, we think happiness the most choiceworthy of all things, not counted as one good among others; if it were so counted, it is clear it would be made more choiceworthy by the addition of even the smallest of goods, since the addition produces a superiority of goods, and of goods the greater is always more choiceworthy. Happiness, then, appears to be something complete and self-sufficient, being the end of the things done in action. But perhaps to call happiness the highest good sounds like something generally agreed, and what is wanted is to say still more clearly what it is. This might come about if we grasped the function of man. For just as for a flute-player, a sculptor, or any craftsman, and in general for all things that have a function and a characteristic action, the good and the doing well seem to lie in the function, so it would seem to be for man too, if indeed there is some function belonging to him. Are we then to say that while the carpenter and the shoemaker have their own functions and actions, man has
11| none, but is by nature idle? Or rather, just as eye and hand and foot, and in general each of the parts, evidently has some function, so too one might posit some function for man beyond all these? What then could this be? For merely living appears to be common even to plants, and what is sought is what is peculiar to man. [1098a] We must set apart, then, the life of nutrition and growth. Next would come a life of perception, but this too is evidently common to the horse, the ox, and every animal. There remains, then, a life of action of the part that has reason; and of this, one part has reason as obeying reason, the other as itself possessing it and thinking. And because this life, too, admits a double sense, our concern is with the sense tied to actual operation, since that is judged the stricter meaning. If, then, the function of man is an activity of soul in accordance with reason, or not without reason, and we say that the function of a given individual and of a good individual of that kind is generically the same, as for a lyre-player and a good lyre-player, and this holds without qualification in all cases, the superiority in accordance with the virtue being added to the function—for it is the function of a lyre-player to play the lyre, and of a good one to play it well—if this is so, and we posit the function of man as a certain kind of life, and this life as an activity of soul, and actions accompanied by reason, and the function of a good man as doing these things well and finely, and each thing is completed well according to its own proper virtue—if this is so, the human good turns out to be an activity of soul in accordance with virtue, and if there are more virtues than one, in accordance with the best and most complete of them. And further, in a complete life. For one swallow does not make a spring, nor does one day; nor, likewise, does one day, or a short time, make a man blessed and
12| happy. Let this, then, serve as an outline of the good: for presumably we must first sketch it and fill it in later. It would seem that anyone can advance and articulate what has been well outlined, and that time is a good discoverer or fellow-worker in such things; that is indeed how the advances in the crafts have come about, since it is open to anyone to add what is lacking. And we must also bear in mind what has been said before, and not look for the same degree of exactness in all things alike, but in each case as much as the subject matter admits and as is proper to the inquiry. For the carpenter and the geometer look for the right angle in different ways: the one wants it only so far as it is useful for his work, the other wants to know what it is or what sort of thing it is, since he is a spectator of the truth. We must proceed in the same way in other matters too, so that the side issues do not come to outweigh the main task. [1098b] Nor should we in every case alike demand the reason why; in some cases it is enough that the fact be shown well, as with the starting points—the fact is itself a first thing, a principle. As for starting points, we grasp some through induction, others through sense-perception, others through a settled habit, and still others by different routes. Each must be pursued in the way that suits its nature, and care must be taken that they be well marked off, for they carry great weight for what follows from them. The starting point is thought to be more than half of the whole, and many of the things sought become clear by means of it. We must examine it not only from the conclusion and the premises from which the argument proceeds, but also from what is said about it; for with what is true, all the facts are in harmony, while with what is false, the truth soon clashes. Now goods have been divided into three classes—those called external, those concerned with soul, and those concerned with body—and of these we call the ones concerned with soul the most proper and
13| the greatest goods, and we set down actions and activities of the soul as belonging to the soul. Our statement would therefore stand well said, judged against this belief, a view of long standing and one on which those who pursue philosophy concur. It is also correct in saying that certain actions and activities are the end; for in this way it belongs among the goods of the soul, and not among the external goods. It is also in harmony with our account that the happy man lives well and acts well; for happiness has been said to be more or less a kind of living well and acting well. And all the features that are sought concerning happiness evidently belong to what has been said. For to some it seems to be virtue, to others practical wisdom, to others a kind of wisdom, and to others these things or one of them together with pleasure, or not without pleasure; and others also include external prosperity along with it. Some of these views are held by many people and from long ago, others by a few men of high repute; and it is not reasonable that either group should be wholly mistaken, but rather that they should be right in some one point, or even in most points. Now with those who say it is virtue, or a certain virtue, our account is in harmony; for the activity in accordance with virtue belongs to virtue. But presumably it makes no small difference whether we suppose the highest good to lie in possession or in use, that is, in a state or in an activity. A state can be present in someone and still accomplish no good — take a man asleep [1099a] or otherwise put out of action — yet this cannot happen with the activity, since activity necessarily is doing something, and doing it well. Much as at the Olympic contests the wreath goes not to the handsomest and most powerful entrants, but
14| those who compete (for it is from among these that the winners come), so too among the fine and good things in life it is those who act rightly who come to possess the prizes. And their life is also pleasant in itself. For to feel pleasure is one of the things that belong to the soul, and to each man that is pleasant with respect to which he is said to be a lover of such-and-such, as a horse is pleasant to the lover of horses, and a spectacle to the lover of spectacles; and in the same way just things are pleasant to the lover of justice, and in general things in accordance with virtue are pleasant to the lover of virtue. Now for most people the things that seem pleasant conflict with one another, because these are not pleasant by nature, whereas for the lovers of what is fine the things pleasant by nature are pleasant; and virtuous conduct fits this description, so it gives pleasure to such men and, independently, in its own right. Their life, then, has no need of pleasure as some sort of added ornament, but has its pleasure within itself. For besides what has been said, a man is not good at all if he does not delight in fine actions; no one would call a man just who does not delight in acting justly, nor generous who does not delight in generous actions, and likewise in the other cases. If this is so, actions in accordance with virtue would be pleasant in themselves. But they are also good and fine, and each of them is so to the highest degree, if indeed the good man judges rightly about them; and he judges as we have said. Happiness, then, is the best, the finest, and the most pleasant of things, and these are not divided as in the Delian inscription: most just is what is finest, but best is to be healthy, and pleasantest is to attain what one loves. For all these belong to the best activities; and these,
15| or one of these, the best of them, is what we say happiness is. And yet it evidently also needs external goods in addition, as we said: for it is impossible, or not easy, to do fine actions if one is without equipment. For many actions are done, [1099b] as though through instruments, through friends and wealth and political power; and there are things whose lack disfigures our blessedness, such as good birth, good children, and beauty. For a person who is very ugly in appearance, or of low birth, or solitary and childless, is not very well suited to happiness; and perhaps still less so if he has thoroughly bad children or friends, or had good ones but they have died. As we said, then, happiness seems to need this sort of good fortune added to it as well; and this is why some people rank good fortune together with happiness, and others rank virtue with it. This is also why the question is raised whether happiness is something learned, or acquired by habituation, or trained for in some other way, or whether it comes about by some divine allotment, or even by chance. Now if there is anything at all that is a gift of the gods to human beings, it is reasonable that happiness should be god-given, and god-given above all human things, in proportion as it is the best of them. But this question would perhaps be more proper to another inquiry. Still, it is evident that even if happiness is not sent by the gods but comes about through virtue and some kind of learning or training, it is among the most divine things: for the prize and end of virtue appears to be the best thing there is, and something divine and blessed. And it would also be something widely shared: for it is possible for it to belong to all who are not maimed with respect to virtue, through some kind of learning and care. And if it is better to be happy in this way than through chance, it is reasonable that it should be so, given that the things in accordance with nature are, as far as possible, disposed to be in the finest condition, and likewise the things in accordance with craft and every other cause, and most of all the things in accordance with the best cause of all. But to entrust the greatest and finest thing to chance
16| would be too discordant a thing. What we are looking for is also made clear by the account itself: for happiness has been said to be a certain activity of the soul in accordance with virtue. And of the remaining goods, some must necessarily be present, while others are by nature contributory and useful as instruments. This would also be in agreement with what we said at the start: for we laid it down that the end of political science is the best good, and political science devotes the greatest care to making the citizens of a certain quality, namely good, and disposed to do fine actions. It is reasonable, then, that we call neither an ox nor a horse nor any other animal happy: [1100a] for none of them can take part in this kind of activity. A child likewise is not happy, and for the identical reason: his age keeps him from yet doing such actions; those who are said to be happy at that age are merely being praised in expectation of what is to come. For happiness, as we said, calls for virtue that is whole and a life that is whole. Across a lifetime many reversals and every sort of fortune arise, and even the man most thriving can fall into vast calamities when he is old, as the tale is told of Priam among the events at Troy; and no one counts as happy someone who has run into misfortunes of that kind and ended his life in misery. Should we then call no human being happy at all while he is still alive, but rather, following Solon, must we wait to see the end? And if indeed this is what we must hold, is a person then happy at the moment when he has died? Or is this altogether absurd, especially for us who say happiness is a kind of activity? But if we refuse to call the dead man happy, and that is not Solon's point either, but rather that a human being could then safely be pronounced blessed, since he now stands clear of bad things and disasters, even that claim leaves room for argument: for it is held that good and bad alike can befall the dead, just as they can befall someone alive who is
17| not aware of them, such as honors and dishonors, and the successes and misfortunes of their children and of their descendants generally. But these cases too raise a difficulty: for it is possible that many changes should befall the descendants of a man who has lived blessedly right up to old age and died in accordance with his life's course, and that some of these descendants should be good and meet with a life in keeping with their worth, while others should meet the opposite; and it is clear too that the descendants can stand at every degree of remove from their parents. It would be absurd, then, if the dead man changed along with them too, turning happy at one moment and wretched again the next; but it would be equally absurd if none of what befalls the descendants ever reached the parents, not even for a limited stretch of time. But we must return to the difficulty raised earlier, for perhaps what is now being inquired into can also be seen by way of that one. If, then, we must look to the end and only then congratulate each person as blessed, not because he is blessed but because he was so before, how is it not absurd that, at the very time when a person is happy, what truly holds of him should not be truly said of him [1100b] because we are unwilling to call the living happy on account of their liable to change, and because we have supposed happiness to be something stable and in no way easily changed, while fortunes revolve around the same people many times over? For it is clear that if we were to follow fortunes, we would often call the same person happy and then wretched again, making the happy person out to be a kind of chameleon and someone set on unsound footing. Or is it in no way correct to follow fortunes at all? For it is not in these that doing well or badly consists; rather, as we said, human life needs these in addition, but it is the
18| activities in accordance with virtue that are decisive for happiness, and the opposite activities decisive for its opposite. What has just been discussed as a difficulty bears witness to our account as well. For with respect to none of human works is there such steadfastness as with the activities in accordance with virtue: for these are held to be even more stable than the sciences; and among these activities themselves, the most honored are the most stable, because it is in these above all, and most continuously, that blessed people spend their lives; for this seems to be the reason why forgetfulness of them does not occur. What we are looking for, then, will belong to the happy person, and he will remain such throughout his life: for always, or more than anyone else, he will act and contemplate in accordance with virtue, and he will bear his fortunes in the finest way and in every respect fittingly, given that he is truly good and foursquare, beyond reproach. But since many things happen by chance, differing in magnitude, whether great or small, it is clear that small pieces of good fortune, and likewise small pieces of bad fortune, do not tip the scale of life, whereas great ones, occurring often, will make life more blessed if they turn out well (for such things are by nature suited to add adornment to it, and the use one makes of them is fine and excellent), while if they turn out the opposite way, they crush and maim one's blessedness: for they bring pains and impede many activities. Nevertheless, even in these circumstances what is fine shines through, whenever someone bears many great misfortunes with good grace, not through insensibility but because he is noble and great-souled. And if activities are what is decisive for life, as we said, then no one among the blessed could become wretched: for he will never do hateful and base actions.
19| [1101a] For it is our belief that a person of genuine virtue and good sense meets every turn of fortune becomingly, and from whatever lies at hand always does what is finest, just as a good general makes the most warlike use of the army he has, and a good shoemaker makes the finest shoe out of the leather he is given — and the same way with all the other craftsmen too. And if this is so, the happy person could never become wretched, though of course he will not be blessed either, if he falls into fortunes like Priam's. Nor is he changeable and easily shifted; for he will not be moved from happiness easily, nor by chance misfortunes, but only by great and numerous ones, and out of such misfortunes he would not become happy again in a short time, but if at all, only over some long and complete span, in which he has come to possess great and fine things. What, then, prevents us from calling happy the person who is active in accordance with complete virtue and adequately supplied with external goods, not for some chance length of time but for a complete life? Or must we add that he will also go on living this way and will end his life accordingly, since the future is unclear to us, and we posit happiness as an end, and as complete in every way and altogether? If this is so, we will call blessed among the living those to whom the things we have described belong and will belong — blessed as human beings. Let this much stand as a determination on these matters. As for the fortunes of one's descendants and of all one's friends, to say that they contribute nothing whatever seems altogether too unfriendly a view, and contrary to common opinion; but since the things that happen are many and vary in every way, some bearing on us more, others less, to go through them one by one appears to be a long and endless task, and to speak of the matter in general terms and in outline would perhaps be sufficient. Now if, just as some of the misfortunes that befall a person himself carry a certain weight and bearing upon his life, while others
20| seem lighter, so it is likewise with all the things that happen to one's friends, and each of these affections differs according to whether it befalls the living or the dead — differs far more than whether lawless and terrible deeds are merely set up beforehand in tragedies or actually carried out — then this difference too must be reckoned in, or rather, more likely, the puzzle of whether the dead share in any good or in its opposites must be. For it appears from these considerations that even if something does reach them, whether good or its contrary, it is something faint and small, either absolutely or for them, or if not, still of such a degree and kind as not to make the unhappy happy, nor to take away blessedness from those who are happy. [1101b] The successes of friends, then, and likewise their failures, do appear to contribute something to the dead, but of such a sort and degree that they neither make the happy unhappy nor do anything else of that kind. Now that these matters have been determined, let us examine, concerning happiness, whether it belongs among the things that are praised or rather among the things that are honored; for it is clear at any rate that it is not among the capacities. It appears that everything that is praised is praised for being of a certain quality and for standing in a certain relation to something: we praise the just person and the courageous person and, in general, the good person and virtue on account of their actions and their works, and we praise the strong person and the fast runner and each of the others for being naturally of a certain quality and standing in some relation to something good and excellent. This is clear also from the praises given to the gods; for they appear ridiculous when referred back to us,
21| and this happens because praise comes about through such a reference, as we said. But if praise belongs to things of this kind, then clearly there is no praise for the best things, but something greater and better, as indeed appears: we call the gods blessed and happy, and we call the most divine of men blessed. Likewise too with goods: no one praises happiness the way one praises justice, but rather calls it blessed, as something more divine and better. Eudoxus too seems to have argued well on behalf of pleasure's claim to the prize of excellence; for he thought that the fact that pleasure, though it is among the goods, is not praised, was a sign that it is better than the things that are praised, and that this is what god and the good are like; for it is in reference to these that the other things too are referred. For praise belongs to virtue, since it is on account of virtue that people are capable of doing fine deeds; but encomia belong to deeds, whether of the body or of the soul alike. But perhaps to work these points out with precision is more properly the task of those who have labored over encomia; for us it is clear from what has been said [1102a] that happiness belongs among the things that are honored and complete. And it appears to be so also on account of its being a starting principle; for it is for the sake of this that all of us do everything else, and we posit the starting principle and cause of goods as something honorable and divine. Since happiness is a certain activity of the soul in accordance with complete virtue, we should examine virtue; for perhaps in this way we would also get a better view of happiness. And the true statesman too seems to have devoted himself especially to this subject, since his aim is to make the citizens good and compliant with the
22| laws. Examples of this are found in the lawgivers of Crete and Sparta, and in whatever others of like kind have appeared. And if this inquiry belongs to political science, clearly the investigation would proceed in accordance with our original choice of subject. Now the virtue we must examine is clearly human virtue; for it was the human good and human happiness that we were seeking. And by human virtue we mean not virtue of the body but virtue of the soul, and we call happiness an activity of the soul. If this is so, it is clear that the statesman must have some knowledge about the soul, just as the one who is going to treat the eyes, and indeed the whole body, must have knowledge of them — and all the more so the more honorable and better political science is than medicine; and among physicians, the cultivated ones take a great deal of trouble over gaining knowledge of the body. So the statesman too must study the soul, and must study it for the sake of these ends, and to the extent that is sufficient for what is being investigated; for to work it out with greater precision than this is perhaps more laborious than the matters before us require. Now some things are said about the soul adequately enough even in the popular discussions, and these should be used: for instance, that one part of it is without reason, and another part has reason. Whether these two are marked off from each other the way the body's members and every divisible thing are, or whether they are merely two in definition while naturally inseparable — as the bulge and the hollow are inseparable around the circumference of a circle — makes no difference for our present purpose. Of the part without reason, one part seems to be common and shared with plants — I mean the part that is the cause of nutrition and growth; for one would posit a power of the soul of this kind as belonging to everything that takes nourishment,
23| [1102b] including embryos, and this very same power as belonging also to full-grown beings; for that is more reasonable than positing some other power. This part's virtue, then, appears to be common and not distinctively human; for this part and this capacity seem to be most active precisely during sleep, and the good person and the bad person are hardest to tell apart while sleeping (hence the saying that the fortunate and the miserable pass one whole half of their lives with no distinction between them; and this makes sense, since sleep is a shutting-down of the soul, at least of that in it by which it is termed excellent or bad), except insofar as certain motions do faintly get through, in which case the mental images of decent people turn out to be superior to those of random people. But enough about these matters; the nutritive part must be left aside, since it has by nature no share in human virtue. There appears, however, to be also another nature of the soul that is without reason, yet shares in reason in some way. For in the case of the continent and the incontinent person we praise their reason, and the part of the soul that has reason; for it exhorts them rightly, and toward the best things. But there evidently also exists in them something else, by nature apart from reason, which fights and struggles against reason. For exactly as paralyzed limbs of the body, when their owners choose to move them to the right, instead move off in the opposite direction, to the left, so too it is with the soul: the impulses of incontinent people run in opposite directions. Yet with the body we can actually see the part being dragged off course, whereas with the soul, we see nothing of the kind. Perhaps, though, we should nonetheless suppose that in the soul too there is something apart from reason, opposing and resisting it.
24| But it makes no difference how it is different. This part too appears to share in reason, as we said: at any rate the part of the continent person obeys reason—and perhaps the part in the temperate and courageous person is even more obedient, for in them everything is in harmony with reason. So the irrational too appears to be twofold. For the nutritive part in no way shares in reason, but the appetitive part, and in general the desiring part, shares in it in some way, insofar as it is capable of listening to reason and obeying it. It is in this sense, and not as we speak of the mathematical, that we say a child has reason, or that we have reason in relation to a father and to friends. Admonition, together with every act of rebuke and every act of exhortation, reveals that reason does hold some sway over the irrational part. [1103a] But if we must say that this part too has reason, then what has reason will itself be twofold: one part having it strictly and in itself, the other as something that listens to a father, so to speak. Virtue too is marked off in accordance with this distinction: for we say that some virtues are virtues of thought and others are virtues of character—wisdom, comprehension, and practical wisdom being virtues of thought, generosity and temperance being virtues of character. For when we speak about someone's character we do not say that he is wise or has comprehension, but that he is gentle or temperate; yet we also praise the wise person for his state. And it is the praiseworthy states that we call virtues.
1| Virtue then being twofold, one of thought and the other of character, virtue of thought owes its origin and growth mostly to teaching—for this reason it requires experience and time—while virtue of character results from habit, and hence it has even acquired its name by a slight variation from "habit." From this it is also clear that none of the virtues of character comes to be in us by nature; for nothing that exists by nature can be habituated to be otherwise—for example a stone, which by nature is carried downward, could not be habituated to be carried upward, not even if one tried to habituate it by throwing it upward ten thousand times, nor could fire be habituated to move downward, nor can anything else that is naturally constituted in one way be habituated to be otherwise. Neither by nature, then, nor contrary to nature do the virtues arise in us, but we are by nature equipped to receive them, and we are brought to completion through habit. Again, in the case of all the things that come to us by nature, we acquire the capacities first and only later exhibit the activities—this is clear in the case of the senses: it was not from seeing often or hearing often that we acquired our senses, but the reverse—we had them and then used them, we did not come to have them by using them. But the virtues we acquire by first activating them, as is also the case with the other crafts: the things we must learn to do, we learn by doing them—for example, people become builders by building and lyre-players by playing the lyre; [1103b] and in the same way we become just by doing just acts, temperate by doing temperate acts, courageous by doing courageous acts. What happens in cities also bears witness to this: for lawgivers make the citizens good by habituating them, and this is the wish of every lawgiver—
2| this is what it is, and those who do not do it well fail, and it is in this respect that a good constitution differs from a bad one. Again, every virtue is both generated and destroyed from the same things and through the same things, and craft likewise: for it is from playing the lyre that both good and bad lyre-players come to be. And builders and all the rest are analogous: for it is from building well that people will become good builders, and from building badly that they become bad ones. For if this were not so there would be no need of anyone to teach them, but everyone would be born good or bad. So it is too with the virtues: for by doing the things that come up in our dealings with other people, some of us become just and others unjust, and by doing the things that come up in fearful situations, and becoming habituated to feel fear or confidence, some of us become courageous and others cowardly. It is similar too with matters of appetite and anger: some people become temperate and gentle, others self-indulgent and irascible, the one group by conducting themselves in one way amid these things, the other group by conducting themselves in another way. And to put it in one phrase, states of character come to be from activities of a like kind. This is why we must give our activities a certain quality, since it is on the differences between them that the resulting states depend. It makes no small difference, then, whether one is habituated in this way or in that straight from childhood, but a very great difference—or rather all the difference. Since, then, the present inquiry is not undertaken for the sake of contemplation, as our other inquiries are (for we are not conducting our examination in order to know what virtue is, but in order to become good, since otherwise there would be no benefit from it), it is necessary to consider the matter of
3| actions, how they are to be done—for these are what is decisive for the states that come to be of a certain quality, as we have said. Let this stand for now as a shared premise: that conduct must follow correct reasoning; what correct reasoning itself is, and how it relates to the other virtues, will be taken up later. [1104a] But this much should be agreed on in advance: that every account concerning matters of action ought to be stated in outline and not with precision, just as we said at the outset that accounts should be demanded only to the extent the subject matter allows; and matters of action and matters of advantage have nothing fixed about them, any more than matters of health do. And if the general account is of this sort, the account concerning particular cases has even less precision: for these fall under no craft and no set of precepts, but the agents themselves must always look to what is fitting to the occasion, just as is the case in medicine and in navigation. But although the present account is of this kind, we must try to be of some help. So first we must observe this: that such things are by nature destroyed by deficiency and by excess (for we must use the visible evidence to testify about what is not evident), as we see in the case of strength and of health: for both excessive and deficient exercise destroys strength, and likewise both more and less food and drink destroy health, while the proportionate amount both produces, increases, and preserves it. So it is too with temperance and courage and the other virtues. The person who avoids and fears everything, standing firm against nothing, becomes cowardly, while the person who fears nothing at all but goes to meet everything becomes rash; and likewise the person who enjoys every pleasure and abstains from none is self-indulgent, while the one who avoids every pleasure, as boorish people do, is a sort of
4| unfeeling person. Temperance and courage, then, are destroyed by excess and deficiency, and preserved by the mean. But not only do the comings-to-be and growth and destruction of the virtues come from the same things and through the same things, but the activities too will be exercised in relation to the same things; for this is how it is also in the other more evident cases, for example strength: for strength comes from taking much nourishment and enduring much exertion, and it is the strong person who is best able to do these very things. So it is too with the virtues: it is from abstaining from pleasures that we become temperate, and once we have become temperate we are best able to abstain from them; [1104b] and likewise with courage: it is by becoming habituated to make light of frightening things and to stand firm against them that we become courageous, and once we have become courageous we shall be best able to stand firm against frightening things. And we must take as a sign of a person's states the pleasure or pain that follows upon what he does: the person who abstains from bodily pleasures and enjoys doing so is temperate, while the one who is vexed by it is self-indulgent; and the person who stands firm against terrors and enjoys it, or at least feels no pain, is courageous, while the one who feels pain is a coward. For moral virtue has to do with pleasures and pains: it is on account of pleasure that we do base things, and on account of pain that we abstain from fine things. This is why we must have been brought up in a certain way straight from childhood, as Plato says, so as to feel joy and pain at the right things; for this is correct education. Furthermore, since the virtues concern conduct and emotion, and pleasure or pain attends every emotion and every deed,
5| pleasure and pain, and virtue would for this reason be concerned with pleasures and pains. The corrective punishments that occur also indicate this: for they are a kind of cure, and cures naturally occur through opposites. Again, as we said earlier, every state of the soul is naturally related to, and concerned with, the things that naturally make it worse or better; and it is on account of pleasures and pains that people become bad, through pursuing and avoiding these — either the wrong pleasures and pains, or at the wrong time, or in the wrong way, or however many other such distinctions are drawn by the reasoned account. This is also why people define the virtues as a kind of freedom from feeling and a kind of stillness; but they do not define them well, because they speak of it without qualification, instead of saying "as one should" and "as one should not" and "when," and whatever other qualifications are added. We may take it as established, then, that virtue of this sort is the disposition that does the best actions with regard to pleasures and pains, and vice is the contrary. And it may also become clear to us from the following that virtue and vice are concerned with the same things. There being three objects of choice and three of avoidance — the fine, the advantageous, and the pleasant, and their three contraries, the shameful, the harmful, and the painful — the good person is correct with regard to all of these and the bad person errs, but most of all with regard to pleasure; for pleasure is common to the animals, and it accompanies everything that falls under choice: [1105a] for even the fine and the advantageous appear pleasant. Further, it has been bred into all of us from infancy; hence it is hard to rub off this affection, which is dyed into our life. And we also regulate our actions, some of us more and some less,
6| by pleasure and pain. For this reason, then, the whole undertaking must necessarily concern these things: for it is no small matter for one's actions whether one feels joy and pain well or badly. Further, it is harder to fight pleasure than to fight spirit, as Heraclitus says, and craft and virtue always arise in connection with what is harder, since the good is also better when found there. So for this reason too, the whole undertaking of both virtue and political science is concerned with pleasures and pains: for whoever handles these well will be good, and whoever handles them badly will be bad. Let it be said, then, that virtue is concerned with pleasures and pains, that it is increased by the very things from which it arises when they occur in one way, and destroyed when they occur in another, and that it is active with regard to the very things from which it arose. But someone might raise the difficulty of what we mean by saying that people must do just acts to become just, and temperate acts to become temperate: for if they do just and temperate acts, they are already just and temperate, just as, if they do grammatical and musical acts, they are grammarians and musicians. Or is this not even the case with the crafts? For it is possible to produce something grammatical by chance, or at another's prompting. A person will be a grammarian, then, only if he both produces something grammatical and produces it in the grammarian's own way: that is, in accordance with the grammatical knowledge in himself. Further, the case is not even similar for the crafts and for the virtues: for the products of the crafts have their goodness in themselves, so it is enough for them to be produced in a certain state; but the things done in accordance with the virtues are not done justly
7| or temperately merely because they themselves are in a certain state, but only if the agent also acts in a certain state — first, if he acts knowing what he does; second, if he acts by choice, and by choice of the acts for their own sake; and third, if he acts from a firm and unchangeable state. [1105b] Now for possessing the other crafts, these conditions are not counted in, except for the knowing itself; but for possessing the virtues, the knowing counts for little or nothing, while the other conditions count not for little but for everything, and these result from often doing just and temperate acts. Actions, then, are called just and temperate when they are the sort of actions that a just or temperate person would do; but the just and temperate person is not the one who merely does these things, but the one who also does them in the way that just and temperate people do them. So it is well said that a person becomes just from doing just acts, and temperate from doing temperate acts; and from not doing these, no one would even have a chance of becoming good. But most people do not do these things; instead they take refuge in argument and think that they are practicing philosophy and that in this way they will become serious people — behaving like patients who listen attentively to their doctors but do none of what is prescribed. Just as those patients will not be in good bodily condition when treated in that way, so these people will not be in good condition of soul when philosophizing in that way. After this, we must consider what virtue is. Since, then, what occurs in the soul is of three kinds — affections, capacities, and states — virtue would be one of these. By affections I mean appetite, anger, fear, confidence, envy, joy, friendly feeling, hatred, longing, jealousy, pity, and in general whatever is accompanied by pleasure or pain; capacities, meanwhile, are the powers by which we are said to be able to undergo these affections — the powers, for example, by which we are capable
8| of becoming angry, or feeling pain, or feeling pity; and states are the condition, good or bad, we come to hold toward these affections — toward anger, say: excess or slackness leaves us badly off, the mean leaves us well off; and likewise for the rest. The virtues, then, are not affections, and neither are the vices: first, it is not our affections that earn us the name decent or worthless, but our virtues and vices; second, our affections bring us neither praise nor blame (nobody praises a man merely for feeling fear or for feeling anger, and nobody blames a man merely for being angry — only for being angry in a particular way), [1106a] whereas it is exactly for our virtues and vices that praise or blame falls on us. Further, anger and fear come over us without any choosing on our part, whereas the virtues are themselves a kind of choice, or at least never occur apart from choice. Beyond this: with our affections we are said to be stirred, but with our virtues and vices we are said not to be stirred but rather to stand disposed in some way. For these reasons, then, the virtues are not capacities either — being merely able to feel something makes nobody good or bad, and earns nobody praise or blame; and further, our capacities belong to us by nature, while becoming good or bad is not something nature gives us — a point already made earlier. If, then, the virtues are neither affections nor capacities, it remains that they are states. What virtue is, then, in respect of its genus, has been stated. But it is not enough to say only this much, that it is a state; we must also say what sort of state it is. It must be said, then, that every virtue, of whatever it is the virtue, both brings the thing itself into a good condition and renders its function good — for instance, the virtue of the eye makes both the eye good and its function good, for it is by the virtue of the eye that we see well. Likewise the virtue of the horse makes a horse
9| makes a horse good at running, at carrying its rider, and at standing firm against the enemy. If this holds in every case, then human virtue too would be the state of character from which a person becomes good and from which he will perform his own function well. How this comes about we have already said, but it will become clear again in this way too, if we examine what its nature is. In everything continuous and divisible it is possible to take a larger part, a smaller part, or an equal part, and these either in relation to the thing itself or in relation to us; and the equal is a kind of mean between excess and deficiency. By the mean of the thing I mean that which is equidistant from each of the extremes, which is one and the same for everyone; by the mean relative to us I mean that which neither exceeds nor falls short — and this is not one thing, nor the same for everyone. For example, if ten is a lot and two is a little, people take six as the mean in relation to the thing, since it exceeds and is exceeded by an equal amount; and this is a mean by arithmetical proportion. But the mean relative to us is not to be taken this way: [1106b] it is not the case that, if ten pounds of food is a lot for someone to eat and two pounds a little, the trainer will therefore prescribe six pounds — this amount too could turn out excessive or scant depending on who must consume it: scant for Milo, yet excessive for someone new to athletic training. The same holds for running and wrestling. In this way, then, every expert avoids excess and deficiency, and seeks and chooses the mean — not the mean of the thing, but the mean relative to us. If, then, every science performs its work well in this way, keeping its eye on the mean and bringing its products into line with it (which is why people are accustomed
10| to say of well-made works that nothing can be taken away from them or added to them, on the ground that excess and deficiency destroy their goodness while the mean preserves it, and skilled craftsmen, so we put it, keep this target in view as they produce their work) — then, since virtue, like nature itself, is more exact and superior to any craft, it too would take aim at the mean. I mean ethical virtue; for this is concerned with feelings and actions, and among these there is excess, deficiency, and the mean. For example, one can feel fear, confidence, desire, anger, pity, and in general pleasure and pain, both too much and too little, and neither is good; but to feel them when one ought, at the things one ought, toward the people one ought, for the reason one ought, and in the way one ought — this is the mean and the best condition, and this belongs to virtue. The same is true of actions: excess, deficiency, and a middle term occur there too. Virtue's subject matter is feelings and actions; within these, overshooting is a mistake and undershooting draws criticism, whereas striking the midpoint is commended and gets things right — and both of those, the commendation and the getting it right, are marks of virtue. Virtue, then, is a kind of mean, since it aims at the mean. Again, one can go wrong in many ways (for evil belongs to the unlimited, as the Pythagoreans pictured it, and good to the limited), but one can succeed in only one way (which is why the one is easy and the other difficult, since it is easy to miss the target but difficult to hit it); and it is for these reasons, then, that excess and deficiency belong to vice, and the mean to virtue:
11| for men are good in only one way, but bad in all sorts of ways. Virtue, then, is a state concerned with choice, lying in a mean relative to us, [1107a] a mean defined by a rational principle, that is, as the person of practical wisdom would define it. It is a mean between two vices, one of excess and one of deficiency; and a mean also in this respect, that the vices fall short of or exceed what is right in both feelings and actions, while virtue finds and chooses the mean. Hence in respect of its substance and the account that states its essence, virtue is a mean; but in respect of what is best and what is good, it is an extreme. But not every action nor every feeling admits of a mean; for some are named in a way that already includes badness — for example spite, shamelessness, envy, and among actions, adultery, theft, murder. All of these and things like them are named because they themselves are bad, not because their excesses or deficiencies are. It is therefore never possible to be right about them, but always to be in error; doing well or badly in such matters does not depend on committing adultery with the right woman, at the right time, and in the right way, but simply doing any of these things at all is to be in error. It would be like demanding that there be a mean, an excess, and a deficiency in committing injustice, playing the coward, and being self-indulgent as well; for at that rate there would be a mean of excess and deficiency, an excess of excess, and a deficiency of deficiency. But just as there is no excess or deficiency of temperance or courage, because their mean is in a sense an extreme, so too of those vices there is no mean, and no excess and deficiency, but however
12| they are done, it is an error; for in general there is neither a mean of excess and deficiency, nor an excess and deficiency of a mean. But this must not merely be stated in general terms — it must also fit the particular cases. For in accounts concerned with actions, general statements apply more widely, but particular statements are closer to the truth, since actions have to do with particulars, and our account must agree with these. We must take these particulars, then, from the following sketch. With regard to fear and confidence, courage is the mean; [1107b] of those who go to excess, the one who exceeds in fearlessness has no name (many things have no name), the one who exceeds in confidence is rash, and the one who exceeds in fear and falls short in confidence is a coward. With regard to pleasures and pains — not all of them, and less so with pains as well — the mean is temperance, and the excess is self-indulgence. People who are deficient with regard to pleasures scarcely occur at all; and so such people have not even been given a name — let us call them insensible. With regard to giving and taking money, the mean is generosity, and the excess and deficiency are wastefulness and stinginess. But in these vices people exceed and fall short in opposite ways: the wasteful person exceeds in giving away and falls short in taking, while the stingy person exceeds in taking and falls short in giving away. For now we are speaking in outline and summary, content with this much; later these matters will be defined more precisely. There are also other dispositions concerned with money: the mean is magnificence (for the magnificent person differs from the generous one, since the one is concerned with large sums, the other with small ones), the excess is tastelessness and vulgarity, and the deficiency
13| and stinginess. How these differ from the virtues concerning liberality will be stated later. Concerning honor and dishonor, the mean is greatness of soul, the excess is a kind of what is called vanity, and the deficiency is smallness of soul. And as we said liberality stands to magnificence, differing from it by being concerned with small things, so something stands in the same relation to greatness of soul, which is concerned with great honor, itself being concerned with small honor: for it is possible to desire honor as one should, and more than one should, and less; and the one who exceeds in his desires is called ambitious, the one who falls short is unambitious, and the one in the middle is nameless. The states too are nameless, except that of the ambitious man, ambition. Hence the extremes lay claim to the middle position: and we too sometimes call the middle person ambitious, sometimes unambitious, [1108a] and sometimes we praise the ambitious person, sometimes the unambitious one. For what reason we do this will be stated in what follows; for now let us speak of the remaining cases in the manner we have laid down. There is also excess, deficiency, and a mean concerning anger; and since these are practically nameless, let us call the middle person gentle and call the mean gentleness, naming it from the middle term; of the extremes, let the one who exceeds be irascible, and the vice irascibility, and let the one who falls short be a kind of unangry person, and the deficiency unangriness. There are also three other means, having some similarity to one another but differing from one another: for they all concern association in speech and actions, but they differ in that one concerns the truth in these, while the others concern what is pleasant; and of this, one part is in play, the other in everything pertaining to life. So we must speak about these too, so that
14| we may see more plainly that in every instance the middle course deserves praise, whereas neither extreme is praiseworthy or right, but blameworthy. Now most of these too are nameless, but as with the other instances, one should attempt to invent terms for these oneself, for clarity's sake and so they are easy to follow. Concerning truth, then, let the middle person be called a kind of truthful person, and the mean truthfulness; and let pretense that exaggerates be called boastfulness, and the one who has it a boaster; and let pretense that understates be called self-deprecation, and the one who has it self-deprecating. Concerning the pleasant, in play: let the middle person be called witty, and the disposition wit; let the excess be called buffoonery, and the one who has it a buffoon; let the one who falls short be a kind of boor, and the state boorishness. Concerning the remaining kind of pleasant, that in life: the one who is pleasant as he should be is a friend, and the mean is friendliness; the one who exceeds, if for no purpose, is obsequious, but if for his own advantage, a flatterer; and the one who falls short and is unpleasant in everything is a kind of quarrelsome and difficult person. There are also means in the passions and concerning the passions: for shame is not a virtue, yet the modest person too is praised. For here too one person is called the mean, another exceeds, as does the bashful person who is ashamed of everything; while the one who falls short, or is ashamed of nothing at all, is shameless, and the middle person is modest. [1108b] Righteous indignation is the mean between envy and malicious joy; both concern pain and pleasure at what happens to one's neighbors: for the indignant person feels pain at those who fare well undeservedly, while the envious person, exceeding this, feels pain at
15| everyone who fares well, and the malicious person falls so far short of feeling pain that he even rejoices. But there will be occasion to speak of these elsewhere too. Concerning justice, since it is not spoken of in a single sense, we shall, after distinguishing its two kinds, discuss each and say how each is a mean; and likewise concerning the virtues of reason. Now since there are three dispositions, two of them vices — one according to excess, the other according to deficiency — and one a virtue, the mean, all are in a sense opposed to all: for the extremes are contrary both to the mean and to one another, and the mean is contrary to the extremes. For just as the equal is greater relative to the lesser and less relative to the greater, so the middle states exceed the deficiencies and fall short of the excesses, both in the passions and in the actions. For the brave person appears rash in relation to the cowardly person, and cowardly in relation to the rash person; likewise the temperate person appears self-indulgent in relation to the insensible person, and insensible in relation to the self-indulgent person; and the liberal person appears prodigal in relation to the illiberal person, and illiberal in relation to the prodigal person. Hence each of the extreme people pushes the middle person toward the other extreme, and the coward calls the brave person rash, while the rash person calls him cowardly, and analogously in the other cases. Since these are thus opposed to one another, the greatest contrariety is that of the extremes to one another rather than to the mean: since these stand at a greater distance from each other than either does from the middle, much as the large is more distant from the small, and the small from the large, than either is from what is equal. Further, some extremes show a certain resemblance to the middle term — rashness resembles bravery, for instance, and recklessness with money resembles generosity; but between the extremes themselves the unlikeness is greatest. And since things furthest apart from one another are defined as opposites, so
16| the more widely separated things are, the more contrary they are. To the mean [1109a] in some cases the deficiency is more opposed, in others the excess: for example, in bravery it is not rashness, which is excess, but cowardice, which is deficiency, that is more opposed; while in temperance it is not insensibility, which is a lack, but self-indulgence, which is excess, that is more opposed. This happens for two reasons, one arising from the thing itself: because one extreme is nearer and more similar to the mean, we set up not this one but rather its opposite as the contrary; for instance, since rashness seems more similar to bravery and nearer to it, while cowardice seems more dissimilar, we set up cowardice rather as its contrary: for whatever stands further from the middle is taken to be its stronger opposite. That, then, is one cause, rooted in the matter itself; a second cause comes from us: whatever we ourselves are more naturally drawn toward tends to look like the stronger opposite of the mean. For instance, we are ourselves more naturally inclined toward pleasures, and so we are more easily carried away toward self-indulgence than toward orderly conduct. We call those things more contrary, then, toward which the tendency is greater; and for this reason self-indulgence, being an excess, is more contrary to temperance. That moral virtue is a mean, then, and in what way, and that it is a mean between two vices, one according to excess and the other according to deficiency, and that it is such because it aims at the mean in the passions and in the actions, has been sufficiently stated. Hence too it is a hard task to be excellent. In each
17| For it is hard work to hit the mean, just as finding the midpoint of a circle is not for everyone but only for the one who knows how. So too anyone can get angry - that is easy - and anyone can give away money and spend it; but to do this toward the right person, to the right extent, at the right time, for the right reason, and in the right way - that is no longer for everyone, nor is it easy. That is exactly why doing it well is rare, praiseworthy, and fine. So one who aims at the mean must first draw away from the extreme that is more opposed to it, just as Calypso advises: "keep the ship clear of that smoke and surf." For of the two extremes, one is more in error than the other; since, then, hitting the mean exactly is difficult, one should, as they say, sail the second-best course and take the least of the evils - and this will best be done in the way we describe. [1109b] One must consider the errors to which one is oneself especially prone, since we are naturally inclined, different people to different faults; and this will become known from the pleasure and pain that arise in us. We must drag ourselves off toward the opposite extreme, for by pulling far away from error we will arrive at the mean, which is what people do who straighten warped timber. And in everything we must be most on guard against what is pleasant, and against pleasure itself, since we are not unbribed judges of it. So the attitude the elders of the people had toward Helen is the attitude we must have toward pleasure, and in every case we must repeat their saying: for by dismissing it in that way we will err less. Doing this, then, to sum it up, will most enable us to hit the mean. But this is perhaps difficult, and especially so in particular cases; for
18| it is not easy to define exactly how, toward whom, on what grounds, and for how long one ought to be angry. Indeed we ourselves sometimes praise those who fall short and call them gentle, and sometimes we call those who are harsh manly. But a person who departs a little from doing well is not blamed, whether toward the more or the less, but one who departs a great deal is, for such a person does not go unnoticed. Just how far, and by how much, a person becomes blameworthy is not easy to mark off by a formula - nor indeed can any other perceptible thing be so marked off; such things lie among particulars, and the judgment rests with perception. This much, then, is clear: that the middle state is in all cases the one to be praised, but that one must lean sometimes toward excess and sometimes toward deficiency, since in this way we will most easily hit the mean and what is good.
1| Since virtue has to do with feelings and actions, and since praise and blame attach to voluntary actions while forgiveness, and sometimes even pity, attaches to involuntary ones, it is presumably necessary for those inquiring into virtue to define the voluntary and the involuntary, and this is useful also for lawgivers with a view to honors and punishments. Now, things are thought to be involuntary when they occur by force or through ignorance. [1110a] What is done by force has its origin outside, and is of a kind in which the one acting - or rather the one having it done to him - contributes nothing, as when a wind carries someone somewhere, or people who have him in their power do so. But whatever is done through fear of greater evils, or for some fine end - as when a tyrant, having power over someone's parents and children, orders him to do something shameful, and if he does it they are saved but if he does not they die - such cases raise dispute over whether they are involuntary or voluntary. Something similar happens too with jettisoning cargo in storms: no one, without qualification, throws goods overboard willingly, but for the sake of his own safety and that of the rest, anyone with sense does. Such actions, then, are mixed, but they more closely resemble voluntary ones; for they are choiceworthy at the time they are done, and the end of the action is relative to the occasion. So whether an action counts as voluntary or involuntary must be judged with reference to the time it is performed. And a person performs it voluntarily; for the origin of moving the bodily parts that serve as instruments, in such actions, lies in him; and things whose origin lies in the agent are also up to him to do or not to do. Such acts, then, are voluntary, though in an unqualified sense they are perhaps involuntary; for no one would choose any such thing for its own sake.
2| For such actions people are sometimes even praised, when they endure something shameful or painful for the sake of great and fine ends; and if the reverse, they are blamed, since enduring the most shameful things for nothing fine, or for something trivial, marks a base person. In some cases there is no praise, but there is forgiveness, when a person does what he should not because of things that overstrain human nature and that no one could endure. Yet some things, perhaps, cannot be forced upon a person at all - rather he must die after suffering the most terrible things than do them; for the things that supposedly forced Euripides' Alcmaeon to kill his mother appear ridiculous. It is sometimes difficult to judge what should be chosen in place of what, and what endured in place of what; and it is still harder to abide by one's judgment once made, since for the most part what is expected is painful, while what one is forced to do is shameful, which is why praise and blame arise concerning those who were forced, or were not. [1110b] What sort of things, then, should be called done by force? Perhaps, without qualification, whenever the cause lies among external things and the agent contributes nothing. But things that are involuntary in themselves, yet now, in exchange for these consequences, are choiceworthy, and whose origin lies in the one acting - these are involuntary in themselves, yet now, in exchange for these consequences, voluntary. They more closely resemble voluntary actions, for actions lie among particulars, and these particulars are voluntary. What should be chosen in place of what is not easy to state, for there are many differences among particular cases. But if someone should say that pleasant and fine things are done by force - since, being outside us, they compel us - then everything would be for him a case of force, since it is for the sake of these that everyone does everything. Now those who act by force and unwillingly do so with pain, while those who act because of what is pleasant and fine do so with pleasure. It is ridiculous to blame external things rather than oneself for being easily caught by such lures, and to credit oneself with
3| fine actions while blaming pleasant things for shameful ones. The forced, then, appears to be that whose origin is external, with the person forced contributing nothing. What is done through ignorance is, in every case, non-voluntary, but it is involuntary only when it is followed by pain and regret; for one who has done something through ignorance, without any distress at what he did, has not acted voluntarily, since he did not know what he was doing, but neither has he acted involuntarily, since he feels no pain. So of those who act through ignorance, the one who feels regret seems to be involuntary, while the one who feels no regret - since he is a different case - let him be called, not voluntary. For since he differs from the other, it is better that he have a name of his own. Acting through ignorance also seems different from acting in ignorance; for a drunk person or an angry person is not thought to act through ignorance but through one of the causes mentioned, though not knowingly but in ignorance. Every wicked person, then, fails to know which acts are required and which must be shunned, and it is this very failure that turns people unjust and, broadly, bad; yet the word "involuntary" is not meant for someone merely unaware of his own advantage. For it is not ignorance in one's choice that is the cause of the involuntary, but rather of vice, nor is it ignorance of the universal - for that is blamed - but ignorance of particulars, the things and circumstances the action concerns; [1111a] for it is in connection with these that both pity and forgiveness arise, since a person who is ignorant of any of these acts involuntarily. Perhaps, then, it will not be out of place to distinguish what these particulars are and how many, namely: who is acting, what he is doing, and in regard to what or in what he is acting, and sometimes also
4| with what, such as an instrument; for the sake of what, such as safety; and how, such as gently or violently. Now no one who is not mad could be ignorant of all these things at once, and clearly not of the agent either — for how could one be ignorant of oneself? But of what he is doing someone might be ignorant, as for instance people say they let it slip out in speaking, or that they did not know it was secret, as Aeschylus did with the mysteries, or that he let it go meaning only to show it, as with the catapult. And one might think one's son was an enemy, as Merope did, or that a spear with a head on it was blunted, or that a stone was pumice; or one might kill a man by giving him a drink meant to save him; or, meaning only to touch, as those do who spar with bare hands, one might strike a real blow. Since ignorance is possible with regard to all these things — the elements in which the action lies — the man who was ignorant of any one of them is held to have acted involuntarily, and above all if he was ignorant of the most important of them. And the most important seem to be the elements in which the action lies, and that for the sake of which it is done. But besides being called involuntary in respect of this sort of ignorance, the action must also be painful and something the agent regrets. Since what is involuntary is what is done by force or through ignorance, the voluntary would seem to be that whose origin lies in the agent himself, when he knows the particular circumstances in which the action lies. For presumably it is not correct to say that acts done because of spirit or appetite are involuntary. In the first place, on that view none of the other animals will ever act voluntarily, nor will children. Next, is it that none of the acts we do from appetite or spirit are voluntary, or that the fine ones are voluntary and the shameful ones involuntary? That is absurd, when it is one and the same cause. And it is surely strange
5| to call involuntary the things we ought to desire; for there are things at which we ought to feel anger, and things we ought to desire — health, for instance, and learning. Again, involuntary acts are held to be painful, while acts done in accordance with appetite are held to be pleasant. Further, what difference does it make, as regards their being involuntary, whether the errors are due to calculation or to spirit? Both are to be avoided, [1111b] but the irrational affections are held to be no less human than reason is, and so too are the actions that proceed from spirit and appetite, since they are the actions of a human being. It would be strange, then, to set these down as involuntary. Now that the voluntary and the involuntary have been distinguished, it remains to go through the subject of choice; for choice seems to be most proper to virtue, and to judge character even more than actions do. Choice, then, is clearly voluntary, but it is not the same as the voluntary — the voluntary extends more widely. Children and the other animals do have a part in the voluntary, but none in choice; and we speak of sudden acts as voluntary, though never as chosen. Those who say choice is appetite, or spirit, or wish, or a kind of opinion do not seem to speak correctly. For choice is not shared by irrational creatures, but appetite and spirit are. Again, the person who lacks self-control acts from appetite but not from choice, while the person with self-control, conversely, acts from choice but not from appetite. And appetite is opposed to choice, but appetite is not opposed to appetite. And appetite has to do with the pleasant and the painful, whereas choice is concerned neither with the painful nor with the pleasant. Spirit even less so; for acts done because of spirit are held to be least of all in accordance with choice. But surely choice is not wish either,
6| though it appears very close to it. Choice is not of impossible things, and if someone said he chose an impossible thing, he would seem to be a fool; but wish can be of impossible things too, such as immortality. And wish can be for things that could in no way come about through the agent himself — for instance, that a particular actor or athlete win; but no one chooses such things, but only whatever he thinks could come about through himself. Wish, moreover, is directed rather at the end, whereas choice concerns what conduces to it: health is something we wish for, yet what we choose are the means through which health will come about; and we wish to be happy, and say so, yet it is not fitting to speak of choosing happiness itself — for choice, taken generally, appears to bear upon whatever lies within our own power. Nor again could it be opinion; for opinion is held to concern all things alike, no less what is eternal and impossible than what is up to us, and it is distinguished by falsity and truth, not by badness and goodness, whereas choice is distinguished rather by these latter. [1112a] Now no one, presumably, says choice is simply the same as opinion in general. But it is not the same as any particular opinion either; for it is by choosing good or bad things that we become people of a certain quality, but not by holding opinions. And we choose to take or to avoid something, or something of that sort, but we hold opinions about what a thing is, or whom it benefits, or how; taking or avoiding is not really something we hold an opinion about. And choice is praised for being of the right object rather than for being correct, whereas opinion is praised for being true. And we choose the things we know best to be good, but we hold opinions about things we do not know very well; and it does not seem to be the same people who choose best and who hold the best opinions, but rather
7| some people hold better opinions yet, through vice, choose things they ought not. It makes no difference whether opinion comes before choice or accompanies it; that is not what we are examining, but whether choice is the same as some kind of opinion. What, then, or of what sort is it, since it is none of the things mentioned? It is evidently voluntary, but not everything voluntary is an object of choice. Is it, then, what has been deliberated on beforehand? For choice involves reason and thought. Even the name seems to hint at this — that it is something chosen before other things. Now do people deliberate about everything, and is everything an object of deliberation, or is there no deliberation about some things? We should say, presumably, that the object of deliberation is not whatever a fool or a madman might deliberate about, but what a person of sense would deliberate about. Now no one deliberates about the eternal things — for instance, about the universe, or about the incommensurability of the diagonal and the side. Nor again about things that are in motion but always come about in the same way, whether from necessity or by nature or through some other cause — for instance, about the solstices and the risings of the stars. Nor about things that happen differently at different times — droughts and rains, for instance. Nor about matters of chance — finding a treasure, for instance. Nor even about all human affairs — no Spartan, for instance, deliberates about how the Scythians might best be governed; for none of these things could come about through us. We deliberate about the things that are up to us and are matters for action, and these are what remain. For nature and necessity and chance are held to be causes, and so too are intellect and everything that acts through human agency. And each group of human beings deliberates about the things that can be done through themselves.
8| [1112b] And about the exact and self-sufficient sciences there is no deliberation — about the letters of the alphabet, for instance (for we are not in doubt how they are to be written); but about whatever comes about through our own agency, and not always in the same way, about these we deliberate — about matters of medicine and of business, for instance, and about the art of navigation more than about gymnastics, in proportion as it has been less precisely worked out, and likewise again about the rest, and more about the crafts than about the sciences, for we are more in doubt about these. Deliberation has to do with things that hold for the most part, where it is unclear how they will turn out, and in matters that are undetermined. And we take on advisers for great matters, distrusting ourselves as not adequate to discern them. We deliberate not about ends but about the means to ends. For a doctor does not deliberate whether he will heal, nor an orator whether he will persuade, nor a statesman whether he will produce good order, nor does anyone else deliberate about the end; rather, having set down the end, they consider how and by what means it will be achieved. And if it appears that it can come about through several means, they examine through which it will come about most easily and most nobly; while if it is accomplished through one means only, they consider how it will come about through that, and that in turn through what, until they arrive at the first cause, which is last in the discovery. For the person deliberating seems to inquire and to analyze in the manner described, as one analyzes a geometrical figure (though it appears that not every inquiry is deliberation — mathematical inquiries, for example — while every deliberation is an inquiry), and what is last in the analysis is first in the process of coming to be. And if they meet with something impossible,
9| people give up on it, as when money is needed but cannot be procured; but if it appears possible, they set about doing it. And things are possible that could come about through us: for what comes about through friends is in a sense through us, since the starting point is in us. What is sought is sometimes the instruments, sometimes the use of them; and likewise in the rest of the cases, sometimes it is the means, sometimes the manner, or through whom. It seems, then, as has been said, that a human being is a starting point of actions; and deliberation is about what is achievable by him, and actions are for the sake of other things. For the end could not be an object of deliberation, but only the things that lead to the end; nor again particulars, [1113a] such as whether this is bread, or whether it has been baked as it should be — these are matters of perception. And if a person is always going to deliberate, he will go on to infinity. Now the object of deliberation and the object of choice are the same, except that the object of choice has already been marked off: for what has been judged as a result of deliberation is the object of choice. For each person stops inquiring how he will act once he has traced the starting point back to himself, and within himself to the ruling part; for this is what does the choosing. This is clear also from the ancient constitutions that Homer represented: for the kings would announce to the people what they had chosen beforehand. Since, then, the object of choice is what is deliberated about and desired among the things in our power, choice too would be a deliberative desire of things in our power; for it is from having judged as a result of deliberating that we desire in accordance with the deliberation. Let choice, then, be described in outline, both as to what it is concerned with and that it is concerned with things that lead to ends.
10| That wish is of the end has been stated; but some hold that it is of the good, others that it is of the apparent good. Now for those who say that the object of wish is the good, it follows that what a person who chooses incorrectly wishes for is not an object of wish (for if it is to be an object of wish, it will also be good; but it was, if it so happened, bad); while for those who say that the apparent good is the object of wish, it follows that there is nothing that is by nature an object of wish, but only what seems so to each person — and different things appear so to different people, and, if it so happens, contrary things. If, then, neither of these accounts is satisfactory, are we to say that without qualification, and in truth, the good is the object of wish, but that for each person it is the apparent good? For the good person, then, what is truly good is the object; for the base person, whatever it happens to be — just as with the body: to those in sound condition, what is genuinely healthful appears healthful, while to those in poor condition something else does — and the same holds for what tastes bitter or sweet, what feels hot or heavy, and every other such quality. For the good person judges each case correctly, and in each case what is true appears to him. For each state of character has its own things that appear fine and pleasant, and perhaps the good person differs most in this, that he sees what is true in each case, being as it were a standard and measure of them. In the case of the many, deception seems to come about on account of pleasure; [1113b] for it appears to be a good when it is not. They choose, then, the pleasant as a good, and avoid pain as an evil. Since, then, the end is an object of wish, and the things that lead to the end are objects of deliberation and choice, the actions concerning these
11| would be in accordance with choice, and voluntary. Now the activities of the virtues are concerned with these very things. So virtue too is in our power, and likewise vice. For where it is in our power to act, it is also in our power not to act, and where it is in our power to say no, it is also in our power to say yes; so that if acting, when it is a fine thing, is in our power, then not acting, when it is a shameful thing, will also be in our power, and if not acting, when it is a fine thing, is in our power, then acting, when it is a shameful thing, will also be in our power to us. Since acting well or acting shamefully lies within us, and so too does refraining from either, and since this was precisely what being good or bad people came down to, being decent or base likewise lies within us. As for saying that no one is willingly wicked nor unwillingly blessed, this seems to be partly false and partly true: for no one is blessed unwillingly, but villainy is voluntary. Or else we must dispute what has just been said, and deny that a human being is a starting point, or a begetter, of his actions as he is of his children. But if these things are evident, and we have no other starting points to trace our actions back to besides the ones in us, then the things whose starting points are in us are themselves also in our power and voluntary. This seems to be borne out both by individuals privately and by the lawgivers themselves: for they punish and take vengeance on those who do wicked things, provided they did not act under compulsion or through an ignorance for which they themselves were not responsible, while they honor those who do fine things, on the assumption that they will encourage the latter and restrain the former. Yet no one encourages people to do the things that are neither in our power nor voluntary, on the ground that it would be of no use to be persuaded not to feel heat, or pain, or hunger, or anything else of that sort — for we shall feel these things
12| just the same. Indeed, people are punished for their very ignorance, if they seem responsible for the ignorance itself — for instance, drunks incur double penalties; for the starting point is in the man himself, since he was in control of not getting drunk, and this was the cause of his ignorance. And they punish people who are ignorant of any of the things in the laws that they ought to know and that are not difficult, [1114a] and likewise in other cases where people seem to be ignorant through carelessness, on the ground that it was in their power not to be ignorant, since they were in control of taking care. But perhaps he is the sort of person who will not take care. All the same, they are themselves responsible for having become that sort of person, by living carelessly, and for being unjust or self-indulgent, some by cheating, others by spending their time in drinking and things of that sort; for it is the activities exercised on particular things that make people the sort of people they are. This is clear from those who practice for any contest or performance whatever: for they spend their time exercising the activity. Now to be ignorant that states of character come about from exercising activities on particular things belongs to someone who is thoroughly lacking in perception. Further, it is absurd for someone who acts unjustly not to wish to be unjust, or for someone who behaves self-indulgently not to wish to be self-indulgent. But if a person, without being ignorant, does the things from which he will become unjust, he will be willingly unjust — not, however, that if he wishes it, he will stop being unjust and become just. For neither does the sick man become healthy just by wishing it. Yet, if it so happens, he is willingly sick, living incontinently and disobeying his doctors. At that time, then, it was open to him not to be sick, but once he has let it go, it no longer is, just as it is no longer possible to pick up a stone once it has been thrown; but nonetheless it was in his power to throw and hurl it, for the starting point was in him. So too with the unjust man
13| And in the case of the self-indulgent person too, it was possible at the start not to become such, which is why such people are voluntary; but once they have become so, it is no longer possible for them not to be so. And it is not only the vices of the soul that are voluntary, but for some people the vices of the body are too, and these we also blame: for no one blames those who are ugly by nature, but people do blame those who are so through lack of exercise and neglect. It is the same with weakness and disability: nobody would fault someone who cannot see because of nature, illness, or an injury, but would instead feel sorry for him; yet everyone would blame someone whose blindness came from drunkenness or some other form of self-indulgence. So among the bodily vices, those that are up to us are blamed, while those that are not up to us are not. And if this is so, then in the other cases too, the vices that are blamed would be up to us. But suppose someone says that everyone aims at the apparent good, but is not in control of the appearance, [1114b] and that whatever sort of person each one is, such does the end appear to him: then, if each person is somehow responsible for his own state of character, he will also be somehow responsible for the appearance; but if not, then no one is responsible for his own wrongdoing, but acts this way through ignorance of the end, supposing that through these actions he will get what is best for himself, and the striving for the end is not self-chosen, but one must be born with a kind of vision, as it were, by which one will judge well and choose the good that accords with truth, and the person of good natural endowment is the one who has this well by nature; for this is the greatest and finest thing, and what cannot be gotten or learned from another, but a person will have it in whatever way he was born with it, and to be well and finely endowed with this by nature would be perfect and true good natural endowment. If this is true, then, how will virtue be any more voluntary than vice? For alike in both cases, for the good person and the bad, the end appears by nature, or however it appears,
14| and is fixed, and people, in referring the rest to this, act however they act. So whether the end does not appear by nature to each person as whatever it happens to be, but something also depends on the person himself, or whether the end is natural, but virtue is voluntary because the excellent person does the rest voluntarily, vice would be no less voluntary; for the bad person likewise has what depends on himself in his actions, even if not in the end. If, then, as is said, the virtues are voluntary (for we are ourselves in a way jointly responsible for our states of character, and by being persons of a certain sort we posit the end as being of a certain sort), then the vices too would be voluntary; for it is the same in their case. We have then spoken in common terms about the virtues, sketching their genus in outline—that they are means, and that they are states of character, and by what they are produced, that they are productive of these same activities and are exercised for their own sake, and that they are up to us and voluntary, and act in the way that correct reason prescribes. But actions and states of character are not voluntary in the same way: for we are in control of our actions from beginning to end, knowing the particulars, but we are in control of states of character only at the start, [1115a] while the successive addition to them is not something we recognize in each instance, as with illnesses; but because it was up to us to use them in this way or not in this way, they are for that reason voluntary. Let us take each virtue up again and say what they are, and what they concern, and how; and at the same time it will become clear how many there are. And first about courage. That it is a mean concerning fears and confidence has already been made clear; and it is clear that we fear the things that are fearful, and these are, to speak simply, bad things; for this reason people define fear as expectation of something bad.
15| We fear, then, all bad things—for example, disrepute, poverty, disease, friendlessness, death—but the courageous person is not thought to be concerned with all of these; for some things it is right and fine to fear, and shameful not to, for example disrepute: the person who fears it is decent and has a sense of shame, while the one who does not fear it is shameless. This latter is called courageous by some people by a kind of metaphor, for he has something similar to the courageous person: for the courageous person too is free from fear in a sense. But perhaps one should not fear poverty or disease, nor in general anything that does not come from vice or depend on oneself. Yet the person who is fearless about these things is not courageous either. We apply the term to him too only by similarity: for some people who are cowards in the dangers of war are generous and are confident in the face of losing money. Nor again is someone a coward if he fears outrage done to his children and wife, or envy, or something of that sort; nor is someone courageous if he is confident when about to be flogged. About which fearful things, then, is the courageous person concerned? Is it the greatest ones? For no one is more capable of enduring terrors. And the most fearful thing is death; for it is a limit, and nothing at all seems any longer to be either good or bad for the person who has died. But it would seem that the courageous person is not concerned even with death in every circumstance, for example death at sea or from disease. In what circumstances, then? Is it in the finest ones? Such are the circumstances of war; for that is the greatest and finest danger. And in agreement with this are the honors given in cities and by monarchs. Properly speaking, then, the courageous person would be called the one who is without fear in the face of a fine death, and of all the sudden dangers that bring death with them; and such dangers are especially
16| those that arise in war. Not that the courageous person is not also without fear at sea and in diseases, [1115b] but not in the same way as seafaring men: for they have given up hope of survival and are distressed at that kind of death, while the courageous are full of good hope, on the strength of their experience. At the same time, people also show manly courage in circumstances where there is an opportunity for defense, or where it is fine to die; but in destructions of that other sort neither of these is present. What is fearful is not the same for everyone; we do speak, too, of things that are beyond human strength. This, then, is fearful to everyone, at least to anyone with sense; but the things that are within human range differ in magnitude, and in being more or less fearful, and likewise the things that inspire confidence. The courageous person is undismayed as far as a human being can be. He will indeed fear such things, but he will endure them as he ought and as reason directs, for the sake of the fine; for this is the end aimed at by virtue. It is possible to fear these things more or less, and further to fear things that are not fearful as though they were. Error arises either because a person fears what he ought not, or because he does not fear as he ought, or because he does not fear when he ought, or in some other similar way; and likewise with the things that inspire confidence. The person, then, who endures and fears the right things, for the right reason, in the right way, and at the right time, and who is correspondingly confident, is courageous; for the courageous person feels and acts in accordance with what is worthy, and as reason directs. And the end of every activity is the action that accords with the state of character. And to the courageous person courage is fine. Such, then, is the end too; for each thing is defined by its end. It is for the sake of the fine, then, that the courageous person endures and acts in accordance with courage. Among those who go to excess, the one who exceeds in fearlessness
17| this has no name (we said earlier that many things have no name), but a person would have to be mad or incapable of pain to fear nothing, neither earthquakes nor waves, as they say of the Celts. The man who exceeds in confidence about frightening things is rash. The rash man also seems to be a boaster and a pretender to courage: at any rate, he wants to appear toward frightening things the way the courageous man actually is, and so he imitates him wherever he can. That is why most rash people are also cowardly-rash: they are bold in these matters, but they do not hold their ground against what is actually frightening. The man who exceeds in fearing is a coward: for he fears things he should not, and in the way he should not, and all the other things of that kind follow along with this. [1116a] He is also deficient in confidence, but he is more conspicuous for his excess in feeling pain. The coward, then, is a person of poor hope, for he fears everything. The courageous man is the opposite, for confidence belongs to a person of good hope. The coward, the rash man, and the courageous man are concerned with the same things, but they stand differently toward them: the first two exceed and fall short, while the courageous man is in the middle and as he should be. The rash are impetuous, and while they wish for danger before it comes, they hang back once they are in it, whereas the courageous are keen in action but calm beforehand. As already noted, courage occupies a middle position regarding what inspires confidence and what is frightening, in the respects specified, and it selects danger and endures it because that course is noble, or because failing to do so is disgraceful. But dying in order to escape poverty, or love, or something painful, is not the mark of a courageous man but rather of a coward: for it is softness to flee hardships, and
18| such a person holds his ground not because it is fine but because he is fleeing something bad. Courage, then, is something of this kind, but there are also other things called courage in five ways. First, the courage of the citizen, for this most resembles true courage. Citizens seem to hold their ground against dangers because of the penalties imposed by the laws, and the reproaches, and the honors; and for this reason the most courageous seem to be found among peoples where cowards are dishonored and the courageous are honored. Homer represents men of this kind, for instance Diomedes and Hector: 'Polydamas will be the first to reproach me,' and Diomedes: 'For Hector will one day say, speaking among the Trojans, that the son of Tydeus fled before me.' This kind resembles most closely the courage spoken of before, because it comes about through virtue: through shame, and through desire for what is fine (that is, honor), and through avoidance of reproach, which is shameful. One might also class in the same group those who are compelled by their commanders: but they are inferior, insofar as they do this not through shame but through fear, and they avoid not what is shameful but what is painful. For their masters compel them, as Hector says: 'Whomever I see cowering apart from the battle, there will be no safety for him from the dogs.' And those who give the orders, and who beat men back into the ranks when they retreat, do the same thing, [1116b] as do those who station troops in front of trenches and the like: all of these compel. But one ought to be courageous not because of compulsion but because it is fine. Experience about particular dangers also seems to be a kind of courage; this is why Socrates thought courage was a form of knowledge. This is found in different people in different fields, but in warfare it is found in soldiers, since there seem to be many empty alarms in war, which soldiers have observed best of all; so they appear courageous, because the others do not know what these things really are. Further, because of their experience they are most able to do harm and avoid suffering it,
19| since they are able to use their weapons and possess whatever kind of equipment would be best both for inflicting harm and for avoiding it. So they fight as armed men against unarmed ones, or as trained athletes against amateurs: for in contests of this kind too it is not the most courageous who are the best fighters, but those who are strongest and have their bodies in the best condition. But soldiers become cowards when the danger exceeds their strength and they are left behind in numbers and equipment: for they are the first to flee, while citizen-soldiers stand their ground and die, as happened at the sanctuary of Hermes. For to citizens, fleeing is shameful, and death is more choiceworthy than that kind of survival; whereas the others faced danger from the start on the assumption that they were stronger, but once they learn the truth they flee, fearing death more than shame. But the courageous man is not like this. People also attribute courage to spirit: for those who act through spirit seem to be courageous too, like wild animals charging at those who have wounded them, because the courageous are also spirited; for spirit is most eager to rush at dangers, which is why Homer speaks of 'putting strength into spirit' and 'rousing might and spirit,' and 'sharp fury rose up through the nostrils' and 'the blood boiled': for all such expressions seem to signify the arousal and impulse of spirit. Now the courageous act because it is fine, and spirit assists them in this; but wild animals act through pain, that is, because they have been struck, or through fear, since if they are in a forest or a marsh they do not approach. So it is not courage for creatures to be driven toward danger
20| by pain and spirit while foreseeing none of the dangers, since on that reckoning even hungry donkeys would be courageous, for when they are beaten they do not give up grazing; [1117a] and adulterers too do many daring things because of their desire. So it is not courage for things to be driven toward danger by pain or spirit. The courage that comes from spirit does seem to be the most natural, and when it acquires choice and the end for the sake of which it acts, it seems to be courage proper. Human beings, too, feel pain when angry, but pleasure when they take revenge; but those who fight for these reasons are combative rather than courageous, for they do not act because it is fine, nor as reason directs, but out of passion; yet they have something akin to courage. Nor, again, are those who are full of confidence courageous, for it is because they have often defeated many that they feel confident in dangers; they resemble the courageous in that both are confident, but the courageous are confident for the reasons stated earlier, whereas these are confident because they think themselves the strongest and unable to suffer anything. Drunk men do something similar: they become full of hope. But when things do not turn out that way for them, they flee; whereas it is characteristic of the courageous man to hold his ground against things that are frightening, and appear frightening, to a human being, because it is fine to do so and shameful not to. That is why it seems the mark of a more courageous man to be fearless and unshaken in sudden alarms than in dangers foreseen in advance; for this comes more from a settled state of character, since it depends less on preparation: what is foreseen a person might choose to face even by calculation and reasoning, but sudden dangers are met according to one's state of character. Those who are ignorant also appear courageous, and they are not far from the overconfident, but they are inferior insofar as they possess no worthy standing, while the overconfident do. That is why they hold their ground for
21| a certain time; but those who have been deceived, if they learn the truth or come to suspect it, flee, which is what happened to the Argives when they ran into the Spartans and mistook them for Sicyonians. So we have said what kind of people the courageous are, and also those who merely appear courageous. Though courage is concerned with both confidence and fear, it is not concerned with both equally, but more with what is frightening: for the man who is unshaken in the face of these, and behaves toward them as he should, is more courageous than the one who behaves well toward what inspires confidence. It is by holding their ground against painful things, as has been said, that men are called courageous. That is why courage is also accompanied by pain, and is justly praised: for it is harder to hold one's ground against painful things than to abstain from pleasant ones. [1117b] All the same, the end in accordance with courage would seem to be pleasant, but obscured by the circumstances around it, as happens also in athletic contests: for boxers, the end for the sake of which they fight is pleasant — the crown and the honors — but being struck is painful, if they are made of flesh, and so is all the exertion; and because these are many, while the end for whose sake they act is small, the whole seems to have nothing pleasant in it. If the case of courage is like this, then death and wounds will be painful to the courageous man, and against his will; but he will hold his ground against them because it is fine to do so, or because it is shameful not to. And the more he possesses virtue entire, and the happier he is, the more he will be pained at the thought of death: for to a man of such a kind life is most worth living, and he is knowingly deprived of the greatest goods, and this is painful. But he is no less courageous for that, and perhaps even more so, because he chooses what is fine in war in exchange for
22| chooses those things instead. Now it is not the case that acting pleasantly belongs to all the virtues, except insofar as it also touches the end. And nothing perhaps prevents soldiers of that sort from not being the best, but rather those who are less courageous but have no other good in them; for these are ready for danger, and they exchange their lives for small gains. Let this much be said about courage, then; and what it is is not hard to grasp in outline from what has been said. Next let us speak about temperance, after courage; for these seem to be the virtues of the irrational parts. That temperance is a mean concerned with pleasures has been said by us; for it is concerned with pains less, and not in the same way — and self-indulgence appears to be concerned with the same things. Let us now mark off with what sort of pleasures it is concerned. Let pleasures be divided into those of the soul and those of the body — for example love of honor, love of learning; for each of these people takes pleasure in the thing he is fond of, with the body being affected in no way, but rather the mind. Now those concerned with such pleasures are called neither temperate nor self-indulgent. And likewise neither are those concerned with the other pleasures that are not bodily; for those who are fond of stories and given to narrating and who wear away their days over chance matters we call idle talkers, but we do not call them self-indulgent, [1118a] nor do we call those who grieve over money or friends self-indulgent. Temperance would be concerned with the bodily pleasures — but not with all of these either; for those who take pleasure in things through sight, such as colors and shapes and painting, are called neither temperate nor self-indulgent,
23| though it would seem there is a right way to take pleasure in these too, and an excess and a deficiency. Likewise also with things concerned with hearing; for no one calls those who take excessive pleasure in melodies or in acting self-indulgent, nor calls those who do so as they ought temperate. Nor those concerned with smell, except incidentally; for we do not call those who take pleasure in the smells of apples or roses or incense self-indulgent, but rather those who take pleasure in the smells of perfumes or cooked dishes; for the self-indulgent take pleasure in these because through them a recollection of their objects of appetite comes about for them. And one might see others too, when hungry, taking pleasure in the smells of foods; but to take pleasure in such things belongs to the self-indulgent person, for these are his objects of appetite. Nor is there pleasure in the other animals with respect to these senses except incidentally. For dogs do not take pleasure in the smells of hares but in eating them, and the smell merely produced the perception; nor does the lion take pleasure in the bellowing of the ox but in devouring it — though it perceived through the sound that the ox is near, and so it appears to take pleasure in the sound; and likewise it does not take pleasure in seeing or finding a deer or a wild goat, but in the fact that it will have food. Temperance and self-indulgence, then, are concerned with the sort of pleasures the other animals also share in, which is why they appear slavish and beastly; and these are touch and taste. And they appear to make little or no use of taste at all; for the judgment of flavors belongs to taste, which is what those do who test wines and season dishes — but people do not take much pleasure in these,
24| or at least the self-indulgent do not, but rather in the enjoyment, which comes about entirely through touch, both in food and drink and in what are called the pleasures of sex. This is why a certain glutton prayed that his throat might become longer than a crane's, since he took pleasure in the touch. [1118b] So the most common of the senses is the one with respect to which self-indulgence occurs; and it would seem justly to be a reproach, because it belongs to us not insofar as we are human but insofar as we are animals. To take pleasure in such things, then, and to love them most of all, is beastly. Indeed the noblest touch-pleasures — the sort produced in the gymnasium by massage and heat — are excluded from this altogether, since the self-indulgent person's sense of touch engages not the body as a whole but only a few particular parts of it. Of the appetites, some seem to be common, others peculiar to individuals and acquired; for example the appetite for food is natural, since everyone in need desires dry or liquid food, or sometimes both, and — as Homer says — the young man in his prime desires a bed also; but desire for this or that particular kind of food or bed is no longer universal, nor for the same things. Hence it appears to be something of our own. Not that it has nothing natural in it either; for different things are pleasant to different people, and some things are pleasanter to everyone than ordinary things. Now in the natural appetites few people go wrong, and in one direction only, that of excess; for to eat or drink whatever is available until one is overfull is to exceed what is according to nature in amount, since natural appetite is the filling up of a deficiency. This is why such people are called belly-mad, as filling their bellies beyond what is fitting. It is the excessively slavish who become like this. But concerning the pleasures peculiar to individuals, many people go wrong, and in many ways. For of those said to be fond of such-and-such things, some go wrong either by taking pleasure in things they should not, or by taking more pleasure than the many do, or by not taking pleasure as they should; and the self-indulgent exceed in all these respects,
25| for they take pleasure in some things they should not (things that are hateful), and if there are some such things one should take pleasure in, they take more pleasure than one should and than the many do. That the excess concerning pleasures is self-indulgence, then, and is blameworthy, is clear. But concerning pains, it is not as with courage, where a person is called temperate for enduring and self-indulgent for not enduring; rather, the self-indulgent person is so called for feeling pain more than he should because he does not get pleasant things (and pleasure produces the pain for him), while the temperate person is so called for not feeling pain at their absence and for abstaining from the pleasant thing. [1119a] The self-indulgent person, then, desires all pleasant things or the most pleasant ones, and is led by his appetite to choose these instead of other things; and this is why he also feels pain both when he fails to get them and when he desires them, for appetite involves pain — though it seems strange to feel pain on account of pleasure. Those who fall short with respect to pleasures and take less pleasure than they should are not common at all; for such insensibility is not human. Indeed even the other animals distinguish among foods, and take pleasure in some but not others; and if there is someone to whom nothing is pleasant and one thing does not differ from another, such a person would be far from being human. Such a person has not even been given a name, because he does not occur much. But the temperate person stands in a mean condition with respect to these things; for he does not take pleasure in the things the self-indulgent person most does — rather he is repelled by them — nor in general in things he should not, nor intensely in anything of that kind, nor does he feel pain at their absence or desire them, or only moderately, nor
26| more than he should, nor when he should not, nor at all in any such way; but whatever things are pleasant as conducive to health or to good condition, these he will desire moderately and as he should, and likewise the other pleasant things too, so long as they are not an impediment to these, or contrary to the fine, or beyond his means. For a person who is not so disposed cherishes such pleasures more than they are worth; but the temperate person is not like that — rather he is as right reason prescribes. Self-indulgence seems more voluntary than cowardice. For the one is due to pleasure, the other to pain, of which the one is choiceworthy and the other to be avoided; and pain drives a person out of himself and destroys the nature of the one who has it, while pleasure does nothing of the kind. Self-indulgence, then, is more voluntary. This is also why it is more reproachable; for it is also easier to become habituated to these things, since there are many such things in life, and the habituation involved carries no danger, whereas with things that are fearful the reverse is true. Cowardice, on the other hand, would not seem to be voluntary in the same way as its particular instances are; for cowardice itself is painless, but these particular acts drive a person out of himself through pain, so that he even throws away his weapons and behaves disgracefully in other ways — which is why they are even thought to be forced. But for the self-indulgent person it is the reverse: the particular acts are voluntary (for he acts with appetite and desire), but the whole is less so, for no one desires to be self-indulgent. And we also apply the name self-indulgence to the errors of children, [1119b] for these bear a certain resemblance to it. Which is named from which makes no difference to our present purposes, but it is clear that the later is named from the earlier. And the transfer of the name seems not to have been badly made; for what reaches after shameful things and grows to a great extent needs to be chastened, and of such
27| desire most of all, and the child. For children too live by desire, and it is in them above all that the craving for the pleasant is found. If, then, this craving is not going to be obedient and subject to the ruling element, it will go to great lengths; for in the senseless person the desire for pleasure is insatiable and comes from every side, and the activity of desire strengthens what is akin to it; once the appetites grow large and forceful, they drive rational calculation clean out. Hence they must be moderate and few, and must not oppose reason in any way—and this condition we call obedient and disciplined—and just as the child must live according to the direction of his attendant, so too the desiring element must live according to reason. Hence the temperate person's desiring element must be in harmony with reason: for the aim of both is the fine, and the temperate person desires what he should, as he should, and when he should; and this is how reason too prescribes. Let this, then, be said by us about temperance.
1| Let us next speak about generosity. It seems to be the mean concerned with money; for the generous person is praised not in matters of war, nor in the matters the temperate person is concerned with, nor again in judicial matters, but in connection with the giving and taking of money, and more in the giving. By money we mean everything whose value is measured by currency. Both prodigality and stinginess are excesses and deficiencies concerned with money; and we always attach stinginess to those who care about money more than they should, while we sometimes apply prodigality more broadly, in a combined sense: for we call people prodigal who lack self-control and are extravagant toward self-indulgence. Hence they seem to be the most base of all: for they have many vices at once. But they are not properly so named: for the prodigal person, strictly, is one who has a single vice, [1120a] that of destroying his substance; for a prodigal is one who is ruined through himself, and the destruction of one's substance seems to be a kind of self-destruction, on the assumption that one's living depends on these things. This, then, is how we understand prodigality. Now the things that are useful admit of both good and bad use, and wealth is among the useful things; and each thing is used best by the one who has the virtue concerned with it; therefore wealth too will be used best by the one who has the virtue concerned with money, and this is the generous person. Now the use of money seems to consist in spending and giving, while taking and keeping is more a matter of acquisition. Hence it belongs more to the generous person to give to those he should than to take from where he should and not to take from where he should not. For it belongs more to virtue to do well by others than to have well done to oneself, and to do fine actions rather than not to do shameful ones; and it is not unclear that doing well and doing fine actions follow upon giving, while
2| having well done to oneself, or not acting shamefully, follows upon taking. And gratitude goes to the one who gives, not to the one who does not take, and praise even more so. And it is easier not to take than to give: for people are less inclined to give away what is their own than to refrain from taking what belongs to another. And those who give are called generous; but those who do not take are praised not for generosity but no less for justice; while those who take are not praised much at all. Of those who act from virtue, the generous are perhaps loved most: for they are beneficial, and this consists in their giving. Now actions in accordance with virtue are fine and done for the sake of the fine. The generous person, then, will give for the sake of the fine, and rightly: for he will give to those he should, as much as he should, when he should, and everything else that follows on right giving; and he will do this with pleasure, or at least without pain: for what accords with virtue is pleasant or free of pain, and least of all painful. But the one who gives to those he should not, or not for the sake of the fine but for some other reason, will be called not generous but something else. Nor is the one who gives with pain generous: for he would choose money over the fine action, and this is not the mark of the generous person. Nor will he take from where he should not: for such taking does not belong to one who does not value money highly. Nor again will he be given to asking: for it does not belong to one who does good to others to be readily benefited by them. But from where he should, he will take, [1120b] for instance from his own possessions—not as though it were fine, but as necessary, so that he may have something to give. Nor will he neglect his own affairs, since he wishes through these to assist certain people. Nor will he give to just anyone, so that he may have something to give to those he should, when he should, and where it is fine to do so. It belongs very much to the generous person
3| to overshoot in his giving, keeping back for himself the smaller share; for not attending to his own interest is exactly what marks the generous person. Generosity is spoken of in relation to one's substance: for the generous is not measured by the quantity of what is given, but by the state of the giver, and this state gives in proportion to one's substance. Nothing, then, prevents the one who gives less from being more generous, if he gives from less. Those who have not acquired their substance themselves but inherited it seem to be more generous: for they have no experience of want, and everyone is more fond of their own work, as parents and poets are. It is not easy for the generous person to be wealthy, since he is neither inclined to take nor to keep, but is disposed to give things away and does not value money for its own sake but for the sake of giving. Hence people even find fault with fortune, on the ground that those most deserving are least wealthy. But this happens not without reason: for it is not possible to have money without taking care to have it, any more than in other matters. Yet he will not give to those he should not, nor when he should not, nor anything else of that sort; for then he would no longer be acting in accordance with generosity, and having spent his resources on these things he would not have enough to spend on what he should. For, as has been said, the generous person is one who spends in proportion to his substance and on what he should; while the one who exceeds this is prodigal. Hence we do not call tyrants prodigal: for it does not seem easy for the magnitude of their possessions to be outstripped by their giving and spending. Since generosity, then, is a mean concerned with the giving and taking of money, the generous person will both give and spend on what he should and as much as he should, alike in small matters
4| and in great, and will do this with pleasure; and he will take from where he should and as much as he should. For since the virtue is a mean concerned with both, he will do both as he should: for such taking follows upon fitting giving, while taking that is not of this kind is opposed to it. Now the ones that follow together occur at the same time in the same person, while the opposed ones clearly do not. [1121a] But if it happens that he spends contrary to what he should and to what is fine, he will feel pain, but moderately and as he should: for it belongs to virtue both to feel pleasure and to feel pain at the things one should and as one should. And the generous person is easy to deal with in matters of money: for he can be wronged, since he does not prize money highly, and he is more distressed if he has not spent something he should have than pained if he has spent something he should not have, and he does not find Simonides' saying agreeable. But the prodigal person goes wrong in these respects too: for he neither feels pleasure at what he should nor as he should, nor does he feel pain; this will become clearer as we proceed. We have said, then, that prodigality and stinginess are excesses and deficiencies, and in two things, in giving and in taking—for we count spending under giving. Now prodigality exceeds in giving and not taking, and falls short in taking, while stinginess falls short in giving and exceeds in taking, except in small matters. Now the traits of prodigality do not very often go together: for it is not easy for one who takes from nowhere to give to everyone; for private individuals who give soon exhaust their substance, and it is these who seem to be prodigal—since indeed such a person would seem to be considerably better
5| of the illiberal man. For he is easy to cure, both by age and by poverty, and he can arrive at the mean. For he has the marks of the liberal man: he gives and does not take, though he does neither as he should nor well. If, then, he were habituated to this or changed in some other way, he would become liberal: for he will give to those he should, and will not take from where he should not. That is also why he does not seem to be base in character: for it is not the mark of a wicked or ignoble person to exceed in giving and not taking, but of a foolish one. And the person who is prodigal in this way seems much better than the illiberal man, both for the reasons stated, and because the one benefits many, while the other benefits no one, not even himself. But most prodigal people, as has been said, also take from where they should not, and are in this respect illiberal. They become inclined to take because they want to spend but cannot easily do so, since their resources quickly run out; they are forced, then, to procure means from elsewhere. [1121b] At the same time also, because they care nothing for the fine, they take carelessly and from every source: for they desire to give, and it makes no difference to them how or from where. That is precisely why their giving is not liberal either: for it is not fine, nor is it for the sake of that, nor as it should be; rather, sometimes they make rich those who ought to be poor, and would give nothing to people of decent character, while giving much to flatterers or to those who supply some other pleasure. That is also why most of them are undisciplined: for since they spend easily, they are extravagant also toward their undisciplined pleasures, and because they do not live with a view to the fine, they incline toward pleasures.
6| The prodigal man, then, if he goes without guidance, shifts into these traits, but if he meets with care, he might arrive at the mean and at what is fitting. Illiberality, on the other hand, is incurable (for old age and every kind of incapacity seem to make people illiberal), and it is more inborn in human beings than prodigality: for most people are fonder of wealth than of giving. And it extends widely, and is many-formed: for there seem to be many manners of illiberality. Since it consists in two things, deficiency in giving and excess in taking, it does not occur whole in everyone, but is sometimes split apart, and some people exceed in taking while others fall short in giving. Those who go by such names as thrifty, tight-fisted, stingy, all fall short in giving, but do not covet what belongs to others, nor wish to take it — some because of a certain decency and caution about what is shameful (for some seem, or at least claim, to guard their property for this reason, so that they may never be compelled to do something shameful; the cumin-splitter belongs to this class, and everyone of that sort — so named from the excess of never giving anything); others again abstain from what belongs to others out of fear, on the ground that it is not easy for oneself to take what belongs to others while others do not take what is one's own; so it satisfies them neither to take nor to give. Others again exceed in the taking, by taking from every source and taking everything — for example, those who work at illiberal trades, brothel-keepers and all such people, and money-lenders who lend small sums at high interest.
7| [1122a] For all of these take from where they should not, and as much as they should not. What appears common to them is sordid love of gain: for they all endure reproach for the sake of gain, and for a small gain at that. For those who take great things, not from where they should, nor the things they should — for instance tyrants who sack cities and plunder temples — we do not call illiberal, but rather wicked, impious, and unjust. The gambler, however, and the footpad and the robber belong among the illiberal: for they are sordidly gain-loving. For both classes pursue gain and endure reproach for its sake, and some undergo the greatest risks for the sake of the takings, while others make profit off their friends, the very people to whom they ought to be giving. Both, then, wishing to make gain from where they should not, are sordidly gain-loving; and all such takings are illiberal. It is reasonable that illiberality should be called the opposite of liberality: since it constitutes a worse fault than wastefulness, and people go astray toward it more often than toward the wastefulness just discussed. Let this much, then, be said about liberality and the vices opposed to it. It would seem consistent to go through magnificence as well next. For this too seems to be a virtue concerned with money; but unlike liberality, it does not extend to all the actions concerned with money, but only to those involving expenditure, and in these it surpasses liberality in scale. For, just as the name itself suggests, it is expenditure that is fitting in scale. But the scale is relative: for the expenditure is not the same for a trierarch as for a chief of a sacred delegation. What is fitting, then, is relative to the person himself, and to the occasion and the object. A person who spends according to his worth on small or moderate things is not called magnificent — for instance, one who often gives to a beggar — but rather the one who does so on great things. Every magnificent person is also liberal, though being liberal does not by itself make one magnificent.
8| Of this sort of state, the deficiency is called pettiness, and the excess is called vulgarity, tastelessness, and the like — not exceeding in scale in the things where one should, but making a display in matters where one should not, and in a manner one should not; we will speak about these later. The magnificent man resembles a man with expert knowledge: for he is able to discern what is fitting, and to spend large sums with a refined eye. [1122b] As was stated at the outset, a disposition is defined by its activities and by the objects it concerns. The expenditures of the magnificent man, then, are great and fitting; and such too are his works, for so the expenditure will be great and fitting to the work. So the work must be worthy of the expenditure, and the expenditure worthy of the work, or even exceed it. The magnificent man will spend such sums for the sake of the fine: for this is common to the virtues. And further, he will do so gladly and lavishly; for exact reckoning is petty. And he will consider more how a thing may be done most finely and most fittingly than how much it might cost and how it might be done most cheaply. It is necessary, then, that the magnificent man also be liberal: for the liberal man too will spend what he should and as he should; and it is in these same things that the greatness of the magnificent man consists, as a kind of magnitude, since liberality is concerned with these same things, and from an equal expenditure he will produce a more magnificent work. For the virtue of a possession and that of a work are not the same. A possession is most honorable that is worth most, for instance gold, but a work is one that is great and fine (for the contemplation of such a thing is a marvel, and the magnificent is marvelous); and the virtue of a work, magnificence, consists in scale. Among expenditures there are those we call estimable, for instance
9| those concerned with the gods — votive offerings, buildings, and sacrifices — and likewise concerning every divine power, and all those objects of public-spirited rivalry, for instance if people think they should furnish a chorus splendidly, or serve as trierarch, or even give a banquet for the city. In all cases, as has been said, reference is made also to the agent himself — who he is and what resources he has; for the expenditures should be worthy of these, and fitting not only to the work but also to the one producing it. That is why a poor man could not be magnificent: for he has no means from which he will spend greatly in a fitting manner; and one who attempts it is foolish, for he spends beyond what is worthy and what is fitting, whereas acting rightly is in accordance with virtue. It is fitting also for those to whom such resources already belong, whether through themselves or their ancestors or those with whom they are connected, and for the well-born and for the distinguished and all such people: for all these things carry magnitude and dignity. Such, then, most of all is the magnificent man, and it is in expenditures of this sort that magnificence consists, as has been said: for these are the greatest and most honored. Among private expenditures, those that occur only once, [1123a] such as a wedding and anything of that kind, and anything in which the whole city, or those in positions of dignity, take an interest, and also receptions and send-offs for foreign guests, and gifts and counter-gifts — for the magnificent man is not lavish toward himself but toward the community, and gifts have something in common with votive offerings. It also belongs to the magnificent man to furnish his household fittingly to his wealth (for this too is a kind of ornament), and to spend more on those works that are long-lasting (for these are the finest), and in each case on what is fitting: for the same things do not suit
10| to gods, to men, nor to a temple or a tomb. Since each of the expenditures is great in its kind, and what is magnificent without qualification is what is great in something great, while here it is what is great in these circumstances, and the greatness in the work differs from the greatness in the expenditure -- for the finest ball or oil-flask has the magnificence of a child's gift, though its price is small and ungenerous -- for this reason it belongs to the magnificent man, in whatever kind he acts, to act magnificently (for such a thing is not easily surpassed) and to have it in keeping with what the expenditure warrants. That, then, is what the magnificent man is like. But the man who goes to excess and is vulgar overshoots by spending beyond what is fitting, as has been said. For on small expenditures he spends much and displays himself out of tune, as for example entertaining a dining-club as if for a wedding, or when providing a chorus for a comedy bringing in purple cloth at the entrance-song, as the Megarians do. And he will do all such things not for the sake of the fine, but to display his wealth, and thinking that on this account he is admired, and where he ought to spend much, he spends little, and where little, much. The stingy man, on the other hand, will fall short in everything, and after spending the greatest sums will ruin the fine effect for the sake of something small, and whatever he does, he does it hesitantly and looking to see how he might spend the least, and even so complaining, and thinking that he is doing everything on a larger scale than he ought. These states, then, are vices, yet they do not bring reproach, because they are neither harmful to one's neighbor nor especially unseemly. Greatness of soul, to judge even from the name,
11| seems to be concerned with great things; but let us first grasp what it is concerned with. [1123b] It makes no difference whether we examine the state or the man characterized by the state. The great-souled man, then, seems to be one who thinks himself worthy of great things, being worthy of them; for one who does this without being worthy is foolish, and no one in a state that accords with virtue is foolish or senseless. The great-souled man, then, is as has been described. For the man who is worthy of small things and thinks himself worthy of just these is temperate, but not great-souled; for greatness of soul lies in greatness, just as beauty lies in a large body -- small people can be attractive and well-proportioned, but not beautiful. The man who thinks himself worthy of great things while being unworthy is vain; but not everyone who thinks himself worthy of more than he is worthy of is vain. The man who thinks himself worthy of less than he is worthy of is small-souled, whether he is worthy of great things or of moderate things, or even, being worthy of small things, thinks himself worthy of still less. And the small-souled man worthy of great things would seem most so; for what would he do if he were not worthy of so much? The great-souled man, then, is at the extreme in greatness, but in the mean as to what is right; for he thinks himself worthy in accordance with his worth, while the others exceed or fall short. If, then, he thinks himself worthy of great things, being worthy of them, and most of all of the greatest things, he would be concerned with one thing above all. Worth is spoken of in relation to external goods; and we would take as the greatest of these that which we assign to the gods, and that which people in high position most aim at, and that which is the prize for the finest deeds -- and such is honor; for this is indeed the greatest of external goods. It is with honors and dishonors, then, that the great-souled man is concerned as he ought to be. And even apart from argument the great-souled evidently are concerned with honor; for it is honor above all that great people think themselves worthy of, and in accordance with their worth. The small-souled man falls short both in relation to himself
12| and in relation to the worth of the great-souled man. The vain man exceeds in relation to himself, but not, at any rate, in relation to the great-souled man. And the great-souled man, since he is worthy of the greatest things, would be the best of men; for the better man is always worthy of more, and the best of the greatest. The truly great-souled man, then, must be good. And it would seem that what is great in each virtue belongs to the great-souled man. It would in no way suit the great-souled man to run at full stretch while fleeing, nor to do wrong; for for whose sake would he do shameful deeds, he for whom nothing is great? And examining him point by point, the great-souled man who is not good would appear altogether ridiculous. Nor, again, would he be worthy of honor if he were base; for honor is the prize of virtue, and it is assigned to the good. [1124a] Greatness of soul, then, seems to be like an adornment of the virtues; for it makes them greater, and it does not arise without them. For this reason it is difficult to be truly great-souled; for it is not possible without nobility and goodness. The great-souled man, then, is concerned above all with honors and dishonors: and at great honors bestowed by serious men he will be moderately pleased, thinking he is getting what belongs to him, or even less than that; for there could be no honor worthy of complete virtue, yet still he will accept it, since they have nothing greater to assign him; but honor from ordinary people and on small grounds he will disregard entirely, since he is not worthy of that; and dishonor likewise, since it will not justly apply to him. The great-souled man, then, as has been said, is concerned above all with honors, but nevertheless with regard to wealth and power and every piece of good and bad fortune
13| he will conduct himself with moderation, however things turn out, and he will be neither overjoyed at good fortune nor overly pained at bad fortune. For not even in regard to honor does he behave as though it were the greatest thing. For positions of power and wealth are choiceworthy on account of honor; at any rate those who possess them wish to be honored through them; and to a man for whom even honor is a small thing, everything else is too. This is why such men seem contemptuous of others. Good fortunes too seem to contribute to greatness of soul. For the well-born are thought worthy of honor, and so are those in power or wealthy; for they are in a position of superiority, and everything that is superior in what is good is more honored. This is why such things make men more great-souled; for they are honored by some people on their account. But in truth it is the good man alone who is to be honored; though the man in whom both qualities are present is thought the more worthy of honor. But those who have such goods without virtue neither justly think themselves worthy of great things, nor are correctly called great-souled; for without complete virtue that is not possible. Those who have such goods without virtue become contemptuous and insolent. For without virtue it is not easy to bear good fortunes fittingly; [1124b] and being unable to bear them, and thinking themselves superior to others, they despise others while themselves doing whatever they happen to do. For they imitate the great-souled man without being like him, and they do this in the things they are able to do; they do not, then, act in accordance with virtue, but they do despise others. For the great-souled man despises justly (since he judges truly), but most people do so at random. He is not a man who courts small dangers, nor a lover of danger, because he honors few things; but he faces great dangers, and when he is in danger he is unsparing of his life, on the ground that life is not worth having at all costs. And he is the kind of man to do good to others, but is ashamed to have good done to him,
14| for the one is the mark of a superior man, the other of an inferior one. And he repays a good turn with more than was given; for in this way the one who first did him a service will be additionally in his debt and will have been benefited. And they seem also to remember the good they have done, but not what they have received (for the one who has received good is inferior to the one who has done it, but he wishes to be superior), and to hear the former with pleasure, the latter with displeasure; this is why Thetis does not mention her services to Zeus, nor do the Spartans mention theirs to the Athenians, but rather what good they had received. It belongs to the great-souled man also to need nothing, or scarcely anything, but to help others readily, and to be grand toward those in position and good fortune, but moderate toward people of the middling sort; for it is difficult and dignified to be superior to the former, but easy to be so toward the latter, and to hold oneself high before the former is not ignoble, but among the humble it is coarse, like showing one's strength against the weak; and to refrain from pursuing honored positions, or from going where others hold first place; and to be inactive and slow to act except where there is great honor or a great deed to be done, and to do few things, but great and notable ones. It is also necessary for him to be openly hostile and openly friendly (for to conceal one's feelings is the mark of one who is afraid, and to care more for reputation than for the truth), and to speak and act openly (for he is outspoken because he is contemptuous of others, and he is truthful, except when he speaks ironically, and he speaks ironically toward the multitude), and to be unable to live in reference to another, except a friend; [1125a] for that is slavish, and this is why all flatterers are servile, and the humble are flatterers. Nor is he given to admiration; for nothing is great to him. Nor does he bear a grudge; for it is not the mark of the great-souled man to remember things, especially wrongs, but rather
15| ...rather to overlook them. Nor is he a gossip about people: he will not talk about himself or about another, since he does not care to be praised himself, nor for others to be blamed—nor again is he given to praising others; and for the same reason he is not given to speaking ill of people, not even of his enemies, except out of contempt. About necessary or trivial matters he is the least inclined to lament or to beg for help: for that is how a person behaves who takes such things seriously. He is the sort to possess fine and unproductive things rather than fruitful and useful ones, since this suits self-sufficiency more. The great-souled man's movement, too, is thought to be slow, his voice deep, and his speech measured: for a man who takes few things seriously is not given to hurrying, nor is a man who thinks nothing great is intense—and shrillness of voice and quickness come from these causes. Such, then, is the great-souled man. The person who falls short is small-souled, and the person who goes to excess is vain. Now these too are not thought to be bad people (for they do no wrong), but they are mistaken. For the small-souled man, being worthy of good things, deprives himself of what he is worthy of, and he seems to have something wrong with him from not deeming himself worthy of good things, and also to be ignorant of himself: for he would have reached for what he was worthy of, if it really were good. Yet such people are not thought to be fools, but rather diffident. Such an opinion of themselves seems even to make them worse: for each person aims at what is in accordance with his worth, and such people hold back even from fine actions and pursuits, as being unworthy of them, and likewise from external goods as well. The vain, on the other hand, are foolish and ignorant of themselves, and conspicuously so: for, not being worthy of them, they attempt honors, and are then exposed—
16| —and they adorn themselves with dress and bearing and things of that sort, and want their strokes of good fortune to be visible too, and talk about them as though they will be honored on that account. Small-souledness is opposed to greatness of soul more than vanity is: for it occurs more often and is worse. Greatness of soul, then, concerns great honor, as has been said. [1125b] But there seems to be a virtue concerning this too, as was said at the outset, which would seem to stand toward greatness of soul in much the same way as liberality stands toward magnificence. Neither virtue reaches toward greatness; instead, each shapes our attitude correctly where modest and minor matters are concerned: just as in the taking and giving of money there is a mean, and also excess and deficiency, so too in the desire for honor there is more than one ought and less, and also the proper source and the proper manner. For we blame the ambitious man for aiming at honor more than he ought and from sources he ought not, and we blame the unambitious man for not even choosing to be honored for fine actions. But there are times when we praise the ambitious man as manly and a lover of what is fine, and the unambitious man as moderate and self-controlled, as we also said at the outset. It is clear that, since “a lover of such-and-such” is said in more than one way, we do not always apply the term “ambitious” to the same thing, but when praising we apply it to one who is so more than most people, and when blaming to one who is so more than he ought. Since the mean has no name, the extremes seem to dispute the ground as though it were unclaimed. But wherever there is excess and deficiency, there is also a mean: people desire honor both more than
17| they ought and less; there is, then, also a desiring of it as one ought; and it is this state that is praised, being a mean concerning honor that has no name. In relation to ambition it appears to be unambitiousness, and in relation to unambitiousness it appears to be ambition, and in relation to both it appears in a way to be both. This seems to be so with the other virtues as well. Because no word exists for the middle position here, the two extremes seem, instead, to stand against each other. Mildness is a mean concerning anger; but since the mean is nameless, and pretty much the extremes as well, we apply the term “mildness” to the mean, though it leans toward the deficiency, which is likewise nameless. The excess might be called a kind of irascibility. For the affection is anger, but the things that produce it are many and various. Now the man who is angry at the right things and with the right people, and also in the right way and at the right time and for the right length of time, is praised: this, then, would be the mild man, given that mildness is praised. For the mild man wishes to be undisturbed and not to be led by his feeling, but to be angry at these things and for this length of time in whatever way reason directs. [1126a] He seems, however, to err more in the direction of deficiency: for the mild man is not vindictive, but rather inclined to forgive. The deficiency, whether it is a kind of lack of spirit or whatever else it should be called, is blamed. For those who are not angered at the things they ought to be angered at are thought to be foolish, and so are those who are not angered in the way they ought, nor when, nor at whom they ought: for such a person is thought not to perceive or to feel pain, and, since he is not angered, to be incapable of defending himself—and to put up with being insulted, and to overlook it when one's own people are insulted, is slavish. The excess occurs in all these respects (both at people one ought not,
18| and about things one ought not, and more than one ought, and more quickly, and for a longer time), yet not all of these belong to the same person. For that could not be: since a bad thing destroys even itself, and if it is complete, it becomes unbearable. Now the irritable are quickly angered, both at people they ought not and about things they ought not and more than they ought, but they stop quickly, which is the best thing about them. This happens to them because they do not hold their anger in, but pay it back openly on account of their quick temper, and then stop. Those who are excessively hot-tempered are sharp and angry at everything and on every occasion, which is where their name comes from. The bitter are hard to reconcile, and remain angry for a long time: for they hold their spirited feeling in. Relief comes only through retaliation: exacting payment ends the anger, replacing distress with satisfaction. Should that repayment fail to occur, however, the burden stays with them: since nothing about it shows outwardly, nobody attempts to reason them out of it, and digesting one's anger internally takes time. Such people are most troublesome to themselves and to their closest friends. We call harsh those who are angry at things they ought not, and more than they ought, and for a longer time, and who are not reconciled without retaliation or punishment. We oppose the excess to mildness rather than the deficiency: for it occurs more often, since retaliating is more human, and harsh people are worse to live with. What was also said earlier is clear from what has been said: pinning down exactly how one should be angry, at whom, over what, and for what duration is not straightforward, nor is fixing the limit past which a person is right or has erred.
19| For a person who deviates a little is not blamed, whether toward the more or toward the less: since we sometimes praise those who fall short and call them mild, [1126b] and call those who are prone to harshness manly, as capable of ruling. How far, then, and in what way a person must deviate to be blamed is not easy to state in words: for the judgment lies in the particulars, and in perception. But this much at least is clear, that the middle state is praiseworthy, the state in accordance with which we are angry at the people we ought and about the things we ought and in the way we ought, and all such things, while the excesses and deficiencies are blameworthy—mild ones only slightly so, but more so as they increase, and very much so when they are great. It is clear, then, that one must hold on to the middle state. Let this, then, be said about the states concerned with anger. In social dealings, in living together, and in sharing words and actions, some people are thought to be obsequious—those who praise everything with a view to pleasure and oppose nothing, but think they ought to give no pain to those they meet; while others, the opposite of these, who oppose everything and take no thought whatever for giving pain, are called cantankerous and quarrelsome. It is plain enough that the two dispositions just described deserve blame, and equally plain that the middle condition between them deserves praise—the disposition whereby one welcomes what is fitting in the fitting manner, and takes offense the same way; but no name has been assigned to it, though it most resembles friendship. For the man in accordance with this middle state is the sort of person we mean when we speak of the decent friend, once we add a feeling of affection. It differs from friendship in that it is without the feeling and without the affection for those with whom one associates: for he does not accept each thing as he ought out of love or hatred, but by being the sort of person
20| For he will behave in the same way toward people he knows and people he doesn't, toward the familiar and the unfamiliar—except that in each case he will act as fits the occasion, since it is not fitting to be equally concerned about intimates and strangers, nor equally a matter of indifference to pain them. Now in general it has been said that he will associate with people as he ought, but relating his conduct to the fine and the advantageous, he will aim at not paining or at pleasing others. For his concern seems to be with the pleasures and pains that arise in social dealings; and of these, whenever pleasing another would be not fine, or harmful, to himself, he will be reluctant and will choose instead to pain him; and if his going along with something would bring disgrace on the one doing it—and not a small disgrace—or harm, while opposing it would bring only a small pain, he will not go along with it but will be reluctant. He will associate differently with people of standing and with ordinary people, [1127a] and more or less with people he knows well, and likewise according to the other differences, rendering to each what is fitting; and he will choose, in its own right, to give pleasure, but will be wary of causing pain, while going along with the consequences, when these are greater—I mean the fine and the advantageous. And for the sake of a great pleasure to come later he will cause a small pain now. Such, then, is the person in the mean, though he has no name. Of the one who gives pleasure, the one who aims at being pleasant not for the sake of anything else is obsequious; the one who does it so that some benefit accrues to himself in money or in what money buys is a flatterer. The one who is reluctant toward everyone has been said to be ill-tempered and quarrelsome. The extremes appear opposed to each other because the mean has no name. Around much the same territory lies the mean state between boastfulness and self-deprecation; this too has no name. It is worth going through
21| these states as well, for we shall know more about matters of character by going through them one by one, and we shall be more confident that the virtues are means once we see that this holds in every case. In the matter of living together, then, those whose dealings concern pleasure and pain have been discussed; let us now speak, in the same way, about those who are truthful and those who are false, both in speech and in action and in what they pretend to be. Now the boaster seems to be the kind of person who lays claim to reputable things he does not have, or to more of them than he has; the self-deprecator, conversely, disowns what he does have or makes it out to be less; and the person in the mean is a plain-dealing sort, truthful both in life and in speech, acknowledging what he has to be his own, neither more nor less. And each of these things can be done either for the sake of something or for no particular reason. Each person, when acting for no ulterior purpose, says and does and lives in accordance with what he actually is. Now falsehood in its own right is base and blameworthy, and truth is fine and praiseworthy. So too the truthful person, being in the mean, is praiseworthy, and both kinds of liar are blameworthy, but the boaster more so. Both types deserve discussion, beginning with the person who is truthful. For we are not speaking of the one who is truthful in his agreements, nor of matters bearing on justice or injustice [1127b] (for that would belong to a different virtue), but rather of the person who, in matters where nothing of that sort is at stake, is truthful both in speech and in life simply because that is the state of his character. Such a person would seem to be decent. For the lover of truth, who is truthful even where it makes no difference, will be truthful
22| still more where it does make a difference; for he will be wary of falsehood as something shameful, since he was wary of it even in its own right; and such a person is praiseworthy. He tends to lean rather toward understating the truth, for this appears more tactful, since exaggerations are tiresome. The person who lays claim to more than he has for no particular reason resembles a base person (for otherwise he would not delight in the falsehood), but he appears foolish rather than wicked. But if he does it for some purpose—if for the sake of reputation or honor, he is not greatly to be blamed—text breaks off here—like the boaster; but if for money, or whatever leads to money, he is more disgraceful. (What makes one a boaster is not the capacity but the choice; for it is in virtue of his state of character and of being the sort of person he is that he is a boaster.) It is the same with a liar: one delights in the falsehood itself, another reaches after reputation or gain. Now those who boast for the sake of reputation lay claim to the sort of things that bring praise or being counted happy; those who do it for gain lay claim to the sort of things from which their neighbors can get some benefit and whose absence can go undetected—being, say, a seer, a wise man, a doctor. This is why most people who take up such pretenses do so and become boasters in this way, since these things offer scope for what has been described. Those who understate, speaking of themselves in diminished terms, appear more graceful in character, for they seem to speak not for the sake of gain but to avoid seeming pompous; and these too, most of all, disclaim the things that bring reputation, as Socrates used to do. Those who disclaim small and obvious things are called sham-humble and are held rather in contempt; and sometimes this too looks like a form of boasting, as with the dress of the Spartans, for both excess and too great a deficiency have something boastful about them. Those who
23| use self-deprecation moderately, and understate themselves with respect to things that are not too obvious or too much in the way, appear graceful. The boaster appears to be opposed to the truthful person, for he is worse. And since there is also relaxation in life, and in this a way of passing time with amusement, here too there seems to be a certain tactfulness in social dealing, [1128a] both as to what one should say and how, and likewise as to how one should listen. And it will make a difference whether one speaks among such company or listens to it. It is clear that here too there is excess and deficiency relative to the mean. Those who go to excess in what is laughable seem to be vulgar buffoons, grasping at the laughable by every means, and aiming more at raising a laugh than at speaking becomingly and not paining the one who is the butt of the joke; while those who would never say anything laughable themselves, and who take offense at those who do, seem boorish and stiff. Those who joke in a tactful way are called witty, meaning as it were well-turned; for such movements seem to belong to character, and just as bodies are judged from their movements, so too are characters. Since the laughable is widespread, and most people delight in play and in mockery more than they should, buffoons too get called witty, as if they were graceful; but that they differ, and not slightly, is clear from what has been said. Ready wit is also proper to the middle state; it belongs to the person of ready wit to say and to hear such things as are fitting for the decent and free-spirited person to say, for there are things it is proper for such a person to say and to hear as part of playfulness, and the playfulness of the free-spirited person differs from that of the slavish, and that of the educated from that of the uneducated. One can see this too from the old comedies and the new: to the older poets what was laughable was coarse abuse, to the later ones it is rather innuendo; and these differ not a little
24| toward decorum. Should we then define the person who jokes well as one who says what befits a free and cultivated person, or as one who does not pain the hearer, or even gives him delight? Or is even that sort of thing indefinable? One person, after all, finds hateful what pleases someone else. But such a person will also listen to jokes of the same kind; for what a man puts up with hearing, he seems also willing to do himself. So he will not do just anything: for a jest is a kind of mockery, and lawgivers forbid certain kinds of mockery — perhaps they ought to have forbidden jesting too. The cultivated and free person, then, will conduct himself in this way, being as it were a law to himself. Such, then, is the person in the mean, whether he is called witty or tactful. The buffoon, on the other hand, is a slave to getting a laugh, and holds back neither himself nor others if he can raise a laugh, saying things [1128b] none of which a cultivated person would say, and some of which he would not even bear to hear. The boor, by contrast, is useless in such company: contributing nothing, he takes offense at everything. But relaxation and play seem to be necessary in life. There are, then, three means we have spoken of in life, and all concern a certain sharing in speech and action. They differ in that one concerns truth, while the other two concern the pleasant. Of those concerned with pleasure, one has to do with amusements, the other with the social dealings of the rest of life. Concerning shame, it is not appropriate to speak of it as a kind of virtue, for it resembles an affection more than a state of character. At any rate it is defined as a kind of fear of disrepute, and it produces an effect similar to the fear felt about terrible things: for people who feel shame blush, while those who fear death turn pale. Both, then, appear to be in some way bodily,
25| which seems to be characteristic of an affection rather than a state of character. Now the affection does not suit every age, but only the young. For we think that people of that age ought to be prone to shame, because they live by feeling and so make many errors, and are held back by shame; and we praise young people who feel shame, but no one would praise an older person for being prone to shame, since we think he ought to do nothing that calls for shame. For shame is not even proper to a decent person, if indeed it arises over base actions (for such things ought not to be done at all: and it makes no difference whether some actions are base in truth and others only in reputation, since neither sort ought to be done, so that one ought not to be ashamed): and it is characteristic of a base person even to be the sort of man who would do one of the shameful things. To be so disposed that if one did do such a thing one would feel shame, and on this account to think oneself decent, is absurd; for shame concerns voluntary actions, and the decent person will never voluntarily do base things. Shame might indeed be decent on a hypothesis: that is, if he were to do such a thing, he would feel shame; but this condition does not hold in the case of the virtues. And if shamelessness is base, and not feeling ashamed of doing base things, it is no more decent for a person who does such things to feel shame over them. Nor is continence a virtue either, but a kind of mixed state; this will be shown concerning it later. For now let us speak of justice.
1| [1129a] concerning justice and injustice, we must examine what sort of actions they happen to be about, what kind of mean justice is, and between what extremes the just act is intermediate. Let our inquiry proceed by the same method as in the discussions already given. We observe, then, that everyone means by justice that state of character from which people are disposed to do just acts, and from which they act justly and wish for just things; and in the same way, concerning injustice, that state from which people act unjustly and wish for unjust things. Let this, then, first be laid down for us in outline. For it is not the same with sciences and capacities as with states of character. A capacity and a science seem to be of contraries alike, while a state of character that is contrary does not extend to its contrary: for instance, from health the contrary things are not done, but only the healthy things — someone is called a healthy walker whenever his gait matches that of a person in health. Now often one contrary state is recognized from its contrary, and often states are recognized from their underlying subjects: for if good condition is evident, bad condition too becomes evident, and from the things productive of good condition we come to know good condition, and from good condition we come to know what produces it. For if good condition is density of flesh, it follows necessarily that bad condition is looseness of flesh, and that what produces good condition is what produces density in the flesh. It follows for the most part that if one of a pair of terms is said in several ways, the other is said in several ways too — for instance, if the just is, so is the unjust. Justice and injustice do indeed seem to be said in several ways, but because their several senses lie close together, the ambiguity escapes notice and is not as evident as it is in cases where the senses are far apart (for there the difference in kind is great) — as, for example, in the fact that the word
2| "key" is applied ambiguously both to the bone under the neck of animals and to that with which people lock doors. Let us take, then, in how many ways the unjust man is spoken of. It seems that both the lawbreaker and the grasping and unequal man are called unjust, so that it is clear that the just man too will be both the law-abiding man and the equal man. The just, accordingly, consists in obeying the law and being equal, while the unjust consists in lawbreaking and inequality. [1129b] Since the unjust man is grasping, he will be concerned with goods — not all goods, but those with which good and bad fortune are concerned, which are always goods without qualification, but not always good for a particular person. Now people pray for these things and pursue them, but they should not; rather they should pray that things good without qualification may also be good for themselves, while choosing what is good for themselves. The unjust man does not always choose the greater share; sometimes he chooses even the smaller, in the case of things bad without qualification — but because the lesser evil seems in a way to be a good, and grasping is directed at the good, for this reason he seems to be grasping. He is, at any rate, unequal, for that term covers both cases and is common to them. Since the lawbreaker was unjust and the law-abiding man just, it is clear that all lawful things are in a sense just; for whatever the science of legislation has prescribed counts as lawful, and every one of these prescriptions we call just. Now the laws pronounce on every matter, aiming either at the common advantage of all, or at that of the best, or at that of those in power judged by virtue, or at something else of this kind; so that in one sense we call just those things that produce and preserve happiness and its parts for the political community. And the law also commands us to do the
3| deeds of the brave man — for instance, not to leave one's post, nor to flee, nor to throw away one's weapons — and the deeds of the temperate man — for instance, not to commit adultery, nor to commit outrage — and the deeds of the gentle man — for instance, not to strike, nor to speak abusively — and in the same way with the remaining virtues and vices, requiring some conduct and prohibiting other conduct — well, when the law has been well established, poorly, when it has been thrown together carelessly. This justice, then, is a complete virtue, but not without qualification — rather, in relation to another. And because of this, justice often seems to be the most excellent of the virtues, and "neither evening star nor morning star" is so wonderful; and we say proverbially, "in justice is every virtue comprehended in sum," and it is the most complete virtue because it is the exercise of complete virtue. And it is complete because the one who possesses it is able to exercise virtue in relation to another and not only in his own case: for many people are able to exercise virtue in their own affairs, but are unable to do so in their relations to another. [1130a] And for this reason the saying of Bias seems to be well put, that "office will reveal the man"; for a ruler is already in relation to another and in a community. For this same reason justice alone of the virtues seems to be another's good, because it is directed toward another: for the just man's actions benefit someone else, whether a ruler or a partner in the community. The worst man, then, is the one who exercises his vice both toward himself and toward his friends, while the best is not the one who exercises virtue toward himself but the one who exercises it toward another; for this is a difficult task. This justice, then, is not a part of virtue but the whole of virtue, nor is its contrary,
4| injustice is not a part of vice but the whole of vice. What the difference is between this virtue and justice is clear from what has been said: they are the same, but their being is not the same; rather, insofar as it is in relation to another, it is justice, and insofar as it is simply a state of a certain kind, it is virtue. Yet our inquiry concerns the justice that forms one part of virtue — something that does exist, on our own account of it — and the same holds for the injustice that forms one part of vice. Here is a sign that there is such a thing: in the case of the other forms of wickedness, the man who is active in them acts unjustly but gains no advantage, as the man who throws away his shield out of cowardice, or speaks ill of someone out of bad temper, or fails to help someone with money out of stinginess; but when a man does gain advantage, often it is by none of these vices, and certainly not by all of them, but by some kind of baseness (for we blame it) and by injustice. There is, then, some other injustice that is a part of the whole, and some unjust act that is a part of the whole unjust, which is contrary to law. Again, if one man commits adultery for the sake of gain, taking something in addition, while another spends and loses on it out of appetite, the latter would seem to be self-indulgent rather than grasping, but the former unjust, not self-indulgent; clearly, then, this is because of the gain. Again, in the case of all the other unjust acts the reference is always made back to some particular vice — if a man commits adultery, to self-indulgence; if he abandons his comrade, to cowardice; if he strikes someone, to anger — but if he gains something, the reference is to no vice at all except injustice. So it is plain that there is some other injustice besides the whole, a partial injustice, which shares its name with the whole because its definition falls under the same genus:
5| [1130b] for both have their power in relation to another, but the one is concerned with honor or money or safety, or whatever single term we might use to embrace all these, and it acts through the pleasure that comes from gain, while the other is concerned with everything with which the good man is concerned. That there are several kinds of justice, then, and that there is some other justice besides the whole of virtue, is clear; but what it is, and of what sort, must be grasped. By definition, injustice is what is contrary to law and what is uneven, while justice is what accords with law and what is even. Now the injustice spoken of before is in accordance with the unlawful. But since the unequal and the unlawful are not the same but different, as part to whole (for everything unequal is unlawful, but not everything unlawful is unequal), so too the unjust and injustice in this other sense are not the same as those but different from them, the one as parts, the other as wholes; for this injustice is a part of the whole injustice, and likewise this justice is a part of the whole justice. So we must speak both of the partial justice and of the partial injustice, and likewise of the just and the unjust in this sense. Let us then set aside the justice and injustice that are ranged in accordance with the whole of virtue — the one being the use of the whole of virtue toward another, the other the use of the whole of vice — and it is plain how the just and the unjust in accordance with these are to be marked off; since most legal requirements are simply what virtue as a whole prescribes, and the law commands us to practice every virtue while forbidding us to practice every vice.
6| And the things productive of virtue as a whole are those of the lawful acts that have been legislated concerning education for the common good. But concerning the education of the individual, in virtue of which a man is simply good, whether this belongs to political science or to some other science, must be determined later; since being a good man and being a good citizen of some given city are, perhaps, not identical. Of partial justice, and of the just in accordance with it, there is one species that has to do with distributions of honor or money or the other things that are divisible among those who share in the constitution (for in these it is possible for one person to have an amount unequal to, or equal to, another's), [1131a] and another that is corrective in private transactions. This second kind splits into two: transactions divide into willing ones and unwilling ones. The willing sort includes such things as sale, purchase, lending at interest, surety, lending for use, deposit, and hire for wages (called willing because these transactions begin willingly), while the unwilling sort divides further: some happen in secret — theft, adultery, poisoning, pimping, enticing away a slave, treacherous killing, perjury — and some by force — battery, confinement, killing, plunder, maiming, verbal abuse, outrage. And since the unjust man is unequal and the unjust is unequal, it is clear that there is also a mean of the unequal.
7| This is the equal; for in any action in which there is a more and a less there is also an equal. So, since the unjust is uneven, the just must be even — a view everyone holds even without being argued into it. And since the equal is a mean, the just will be a certain mean. Now the equal requires at least two terms. It follows, then, that the just must be a mean and equal, and relative — that is, relative to certain persons; and insofar as it is a mean, it is a mean between certain things (namely a more and a less), and insofar as it is equal, it is equal between two things, and insofar as it is just, it is just for certain persons. The just, therefore, must involve at least four terms: for those for whom it is in fact just are two, and the things in which it consists, the matters at stake, are two.
8| And the equality will be the same as between the persons, so between the things also: however the things at stake are related to one another, the persons involved are related in the same way. Persons who are unequal will not end up with equal portions; disputes and grievances spring from exactly this, whenever equals receive and are assigned portions that are unequal, or unequals receive and are assigned portions that are equal. This is also clear from the principle of worth: everyone agrees that what is just in distributions must be in accordance with some kind of worth, but they do not all mean the same thing by worth — democrats mean freedom, oligarchs mean wealth, others mean good birth, and aristocrats mean virtue. The just, then, is a kind of proportion; for the proportional is proper not only to number considered as abstract units but to number in general, since proportion is an equality of ratios, and requires at least four terms. Now that discrete proportion requires four terms is plain. But so does continuous proportion, for it treats one term as two and states it twice, [1131b] as, for example, as A is to B, so B is to C. B, then, is stated twice; so that if B is set down twice, there will be four proportional terms. And the just too requires at least four terms, and the ratio is the same, for the persons and the things have been divided up in the same way. It will therefore be as term A is to term B, so C is to D, and hence, alternando, as A is to C, B is to D. So too the whole will be to the whole; and this is the combination that the distribution pairs together, and if the terms are so combined, it pairs them justly. The joining, then, of term A with C and of term B with D
9| The just in distribution is this, and this is the mean, and the unjust is what goes against the proportion. For the proportionate is the mean, and the just is proportionate. Mathematicians give this sort of proportion the name geometric, since in a geometric proportion the ratio of whole to whole matches the ratio of each part to its corresponding part. But this proportion is not continuous, for there does not come to be one term numerically the same, serving both as numerator and denominator. This, then, is the just — the proportionate; and the unjust is what goes against the proportion. So one share becomes greater, another smaller, which is in fact what happens in practice: the one who does injustice has more, and the one who is treated unjustly has less of the good. In the case of evil it is the reverse: the lesser evil counts as a good relative to the greater evil, for the lesser evil is more choiceworthy than the greater, and what is choiceworthy is good, and the more choiceworthy is the greater good. This, then, is one species of the just. One species remains: the corrective sort, found in dealings between people, whether entered into willingly or not. This kind of just has a different form from the one before. For distributive justice concerning common goods is always in accordance with the proportion mentioned; indeed, if the distribution is made from common funds, it will be in the same ratio that the contributions bore to one another; and the injustice opposed to this kind of just is what goes against the proportion. But the just in transactions is a certain equality, and the unjust is inequality,
10| [1132a] not however according to that (geometric) proportion but according to the arithmetic. For it makes no difference whether a decent person has defrauded a base one or a base person a decent one, nor whether it was a decent person or a base one who committed adultery; rather the law looks only to the difference made by the harm, and treats the parties as equals, if one does injustice while the other suffers it, and if one has done harm while the other has been harmed. So the judge tries to equalize this injustice, which is an inequality; thus when one man strikes and another is struck, or one kills and another dies, the doing and the undergoing fall into unequal portions; but the judge attempts to level them out through the penalty, cutting away at the offender's gain. For it is said, speaking generally in such cases, even if the term is not proper to some of them, that there is a gain, for instance to the one who struck the blow, and a loss to the one who suffered it; but once the suffering has been measured, one part is called loss and the other gain. So the equal is the mean between the more and the less, while gain and loss are more and less in opposite ways: the greater of the good and the lesser of the evil is gain, and the opposite is loss. Of these the mean was the equal, which we say is just; so the corrective sort of just would be the mean between loss and gain. That is also why, when people are in dispute, they take refuge in the judge; and to go to the judge is to go to what is just, for the judge wishes to be, so to speak, justice ensouled. And they seek a judge who is a mean, and some call judges mediators, on the ground that if they hit upon the mean they will hit upon what is just. The just, then, is a kind of mean, since the judge is too. Now the
11| judge restores balance: as though a line had been cut into unequal segments, he removes from the larger segment the amount by which it surpasses the half, and gives that amount to the smaller segment. Once the whole has been split into two, each party is said to hold what belongs to him once he has received an equal portion. The equal amount stands midway between the larger and smaller shares, measured by arithmetic proportion. That is also why it is called just (dikaion), because it is divided in two (dicha), as if one were to say "halved" (dichaion), and the judge is a "halver" (dichastes). For when two equal amounts have had a part taken away from one of them and added to the other, the latter exceeds the former by these two amounts; for if the part had been taken away but not added, it would have exceeded by only one. [1132b] It exceeds the mean, then, by one, and the mean exceeds the amount from which the part was taken away by one also. By this, then, we shall recognize both what must be taken away from the one who has more and what must be added to the one who has less: what the mean exceeds by must be added to the one who has less, and what it is exceeded by must be taken from the greatest. Let the lines AA, BB, GG be equal to one another. From AA let AE be taken away, and to GG let the segment GD be added, so that the whole line DGG exceeds EA by GD and GZ; therefore it exceeds BB by GD. This holds in the other crafts as well; for they would be destroyed if what acts did not act by just so much and of just such a kind, and what is acted upon were not acted upon by just so much and of just such a kind. These names, loss and gain, have come from voluntary exchange; for to have more than one's own is called gaining, and to have less than what one started with is called losing,
12| as in buying and selling and in all other matters in which the law has granted freedom of action. When, however, the outcome is neither greater nor smaller but precisely what each side put in, they are said to keep what is theirs, suffering no loss and making no gain. So the just is a mean between a certain gain and loss in involuntary transactions as well, namely having an equal amount both before and after. Some hold, too, that suffering in return for what one did is justice without qualification — a view the Pythagoreans held, defining the just, without qualification, as reciprocal treatment of another. But reciprocity fits neither distributive justice nor corrective justice — though people do want to identify this with the justice of Rhadamanthys: "if a man should suffer what he did, straight justice would result" — for in many cases it conflicts. For instance, if a man in office strikes someone, he must not be struck back on the same terms; and if someone strikes a man in office, he must not merely be struck but punished as well. Further, the voluntary and the involuntary make a great difference. But in associations for exchange, this sort of just — reciprocity in accordance with proportion and not in accordance with equality — is what holds them together. For it is by proportionate requital that the city is held together. For people seek either to return evil for evil — [1133a] and if they cannot, they think it is slavery — or to return good for good, and if this does not happen, no exchange takes place, and it is by exchange that they are held together. That is why they give the Graces a prominent shrine, so that requital may occur; for this is proper to gratitude — one must render service in return to the one who has shown favor, and in turn take the initiative in showing favor oneself. Now it is the diagonal conjunction that produces reciprocal exchange in accordance with proportion. Let A stand for a builder, B for a shoemaker, G for a house, D for a shoe. The builder, then, must receive from the shoemaker the latter's product, and give in return his own,
13| giving that person a share of what is his own. If, then, first there is equality by proportion, and then reciprocity comes about, what we are describing will hold. But if not, it is not equal, and it will not hold together; for nothing prevents the work of the one from being better than the work of the other, and so these must be equalized. This holds in the other crafts too: they would be destroyed if what the agent produced, and how much and of what quality, were not matched by the patient's undergoing this same thing, of this amount and this quality. A partnership is never formed by two doctors together, but by a doctor and a farmer — that is, generally, by parties who differ from each other and are unequal; even so, these two must be brought to equality. That is why everything that is exchanged must be somehow comparable. It is for this that currency has come in, and it becomes in a way a middle term; for it measures everything, and so measures both the excess and the deficiency — how many shoes, say, are equal to a house or to a given amount of food. As the builder, then, is to the shoemaker, so must such-and-such a number of shoes be to a house or to food. For without this there will be no exchange and no partnership. And this will not hold unless the goods are somehow equal. There must, then, be some one thing by which everything is measured, as was said before. This is in truth need, which holds everything together; for if people needed nothing, or did not need it alike, there would be no exchange, or not the same exchange. But currency has come to be, by convention, a kind of substitute for need; and this is why it has the name 'currency' — because it exists not by nature but by custom, and it is in our power to change it and make it useless. There will be reciprocity, then, when the goods have been equalized, so that as the farmer is to the shoemaker, the shoemaker's product is to the farmer's product.
14| [1133b] One must not bring the parties into the schema of proportion once they have already exchanged (for then one of the two extremes will have both the excesses), but into it while each still holds his own goods. In that way they are equal and partners, because this equality can come about among them. Let a be the farmer, c the food, b the shoemaker, d his product once it has been equalized. If it were not possible for reciprocity to occur in this way, there would be no partnership. That need holds things together as if they were a single thing is clear from the fact that when the two parties do not need each other — either both, or one of the two — they do not exchange (text breaks off) as when someone needs something one has oneself, for instance wine, and the others offer the export of grain (text breaks off). This, then, must be equalized. And as regards a future exchange — that if one has no need now, there will be need when it does arise — currency serves us, in a sense, as a guarantee: one must be able to get the goods by bringing currency. Now currency, too, undergoes the same thing, for it does not always have the same purchasing power; nonetheless it tends to remain more stable. That is why everything must be assigned a price; for in this way there will always be exchange, and if exchange, partnership. Currency, then, like a measure, makes things commensurable and equalizes them; for without exchange there would be no partnership, without equality no exchange, and without commensurability no equality. Now in strict truth it is impossible for things that differ so much to become commensurable, but with a view to need it is possible, sufficiently. There must, then, be some one thing, and this by convention (hence it is called currency); for this makes everything commensurable, since everything is measured by currency. Let a be a house, b ten minas, c a bed. A is half of b, if the house is worth five minas, or equal to it; and the bed, c, is a tenth
15| part, that is, c stands to b as one to ten. From this it follows straightforwardly what number of beds matches a house in value: five. That exchange proceeded in this way before currency existed is clear; for it makes no difference whether one gives five beds for a house, or whatever the five beds are worth. What the unjust act is, then, and what the just act is, has now been stated. Now that these have been distinguished, it is clear that acting justly is a mean between doing injustice and suffering it; for the one is having more, the other having less. And justice is a kind of mean, though not in the same way as the other virtues, but because it is a mean's virtue, while injustice belongs to the extremes. [1134a] And justice is that in accordance with which the just person is said to act justly by choice, and to be a distributor — both to himself in relation to another and to one other person in relation to another — not in such a way as to assign more of what is desirable to himself and less to his neighbor (and conversely with what is harmful), but so as to assign what is equal by proportion, and likewise when distributing between one other person and another. Injustice, on the other hand, is the contrary of the just act. This is excess and deficiency of the beneficial or the harmful, contrary to proportion. That is why injustice is excess and deficiency, because it is a matter of excess and deficiency — in one's own case, excess of what is beneficial without qualification and deficiency of what is harmful, while in the case of others, though the overall pattern is the same, it is a departure from proportion in whichever direction happens to occur. Of the unjust act, the smaller part is suffering injustice, the greater part is doing injustice. Concerning justice and injustice, then, and the nature of each,
16| let this account be given, and likewise concerning the just and the unjust in general. But since it is possible to do injustice without yet being an unjust person, what sorts of unjust acts must one commit while doing injustice in order to already be unjust with respect to each kind of injustice — for instance a thief, an adulterer, or a robber? Or will this distinction make no difference? For someone might have intercourse with a woman knowing who she is, yet not from a principle of choice but on account of passion. In that case he does injustice, but he is not an unjust person — he is not a thief, though he stole, nor an adulterer, though he committed adultery; and likewise in the other cases. How reciprocity is related to the just has been stated before. But one must not fail to notice that what is being sought is both the just without qualification and the political just. This latter exists among those who share a life with a view to self-sufficiency, being free and equal, either proportionately or numerically; so that for those to whom this does not apply, there is no political justice toward one another, but only a kind of justice in a resembling sense. For justice exists among those for whom there is also law governing their relations with one another; and law exists among those among whom there can be injustice, for judgment is a discrimination of what is just and what is unjust. And where there is injustice, there is also the doing of injustice among them (though where there is the doing of injustice, there is not injustice in everyone), and this consists in assigning oneself more of what is good without qualification and less of what is bad without qualification. For this reason authority is entrusted not to a man but to reason itself, since a man who rules acts for his own advantage [1134b] and turns into a tyrant. The ruler is a guardian of the just, and if of the just, then of the equal too. And since he is thought to have no more than his share, if he is just (for he does not assign himself more of what is good without qualification, unless it is proportionate to himself — that is why
17| ...he labors for another. And because of this people say that justice is a good belonging to someone else, as was said before too: therefore some wage must be given, and this is honor and privilege; and those for whom such things are not enough become tyrants. Now the right of a master and that of a father are not the same as these, but similar to them: for there is no injustice, without qualification, toward one's own things, and a possession, and a child until it reaches a certain age and is separated off, is like a part of oneself, and no one chooses to harm himself; hence there is no injustice toward oneself; and so what belongs to political rule is neither unjust nor just — for it existed according to law, and among those for whom law is naturally suited to exist, and these were people who have equality in ruling and being ruled. Hence justice holds more in relation to a wife than in relation to children and possessions: for this is household justice, and even this is different from political justice. Of political justice, part is natural and part is legal: natural is what has the same force everywhere and does not depend on being accepted or not; legal is what originally makes no difference whether it is one way or another, but once it has been laid down, does make a difference — for example, that a ransom be fixed at a mina, or that a goat be sacrificed rather than two sheep; and further, all the laws enacted for particular cases, such as sacrificing to Brasidas, and decree-like enactments. Some think that all such things are of this sort, because what is by nature is unchangeable and has the same force everywhere, just as fire burns both here and in Persia, while they observe that what is just changes. But this is not quite so, though in a way it is: among the gods, perhaps, it is not so at all, but among us there is indeed something even by nature, though changeable
18| all the same — yet nonetheless part is by nature and part not by nature. Which sort, among things that admit of being otherwise, is by nature, and which is not but is legal and by convention, given that both are equally changeable, will be clear. And the same distinction will fit the other cases too: for by nature the right hand is the stronger, and yet it is possible for everyone to become ambidextrous. The just things that rest on convention and on expediency [1135a] are like measures: for wine measures and grain measures are not equal everywhere, but where people are buying they are larger, and where they are selling, smaller. Likewise the just things that are not natural but human are not the same everywhere, since not even constitutions are the same everywhere, though there is only one constitution that is everywhere best by nature. Each of the just and lawful things stands to particular acts as universals stand to particulars: for the acts done are many, but each of those is one, since it is universal. The unjust act differs from the unjust, and the righting differs from the just: for the unjust is so by nature or by ordinance, and this very thing, once it has been done, is an unjust act, but before it is done it is not yet that, only unjust. And the same holds for the righting: the common term used is rather 'doing what is just,' while 'righting' denotes the correction of the unjust act. As for each of these — what species they have, how many, and what they are concerned with — that must be examined later. Given that the just and unjust things are as described, a person acts unjustly or acts justly whenever he does these things voluntarily; but when he does them involuntarily, he neither acts unjustly nor acts justly except accidentally, for people do what happens to be just or unjust only incidentally. But the unjust act and
19| the doing of what is just are defined by the voluntary and the involuntary: for when it is voluntary it is blamed, and at the same time it is then also an unjust act; so that something can be unjust without yet being an unjust act, if the voluntary element is not present. By voluntary I mean, as was said before, whatever a person does knowingly, among things in his own power, and not in ignorance of whom, with what, or for what purpose — for example whom he strikes, with what, and for what purpose — and each of these not accidentally nor by force (as if someone took hold of his hand and struck another with it, he does not act voluntarily, for it is not in his power). It is possible for the one struck to be his father, while he knows only that it is a man, or one of the people present, but does not know that it is his father. Let the same distinction be drawn likewise regarding the purpose, and regarding the action as a whole. What is done, then, in ignorance, or is not done in ignorance but is not within one's own power, or is done under force, is involuntary. For there are many things belonging to us by nature [1135b] which we knowingly both do and undergo, none of which is either voluntary or involuntary — for example growing old or dying. And likewise, in the case of both unjust and just acts, there is the accidental: for someone might return a deposit unwillingly and out of fear, and he must not be said to be doing what is just or acting justly, except accidentally. Similarly one must say that a person who is compelled and, unwillingly, fails to return a deposit, acts unjustly and does unjust things only accidentally. Of voluntary acts, some we do by choice and others not by choice,
20| by choice being whatever we do after deliberating beforehand, and without choice whatever we do without prior deliberation. There being three kinds of harm done in dealings among people, those done with ignorance are errors, whenever a person acts without matching what he supposed as to whom, or what, or with what, or for what purpose: for he thought he was not throwing at all, or not with this thing, or not at this person, or not for this purpose, but what came about was not what he had supposed the purpose to be — for example, not meaning to wound but to prick, or not meaning this person, or not with this thing. Now whenever the harm comes about contrary to reasonable expectation, it is a misfortune; but whenever it comes about not contrary to reasonable expectation, yet without vice, it is an error (for a person errs when the origin of the cause is in himself, but suffers misfortune when it is from outside). But whenever he acts knowingly yet without deliberating beforehand, it is an unjust act — for example whatever comes about through spirit and the other feelings that occur to human beings by necessity or by nature: for in causing harm and erring in these ways, people do act unjustly, and these are unjust acts, yet they are not on this account already unjust or wicked people, for the harm is not due to depravity. But whenever it is done from choice, the person is unjust and wicked. Hence acts done from spirit are rightly judged not to come from premeditation, for it is not the one who acts in anger who starts the matter, but the one who provoked the anger. Further, in such cases the dispute is not even about whether the thing happened or not, but about what is just, since anger is directed at an apparent injustice. For it is not as in business dealings, where people dispute about whether the thing happened, and in which case one of the two parties must necessarily be wicked, unless they act as they do through forgetfulness; rather, agreeing about the fact itself, they dispute about which way is just (whereas the one who has plotted against another is not ignorant of this), so that one party thinks he has been wronged, and the other does not.
21| [1136a] But if he causes harm from choice, he acts unjustly; and it is in respect of these unjust acts that the one who acts unjustly is unjust, when the act goes against proportion or against equality. Similarly too a man is just when he acts justly by choice; and he acts justly if he merely acts voluntarily. Of involuntary acts, some are pardonable and some are not pardonable. For as many errors as men commit not only in ignorance but also because of their ignorance are pardonable, but as many as they commit not because of ignorance, but while in ignorance on account of a feeling that is neither natural nor human, are not pardonable. One might raise the difficulty whether the subject of being treated unjustly and of acting unjustly has been sufficiently defined - first, whether the case is as Euripides has strangely put it, saying: 'I killed my mother - the story is short' - willingly her willing, or she unwilling and I unwilling? For is it really possible to be treated unjustly voluntarily, or is it not, but is every case of it involuntary, just as every case of acting unjustly is voluntary? And is it entirely one way or entirely the other, just as acting unjustly is entirely voluntary, or is part of it voluntary and part involuntary? Similarly too in the case of being treated justly: for acting justly is entirely voluntary; so it is reasonable that the opposition should run the same way in each case, and that being treated unjustly and being treated justly should each be either voluntary or involuntary. But it would seem odd also in the case of being treated justly, if it were entirely voluntary; for some people are treated justly without being willing. Next one might also raise this further puzzle: whether everyone who has suffered what is unjust is thereby being treated unjustly, or whether, just as with doing, so too the same holds with suffering. For it is possible, accidentally, to have a share of just acts in both ways; and it is clear that the same holds likewise for unjust acts. For doing unjust things is not the same as acting unjustly, nor is suffering unjust things the same as being treated unjustly; and likewise too in the case of acting justly and being treated justly: for it is impossible
22| for anyone to be treated unjustly if no one is acting unjustly, or to be treated justly if no one is acting justly. But if acting unjustly is, without qualification, harming someone voluntarily, and acting voluntarily is knowing whom one harms, with what, and how, while the person who lacks self-control voluntarily harms himself, then he would be treated unjustly voluntarily, and a man could act unjustly toward himself. And this too is among the puzzles still open, [1136b] namely, can a person be unjust toward his own self? Further, because of lack of self-control a man might voluntarily be harmed by another who harms him voluntarily, so that it would be possible to be treated unjustly voluntarily. Or is the definition not correct, but must one add to 'harming someone knowingly, and whom, and with what, and how' the phrase 'against that person's own wish'? A man, then, is harmed voluntarily and suffers unjust things voluntarily, but no one is treated unjustly voluntarily; for no one wishes it, not even the person who lacks self-control, but he acts against his own wish. For no one wishes for what he does not think is good, and the person who lacks self-control fails to do the very thing his own judgment tells him is required. A man who gives away what is his own, as Homer says Glaucus gave Diomedes 'gold armor for bronze, the worth of a hundred oxen for the worth of nine,' is not treated unjustly; for giving is within his own power, but being treated unjustly is not within his own power - there must be someone acting unjustly toward him. So it is clear, regarding being treated unjustly, that it is not voluntary. Of the two questions we set out to answer, there remain two things to say: whether it is the person who assigns more than what is deserved who acts unjustly, or the person who has it; and second, can a person be unjust toward himself. If the first of these holds true, and it is the one who distributes who acts unjustly, and not the one who has the greater share, then if someone knowingly and voluntarily assigns to another a greater share than his own, this person himself
23| acts unjustly toward himself - which is exactly what moderate people seem to do, for the decent person is inclined to take less than his share. Or is this too not so simple? For perhaps he is gaining more of some other good, such as reputation or what is fine without qualification. Further, the difficulty is resolved by the definition of acting unjustly: for he suffers nothing against his own wish, so that on this account at least he is not treated unjustly; if anything, he is merely harmed. It is likewise plain that the one who divides the shares is the wrongdoer, and the one who merely holds the larger portion is not always so; for it is not the person in whom the unjust act resides who acts unjustly, but the one who does this voluntarily, and this belongs to whoever is the source of the action, which lies in the distributor, not in the recipient. Further, since 'doing' is said in many ways, and there is a sense in which inanimate things kill, as does the hand, and as does a slave acting on someone's orders, such an agent does not act unjustly, though it does the unjust deed. Further, if a judge gave judgment in ignorance, he does not act unjustly by the standard of legal justice, nor is his judgment unjust, though it is in a sense unjust; for legal justice and justice in the primary sense are different things. But if he gave judgment unjustly knowingly, [1137a] then he himself too is gaining more, whether of favor or of revenge. So just as if he had taken a share of the wrongdoing itself, the judge who for these reasons gives an unjust judgment likewise has more; for in that case, in awarding the field, he received not a field but money. People think that acting unjustly is within their own power; that is why they also think being just is easy. But it is not so: to have relations with one's neighbor's wife, to strike the man next door, or to hand over the money with one's own hand is easy and within one's own power, but to do these things while in the corresponding state of character is neither easy nor within one's own power. And likewise too
24| knowing what is just and what is unjust - people think this requires no wisdom, because it is not difficult to understand what the laws say (though these are not the just things themselves, except accidentally). But knowing how actions must be done and how things must be distributed for them to be just - this is a far greater task than knowing what is healthy. For there too it is easy to know honey, wine, hellebore, cautery, and surgery, but knowing how one must administer them for health, and to whom, and when, is as great a task as being a doctor. And for this very reason people think that acting unjustly belongs no less to the just man, because the just man is no less able, indeed even more able, to do each of these things: for indeed he could have relations with a woman and strike a blow; and the courageous man could throw away his shield and turn and run in whichever direction he liked. But acting the coward or acting unjustly does not consist in doing these things, except accidentally, but in doing them while in the corresponding state of character, just as practicing medicine and healing do not consist in cutting or not cutting, or administering drugs or not administering them, but in doing so in the corresponding way. Just things exist among those who share in goods that are unconditionally good, and who are capable of possessing an excess or a deficiency of them. For some beings there is no excess of these goods - the gods, perhaps; for others, those incurably bad, no portion of them is beneficial at all, but everything harms them; while for others they are beneficial up to a point - and this is why justice is a human thing. As for equity and the equitable, and how equity relates to justice, and the equitable to what is just, it remains next to speak of these. For on examination they appear neither as simply the same nor as different in kind; and sometimes the equitable
25| We also praise a man of this sort, so that in praising other things too [1137b] we apply the term in place of 'good,' making clear that the more decent is better; but sometimes, following the argument, it seems strange that the decent, being something apart from the just, should be praiseworthy: for either the just is not good, or the decent is not just, if it is something different; or, if both are good, they are the same. Now the puzzle about the decent arises more or less for these reasons, but all the claims are in a way correct and none is opposed to the others: for the decent, being a certain kind of just thing, is better than just—not as being a different genus that is better than the just. The just and the decent are therefore the same, and though both are good, the decent is superior. The puzzle arises because the decent is just, but not what is just by law—rather a correction of what is legally just. The reason is that law is always universal, but about some things it is not possible to speak correctly in universal terms. So in cases where it is necessary to speak universally but not possible to do so correctly, the law takes what holds for the most part, not unaware of the error this involves. And it is none the less correct: for the error lies not in the law nor in the lawgiver, but in the nature of the matter, since the material of practical affairs is of just this sort from the start. So whenever the law speaks universally, but what happens in a given case falls outside the universal rule, then it is correct—insofar as the lawgiver's statement was deficient and erred by speaking without qualification—to correct the omission, saying what the lawgiver himself would have said had he been present there, and would have legislated had he known. Hence the decent is just, and better than a certain sort of just,
26| not better than the just without qualification, but better than the error that arises from speaking without qualification. And this is the nature of the decent: a correction of law where it is deficient on account of its universality. This is also the reason not everything is governed by law: about some things it is impossible to lay down a law, so that a decree is needed. For of what is indefinite, the rule too is indefinite, just like the leaden rule used in Lesbian building: for the rule is not rigid but shifts to fit the shape of the stone, and the decree likewise shifts to fit the facts. What the decent is, then, and that it is just, and better than a certain kind of just, is clear. It is clear from this, too, who the decent person is: the one who chooses and does such things, and [1138a] who does not stand strictly on justice to his own disadvantage even though he has the law on his side, but tends to take less—this person is decent, and this state of character is decency, being a kind of justice and not some other state distinct from it. Whether or not it is possible to be unjust to oneself is clear from what has been said. For some just acts are those in accordance with virtue as a whole that are prescribed by law—for example, the law does not command a man to kill himself, and what it does not command, it forbids. Further, when a man harms another contrary to the law, not in retaliation for harm suffered, and willingly, he acts unjustly, and 'willingly' means knowing both whom he harms and with what; a man who in a fit of anger cuts his own throat does so deliberately, in defiance of sound reasoning, in a manner the law forbids: he is therefore acting unjustly. But toward whom? Surely toward the city, not toward himself; for he suffers it willingly, and no one is treated unjustly willingly. This is also why the city imposes a penalty, and a kind of dishonor attaches to the man who destroys himself, as one who wrongs the city. Further, insofar as the wrongdoer is unjust only in this one respect
27| and not simply base without qualification, it is not possible to be unjust to oneself (for this is a different case from that one: the unjust man is base in a way, as the coward is, not as possessing the whole of vice, so that he is not unjust in respect of the whole of vice either): for it would follow that the identical thing was, at one and the same time, removed from a given person and given to that very person, which cannot happen—rather, justice and injustice must always range over more than a single party. Further, injustice is voluntary and done from choice, and prior to any retaliation: for a man who does the same thing back because he suffered it first is not thought to act unjustly; but a man acting against himself suffers and does the same things at the same time. Further, on this view it would be possible to be treated unjustly willingly. Besides these points, no one acts unjustly apart from particular unjust acts, and no one commits adultery with his own wife, or breaks into his own wall, or steals his own property. In general, the question of acting unjustly toward oneself is resolved also by the distinction drawn about being treated unjustly voluntarily. It is also clear that both are bad—being treated unjustly and acting unjustly (for the one is having less than the mean and the other having more, just as the healthy is in medicine and the fit condition is in gymnastics); but nonetheless, acting unjustly is worse: for acting unjustly involves vice and is blameworthy, and it is vice either complete and unqualified or close to it (for not everything voluntary involves injustice), while being treated unjustly involves neither vice nor injustice. In itself, then, being treated unjustly is the lesser evil, [1138b] but accidentally nothing prevents it from being the greater evil. But the craft of medicine pays no attention to this: it calls pleurisy a greater disease than a stumble, even though the latter might on occasion turn out, accidentally, to be the greater—if, say, as a result of stumbling and falling a man happened
28| to be captured by the enemy or killed. By way of metaphor and resemblance there is a kind of justice not of a man toward himself but toward certain parts of himself—not every kind of justice, but the kind that holds between master and slave, or between household manager and household. For in these accounts the part of the soul that has reason is set apart from the part that lacks reason; and it is with an eye to these parts that people think there is injustice toward oneself, because within them it is possible to suffer something contrary to one's own desires; so that, just as between ruler and ruled, there is thought to be a kind of justice between these parts as well, toward one another. Let this, then, be our determination of justice and the other ethical virtues, in this manner.
1| Since we have in fact already said that one must choose the mean, and neither the excess nor the deficiency, and that the mean is as right reason declares, let us now distinguish this further. For in all the states of character we have discussed, as in other cases too, there is some target which the person who possesses reason keeps in view as he tightens or relaxes, and there is some standard for the means which we say lie between excess and deficiency, being in accordance with right reason. But to speak this way, though true, is not at all clear: for in the other pursuits too, about which there is knowledge, it is true to say that one must labor and take one's ease neither more nor less, but in the mean amount and as right reason prescribes; yet if a person had only this, he would know no more—for example, what he should apply to his body, if someone were to say 'whatever medical science prescribes, and as the one who possesses it prescribes.' Hence in the case of the states of the soul too, it is necessary not merely to state this truly, but also to determine what right reason is, and what its standard is. Now when we divided the virtues of the soul [1139a] we said that some belong to character and some to thought. Concerning the virtues of character we have gone through the discussion; as for the rest, let us speak of them after first saying something about the soul. It was said earlier that the soul has two parts, the one having reason and the one without reason; now we must divide the part having reason in the same way. Let it be assumed that there are two parts having reason: one by which we contemplate those beings whose principles do not admit of being otherwise, and one by which we contemplate what admits of being otherwise; for corresponding to objects that differ in kind, there is also a part of the soul differing in kind
2| ...in kind is what is naturally directed toward each object, given that knowledge occurs in virtue of a certain likeness and kinship between knower and known. Let one of these be called the scientific part and the other the calculative part; for deliberating and calculating are the same thing, and no one deliberates about what cannot be otherwise. So the calculative part is one part of what has reason. We must grasp, then, what the best state of each of these is; for that is the virtue of each, and virtue is relative to the proper function. Now there are three things in the soul that control action and truth: perception, intellect, desire. Of these, perception is not the origin of any action; this is clear from the fact that beasts have perception but have no share in action. What affirmation and denial are in thought, pursuit and avoidance are in desire; so that, since ethical virtue is a state concerned with choice, and choice is deliberate desire, for these reasons, if the choice is to be good, the reasoning must be true and the desire correct, and reason must affirm what desire pursues, and the two must agree. This, then, is thought and truth that is practical; whereas of theoretical thought — thought that is neither practical nor productive — the good and bad states are the true and the false (for this is the function of everything that thinks); while for the part that is both practical and concerned with thought, truth is truth in agreement with correct desire. The origin of action, then, is choice — the source of motion, though not the end for the sake of which — and the origin of choice is desire, and reason directed toward some end. That is why choice does not occur without intellect and thought, nor without an ethical state; for doing well, and its
3| opposite, in action, do not occur without thought and character. Thought by itself, however, moves nothing; only thought that is for the sake of something and practical does. [1139b] For this also governs productive thought; for everyone who produces something produces it for the sake of something, and what is produced is not an end in the unqualified sense (but only relative to something and belonging to someone) — it is what is done that is the end; for doing well is the end, and desire is desire for this. That is why choice is either desiring intellect or thinking desire, and a principle of this kind is a human being. Nothing already past can be an object of choice — for instance, no one chooses to have sacked Troy; for no one deliberates about what has happened, but about what will be and is still possible, and what has happened cannot not have happened; which is why Agathon is right to say: 'of this alone even a god is deprived — to make undone whatever has once been done.' The function of both the intellectual parts, then, is truth. So the states in respect of which each part will most attain truth are the virtues of both. Let us then begin again from the start and speak of them once more. Let it be granted that the ways in which the soul attains truth by affirmation or denial are five in number: these are craft, scientific knowledge, practical wisdom, wisdom, and intellect; for supposition and opinion admit of being false. What scientific knowledge is will be clear from the following, if we are to speak with precision and not go by mere resemblances. We all suppose that what we know scientifically cannot be otherwise; while as for things that can be otherwise, once they pass outside our observation, it escapes us whether they are the case or not. The object of scientific knowledge, then, exists of necessity. It is therefore eternal; for everything that exists of unqualified necessity is eternal, and what is eternal is ungenerated and imperishable.
4| Further, all scientific knowledge is held to be teachable, and its object learnable. But all teaching proceeds from things already known, as we say also in the Analytics; for it proceeds either by induction or by syllogism. Now induction is a starting point even of the universal, while the syllogism proceeds from universals. There are, then, starting points from which the syllogism proceeds, of which there is no syllogism; it is by induction, therefore, that they are grasped. Scientific knowledge, then, is a demonstrative state, together with whatever further qualifications we add in the Analytics; for a person knows scientifically when he believes in a certain way and the starting points are known to him; since if he is not more certain of the starting points than of the conclusion, he will have the knowledge only accidentally. Let scientific knowledge, then, be defined in this way. [1140a] Among things that can be otherwise there is both what is producible and what is doable; and production and action are different (we can rely here also on the arguments given outside the school); so that the state involving reason concerned with action is also different from the state involving reason concerned with production. That is why neither is included under the other; for action is not production, nor is production action. Since housebuilding is a craft and is precisely a certain state involving reason concerned with production, and since there is no craft that is not a state involving reason concerned with production, nor any such state that is not a craft, craft will be the same as a state involving true reason concerned with production. Every craft is concerned with coming-to-be, with contriving and studying how something that admits of both being and not being may come to be, something whose origin is in the maker and not in the thing made; for craft is not concerned with things that are or come to be of necessity, nor
5| with things that come to be by nature; for these have their origin in themselves. Since production and action are different, craft must be concerned with production and not with action. Chance and craft, moreover, bear in a sense upon identical matters, just as Agathon states: 'craft has cherished chance, and chance craft.' Craft, then, as has been said, is a state involving true reason concerned with production, while lack of craft is, on the contrary, a state concerned with production involving false reason, both being concerned with what can be otherwise. As for practical wisdom, we may grasp what it is by considering whom we call people of practical wisdom. It seems to be characteristic of a person of practical wisdom to be able to deliberate well about what is good and advantageous for himself — not in some particular respect, such as what conduces to health or to strength, but what conduces to living well as a whole. A sign of this is that we also call people prudent in some particular respect, when they reason well toward some worthwhile end of a kind that is not the object of any craft. So that, taking it as a whole, the person of practical wisdom would be the one who is good at deliberating. But no one deliberates about things that cannot be otherwise, nor about things that it is not possible for him to do. So that, given that scientific knowledge involves demonstration, while of things whose starting points can be otherwise there is no demonstration (for such things can all be otherwise), [1140b] and given that it is not possible to deliberate about things that exist of necessity, practical wisdom cannot be scientific knowledge or craft — not scientific knowledge, because what is doable admits of being otherwise, and not craft, because action and production belong to different genera. It remains, then, that it is
6| a true state involving reason, concerned with action, about what is good and bad for a human being. For production has an end other than itself, but this could not be true of action; for doing well is itself the end. This is why we regard Pericles and men of his stamp as prudent — they are able to discern both what is advantageous to themselves and what is advantageous to people generally; and those we judge to have this capacity are the managers of households and the statesmen. This is also why we call temperance by this name, as that which preserves practical wisdom. For it preserves this kind of supposition. For it is not every supposition that pleasure and pain destroy or distort — for instance, the supposition that a triangle does or does not have its angles equal to two right angles — but only suppositions about what is to be done. For the starting points of the things to be done are the ends for the sake of which they are done; and to a person corrupted by pleasure or pain, the starting point immediately fails to appear; he no longer sees that he ought to choose and do everything for the sake of this end and because of it; for vice is destructive of the starting point. So that practical wisdom must necessarily be a true state involving reason, concerned with action about things good for human beings. But further, there is such a thing as excellence in craft, while there is none in practical wisdom; and in craft, one who errs voluntarily is more choiceworthy, but in the case of practical wisdom he is less so, as is also true of the virtues. It is clear, then, that practical wisdom is a virtue and not a craft. Since there are two parts of the soul that have reason, practical wisdom would be the virtue of one of them, the part that forms opinion; for both opinion and practical wisdom are concerned with what can be otherwise. But, further, it is not merely a state involving reason; a sign of this is that forgetting is possible for a state of that kind, but of practical wisdom
7| is not. Since knowledge is a supposition about universals and about things that exist of necessity, and there are starting-points of the things that are demonstrated and of all knowledge (for knowledge involves an account), there could be neither knowledge nor craft nor practical wisdom of the starting-point of what is known: for what is known is demonstrable, [1141a] whereas craft and practical wisdom happen to be concerned with things that admit of being otherwise. Nor indeed is wisdom concerned with these starting-points; for it belongs to the wise person to have demonstration about some things. If, then, the states by which we grasp truth and are never deceived, whether about things that cannot be otherwise or about things that can be otherwise, are knowledge, practical wisdom, wisdom, and intellect, and it is not possible for it to be any of these three (I mean practical wisdom, knowledge, and wisdom), it remains that intellect is the state concerned with starting-points. Now we attribute wisdom, in the crafts, to those who are most exact in their crafts — for example we call Phidias a wise worker in stone and Polyclitus a wise maker of statues — meaning by wisdom here nothing other than that it is the excellence of a craft. But we also think that some people are wise without qualification, not wise in some particular part or in some other limited respect, as Homer says in the Margites: 'The gods had made him neither a digger nor a plowman, nor wise in anything else.' So it is clear that wisdom would be the most exact of the forms of knowledge. The wise person, therefore, must not only know what follows from the starting-points, but must also grasp the truth about the starting-points themselves. So wisdom would be intellect together with knowledge — knowledge, as it were with a head on it, of the most honorable things. For it would be absurd for anyone to think that political science or practical wisdom is the most excellent kind of knowledge, unless man is the best thing in the universe. Now if what is healthy and good is different for men and for fish, while what is white and straight is always the same, everyone would likewise say that the wise is the same for all, but would say that the practically wise
8| is different: for they say that what considers well the things concerning each particular being is practically wise, and will entrust such things to it. That is why they say that some of the beasts too are practically wise — those that plainly have a capacity for forethought concerning their own life. It is also clear that wisdom and political science cannot be the same: for if they are going to call the knowledge concerned with what is advantageous to themselves 'wisdom,' there will be many wisdoms; for there is not one wisdom concerned with the good of all living things, but a different one for each, unless indeed medicine too is one and the same for all existing things. And should someone answer that among living creatures man ranks highest, this changes nothing: nature holds things far more godlike than man, [1141b] most plainly the elements composing the cosmos itself. Given what has now been argued, wisdom plainly combines knowledge with intellect, directed at what nature ranks highest in honor. That is why people say that Anaxagoras and Thales and men like them are wise but not practically wise, when they see them ignorant of what is advantageous to themselves, and they say that such men know things that are extraordinary, marvelous, difficult, and superhuman, but useless, because it is not human goods that they seek. Practical wisdom, on the other hand, is concerned with human affairs and with things about which deliberation is possible: for we say that this above all is the function of the practically wise person, to deliberate well, and no one deliberates about things that cannot be otherwise, nor about things that have no end, an end that is a good achievable by action. The person who deliberates well without qualification is the one who, by reasoning, is good at aiming at the best of the things achievable by action for a human being. Nor is practical wisdom concerned with
9| universals alone, but it must also know particulars: for it is concerned with action, and action is about particulars. That is why some people who do not know are more capable in action than others who do know it, and this holds in other cases too among the experienced: for if someone knew that light meats are easily digested and healthy, but did not know which meats are light, he will not produce health; but the one who knows that the meat of birds is light and healthy will produce it more. Practical wisdom is concerned with action; hence one must have both kinds of knowledge, or this latter kind more. And here too there would be a kind of master-craft. Political science and practical wisdom are the same state, though their essence is not the same. Of the practical wisdom concerned with the city, the kind that functions as master-craft is legislative science, while the kind concerned with particulars has the name common to the whole, political science: and this is concerned with action and deliberation, for a decree is a thing to be done, as the last step. That is why people say only these engage in politics; for these alone act, like craftsmen who work with their hands. Practical wisdom, too, is thought to be, most of all, the kind concerned with oneself, the individual; and this bears the name common to the whole, practical wisdom: of the other kinds, one is household management, another legislation, another political science, and of this last, one part is deliberative, the other judicial. Now knowing what concerns oneself would be one species of knowledge; but there is a great difference among these: [1142a] and the person who knows and occupies himself with what concerns himself is thought to be practically wise, while those engaged in politics are thought to be meddlesome busybodies; hence Euripides: 'How could I be wise, when I might have had, free from trouble, an equal share, numbered among the mass of the army?' For that name applies to those who are exceptional and who do more than is needed: they seek their own good, and think that this is what one ought to do. From this opinion, then, has come the view that these people are practically wise; and yet perhaps one's own good does not exist without household management,
10| nor without a constitution. Further, how one ought to manage one's own affairs is unclear, and needs to be examined. A sign of what has been said is also this: young people become geometers and mathematicians and wise in such things, but a young person does not seem to become practically wise. The reason is that practical wisdom is also concerned with particulars, which become known through experience, and a young person is not experienced; for a quantity of time is what produces experience. One might also consider this: why a child can become a mathematician, but cannot become wise or a natural philosopher. Is it because the objects of mathematics exist by abstraction, while the starting-points of the other subjects come from experience, and although the young speak of these physical things, they do not believe them, whereas the what-it-is of mathematical objects is not obscure to them? Further, error in deliberation is either about the universal or about the particular: either the error is that all heavy waters are bad, or that this particular water is heavy. That practical wisdom is not knowledge is clear: for it is concerned with the last particular, as has been said; for the thing to be done is of that sort. It stands opposed, then, to intellect: for intellect is of the defining terms, of which there is no account, while practical wisdom is of the last particular, of which there is no knowledge but perception — not the perception of the special objects of each sense, but a perception like that by which we perceive that the last figure in mathematics is a triangle: for there too the process will come to a stop. But this is perception rather than practical wisdom, though it is a different species from that other, ordinary perception. Inquiring and deliberating are different: for deliberating is a kind of inquiring. We must also grasp what excellence in deliberation is — whether it is a kind of knowledge, or opinion, or good guessing, or some other kind of thing. Now it is not knowledge: for people do not inquire about things they already know,
11| [1142b] Good deliberation is a kind of deliberation, and the person deliberating inquires and calculates. But surely it is not good guessing either: for good guessing occurs without an account and quickly, whereas people deliberate for a long time, and we say that one must act quickly on what has been deliberated but deliberate slowly. Again, quickness of mind is different from good deliberation; quickness of mind is a kind of good guessing. Nor, then, is good deliberation any sort of opinion. But since the person who deliberates badly makes an error, and the person who deliberates well does so correctly, it is clear that good deliberation is a kind of correctness — but correctness neither of knowledge nor of opinion. For there is no correctness of knowledge (nor error, for that matter), and the correctness of opinion is truth; and at the same time, whatever is an object of opinion is already determined. But surely good deliberation does not occur without an account either. What is left, then, is that it belongs to thought: for thought is not yet an assertion — indeed opinion is not an inquiry but already a kind of assertion, whereas the person deliberating, whether deliberating well or badly, is inquiring into something and calculating. But good deliberation is a certain correctness of deliberation; hence one must first inquire what deliberation is and what it concerns. Since correctness is spoken of in several ways, it is clear that not every kind is meant: for the person who lacks self-control and the bad person will get, by their reasoning, what they set out to see, so that they will have deliberated correctly but will have obtained a great evil. But deliberating well is thought to be something good: for it is this sort of correctness of deliberation that is good deliberation — the sort that hits upon the good. But it is possible to hit even upon this by a false syllogism, and to get what one ought to do but not through the means by which one ought, the middle term instead being false; so that not even this yet is
12| good deliberation, by which one hits upon what one ought but not through what one ought to. Again, it is possible to hit upon it by deliberating for a long time, and another by deliberating quickly. So that is not yet good deliberation either, but rather it is the correctness that accords with what is beneficial — both what one ought and how and when. Further, one can deliberate well either without qualification or with reference to some particular end. Deliberating well without qualification is what succeeds correctly with reference to the end without qualification, while deliberating well in a particular respect is what succeeds with reference to some particular end. If, then, deliberating well belongs to people of practical wisdom, good deliberation would be correctness with respect to what is advantageous toward the end of which practical wisdom is a true grasp. [1143a] There is also comprehension and good comprehension, in virtue of which we call people comprehending and good at comprehending — these are neither entirely the same as knowledge or opinion (for then everyone would be comprehending) nor are they any one of the particular branches of knowledge, such as medicine concerned with matters of health or geometry concerned with magnitudes; for comprehension is not concerned with things that are eternal and unchanging, nor with anything whatever that comes to be, but with matters about which someone might be at a loss and might deliberate. Hence it is concerned with the same things as practical wisdom, yet comprehension and practical wisdom are not the same. For practical wisdom issues commands — its end is what one ought to do or not do — while comprehension only judges. (For comprehension and good comprehension, and comprehending people and those good at comprehending, are the same thing.) Comprehension is neither having practical wisdom nor acquiring it; but just as learning is called comprehending when one is using one's knowledge, so comprehension consists in using opinion to judge about the matters with which
13| practical wisdom is concerned, when someone else is speaking — and to judge well; for "well" here is the same as "finely." And it is from this — from the sense involved in learning — that the name "comprehension," in virtue of which people are good at comprehending, has come: for we often call learning "comprehending." What is called good sense, in virtue of which we say people are forgiving and possess good sense, is correct judgment of what is decent. A sign of this: we say the decent person is especially disposed to forgive, and it is decent to be forgiving about certain things. Forgiveness is good sense that judges correctly what is decent; and correct judgment is judgment of what is true. All these states reasonably tend toward the same thing: for we attribute good sense, comprehension, practical wisdom, and intellect to the same people, when we say they now have good sense and intellect and are people of practical wisdom and comprehending. For all these capacities are concerned with ultimate particulars, with what is particular: and in being able to judge about the things with which the person of practical wisdom is concerned, one is comprehending and has good judgment or is forgiving; for what is decent is common to all good people in their dealings with another. All matters of action belong to particulars and to what is ultimate: for the person of practical wisdom must know these, and comprehension and good sense are concerned with matters of action, and these are ultimate particulars. And intellect is concerned with ultimates in both directions: for it is intellect, and not reasoned account, that grasps both the first terms and the ultimate ones — [1143b] the intellect at work in demonstrations grasps the unchanging and first terms, while the intellect at work in practical matters grasps the ultimate, variable term, the other premise; for these are starting points of the end aimed at, since it is from particulars that
14| universals arise. One must therefore have perception of these particulars, and this perception is intellect. This is why these capacities are thought to be natural, and why, although no one is wise by nature, people do have good sense, comprehension, and intellect by nature. A sign of this is that we think these follow the stages of life, and that a particular age possesses intellect and good sense, on the assumption that nature is the cause. Hence intellect is both a starting point and an end: for demonstrations proceed from these and are about these. So one ought to pay attention to the undemonstrated assertions and opinions of experienced and older people, or of people of practical wisdom, no less than to demonstrations; for because experience has given them an eye, they see correctly. We have said, then, what practical wisdom and wisdom are, and what each is concerned with, and that each is the virtue of a different part of the soul. One might be puzzled about them as to what use they are. For wisdom will contemplate none of the things that will make a person happy (since it is concerned with no coming-to-be), while practical wisdom does have this concern — but then for the sake of what is it needed? If practical wisdom is concerned with what is just and fine and good for a human being, and these are what it belongs to the good man to do, then knowing them makes us no more capable of doing them, if indeed the virtues are states of character — just as knowing what is healthy or what conduces to good condition, insofar as these are said not with reference to producing them but with reference to arising from the state, makes us no more capable of doing them: for we are no more capable of doing medical or gymnastic acts simply by possessing medicine or gymnastics. But if practical wisdom is to be said to exist not for the sake of these but for the sake of becoming good, it would be of no use to those who are already good;
15| and further, not even to those who lack it: for it will make no difference whether they have it themselves or are persuaded by others who have it, and here too we would be adequately placed, exactly as with health: we want to be well, yet that wish alone never sends us off to study medicine. Besides this, it would seem strange if, being inferior to wisdom, it were to be more authoritative than it, since the thing that produces rules and gives orders concerning each matter. About these questions, then, something must be said; for as it stands they have only been raised as puzzles. [1144a] Let us say, first, that they must necessarily be choiceworthy in their own right, being virtues, each of them, of each part of the soul, even if neither of them produces anything at all. Next, they do in fact produce something — not as medicine produces health, but as health itself does; that is how wisdom produces happiness: for being a part of virtue as a whole, by being possessed and by being active it makes a person happy. Further, the function is brought to completion in accordance with practical wisdom and moral virtue: for virtue makes the aim correct, while practical wisdom makes correct the means toward this. Regarding the fourth part of the soul, its nutritive part, no virtue of that kind exists, since nothing about acting or not acting depends upon it. As for the claim that we are made no more capable of doing fine and just actions on account of practical wisdom, one must begin a little further back, taking this as one's starting point. For just as we say that some people who do just things are not yet just — for instance, those who do what the laws prescribe unwillingly, or through ignorance, or for some other reason and not for the sake of the acts themselves (although they do what they should and everything the good person ought to) — so too, it seems, there is a certain way of being disposed in doing each action that makes one good, one that consists, I mean, in acting through choice and for the sake of the acts themselves
16| ...of the things done. Now virtue makes the choice correct, but the doing of whatever things are naturally done for the sake of that choice belongs not to virtue but to a different capacity. We must speak about these matters more clearly once we have paused to consider them. There is a capacity that people call cleverness, and it is of such a kind that it can do the things that tend toward whatever mark has been set up, and hit that mark. Now if the mark is fine, the capacity is praiseworthy, but if the mark is base, the capacity is unscrupulous cunning — which is why we call practically wise people clever, and also why we call unscrupulous people clever. Practical wisdom is not this capacity, but it does not exist without this capacity. This state comes to be in that eye of the soul not without virtue, as has been said and as is clear: for the syllogisms concerning things to be done have a starting point, namely, that the end and the best good is of such-and-such a kind, whatever it may be (for the sake of argument let it be whatever you like) — and this does not appear as it truly is except to the good person. For depravity distorts us and makes us be deceived about the starting points for action. Hence one cannot be practically wise unless one is also good — that much is now plain. [1144b] So we must again examine virtue as well. For virtue stands to cleverness in a way closely parallel to how practical wisdom stands to cleverness — not the same, but similar — and likewise natural virtue stands to virtue in the authoritative sense. For it seems to everyone that each of the traits of character belongs to us by nature in some way: we are just, temperate, courageous, and so on straight from birth. And yet we still look for something else, the good in the authoritative sense, and we look for such qualities to belong to us in another way. For natural states belong to children and to beasts as well, but without intellect they are evidently harmful.
17| Except this much seems observable: just as a strong body moving without sight happens to stumble badly because it lacks sight, so too here. If it takes on intellect, it makes a difference in action; and the state, though similar as before, will then be virtue in the authoritative sense. Just as the opinion-forming part of the soul divides into cleverness and practical wisdom, the character-forming part likewise splits in two, natural virtue and virtue properly so called, and the latter of these never arises apart from practical wisdom. This is why some people say that all the virtues are forms of practical wisdom, and Socrates was on the right track in one respect and mistaken in another. He was mistaken in thinking that all the virtues are forms of practical wisdom, but he spoke well in saying that virtue does not exist without practical wisdom. Here is a sign of this: even now, everyone, when they define virtue, adds — after stating the state and what it is a state with respect to — that it is a state in accordance with right reason; and right reason is reason in accordance with practical wisdom. So it seems that everyone somehow divines that a state of this kind, the one in accordance with practical wisdom, is virtue. But we must shift slightly. For virtue is not merely the state in accordance with right reason, but the state accompanied by right reason; and right reason about matters of this sort is practical wisdom. Socrates, then, thought the virtues were forms of reason (for he thought they were all forms of scientific knowledge), whereas we think they involve reason. It is clear from what has been said, then, that it is not possible to be good in the authoritative sense without practical wisdom, nor to be practically wise without ethical virtue. But this also resolves the argument by which someone might contend that the virtues are separable from one another: since the same person is not the best-natured for all of them,
18| so that he will already have acquired one virtue but not yet another. With the natural virtues such partial possession can occur, [1145a] yet among the virtues by which a person is called good without qualification it cannot occur: the moment practical wisdom alone is present, every other virtue follows along with it. And it is clear that even if practical wisdom were not concerned with action, we would still need it because it is the virtue of that part of the soul, and because the choice will not be correct without practical wisdom or without virtue: for the one makes us carry out the end, the other makes us carry out the things that lead to the end. But all the same, practical wisdom does not govern wisdom, nor the better part of the soul, any more than medicine governs health: for medicine does not make use of health but sees to it that health comes about; medicine gives its orders for the sake of health, not to health. Further, it would be like someone saying that the political art rules the gods, because it gives orders about everything in the city.
1| After this we must speak, taking a fresh starting point, of the fact that there are three kinds of things to be avoided in matters of character: vice, lack of self-control, and brutishness. Two of these have obvious opposites: the opposite of vice we name virtue, and the opposite of lack of self-control we name self-mastery. But as the opposite of brutishness it would fit best to speak of a virtue beyond us, a kind of heroic and divine virtue, just as Homer has made Priam say of Hector that he was exceedingly good, "nor did he seem to be the child of a mortal man, but of a god." So if, as people say, human beings become gods through an excess of virtue, then clearly a state of this kind is the one set opposite the brutish state. For just as a beast has neither vice nor virtue, so neither does a god: rather, the state of a god is something more honorable than virtue, and the state of a beast is a different kind of thing from vice. And since it is rare for a man to be divine — as the Spartans are accustomed to call someone when they are extremely full of admiration for him, saying "a godlike man" — so too the brutish person is rare among human beings. He is found mostly among barbarians, and some cases arise also through disease and disablement; and we also speak in this disparaging way of those human beings who go to excess in vice. But concerning a disposition of this kind we must make some mention later; concerning vice we have spoken already. We must now speak about lack of self-control, softness, and self-indulgent luxury, and about self-control and endurance. [1145b] For we must suppose that neither of these pairs is concerned with the same states as virtue and depravity, nor that each is a wholly different kind of thing. We must, as in the other cases, set down the appearances and, having first worked through the puzzles, in this way show, if possible, all the reputable opinions
2| about these affections, or if not all, then most of them and the most authoritative ones. For if the difficulties are resolved and the reputable opinions are left standing, that would be a sufficient demonstration. Now it seems that both self-control and endurance belong among the things that are excellent and praiseworthy, while lack of self-control and softness belong among the things that are base and blameworthy; and that the same person is both self-controlled and one who abides by his reasoning, while the person lacking self-control is one who departs from his reasoning. And the person who lacks self-control, knowing that what he is doing is base, does it because of an affection, while the self-controlled person, knowing that his appetites are base, does not follow them because of his reason. And people call the temperate person self-controlled and capable of endurance, but as for whether such a person is temperate, some say every self-controlled person is temperate and some do not; and some call the self-indulgent person lacking in self-control and the person lacking in self-control self-indulgent, running the two together, while others say they are distinct. As for the practically wise person, sometimes people say it is not possible for him to lack self-control, and sometimes they say that some people, though practically wise and clever, do lack self-control. Further, people are said to lack self-control with respect to spirit, honor, and gain as well. These, then, are the things that are said. One might raise the puzzle of how someone who grasps things correctly can nevertheless lack self-control. Some say it is not possible for someone who has knowledge to do this: for it would be strange, as Socrates thought, if, when knowledge is present in someone, something else should master it and drag it about like a slave. For Socrates fought against the account altogether, on the ground that there is no such thing as lack of self-control: no one, he held, acts against what is best while supposing that he is doing so, but only through ignorance. Now this account plainly disputes with the observable facts, and we ought to inquire about the affection: if it does occur through ignorance, what is the manner in which that ignorance comes about.
3| For it is clear that the incontinent person does not think, before he comes to be in the grip of the affection, that he ought to act as he does. But there are some who concede some points and not others: they agree that nothing is stronger than knowledge, but they do not agree that no one acts against what he judges to be better, and for this reason they say that the incontinent person, when overcome by pleasures, does not have knowledge but opinion. But if indeed it is opinion and not knowledge — if it is not a strong supposition [1146a] that resists but a weak one, as with people who are in doubt — there is pardon for not standing by it against strong desires; but for wickedness there is no pardon, nor for any of the other blameworthy things. Is it then practical wisdom that resists? For this is the strongest thing. But that is absurd: the same person will be at once practically wise and incontinent, and no one would say it belongs to the practically wise person to do the basest things voluntarily. Besides this, it has been shown earlier that the practically wise person is indeed a person of action (for he is concerned with the last particulars) and possesses the other virtues as well. Further, if the continent person is one who has strong and base desires, then the temperate person will not be continent, nor the continent person temperate: for it does not belong to the temperate person either to have excessive desires or to have base ones. But surely the continent person must have them: for if the desires are good, then the state that prevents him from following them is base, so that continence will not always be excellent; and if the desires are weak and not base, there is nothing impressive in resisting them, nor, if they are base and weak, is there anything great in it. Further, if continence makes one apt to abide by every opinion, it is base — for instance if it makes one abide by a false one; and if incontinence is apt to depart from every opinion, there will be some excellent incontinence, such as Sophocles' Neoptolemus in
4| the Philoctetes: for he earns praise precisely because he refused to hold to the position Odysseus had talked him into, since lying caused him distress. Further, the sophistic argument is a puzzle when it works by a false step: for because sophists wish to refute paradoxically, so as to seem clever when they succeed, the syllogism that results becomes a puzzle — for the thought is bound fast, since it is unwilling to stand still because it does not like the conclusion reached, and yet is unable to proceed because it cannot dissolve the argument. It follows, then, from a certain argument, that folly combined with incontinence is virtue: for the incontinent person does the opposite of what he supposes, on account of his incontinence, and he supposes good things to be bad and that he ought not to do them, so that he will end up doing the good things and not the bad ones. Further, the person who acts from conviction, pursuing and choosing what is pleasant, would seem better than the one who does so not through reasoning but through incontinence: for he is more easily cured, since he could be persuaded to change his mind. But the incontinent person is liable to the proverb in which we say, when the water is choking you, what need is there to drink on top of it? For if he had been persuaded that what he does is right, [1146b] he would have stopped once persuaded otherwise; but as it is, though persuaded of one thing, he does something else none the less. Further, if incontinence and continence extend to everything, who is the incontinent person without qualification? For no one has all the forms of incontinence, yet we say that some people are incontinent without qualification. Such, then, are roughly the puzzles that arise; of these, some points must be cleared away and others left standing, for the solution of a puzzle is a discovery of the truth. First, then, we must examine whether incontinent people act knowingly or not, and in what sense knowingly; next, with regard to what things we should posit the incontinent and the continent person — I mean, whether with regard to every pleasure and pain, or to certain determinate ones — and whether the continent person and the person of endurance are the same or different; and likewise concerning the other things akin to this inquiry. The starting point of the inquiry is whether
5| the continent person and the incontinent person have their differentia in the things they are concerned with, or in how they are disposed toward them — I mean, whether the incontinent person is incontinent simply by being concerned with these particular things, or not that but by being disposed in this way, or not that but by both together; and next, whether incontinence and continence extend to everything or not. For the person who is incontinent without qualification is not concerned with everything, but with the same things as the licentious person, and it is not simply by being disposed toward these things in general (for that would be the same as licentiousness), but by being disposed toward them in this particular way. For the one is led on by choosing it, thinking that he must always pursue the pleasant thing at hand; the other does not think this, yet pursues it nonetheless. Now on the question of whether the thing incontinent people act against is a correct belief rather than actual knowledge, that distinction changes nothing for our argument: for some who hold opinions do not doubt, but think they know with exactness. If, then, because they believe only mildly, those who hold opinions will act against their supposition more readily than those who know do, knowledge will differ in no way from opinion; for some people are no less confident in what they opine than others are in what they know — as Heraclitus shows. But since we speak of knowing in two senses (for both the person who has knowledge but is not using it, and the person who is using it, are said to know), it will make a difference whether a person who has the knowledge but is not attending to it does what he should not, as against a person who both has it and is attending to it: this latter case seems strange, but not the former, if he is not attending to it. [1147a] Further, since premises are of two kinds, nothing prevents a person who has both from acting against his knowledge, provided he is using the universal premise but not the particular one; for it is particulars that are the objects of action. And the universal itself differs: one kind concerns the agent himself,
6| the other concerns the thing in question — for example, that dry food is beneficial for every man, and that he himself is a man, or that such-and-such a thing is dry; but whether this particular thing is of that kind, the incontinent person either does not have the knowledge, or does not actively exercise it. Between these two modes of having knowledge, then, the gap is vast beyond measure — so that knowing in the first way seems in no way odd, while knowing in the second seems remarkable. Further, the having of knowledge occurs in people in yet another way besides those just mentioned: for in the case of having but not using, we see that the state differs, so that a person in a sense both has and does not have it — as with someone asleep, or mad, or drunk. But this is exactly the condition of people who are in the grip of the passions: for fits of anger, and desires for sexual pleasure, and some other such things, visibly alter the body as well, and in some people they even produce fits of madness. It is clear, then, that we must say the incontinent are in a similar state to these. And the fact that they utter the words that come from knowledge is no proof of knowing: for people in these states of passion also recite demonstrations and verses of Empedocles, and those who have just learned something string the words together but do not yet know them — for the knowledge must grow into them, and this takes time; so that we must suppose that incontinent people speak the way actors do. Further, one might also look at the cause in this way, from the standpoint of natural science. One opinion is universal, the other concerns particulars, of which perception is now in control; and when a single opinion results from the two, the soul must, in the one case, affirm what has been concluded, while in the case of opinions bearing on production it must act on it at once — for example, if one supposes that one must taste everything sweet, and this here is sweet, as
7| one of the particulars, then whoever is able and not prevented must at the same time also act on it. So then, when the universal premise is present forbidding him to taste, and the other premise says that everything sweet is pleasant, and this thing is sweet (and this premise is active), and appetite happens to be present as well, the one premise tells him to avoid this, but the appetite leads him on — for each of the parts of the soul is capable of causing motion — [1147b] so it turns out that a man is incontinent under the influence of reason and opinion in a sense, but an opinion that is not in its own right contrary to right reason, but only accidentally so — for it is the appetite that is contrary, not the opinion — to right reason. And this is also why the beasts are not called incontinent, because they have no universal supposition but only imagination and memory of particulars. As for how the ignorance is dissolved and the incontinent man becomes a knower again, the account is the same as for the man who is drunk or asleep, and it is not peculiar to this affection, but one must hear it from the natural philosophers. Since the last premise is an opinion about a perceptible thing, and it is what governs actions, the man in the grip of the affection either does not have this premise, or has it in such a way that having it is not knowing but merely saying it, the way a drunk man recites the verses of Empedocles. And because the last term is not universal and does not seem to be equally an object of knowledge as the universal term is, the very thing Socrates was looking for seems to result: for it is not what is thought to be knowledge in the strict sense that is present when the affection occurs, nor is this knowledge dragged about by the affection, but rather the perceptual kind of knowledge. So then, concerning whether the incontinent man knows or not, and how it is possible for a man who knows to be incontinent, let this much be said.
8| Next we must state whether there is someone incontinent without qualification, or whether everyone is incontinent only in a particular respect, and if the former, with regard to what things he is incontinent. That the continent and the persevering, and the incontinent and the soft, are concerned with pleasures and pains, is plain. But since, among the things that produce pleasure, some are necessary, while others are choiceworthy in their own right but admit of excess — the necessary ones being the bodily ones (I mean things of this sort: those concerning food and the use of sexual pleasures, and the bodily matters of this kind with regard to which we located self-indulgence and temperance), while the others are not necessary but are choiceworthy in their own right (I mean, for example, victory, honor, wealth, and other good and pleasant things of this sort) — those, then, who exceed the proper measure within themselves with regard to these latter things, contrary to right reason, we do not call incontinent without qualification, but we add a qualification and call them incontinent with regard to money, or gain, or honor, or spirit, but not incontinent without qualification, as being different people called so only by way of resemblance, just as a man is called 'human' who wins at the Olympic games: [1148a] for in his case the common account differed little from the account peculiar to him, and yet it was different. Here is a sign of this: incontinence is blamed not merely as an error but also as a kind of vice, either without qualification or in a particular respect, whereas none of the former cases is so blamed. Among those concerned with bodily enjoyments, the ones with regard to which we speak of the temperate man and the self-indulgent man, the one who pursues the excesses of pleasant things not by choice — and avoids the excesses of painful things, of hunger and thirst and heat and cold and everything having to do with touch and taste — but contrary to his choice and his rational calculation, is called incontinent, not with an added qualification specifying the sphere, as one does with anger, but simply and without qualification. Here is a sign of this: it is with regard to these bodily things that men are called soft, but with regard to none of the others.
9| And this is why we class the incontinent man together with the self-indulgent man, and the continent man with the temperate man, but none of the others with any of these, because they are concerned in a way with the same pleasures and pains; but though these people are concerned with the same things, they are not so in the same manner, but some choose them and others do not choose them. This is why we would call a man more self-indulgent who pursues excesses without appetite, or with only mild appetite, and avoids moderate pains, than one who does so because of strong appetite — for what would the former do, if a youthful appetite were added, along with intense pain over the lack of necessary things? Since, among appetites and pleasures, some belong to the class of things fine and excellent in kind (for some pleasant things are choiceworthy by nature), while others are the contraries of these, and others are in between, as we distinguished earlier — for example, money and gain and victory and honor — with regard to all of these and things of this kind, and the intermediate ones too, people are blamed not for being affected by them and desiring and loving them, but for how they do so and for exceeding the mean (which is why those who, contrary to reason, are either overcome by or pursue any of the things that are by nature fine and good — for example those who are more concerned with honor than they ought to be, or with their children and parents, are blamed; for these too are among the good things, and those who are concerned about them are praised — but nevertheless there is a kind of excess even in these cases, if someone, like Niobe, should fight even against the gods, or, like Satyrus,
10| [1148b] who was nicknamed 'father-lover,' behave toward his father — for he seemed to be excessively foolish). There is, then, no depravity at all concerning these things, for the reason stated, that each of them is by nature choiceworthy for its own sake, but the excesses of them are bad and to be avoided. Likewise there is no incontinence concerning them either — for incontinence is not only to be avoided but is also among the blameworthy things; but because of a resemblance in the affection, people add the qualification and speak of incontinence with regard to each of these things, the way they speak of a bad doctor and a bad actor, whom they would not call bad without qualification. Just as, then, in that case, because each of these is not a vice but only resembles one by analogy, so it is clear that in the other case too we must suppose that incontinence and continence, properly speaking, exist only with regard to the same things as temperance and self-indulgence, and that we speak of incontinence with regard to spirit only by way of resemblance — which is why we add the qualification and say 'incontinent with regard to spirit,' just as with honor and gain. Since some things are pleasant by nature, and of these some are pleasant without qualification and others according to the kinds of animals and of men, while other things are not pleasant by nature but come to be so, some through mutilation, some through habituation, and some through depraved natures, it is possible to observe, with regard to these too, states resembling the ones just discussed; I mean the bestial states, such as that of the woman they say rips open pregnant women and devours the infants, or the sort of things some of the savage tribes near the Black Sea are said to delight in, some eating raw meat, some human flesh, some lending their children to one another for a feast, or the story told about Phalaris. These are bestial states; still others come about through disease (in some people through madness, as happened with the man who slew his own mother as a sacrificial victim and then ate her flesh, and with the one who devoured the liver of a fellow slave); others are morbid, arising from habit, such as pulling out one's hair and gnawing one's nails, and further, eating coals and earth, and in addition to these, sexual relations between males — for these arise in some by nature
11| and in others from habit, as in those who have been sexually abused from childhood. Now whoever has these states because of nature, no one would call incontinent, any more than one would call women incontinent because they do not mount but are mounted; and likewise no one would call incontinent those who are in a morbid condition as a result of habit. Now the having of each of these states [1149a] lies outside the bounds of vice, just as bestiality does too; and for a man who has such a state to master it or be mastered by it is not incontinence without qualification but incontinence only by resemblance, just as with a man who is in this condition with regard to fits of anger — one must speak of this affection as resembling incontinence, but not call it incontinence. For every excessive folly and cowardice and self-indulgence and harshness is either bestial or morbid: a man who is by nature such as to fear everything, even the squeak of a mouse, is cowardly with a bestial cowardice, while another feared the weasel because of a disease; and among the foolish, some are irrational by nature and live by perception alone, and are bestial, like certain tribes of distant barbarians, while others are so because of diseases, such as epilepsy, or are morbidly foolish through madness. Of these states it is possible sometimes merely to have one without being mastered by it — I mean, for example, if Phalaris restrained himself though desiring to eat a child, or desiring some monstrous sexual pleasure; but it is also possible to be mastered, not merely to have the state. Just as, then, with depravity, one kind is called depravity in a human being without qualification, and another is called so with an added qualification, because it is bestial or morbid, but not depravity without qualification, in the same way it is clear that incontinence too is in one sense bestial and in another morbid, but without qualification
12| is the one according to human self-indulgence alone. That lack of self-control and self-control, then, are only about the same things as self-indulgence and temperance, and that there is another kind of lack of self-control concerning other things, spoken of by metaphor and not without qualification, is clear. But that the lack of self-control involving spirit is less shameful than that involving the appetites, let us now examine. For spirit seems to listen to reason to some extent, but to mishear it, like quick household servants who dash off before catching everything that was said, and only afterward bungle the order, or like dogs that bark the instant they hear a noise, without first checking whether it is a friend. In the same way, spirit, because of the heat and quickness of its nature, hears reason but does not hear the command, and rushes off to take revenge. For reason or imagination has shown that there has been an insult or a slight, and spirit, as if it had inferred that it ought to make war on such a thing, is instantly roused to anger. Appetite, on the other hand, if reason or perception merely says that something is pleasant, rushes off to enjoy it. [1149b] So spirit follows reason in a way, while appetite does not. It is therefore more shameful. For the person who lacks self-control through spirit is defeated by reason in a way, while the other is defeated by appetite and not by reason. Further, it is more forgivable to follow natural desires, since it is also more forgivable to follow appetites of the kind that are common to everyone, and to the extent that they are common; and spirit, and the harshness that goes with it, is more natural than are appetites for excess and for what is not necessary — like the man defending himself for striking his father, who said, "He too struck his own, and his struck his own before him,"
13| and pointing to his child said, "And this one will strike me, when he becomes a man — for it runs in the family"; and the man being dragged along by his son who told him to stop at the door, since he himself had dragged his own father only that far. Further, the more scheming a person is, the more unjust he is. Now the spirited man is not scheming, nor is spirit itself — it is open; but appetite is, as they say of Aphrodite, "guileful daughter of Cyprus," and of her embroidered girdle Homer says, "beguilement, which steals away the wits even of the sensible." So if this lack of self-control through appetite is more unjust and more shameful than that involving spirit, it is both lack of self-control without qualification and a kind of vice as well. Further, no one commits outrage while feeling pain, but everyone who acts in anger acts while feeling pain, whereas the man who commits outrage does so with pleasure. If, then, the things that most justly provoke anger are more unjust, so is lack of self-control through appetite more unjust — for there is no outrage in spirit. That the lack of self-control concerning appetites, then, is more shameful than that concerning spirit, and that self-control and lack of self-control are about bodily appetites and pleasures, is clear. But we must grasp the differences among these bodily pleasures themselves. For as was said at the start, some are human and natural both in kind and in degree, some are bestial, and some are due to mutilations and diseases. Of these, temperance and self-indulgence concern only the first kind; that is why we do not call beasts either temperate or self-indulgent, except by metaphor, and only in cases where one whole kind of animal differs from another in outrageousness, destructiveness, and indiscriminate eating — for a beast has no choice
14| nor calculation, but is a departure from nature, as madmen among human beings are. [1150a] Bestiality is a lesser thing than vice, but more frightening; for in a beast the better part has not been corrupted, as it has in a human being — it simply does not have it. So the comparison is like comparing something without a soul to something with one, to ask which is worse: for the badness of a thing that has no starting-principle is always less harmful, and intellect is a starting-principle. So comparing injustice to an unjust man is similar. For each is in a sense worse than the other: a bad man could do ten thousand times more evil than a beast. Concerning the pleasures, pains, appetites, and aversions that arise through touch and taste, in respect of which self-indulgence and temperance were defined earlier, it is possible to be in such a state as to be overcome even by things that most people master, or to master even things that most people are overcome by. Of these, the man who is overcome regarding pleasures is the one without self-control, the one who masters them is the one with self-control; and regarding pains, the one who gives way is soft, the one who holds out is tough. The state of most people falls between these, even if they lean more toward the worse states. Since some pleasures are necessary and others are not, and necessary ones only up to a point, while their excesses are not necessary, nor are their deficiencies — and it is the same with appetites and pains — the man who pursues excesses of pleasant things — or pursues them to excess — or does so by choice, for their own sake and for the sake of nothing else that results from them, is self-indulgent; for such a man must be incapable of regret, and so is incurable, since the man without regret is incurable. The man who falls short is the opposite kind, and the man in the middle is temperate. Similarly there is the man who avoids bodily pains not because he is overcome but by choice.
15| Of those who do not act by choice, one is led on by the pleasure, the other by his wish to avoid the pain that comes from the appetite, so that they differ from one another. Everyone would think a person worse if he did something shameful while feeling no appetite, or only a mild one, than if he did it while feeling strong appetite, and would judge him worse for striking a blow with no anger at all than for striking one in a fit of anger — for what would such a man have done had he truly been overtaken by passion? For this reason the self-indulgent man is worse than the man who lacks self-control. Of the two states described, then, the one is more a form of softness, the other is self-indulgence. Opposed to the man without self-control is the man with self-control, and opposed to the soft man is the tough man; for holding out consists in resisting, while self-control consists in mastering, and resisting and mastering are different things, just as not being defeated is different from winning. That is why self-control is more choiceworthy than toughness. [1150b] The man who falls short in resisting things that most people both resist and are able to resist is soft and given to luxury — for luxury too is a kind of softness. He is the sort who lets his cloak trail so as not to bear the pain of holding it up, and who imitates the sick man without thinking himself wretched, though he resembles someone who is wretched. The same holds for self-control and lack of self-control. It is not surprising if someone is overcome by strong and extreme pleasures or pains — it is even forgivable, if he resists, as Theodectes' Philoctetes is when bitten by the viper, or Cercyon in Carcinus's Alope, or as people trying to hold in their laughter burst out in one great fit, as happened to Xenophantus. But if someone is overcome by, and unable to resist, things that most people are able to withstand — not because of some natural trait of his kind, or through disease, as with the Scythian kings
16| whose softness is due to their stock, and as the female differs from the male — that is different. The playful man too seems to be thought self-indulgent, but he is really soft. For play is a form of relaxation, if it is indeed a form of rest, and the playful man is one who goes to excess in this. Of lack of self-control, one kind is impetuousness, the other weakness. Some people, after deliberating, fail to abide by what they decided, because of their feeling; others are carried along by their feeling because they never deliberated at all. Some people, just as those who have first tickled themselves are not ticklish, likewise, by perceiving in advance, foreseeing, and rousing themselves and their reasoning beforehand, are not overcome by their feeling, whether it is pleasant or painful. It is above all the quick-tempered and the melancholic who are subject to the impetuous kind of lack of self-control: the quick ones because of their speed and the intense ones because of the force of their feeling, never pause for reason first, since they are inclined to follow whatever appears to them. The self-indulgent man, as was said, is not given to regret, for he abides by his choice; but the man who lacks self-control is always given to regret. So it is not as we were puzzled earlier — rather, the one is incurable and the other curable; for vice resembles diseases like dropsy and consumption, while lack of self-control resembles epilepsy — the one is a continuous evil, the other not continuous. And in general the kind to which lack of self-control belongs is different from that of vice: vice goes unnoticed by the person who has it, lack of self-control does not. [1151a] Of these people themselves, those who lose themselves entirely are better than those who possess reason but do not abide by it; for they are overcome by a lesser feeling, and are not without prior deliberation as the others are. For the man who lacks self-control is like people who get drunk quickly and on
17| less wine, and less than most people. That lack of self-control is not vice, then, is clear (though it may be so in a certain way): for the one is against choice, the other in accordance with choice. Still, in terms of actions the two are alike, just as Demodocus said of the Milesians — the Milesians are not stupid, but they do the things stupid people do — so too the unrestrained are not unjust, but they will act unjustly. Now since one sort of person is such as not to pursue, on the strength of being persuaded of it, the bodily pleasures that go beyond measure and against right reason, while another is persuaded, because he is the sort of person to pursue them, that this is what he must do — the former is easily persuaded out of it, the latter is not. For virtue and vice each preserve or destroy the starting point respectively, and in actions the starting point is the end for the sake of which one acts, as the hypotheses are in mathematics. Neither there, then, is argument what teaches the starting points, nor here — rather, it is virtue, whether natural or formed by habit, that produces correct belief about the starting point. Such a person, then, is temperate, and the opposite sort is self-indulgent. But there is also a certain person who, because of feeling, is driven out of right reason — one whom feeling overpowers to the point that he does not act according to right reason, but does not overpower to the point that he becomes the sort of person to be persuaded that he ought to pursue such pleasures without restraint. This is the person who lacks self-control, and he is better than the self-indulgent person, and not simply bad, since the best thing — the starting point — is preserved in him. There is another, opposite sort, the person who holds firm and is not driven out, at least not by feeling. It is clear from all this, then, that the one state is excellent and the other bad. Is the person of self-control, then, someone who holds firm to any reasoning and any choice whatever, or someone who holds firm to the correct one, and is the person who lacks self-control someone who fails to hold firm to any choice and any reasoning whatever, or someone who fails to hold firm to reasoning that is not false and to correct choice, as was raised as a puzzle before?
18| Or is it that incidentally it is any reasoning whatever, but in its own right it is true reasoning and correct choice that the one holds firm to and the other does not? For if someone chooses or pursues this on account of that, [1151b] in its own right he pursues and chooses that, but incidentally this. And we speak of "in its own right" without qualification. So that in a sense it is to any opinion whatever that the one holds firm and the other departs from, but without qualification it is to the true one. There are certain people who hold firm to their opinion, whom people call stubborn — hard to persuade and not easily talked round. These have something in common with the person of self-control, just as the extravagant person has something in common with the generous person and the rash person with the courageous person, but they are different in many respects. For the person of self-control does not change on account of feeling and appetite, since he will readily be persuaded, when the occasion arises, that is what self-control means; but the stubborn are not persuaded by argument at all, since they too do acquire appetites, and many of them are led by pleasures. Now the stubborn include the opinionated, the ignorant, and the boorish — the opinionated on account of pleasure and pain: for they enjoy winning if they are not talked out of their position, and they are pained if their decisions are made void, like decrees that fail to pass. So that they resemble the person who lacks self-control more than the person of self-control. But there are some who do not hold to their own opinions, and not on account of lack of self-control — for example, in Sophocles' Philoctetes, Neoptolemus: yet even though he did not hold firm it was on account of pleasure, but a fine pleasure,
19| for speaking the truth was a fine thing to him, and he was persuaded by Odysseus to tell a lie. For not everyone who does something on account of pleasure is self-indulgent, or bad, or lacking self-control, but only the one who does it on account of a shameful pleasure. But since there is also a sort of person who takes less pleasure than he should in bodily things, and does not hold to reasoning, the person of self-control stands between this person and the one who lacks self-control: for the one who lacks self-control does not hold to reasoning because of feeling something too much, while this other person does not hold to it because of feeling something too little; but the person of self-control holds firm, and does not change on account of either. If, then, self-control is to be a good thing, both opposite states must be bad, as indeed they appear to be. But because one of them is evident in only a few people and only rarely, self-control seems, just as temperance seems to be opposed only to self-indulgence, to be opposed only to lack of self-control. Since many things are called by a name on the basis of resemblance, the self-control of the temperate person has come to be so called by resemblance: for both the person of self-control and the temperate person are the sort to do nothing contrary to reasoning on account of bodily pleasures, [1152a] but the one has base appetites and the other does not, and the one is the sort not to feel pleasure contrary to reasoning, while the other is the sort to feel pleasure but not to be led by it. The person who lacks self-control and the self-indulgent person also resemble each other, though they are different: both pursue bodily pleasures, but the one thinks he ought to, the other does not think so. Nor can the same person be at once practically wise and lacking in self-control: for it has been shown that the same person is at once practically wise and good in character. Further, one is practically wise not merely by knowing but also by being capable of action; but the person who lacks self-control is not capable of action —
20| though nothing stops a shrewd person from also lacking self-control — which is why some are sometimes taken to be practically wise yet unrestrained at once, since shrewdness parts ways with practical wisdom in the manner set out earlier, in our opening discussion: close to it in point of reasoning, but distinct from it in point of choice. Nor does the person who lacks self-control resemble someone who knows and is attending to the matter, but rather someone asleep or drunk. And he acts willingly (for in a way he knows both what he is doing and the end for which he does it), but he is not wicked, since his choice is decent; so he is half-wicked. Nor is he unjust, for he is not a schemer: one type of person who lacks self-control does not hold firm to what he has deliberated, while the melancholic type does not deliberate at all. And indeed the person who lacks self-control resembles a city that votes for everything it should and has good laws, but makes no use of them — as Anaxandrides mocked it: 'the city wanted it, the city that cares nothing for its laws' — whereas the wicked person resembles a city that does use its laws, but uses bad ones. Lack of self-control and self-control concern what exceeds the state of most people: for the one holds firm more than most people's power allows, the other less. Of the forms of lack of self-control, the more curable is the one the melancholic suffer from — that of people who deliberate but do not hold firm — and those who lack self-control through habituation are more curable than those who do so by nature: for it is easier to change a habit than to change nature. And this is exactly why habit is hard to shift — because it resembles nature, as Evenus too says: 'I say that lasting practice, my friend, becomes in the end nothing other than nature for men.' So much, then, has been said about what self-control is, what lack of self-control is, and what endurance is
21| and what softness is, and how these states stand toward one another. [1152b] But it belongs to the person who studies political philosophy to examine pleasure and pain: for he is the master craftsman of the end, with a view to which we call each thing, without qualification, bad or good. Further, it is also one of the necessary things to look into: for we set down both virtue and vice of character as concerned with pains and pleasures, and most people say happiness involves pleasure — which is why they have named the blessed man from the word 'to rejoice.' Now some think that no pleasure is a good, either in its own right or incidentally, on the grounds that the good and pleasure are not the same thing; others think that some pleasures are good, but most are base. And there is a third view besides these: that even if all pleasures were good, still the best thing could not be pleasure. The argument that pleasure is not a good at all runs: every pleasure is a perceptible coming-to-be toward a nature, but no coming-to-be is akin to its ends, just as no building is akin to a house. Further, the temperate person avoids pleasures. Further, the practically wise person pursues what is free from pain, not what is pleasant. Further, pleasures are an obstacle to thinking, and the more one enjoys them the more of an obstacle they are — as with the pleasure of sex: for no one, they say, could think of anything while engaged in it. Further, there is no craft of pleasure, and yet every good is the product of some craft. Further, children and animals pursue pleasures. As for the claim that not all pleasures are excellent: some are shameful and a matter of reproach, and some are harmful, since some pleasant things are unhealthy. And as for the claim that pleasure is not the best thing: it is not an end but a coming-to-be. These, roughly, are the views people express.
22| That it does not follow from these arguments that there is no good, nor any best thing, is clear from the following. First, since the good is spoken of in two ways (one sense being the good without qualification, the other the good for someone), natures and states will follow this distinction accordingly, and so will motions and comings-to-be; and among things that seem base, some are base without qualification but not for a given person, and are choiceworthy for him, while others are not even choiceworthy for him except at some particular moment and for a short time, but not without qualification; and some are not even pleasures, but only appear so — namely those that involve pain and are undergone for the sake of a cure, such as the pleasures of the sick. Further, since one part of the good is activity and another is a state, the things that restore us to our natural state are pleasant only incidentally; the actual activity at work in such cases belongs to the appetites for the remaining state and nature, since there are pleasures even without pain and appetite, [1153a] such as the activities of contemplation, in cases where nature is not in a condition of deficiency. A sign of this is that people do not take pleasure in the same pleasant thing while their nature is being replenished and while it is settled: when settled, they take pleasure in things pleasant without qualification, but while being replenished, even in the contraries of these; for they take pleasure in sharp and bitter things, none of which is pleasant by nature or without qualification. So the pleasures taken in them are not the same kind of pleasures either: for as pleasant things stand to one another, so do the pleasures arising from them. Further, it is not necessary that there be something else better than pleasure, as some say the end is better than the coming-to-be that leads to it; for not all pleasures are comings-to-be, nor accompanied by a coming-to-be, but are activities, and an end; nor do they occur while things are coming to be, but while things are being used; and the end is not, for all of them, something other than themselves, but only for those that are stages leading toward the completion of their nature. That is why it is not right to say that pleasure is a perceptible coming-to-be; rather it should be called an activity of the state that accords with nature,
23| and in place of 'perceptible' we should say 'unimpeded.' Some people think pleasure is a coming-to-be because it is, properly speaking, a good: for they suppose that activity is coming-to-be, but it is something different. The claim that pleasures are base because some pleasant things are unhealthy is the same as saying that some healthy things are base for the making of money. On this ground, then, both are base, but they are not base on that account, since even contemplating sometimes harms one's health. Practical wisdom is impeded by no pleasure that belongs to it, nor is any other state impeded by the pleasure that belongs to it, but only by pleasures foreign to it, since the pleasures arising from contemplating and learning will make one contemplate and learn all the more. That no pleasure is the product of a craft has happened reasonably enough; for craft is not the craft of any other activity either, but of the corresponding capacity — and yet perfumery and cookery are thought to be crafts concerned with pleasure. As for the claim that the temperate person avoids pleasure and the practically wise person pursues the painless life, and that children and beasts pursue pleasure — all these are resolved by the same point. For since it has been stated in what sense pleasures are good without qualification and in what sense not all of them are good, it is pleasures of that latter sort that both beasts and children pursue, and it is freedom from the pain of these that the practically wise person pursues — the pleasures that involve appetite and pain, and the bodily pleasures (for these are of that sort), and the excesses of these, which are what make the self-indulgent person self-indulgent. That is why the temperate person avoids these, since there are pleasures that belong to the temperate person too. [1153b] But indeed it is agreed that pain too is bad and to be avoided: for one kind of pain is bad without qualification, and another is bad because it is in some way an impediment. But the contrary of what is to be avoided, insofar as it is bad and to be avoided, is good. Pleasure, then, must necessarily be some good. For as
24| Speusippus tried to resolve it, the resolution does not work — as if the greater stood contrary both to the lesser and to the equal; for he would not say that pleasure is precisely a bad thing. And nothing prevents the best thing from being some pleasure, even if some pleasures are base, just as some form of knowledge may be the best thing even though some kinds of knowledge are base. Indeed it is perhaps even necessary, if each state has unimpeded activities, that whether happiness is the activity of all the states or of some one of them, this activity, if unimpeded, should be most choiceworthy of all; and this is pleasure. So it would follow that some pleasure is the best thing, even though most pleasures happen to be base, without qualification. And this is why everyone thinks the happy life is a pleasant one, and weaves pleasure into happiness — reasonably so, since no activity is complete while impeded, and happiness belongs among complete things. That is why the happy person needs, in addition, the goods of the body, external goods, and fortune, so that he not be impeded in these respects. Those who say that a man broken on the wheel, or one who falls into great misfortunes, is happy provided he is good, are talking nonsense, whether they mean to or not. And because happiness needs the addition of fortune, some people think good fortune is the same thing as happiness — it is not, since even good fortune, when it is excessive, is itself an impediment, and perhaps it is then no longer right to call it good fortune at all; for its boundary is fixed by reference to happiness. And the fact that all things, both beasts and men, pursue pleasure is some sign that it is in some way the best thing: no report is ever wholly lost that many peoples repeat. But since it is neither the same nature nor the same state that is best, nor is thought to be,
25| people do not all pursue the same pleasure either, though all pursue pleasure. And perhaps they do not even pursue the pleasure they think they do, nor the one they would say they do, but the same pleasure in every case; for everything has by nature something divine in it. But the bodily pleasures have taken over the inheritance of the name because people resort to them most often and all share in them; and so, because these alone are familiar, people think they alone exist. [1154a] It is also plain that if pleasure and the activity are not a good, the happy person will not be able to live pleasantly; for what would he need pleasure for, if it is not a good, when it is even possible to live in a state of pain? For pain is neither bad nor good, if pleasure is not either; so why would one avoid it? Nor, indeed, would the life of the excellent person be more pleasant, unless his activities were too. But concerning bodily pleasures we must examine the position of those who say that some pleasures are very much worth choosing — the fine ones — but not the bodily pleasures, that is, the ones the self-indulgent person is concerned with. Why then are the contrary pains bad? For the contrary of a bad thing is good. Or are the necessary pleasures good in this sense, that even what is not bad is good? Or are they good only up to a point? For in the case of states and motions in which there is no excess of the better, there is no excess of the pleasure either; but in those where there is such excess, there is an excess of pleasure too. Now there is an excess of bodily goods, and it is by pursuing the excess that the base person is base, not by pursuing the necessary pleasures — for everyone takes some pleasure in fine food, wine, and sex, but not everyone as he ought. It is the opposite with pain: one does not avoid the excess of it, but avoids it altogether;
26| For pain is not the opposite of excess, but only to the man who pursues the excess. Since one must not only state the truth but also the cause of the false belief -- for this contributes to conviction: for when it becomes apparent why something that is not true appears true, this makes people trust the truth more -- so we must say why bodily pleasures appear more choiceworthy. First, then, because pleasure drives out pain: and because of excesses of pain, people pursue excessive pleasure, and bodily pleasure generally, as though it were a cure. And these cures become intense, which is why they are pursued, because they appear so by contrast with their opposite. And pleasure is thought not to be a serious matter for these two reasons, as has been said: because some pleasures are actions of a base nature (either from birth, as with an animal, or through habit, as with base people), while others are cures, because of some deficiency, and it is better to have health than to be coming to have it -- [1154b] while others come about in the process of reaching completion; so they are serious only incidentally. Further, they are pursued because they are intense, by people who are unable to enjoy anything else: at any rate they contrive certain thirsts for themselves. Now when these are harmless, this is not to be blamed, but when they are harmful, it is base. For such people have nothing else in which to take pleasure, and a neutral state is painful to many because of their nature. For the animal is always in some toil, as the natural philosophers also testify, saying that seeing and hearing are painful; but we are by now used to it, as they say. Similarly, in youth, because of growth, people are disposed like those who are drunk, and youth is pleasant. But those who are melancholic by nature always need a cure: for their body, because of its mixture, is continually being gnawed at, and they are always in violent craving: and pleasure drives out pain, whether the opposite pleasure or any pleasure whatever, provided it is strong: and for these reasons
27| such people become intemperate and base. But pleasures that involve no pain admit of no excess; and these belong to the things pleasant by nature and not incidentally. By 'pleasant incidentally' I mean the things that cure: for because it happens that the person who endures treatment is cured by doing something, it appears for this reason to be pleasant; but things pleasant by nature are those that produce an action of this kind of nature. Nothing is always pleasant to the same person, because our nature is not simple, but there is present in us also another element, in virtue of which we are perishable, so that if one element acts, this is contrary to nature for the other element, and when the two are balanced, what is done seems neither painful nor pleasant: since if anyone's nature were simple, the same action would always be most pleasant to him. This is why god always enjoys a single and simple pleasure: for actuality belongs not only to motion but also to rest, and pleasure lies more in rest than in motion. But change in all things is sweet, as the poet says, on account of some badness: for just as a bad man is easily changed, so too is the nature that needs change: for it is not simple nor decent. So then we have discussed self-restraint and lack of self-restraint, and pleasure and pain, both what each of them is and how some of them are good and some bad: it remains for us to speak also about friendship.
1| [1155a] After this it would follow to go through friendship: for it is a virtue, or involves virtue, and moreover it is most necessary for life. For even a man in possession of every other good would refuse a friendless life: indeed even to those who are wealthy and hold positions of rule and power, friends seem to be the greatest necessity; for what use is such prosperity if the opportunity for beneficence is taken away, which comes about, and is most praised, above all toward friends? Or how could such prosperity be guarded and preserved without friends? For the greater it is, the more exposed it is to danger. And in poverty and in the other misfortunes people think friends are the only refuge. Friends help the young keep from error, and help the old with attention and with what their action lacks because of weakness, and help those in their prime toward fine actions: 'two going together' -- for they are more capable both of understanding and of acting. And by nature there seems to be present, in the parent toward the offspring and in the offspring toward the parent, a natural affection, not only among human beings but also among birds and most animals, and among members of the same race toward one another, and most of all among human beings, which is why we praise those who love humanity. And one might see, even in the course of travels, how every human being is akin and dear to every other human being. And friendship also seems to hold cities together, and lawgivers seem to be more concerned about it than about justice: for concord seems to be something like friendship, and this is what they aim at above all, and they drive out faction, which is enmity, above all: and when people are friends, they have no need of justice, but when they are just, they still need friendship in addition, and the most just of just things is thought to be what is friendly. And it is not only necessary but also fine: for we praise those who love their friends,
2| and having many friends is thought to be one of the fine things: and further, people think that the same men are good men and are friends. But there is no little dispute about it. For some hold that it is a kind of likeness, and that like people are friends, which is why they say 'like to like,' and 'jackdaw to jackdaw,' and such sayings: but others say, on the contrary, that all such people are like potters to one another. [1155b] And about these very questions they inquire further, and in a more properly natural way, Euripides saying that the parched earth loves the rain, and that the majestic sky, when filled with rain, loves to fall to earth, and Heraclitus saying that what opposes is helpful, and that the finest harmony comes from things that differ, and that all things come to be in accordance with strife: but opposed to these, others, and especially Empedocles, say that like desires like. Let us, then, dismiss the natural questions among these problems (for they are not proper to the present inquiry): but let us examine those that are human and belong to character and feeling, such as whether friendship comes about among all people or it is not possible for wicked people to be friends, and whether there is one form of friendship or several. For those who think there is one, on the ground that it admits of more and less, have trusted an insufficient sign: for things that differ in form also admit of more and less. This has been discussed before. But perhaps it would become clear about these matters once what is lovable has been recognized. For it is thought that not everything is loved, but what is lovable, and this is the good or the pleasant or the useful: but it would seem that useful
3| is what something good or pleasure comes about through, so that the good and the pleasant would be lovable as ends. Do people, then, love the good, or what is good for themselves? For these sometimes conflict. And likewise concerning the pleasant. Now it seems that each person loves what is good for himself, and that the good without qualification is lovable, but for each person it is what is good for him: and each person loves not what is good for him but what appears good to him. This will make no difference: for what is lovable will simply be what appears so. There being three things on account of which people love, in the case of love for inanimate things it is not called friendship: for there is no love in return, nor any wishing of good for that thing (for it would be ridiculous, presumably, to wish good things for wine; if anything, one wishes it to be preserved, so that one may have it oneself): but for a friend they say one must wish good things for that person's own sake. Those who wish good things in this way, without the same coming about from the other side too, they call well-disposed: for they say that goodwill in people who return the feeling is friendship. Or must we add 'without escaping notice'? For many are well-disposed toward people they have not seen, but suppose to be decent or useful: [1156a] and one of those people might feel the very same thing toward this person. These, then, appear well-disposed toward one another: but how could one call them friends when they do not notice how they stand toward each other? So people must be well-disposed toward one another and wish good things for one another without this escaping their notice, and for one of the reasons mentioned. And these reasons differ from one another in kind: and so too, therefore, do the lovings and the friendships. There are, then, three forms of friendship, equal in number to the things that are lovable: for in accordance with each there is a mutual loving that does not escape notice, and those who love one another wish good things to one another
4| in the respect in which they love. Now those who love each other for utility do not love each other in their own right, but insofar as some good comes to them from one another. And likewise those who love for pleasure: for they do not cherish witty people because of what sort of people they are, but because they are pleasant to them. Those who love for utility, then, feel affection because of the good that accrues to themselves, and those who love for pleasure because of the pleasure that accrues to themselves, and not insofar as the person loved is what he is, but insofar as he is useful or pleasant. These friendships, then, are accidental: for it is not insofar as the person loved is what he is that he is loved, but insofar as one party furnishes some good and the other pleasure. Such friendships, then, are easily dissolved, when the parties do not remain alike: for if they are no longer pleasant or useful, they stop loving. And what is useful does not remain the same, but becomes different at different times. So when the reason they were friends is removed, the friendship is dissolved too, since the friendship existed in relation to those things. Such friendship seems to arise mostly among the elderly (for people of that age pursue not the pleasant but the beneficial), and among those in their prime and the young who pursue their own advantage. Nor do such people particularly live together with one another either: for sometimes they are not even pleasant to each other, and they do not need this sort of companionship unless they are useful; for they are pleasant to each other only to the extent that they have hopes of some good. Guest-friendship too is classed among these. The friendship of the young, on the other hand, seems to be for pleasure: for they live by feeling, and pursue above all what is pleasant to themselves and what is present; and as their age changes, what is pleasant to them becomes different too. This is why they become
5| friends and stop being friends quickly: for the friendship shifts along with the pleasant, [1156b] and the change in this sort of pleasure is quick. The young are also erotic: for erotic love is for the most part a matter of feeling and pleasure; that is why they fall in love and quickly stop, often changing within the same day. But such people do wish to spend their days together and live together, since it is in this way that what belongs to their friendship comes about for them. Complete friendship is that between people who are good and alike in virtue: for these people alike wish good things for each other insofar as they are good, and they are good in their own right. Those who wish good things to their friends for the friends' own sake are friends most of all: for they are disposed this way because of themselves, and not accidentally. So the friendship of these people lasts as long as they are good, and virtue is a lasting thing. And each of them is good both without qualification and to his friend: for good people are both good without qualification and useful to one another. And likewise they are pleasant too: for good people are pleasant both without qualification and to one another, since to each person his own actions and actions of that kind are pleasurable, and the actions of good people are the same or alike. And such friendship is reasonably lasting: for it joins together in itself everything that ought to belong to friends. For every friendship is for the sake of the good or for the sake of the pleasant, either without qualification or for the one who loves, and in accordance with some likeness; and to this kind of friendship all the things mentioned belong in their own right: (the text is corrupt at this point in the Greek) and the rest follow likewise, since what is good without qualification is also pleasant without qualification, and these things are lovable above all; so loving and friendship are found in these people above all, and are best. It is likely that such friendships are
6| rare, since few people are of this sort. Further, it also requires time and familiarity: for as the proverb says, people cannot know one another until they have shared the proverbial salt together; nor can they accept each other, nor be friends, until each has appeared lovable to the other and been trusted. Those who quickly perform the acts of friendship toward one another wish to be friends, but are not, unless they are also lovable, and they know this: for a wish for friendship arises quickly, but friendship does not. This friendship, then, is complete both in point of time and in every other respect, and in every case each party gets from the other things that are the same and alike, which is what ought to hold between friends. [1157a] Friendship for the sake of pleasure has a resemblance to this: for good people are pleasant to one another too. And likewise friendship for the sake of utility: for good people are useful to one another in that way too. In these cases as well, friendships last most of all when the same thing comes about from each to the other, for example pleasure, and not only in that way but also from the same source, as with witty people, and not as with a lover and beloved. For these do not take pleasure in the same things: the one in seeing the other, the other in being courted by the lover; and when the bloom of youth fades, sometimes the friendship fades too (for the one no longer finds the sight of the other pleasant, and for the other the courtship no longer happens). But many, on the other hand, remain friends, if from their familiarity they have come to love each other's characters, being alike in character. Those who exchange not pleasure but utility in their erotic relationships are both less truly friends and less lasting. Those who are friends for the sake of utility are dissolved as friends together with
7| their advantage: for they were not friends of one another, but of what was profitable. For pleasure, then, and for utility, it is possible even for base people to be friends with one another, and for decent people to be friends with base people, and for a person who is neither to be friends with one of any sort whatever; but it is clear that people are friends for their own sake only if they are good: for bad people take no pleasure in one another unless some benefit comes of it. And the friendship of good people alone is beyond slander: for it is not easy for anyone to trust a person about someone who has been tested by that very person over a long time; and it is among such people that trust exists, and the conviction that the other would never do wrong, and all the other things that are required in friendship that is true in the fullest sense. In the other kinds of friendship, on the other hand, nothing prevents such things from occurring as well. For since people call friends even those who are friends for utility, as cities are (for alliances between cities are thought to arise for the sake of advantage), and also those who are fond of one another for pleasure, as children are, perhaps we too should call such people friends, but say that there are several species of friendship, and that the friendship of good people, insofar as they are good, is friendship in the primary and proper sense, while the others are friendships by likeness: for insofar as there is something good, and something alike, in that respect they are friends; since the pleasant too is good for those who are fond of pleasure. These kinds do not entirely coincide, however, nor do the same people become friends both for utility and for pleasure: for accidental attributes are not often paired together. [1157b] Since friendship has been divided into these species, base people will be friends for the sake of pleasure or utility, being alike in that respect, while good people will be friends for their own sakes: for they are friends insofar as they are good. These, then, are friends without qualification, while the others are friends accidentally, and by
8| being made like these. Just as with the virtues, some people are called good in respect of a state, others in respect of an activity, so too with friendship: for those who live together take joy in one another and provide each other with good things, while those who are asleep or separated by distance are not actively engaged, but are so disposed that they would engage in friendly activity; for distance does not dissolve friendship without qualification, but only the activity of it. But if the absence is prolonged, it seems to produce forgetfulness of the friendship too; hence the saying, 'lack of conversation has dissolved many a friendship.' Neither the elderly nor the sour-tempered appear to be inclined to friendship: for there is little of the pleasant in them, and no one can spend his days with someone who is painful or not pleasant; for nature seems above all to shun what is painful and to reach for what is pleasant. Those who accept one another but do not live together seem to resemble people of goodwill rather than friends. For nothing so belongs to friends as living together (for it is those in need who desire benefit, but even the blessed desire to spend their days together, since it least befits them to be solitary); but it is not possible for people to spend their time together if they are not pleasant to each other and do not enjoy the same things, which is thought to be characteristic of comradeship. Friendship, then, is above all the friendship of good people, as has often been said: for what is good or pleasant without qualification seems to be lovable and choiceworthy, and what is such for each particular person is lovable and choiceworthy for him; and a good person is lovable and choiceworthy to a good person for both these reasons. Loving seems to be like a feeling, but friendship like a state; for loving belongs no less
9| toward inanimate things, but they love back in return with choice, and choice comes from a state of character; and they wish good things to the beloved for the beloved's own sake, not as a matter of feeling but as a matter of a state of character. And in loving their friend they love what is good for themselves: for the good man, in becoming a friend, becomes a good for the one whose friend he is. Each of them, then, loves what is good for himself, and repays in equal measure both the wishing and the pleasure: for friendship is said to be equality, [1158a] and this belongs most of all to the friendship of good people. But among the sour and the elderly friendship arises less, in proportion as they are harder to get along with and take less pleasure in company: for these traits seem most of all to be marks of friendliness and productive of friendship. That is why the young become friends quickly, but the old do not: for people do not become friends with those in whom they take no pleasure, and the same holds of the sour. Yet people of this sort are kindly disposed toward each other: they want good things for one another and come through when help is needed; but calling them friends outright goes too far, since they do not pass their days in each other's company or delight in one another—precisely the things that most seem to mark out friendliness. One cannot, however, hold many people as friends under the complete form of friendship, any more than one can be in love with several at once (that looks like an excess, and love of this kind by nature attaches itself to a single person); nor is it easy to strongly please a great many people simultaneously, and perhaps there are not that many good people to please. And one must also gain experience of the person and come to be in close familiarity with him, which is a very hard thing. But because of usefulness and pleasure it is possible to please many people: for there are many such people, and the services rendered take little time. Of these, the pleasure-based friendship comes closest to genuine friendship, since it occurs when both sides feel the same way and delight in each other or in shared
10| things, the kind of friendship typical among the young: for in these there is more of the free and generous spirit. But the friendship based on usefulness is a marketplace kind. And the blessedly happy have no need at all of useful people, but they do need pleasant ones: for they want to share their lives with particular people, and although something painful can be tolerated briefly, no one would put up with it going on and on—not even the good, were it distressing to him; hence they look for friends who bring pleasure. But presumably these must also be good, and moreover good for them: for so they will have everything that friends need to have. But those in positions of power appear to use their friends in a divided way: some are useful to them and others pleasant, but the same people are not very often both; for they do not seek people who are pleasant along with virtue, nor people who are useful for fine ends, but rather, aiming at pleasure, they seek witty people, and for what is ordered to be carried out, people clever at doing it, and these traits are not very often found in the same person. It has been said that the pleasant and the useful come together in the excellent man; but such a person does not become the friend of one who surpasses him, unless that person is also surpassed in virtue; otherwise he does not achieve equality in proportion, being surpassed. But such people do not very often turn out to exist. [1158b] The friendships mentioned so far, then, are based on equality: for the same things come from both sides and they wish them to one another, or they exchange one thing for another, for instance pleasure for benefit; but it has been said that these are friendships to a lesser degree and less lasting. And they seem, both because of resemblance and because of difference, to be the same as the friendship in accordance with virtue and not to be the same: for in respect of resemblance to the friendship in accordance with virtue they appear to be friendships (for the one has pleasure and the other usefulness, and these belong to that friendship as well), while in respect of the fact that the one is safe from slander and lasting, and these change quickly and differ from it in many other respects besides, they do not appear to be friendships, because of their unlikeness to that one.
11| There is also another kind of friendship, the one based on superiority, such as that of father to son and in general of elder to younger, of husband to wife, and of every ruler to the one ruled. And these differ also from one another: for the friendship of parents to children is not the same as that of rulers to those ruled, nor indeed is that of father to son the same as that of son to father, nor that of husband to wife the same as that of wife to husband. For the virtue and the function of each of these is different, and the reasons for which they love are different as well; so the acts of loving and the friendships are different too. Neither party, then, receives the identical thing from the other, nor ought one to expect that; but once children give their parents what is owed to those who brought them into being, and parents give their sons what children are owed, the friendship between such people will hold firm and be a fitting one. And in all friendships based on superiority the loving too must be proportional, for instance the better person should be loved more than he loves, and likewise the more beneficial one, and each of the others correspondingly; for when the loving comes about according to worth, then a kind of equality comes about, which indeed seems to belong to friendship. But the equal does not appear to hold in the same way in matters of justice and in friendship: for in matters of justice what is equal is primarily what accords with worth, and what accords with quantity is secondary, while in friendship what accords with quantity is primary, and what accords with worth is secondary. This is clear if a great gap arises in virtue or vice or wealth or anything else: for people are no longer
12| friends, nor indeed do they think they deserve to be. This is most evident in the case of the gods: for they surpass all people most of all in every good thing. [1159a] It is clear too in the case of kings: for those who are far inferior do not think they deserve to be their friends, nor do those worth nothing think they deserve to be friends of the best or the wisest. Now there is no precise definition in such cases, up to what point people remain friends: for even when much is taken away friendship still remains, but when the gap becomes very wide, as with god, it no longer does. Hence the puzzle also arises, whether friends really wish for their friends the greatest of goods, for instance that they become gods: for then their friends will no longer be friends to them, nor indeed goods at all, since friends are goods. Assuming, then, that it is correctly stated that a friend wants good things for his friend for that friend's own sake, the friend would need to stay the kind of being he currently is: it is as a human being that he will be wished the greatest goods. But perhaps not all goods: for each person wishes goods most of all for himself. Most people seem to wish to be loved rather than to love, on account of love of honor: that is why most people are fond of flatterers; for the flatterer is a friend who is inferior, or pretends to be such and to love more than he is loved; and to be loved seems close to being honored, which indeed most people aim at. But they do not seem to choose honor for its own sake, but incidentally: for most people rejoice at being honored by those in positions of power because of hope (for they think they will get something from them if they need it, and so they rejoice in the honor as a sign of good treatment to come); while those who desire honor from decent people who know them aim at confirming their own opinion about themselves: so they rejoice because, trusting the judgment of those who speak, they are good.
13| People take pleasure in being loved simply in its own right; so it would seem that being loved is better than being honored, and that friendship is choiceworthy in its own right. But friendship seems to lie more in loving than in being loved. A sign of this is the pleasure mothers take in loving: some give their children away to be raised by others, and though they love them, knowing them, they do not seek to be loved in return, if both cannot be had; it seems enough for them to see their children doing well, and they go on loving them even if the children, through ignorance, render them none of what is owed to a mother. Since friendship consists more in loving, and since people who love their friends are praised, the virtue proper to friends seems to be loving; so that those in whom this happens in proportion to worth, [1159b] these are lasting friends, and their friendship lasts. In this way even unequal people could most be friends, for they would be equalized. Equality and likeness are friendship, and most of all the likeness of people who are alike in virtue: for being stable in themselves, they remain stable also toward each other, and they neither need base services nor render them, but rather, one might say, prevent them; for it is proper to good people neither to go wrong themselves nor to allow their friends to. But base people have nothing stable about them, since they do not even remain like themselves; they become friends for a short time only, delighting in each other's badness. Useful and pleasant friends last longer, for as long as they supply each other with pleasures or benefits. Friendship arising from usefulness seems to occur most of all between opposites, for instance a poor man and a rich one, an ignorant man and a knowledgeable one; for whatever a person happens to lack, this he desires, and in return gives something
14| else. Here too one might drag in both lover and beloved, the beautiful and the ugly. That is why lovers sometimes appear ridiculous, claiming to be loved as they love; presumably they should make this claim only if they are equally lovable, and where they have nothing of the sort it is ridiculous. Perhaps, too, the opposite does not desire the opposite in its own right, but only incidentally, and what is really desired is the mean; for that is the good — for instance, what is dry does not desire to become wet, but to arrive at the mean, and likewise the hot and the rest. Let these questions be set aside, then, for indeed they lie rather outside our subject. But it appears, as was said at the start, that friendship and justice have to do with the same things and exist among the same people. For in every community there seems to be some form of justice, and friendship too; at any rate people address as friends their fellow sailors and fellow soldiers, and likewise those in other communities as well. And to the extent that people share a community, to that extent friendship exists; for so does justice. And the proverb 'friends' goods are common property' is correct, since friendship consists in community. Brothers and comrades have everything in common, while others have it marked off, more for some, less for others; for friendships too differ, some more, some less. And what is just differs as well: [1160a] the same claims do not hold between parents and children as between brothers with each other, nor between comrades and fellow citizens, and likewise with the other kinds of friendship as well. What is unjust, then, differs with respect to each of these, and grows greater the closer it is to friends — for instance
15| to defraud a comrade of money is a worse thing than to defraud a fellow citizen, and to fail to help a brother is worse than to fail to help a stranger, and to strike a father is worse than to strike anyone else at all. And justice naturally grows along with friendship, since they exist among the same people and extend equally far. Now all communities seem to be parts of the political community; for people come together for the sake of some advantage, procuring something needed for life, and the political community too seems to have come together in the first place, and to persist, for the sake of advantage; for this is what lawgivers aim at, and they say that what is to the common advantage is just. The other communities aim at advantage in some particular respect — sailors, for instance, aim at what belongs to the voyage with a view to making money or something of the sort, fellow soldiers at what belongs to the war, whether they are after money or victory or a city, and likewise members of a tribe or a deme. Some communities seem to come about for the sake of pleasure, such as religious societies and dining clubs, for these exist for the sake of sacrifice and of fellowship. But all these seem to fall under the political community; for the political community aims not at present advantage but at advantage for the whole of life, performing sacrifices and holding gatherings in connection with them, and rendering honors to the gods, and providing rest for themselves along with pleasure. For the ancient sacrifices and gatherings appear to have taken place after the harvesting of crops, as a kind of first-offering; for it was especially at these seasons that people had leisure. So all communities appear to be parts of the political community, and such friendships will correspond to such communities. There are three kinds of constitution, and an equal number of deviations, which are, so to speak, corruptions of them. The constitutions themselves are kingship and aristocracy, and a third based on property assessments, which it seems fitting to call timocracy, though most people
16| are accustomed to call it a constitution. Of these the best is kingship, the worst timocracy. The deviation from kingship is tyranny: [1160b] both are forms of one-man rule, yet they are worlds apart: the tyrant keeps his own advantage in view, while the king keeps in view the advantage of those he rules. Nobody counts as a true king unless he is self-sufficient and outstanding in every good thing; a man of that sort lacks nothing further, and so he would not attend to his own benefit but to the benefit of his subjects — since a so-called king who fails this test would be king only by the luck of the draw. Tyranny is the very opposite of this, for the tyrant pursues what is good for himself. And it is clearer in this case that tyranny is the worst, since the worst thing is what is opposite to the best. The change is from kingship to tyranny, for tyranny is the debased form of monarchy, and a bad king becomes a tyrant. From aristocracy the change is to oligarchy, through the badness of the rulers, who distribute what belongs to the city contrary to worth, keeping all or most of the good things for themselves, and always assigning the offices to the same people, valuing wealth above everything; so a few rule, and bad men instead of the most respectable ones. From timocracy the change is to democracy, since these are neighboring constitutions; for timocracy too wishes to be rule of the majority, and all who meet the property assessment are equal. Democracy is the least bad of these, for it deviates only slightly from the form of a constitution proper. These, then, are the changes by which constitutions most commonly shift, since in this way the change is smallest and easiest. One can find likenesses of these, and as it were models of them, in households as well. For the community of father with sons has the shape of kingship,
17| since the father cares for his children; and this is why Homer addresses Zeus as 'father,' for kingship wants to be a father's kind of rule. Yet with the Persians the paternal relation turns tyrannical, since they deal with their sons as if they were slaves. And the rule of a master over slaves is likewise tyrannical, for in it the master's advantage is what is being served. This form appears correct, while the Persian form is mistaken; for the modes of rule proper to different sorts of people differ. The rule of husband over wife appears aristocratic, for the husband rules in proportion to worth, and in matters that belong to a man, while whatever befits a wife he hands over to her. But when the husband has authority over everything, he shifts the relation into oligarchy, for he does this contrary to worth, and not insofar as he is better. [1161a] Sometimes it is the women who rule, being heiresses; in such cases the rule does not come about according to virtue, but on account of wealth and power, as in oligarchies. The relation of brothers resembles timocracy, for they are equals, except to the extent that they differ in age; hence, if they differ greatly in age, their friendship no longer remains a brotherly one. Democracy is found chiefly in households without a master (for there everyone is on an equal footing), and in those where the ruler is weak and each person has license. In each of the constitutions, friendship appears to the same extent as justice does: between a king and those he rules, it consists in a superiority of benefaction, for he does good to those he rules, given that, being good, he cares for them so that they may fare well, as a shepherd cares for his sheep — which is why Homer calls Agamemnon
18| called "shepherd of the peoples." Such too is the friendship of a father, though it differs in the scale of its benefits, for a father is the cause of his children's existing, which is thought the greatest thing, and of their nourishment and education. These same things are also attributed to ancestors: for by nature a father has rule over sons, ancestors over descendants, a king over subjects. These friendships involve superiority, which is also why parents are honored. And what is just in these relations is not the same in each case but is proportioned to worth, for that is how the friendship is too. And the friendship of husband toward wife is the same as in an aristocracy, for it is according to virtue, and the better party gets the greater good, and each gets what befits him; and that is how the just is measured too. The friendship of brothers resembles that of comrades, for they are equals and of an age, and such people are for the most part alike in feeling and character. Similar to this too is the friendship found in a timocracy, for the citizens wish to be equal and decent; ruling is by turns, and on equal terms, and so the friendship is of this kind too. But in the deviant constitutions, just as the just is present only to a small degree, so too is friendship, and least of all in the worst of them; for in a tyranny there is little or no friendship. Wherever there is nothing shared between the one ruling and the one ruled, friendship is absent as well, and so is justice — take the case of a craftsman and his instrument, or a soul and a body, or a master and a slave: [1161b] each of these instruments does profit the person making use of it, yet no friendship exists toward lifeless things, and no justice either. Nor indeed is there friendship toward a horse or an ox, nor toward a slave qua slave. For there is nothing in common: the slave is an ensouled tool, and the tool is an unsouled slave.
19| So then, qua slave there is no friendship toward him, but qua human being there is; for some measure of justice is held to exist between any human being and anyone else able to share in law and covenant, and friendship follows along with it, in proportion as he is human. So in tyrannies friendship and justice hold only to a small degree, but in democracies they hold to a greater degree, since where people are equals they have much in common. Now every friendship exists within a community, as has been said. But one might mark off friendship of kinship and friendship of comradeship as separate. Political friendship, and friendship among members of a tribe, and among fellow-voyagers, and all such friendships, more closely resemble the friendships of community, for they seem to exist by virtue of some kind of agreement. Into this class one might also place the friendship of hospitality toward strangers. And kinship friendship appears to have many forms, but all of them depend on the friendship of a father: for parents love their children as being something of themselves, while children love their parents as having come from them, something belonging to those parents. Parents, however, recognize their own offspring more readily than the children recognize that they have sprung from these parents, and what originates a thing is knit to what it produces more tightly than the produced thing is knit to its producer; for whatever comes forth from someone belongs to that person — as a tooth, a hair, or anything else belongs to whoever has it — while for the originator, what came from him belongs to him little, or not at all. And this holds also by length of time: parents love their children as soon as they are born, but children come to love their parents only as time goes on, once they have acquired understanding or perception. From these considerations it is also clear why mothers love more. Parents, then, love their children as themselves (for what comes from them is, in a sense, another self, by virtue of having been separated), while children love their parents as having their nature from them,
20| and brothers love one another because they have their nature from the same source; for their sameness in relation to that source produces sameness with each other, which is why people speak of "same blood" and "same root" and the like. They are, then, in a way the same thing, even though they exist as separate individuals. Great too for friendship is having been brought up together and being of the same age, for "like takes to like," and those who are used to one another become comrades; which is also why the friendship of brothers resembles that of comrades. [1162a] Cousins and the rest of one's kin are bound to one another through these same ties, since they too come from the same source. Some turn out closer, some more distant, according to whether the common ancestor is near or far removed. The friendship of children toward parents, and of human beings toward the gods, is a friendship toward something good and superior, for these have conferred the greatest benefits, being the cause of existence and nourishment, and, once the children have come into being, of their education. Such a friendship also has more of the pleasant and the useful in it than friendship among strangers does, to the extent that the life shared between them is more common. What holds in the friendship of brothers holds also in that of comrades, and more so among decent people, and in general among those who are alike, insofar as they are more closely bound to each other and have loved one another from birth, and insofar as those born of the same parents and brought up together and educated alike are more alike in character; and the test that comes from length of time is here the fullest and surest. And proportionately the same holds for the rest of one's kin. Between man and woman friendship is held to exist by nature; for a human being is by nature more a pairing creature than a political one, inasmuch as the household is prior to and more necessary than the city, and the begetting of offspring is more common to animals generally. In other
21| animals the community goes only this far, but human beings live together not only for the sake of begetting children but also for the needs of life; for from the start the functions are divided, and those of husband and wife are different. So they supply each other's needs, putting their own particular contributions into the common stock. For this reason this friendship is thought to have both the useful and the pleasant in it. And it might also come about through virtue, if the two are decent, for each has his or her own virtue, and they could take pleasure in that. Children appear to serve as the tie that holds them together, and that is why couples without children separate sooner, since offspring are a shared good belonging to both partners, and a shared good is what keeps people bound to each other. As for how one ought to live with a wife, and in general how one friend ought to live with another, this is evidently no different a question from how one ought to live justly; for it plainly is not the same for a friend in relation to a friend as for a stranger, a comrade, or a fellow-student. There are, as was said at the start, three kinds of friendship, and in each of them some friends are on a footing of equality, others on one of superiority (for good people become friends with one another equally, and a better person with a worse; and likewise pleasant friends, [1162b] and those who are friends for utility, being equal in the benefits or differing in them). Equals ought to render equality in loving and in everything else, while those who are unequal ought to render what is proportionate to their superiorities. Complaints and reproaches arise in the friendship of utility either exclusively or most of all, and reasonably so. For those who are friends through virtue are eager to do well by one another, since this belongs to virtue and to friendship, and when people are rivaling one another toward this end there are no complaints or quarrels; for no one
22| is vexed at a man who loves him and does him good, but if he has any refinement he defends himself by doing good in return. And the one who exceeds, getting what he is aiming at, would not complain of his friend, for each desires the good. Nor is there much complaint either among those who are friends for pleasure, for what they both desire comes about at the same time, if they enjoy spending time together; and a man who complained of one who did not delight him would look ridiculous, since he could simply not spend his days with him. But the friendship of utility is prone to complaint, for since the parties make use of each other for advantage they always want more, and think they have less than is fitting, and they complain that they are not getting as much as they deserve and need, while those doing them good are unable to supply as much as those receiving it need. And it seems that, just as the just is twofold, one part unwritten and the other according to law, so too friendship for utility is in one kind moral and in the other legal. Complaints, then, arise chiefly when people do not settle and dissolve the relation according to the same kind. The legal kind is that on stated terms, either the wholly commercial kind, hand to hand, or the more liberal kind, allowing time, but by agreement as to what is exchanged for what. In this kind the debt is clear and not disputed, but it has a friendly element in the postponement it allows; which is why in some places there are no lawsuits over such transactions, and people think that those who have dealt on trust ought to accept the outcome. The moral kind carries no fixed terms; rather, a person gives to a friend, or grants whatever it may be, the way one gives to a friend, yet expects the same amount back, or something greater, treating the gift not as a gift but as a loan; and he will voice a complaint if the ending of the arrangement does not match how it began. This happens
23| because everyone, or most people, wants fine things, but chooses what is beneficial to themselves. It is fine to do good to another not in order to be repaid in kind; [1163a] it is beneficial to have good done to oneself. So to one who is able, one should repay the worth of what one received, and do so willingly (for one should not be made a friend against one's will: one should treat the case as though one had made a mistake at the start and been well treated by someone one should not have been—for it was not by a friend, nor by one acting for that very reason—and so the account should be settled as with someone who did well by us on stated terms): and even one would agree to repay if able; if unable, not even the one who gave would have expected it. So if it is possible, one should repay. But at the start one should examine by whom one is being well treated and for what, so as to accept the terms or not on that basis. There is dispute over whether one should measure by the benefit to the one who received it and make the return in proportion to that, or by the beneficence of the one who acted. For those who received such things say that what they got from their benefactors was small for the givers and something they could have gotten from others too, belittling it; while the others say the opposite, that it was the greatest of what they had to give, and something not obtainable from others, and given amid dangers or such needs. Is it then the case that, since the friendship exists on account of usefulness, the benefit to the one who received is the measure? For it is he who is in need, and the other assists him on the expectation of getting back the equal: so the assistance has become as great as the benefit received by this man, and he ought to repay as much as he profited, or even more, for that is finer. But in friendships based on virtue there are no complaints, and the measure seems rather to be the intention of the one who acted; for the authority over virtue and character lies in the intention. People also differ over friendships based on superiority:
24| for each claims to deserve to have more, and when this happens the friendship is dissolved. For the better person thinks it belongs to him to have more, since more is assigned to the good man; and likewise the more useful person thinks so too—for they say a useless person ought not to have an equal share, since it becomes a public service and not a friendship, if what comes from the friendship is not in proportion to the worth of what each contributes. For they think that, just as in a partnership of money those who contribute more take more, so it ought to be in friendship too. But the needy person and the inferior one say the opposite: for they say it is the part of a good friend to assist those in need—what is the use, they say, of being a friend to a good man or to a man of power, if one is going to get nothing out of it? [1163b] So each seems to make a correct claim, and each should be assigned more from the friendship, but not more of the same thing—rather, to the one who is superior, more honor, and to the one in need, more gain. For honor is the prize of virtue and of beneficence, while gain is the assistance appropriate to need. This appears to hold in constitutions too: for the man who provides no good to the community is not honored, since the common good is given to the one who benefits the community, and honor is a common good. For it is not possible to make money from public funds and be honored at the same time. In everything, no one puts up with getting the lesser share: so to the one who is made lesser in respect of money they assign honor, and to the one who takes bribes, money; for what is in proportion to worth equalizes and preserves the friendship, as has been said. In this way, then, one should also deal with unequal parties, and and the one who is benefited, whether in money or in virtue, must repay honor in return, giving back what he can.
25| For friendship seeks what is possible, not what is proportionate to worth—since that is not possible in all cases, as with the honors paid to the gods and to parents: for no one could ever repay their worth, but the one who serves them to the extent of his power seems to be a decent person. Hence it might seem that a son may not renounce his father, though a father may renounce his son: for since he owes, he must repay, but having done nothing worthy of what has been done for him, he has done nothing, so that he is always in debt. But those to whom the debt is owed have the authority to release it, and so the father does too. At the same time it seems that no one would ever renounce a son, unless he were exceedingly wicked; for apart from natural affection, it is human not to reject his assistance. But for the son, if the father is wicked, assisting him is a thing to be avoided, or not something to be eager for; for most people want to have good done to them, but avoid doing it as unprofitable. On these matters, then, let this much be said.
1| In all friendships between dissimilar parties, it is proportion that equalizes and preserves the friendship, as has been said; for instance in the political community, the shoemaker gets a return in proportion to his worth for his shoes, and so does the weaver, and so do the rest. [1164a] Here, then, a common measure has been provided, namely currency, and everything is referred to this and measured by it; but in erotic friendship sometimes the lover complains that his excessive love is not requited with love in return—though, as it may happen, he has nothing lovable about him—while often the beloved complains that the one who earlier promised everything now fulfills nothing. Such things happen whenever the one loves the beloved for the sake of pleasure, and the other loves the lover for the sake of usefulness, and these do not both belong to each. For since the friendship rests on these things, a dissolution occurs whenever they do not get that for the sake of which they were being friends: for they were not cherishing each other but the things that belonged to them, which are not lasting; hence such are the friendships too. But the friendship of characters, being in its own right, endures, as has been said. People differ when what comes about for them is other than what they desire; for it is like getting nothing at all, when one does not attain what one aims at—just as it happened with the man who made a promise to the lyre-player, and said that the better he sang, the more he would give him; but when in the morning the man demanded on his promises, he said he had given pleasure for pleasure. Now if each of them had wanted this, it would have been sufficient; but if one wanted delight and the other gain, and one has it and the other does not, the terms of the partnership would not be well fulfilled: for a person attends to whatever he happens to be in need of, and it is for the sake of that that he will give what he gives. But whose task is it to fix the worth—the one who gives first, or the one who takes first? For the one who gives first seems to entrust it to the other. This is what they say Protagoras used to do:
2| for whenever he taught anything at all, he would tell the pupil to assess how much he thought the knowledge was worth, and he took that much. In such matters some are satisfied with the principle "let a man have his wage." Those who collect the payment beforehand, however, and then carry out none of what they claimed, on account of promises pitched too high, rightly become targets of complaint; for they do not deliver on what they agreed to. This the sophists are perhaps compelled to do because no one would give money for what they know. Such men, then, having taken the wage for what they did not do, are reasonably subject to complaints. But in cases where no agreement is made about the service, those who give of themselves for the other's own sake are, as has been said, not liable to complaint (for such is the friendship based on virtue), [1164b] and the return should be made in accordance with the intention (for this belongs to the friend and to virtue): and this seems to hold also for those who share in philosophy together; for worth is not measured against money, and no honor could be an equal counterweight, but perhaps it is enough, as with the gods and with parents, to give what is possible. But if the giving is not of this kind but is for something in return, then above all, perhaps, the repayment ought to come about in a way that seems to both to be in proportion to worth; but if this does not happen, it would seem not only necessary but also just that the one who received first should fix the amount: for as much as he was benefited, or as much as he would have chosen in exchange for the pleasure, so much he will have received in return as the worth from the other. And indeed this is how it appears to happen in cases of buying and selling too, and in some places there are laws that there be no lawsuits over voluntary contracts, on the ground that one who trusted someone ought to settle the matter as he did with him whom he trusted.
3| ...just as he shared in it. For the one to whom the matter was entrusted, he thinks, has a juster claim to fix the assessment than the one who entrusted it. For in most cases those who have a thing and those who want to get it do not value it equally: what is one's own, and what one gives to others, appears to be worth a great deal; yet the return comes to as much as the recipients assess it at. Perhaps, though, one should value a thing not at what it appears worth to the one who has it, but at what he valued it at before he had it. Such questions as the following also raise difficulty: for example, whether one should assign everything to one's father and obey him, or whether, when sick, one should trust the doctor instead, and whether one should elect the man skilled in war as general; and likewise whether one should do a service for a friend rather than for a good man, and whether one should repay a benefactor's favor rather than give to a companion, if both cannot be done. Is it not, then, hard to determine all such matters precisely? For they admit many differences of every kind, in magnitude and smallness and in what is fine and what is necessary. But that not everything is to be rendered to the same person is not unclear: for the most part one should repay benefits received rather than do favors for companions, just as one should repay a debt to the one to whom one owes it rather than give the money to a companion. Yet perhaps not even this holds always: for instance, in the case of a man ransomed from bandits — should he ransom in return the one who ransomed him, whoever that may be, or, if that man has not himself been captured but demands repayment, should he repay him, [1165a] or should he ransom his father instead? For it would seem that one should ransom one's father even before oneself. As has been said, then, in general the debt should be repaid; but if the gift exceeds it in fineness or necessity, one should incline toward these. For sometimes it is not even a fair equivalent to repay the original service, when the one who did the good deed did so knowing the recipient to be a good man, while the return is made to someone he believes to be bad. For indeed one need not always lend in return to the one who lent to oneself: for the one lent expecting to get it back, to a decent man, while the other has no hope of getting it back from a worthless one.
4| If, then, this is in truth how things stand, the claims are not equal; and if things are not really so but people think they are, they would not seem to be acting strangely. As has often been said, accounts concerning feelings and actions have exactly as much precision as the matters they are about. That the same things should not be rendered to everyone, nor everything to one's father — just as not everything is sacrificed to Zeus — is not unclear; and since different things are owed to parents, to brothers, to companions, and to benefactors, to each one should assign what is proper and fitting to them. And this is in fact what people appear to do: they invite their relatives to weddings, since these share in the family stock and in the actions concerned with it; and for the same reason people think relatives especially ought to attend funerals. It would seem that one ought above all to supply sustenance to one's parents, as being in their debt, and because it is finer to supply those responsible for one's existence with these things than to supply oneself; and one owes honor to parents as to gods, though not every kind of honor — for the same honor is not due to father and mother, nor again the honor due to a wise man or to a general, but the honor proper to a father, and likewise the honor proper to a mother. And to everyone older, one owes honor in proportion to age, by rising up before them, by giving them the place at table, and by such things; while toward companions and brothers, in turn, one owes frankness of speech and community of all things. And to relatives, to fellow tribesmen, to fellow citizens, and to all the rest, one must always try to render what is proper, and to compare what belongs to each in respect of closeness of kinship, virtue, or usefulness. Now the comparison is easier among those of the same kind, but more laborious among those that differ.
5| Still, one must not on that account give up, but must draw the distinctions as best one can. There is also a difficulty about whether or not one should dissolve friendships [1165b] with those who do not remain the same. Or is it that, in the case of those who were friends for usefulness or for pleasure, when they no longer have these qualities, there is nothing strange in dissolving the friendship? For it was on account of those qualities that they were friends; and once these have failed, it is reasonable no longer to love them. But one might make a complaint, if a person, while loving someone for usefulness or pleasure, pretended to love him for his character. For, as we said at the start, most differences arise between friends when they are not friends in the way they suppose. So when a man deceives himself and supposes he is loved for his character, though the other does nothing of the kind, he has only himself to blame; but when he is deceived by the other's pretense, it is just to blame the one who deceived him — and more than those who counterfeit currency, insofar as the wrongdoing concerns something more valuable. But if one accepted a man as good, and he becomes bad and is seen to be so, should one still love him? Or is it impossible, if indeed not everything is lovable but only the good? For what is bad is neither lovable, nor ought it to be loved: one must not be a lover of bad men, nor become like a base man; and it has been said that like is dear to like. Should the friendship, then, be dissolved at once? Or not with everyone, but only with those incurable in their badness? For those capable of correction, one should give more help toward their character than toward their property, inasmuch as this is better and more proper to friendship. And a man who dissolves such a friendship would seem to be doing nothing strange; for he was not a friend to a man of that sort, and so, since the man has changed and he is unable to save him, he withdraws. But if one party remains the same while the other becomes more decent and comes to differ from him greatly in virtue, should he still treat him as a friend? Or is this not possible?
6| This becomes especially clear when the divergence is great, as in friendships formed in childhood: for if one party remains a child in understanding while the other becomes a man of the finest sort, how could they still be friends, when they are pleased by neither the same things nor feel joy and pain over the same things? For they will not even have these feelings toward one another, and without them it was not possible to be friends; for it is not possible to share a life together. But these matters have been discussed. Should one, then, behave toward him in no way different than if he had never become a friend at all? Or must one keep in mind the intimacy that once existed, and, just as we think we ought to do favors for friends rather than for strangers, so too something should be granted to former friends on account of the friendship that once was, when the dissolution has not come about through an extreme of badness. [1166a] The marks of friendship toward one's neighbors, by which friendships are defined, appear to have come from a man's relation to himself. For people define a friend as one who wishes and does what is good, or what seems good, for the other's sake, or as one who wishes his friend to exist and live for the friend's own sake — which is what mothers feel toward their children, and what friends who have quarreled still feel. Others define a friend as one who lives together with him and chooses the same things, or as one who shares his friend's pain and joy; and this too holds especially true of mothers. And it is by some one of these marks that people define friendship. Now each of these marks belongs, in relation to himself, to the decent man (and to the rest of people, insofar as they suppose themselves to be of that sort; for, as has been said, virtue and the good man seem to be the measure of each thing): for such a man is of one mind with himself, and desires the same things with his whole soul; and he wishes
7| Such a person, then, does what is good and what appears so for his own sake — he does the good for the sake of that in him which is good — and does it for his own sake, since it is for the sake of the thinking part, which each person seems to be. Such a person also wishes himself to live and to be preserved, and above all that part with which he thinks. For being is good to the good person, and each wishes the good things for himself; but no one, on becoming someone else, chooses to have everything that the person he has become would have (for even now the god has the good), but only while remaining what he actually is; and each person would seem to be, or to be most of all, the thinking part. Such a person also wishes to spend his time with himself, for he does so with pleasure: the memories of what he has done are delightful, and his hopes for the future are good, and hopes of this kind are pleasant. He is also well supplied with subjects for contemplation for his intellect. He shares pain and shares pleasure with himself most of all, for the same thing is always painful or pleasant to him, and not one thing at one time and another at another — he is, so to speak, free of regret. Given that all these features belong to the decent man in his relation to himself, and that he treats his friend exactly as he treats himself (a friend being, after all, a second self), friendship can be regarded as one facet of this same relationship, and whoever possesses these traits counts as a friend. Whether there is friendship toward oneself or not, let that be set aside for now; it would seem that there is friendship in this respect, in which there are two or more parties, given what has been said, [1166b] and in that the excess of friendship resembles the relation to oneself. But what has been said appears to hold also for the many, even though they are base. Is it, then, insofar as they are pleased with themselves and suppose themselves to be decent, that they share in these things?
8| For among the utterly base and impious, none of this holds — indeed it does not even appear to. And it holds scarcely even for the base in general: for they are at odds with themselves, and they desire one set of things while wishing another, as the incontinent do; for they choose, instead of the things that seem good to themselves, pleasant things that are harmful. Others again, through cowardice and idleness, hold back from doing what they think is best for themselves. And those who have done many terrible things and are hated because of their wickedness flee from life and put themselves to death. The wicked seek out others with whom to spend their days, but flee from themselves; for when they are by themselves they remember many disagreeable things and expect more of the same, but when they are with others they forget. Having nothing lovable in themselves, they feel nothing friendly toward themselves. Such people do not, then, rejoice together with themselves or share pain with themselves; for their soul is in civil war, and one part, because of its wickedness, is pained at abstaining from certain things, while another part is pleased, and one part pulls this way and the other that, as if tearing the person apart. And if it is not possible to feel pain and pleasure at once, still shortly afterward such a person is pained that he took pleasure, and would wish that these things had not become pleasant to him; for the base are full of regret. The base person, then, plainly is not even disposed in a friendly way toward himself, because he has nothing lovable in him. If, then, being in such a state is utterly wretched, wickedness must be avoided with all one's effort, and one must try to be decent; for in this way one would both be disposed in a friendly way toward oneself and become a friend to another. Goodwill resembles something friendly, but it is not friendship; for goodwill arises even toward people one does not know, and unnoticed by them, but friendship does not. This too has been said before. But goodwill is not affection either. For it has no intensity and no desire, and these accompany affection; and affection comes with familiarity, whereas
9| goodwill can arise even on the spur of the moment, as happens for instance in the case of contestants: [1167a] people become well disposed toward them and share their wishes, but would not act together with them in anything; for, as we said, they become well disposed on the spur of the moment and feel a merely superficial affection. Goodwill seems, then, to be a starting point of friendship, just as the pleasure that comes through sight is a starting point of erotic love; for no one loves erotically without first having been pleased by the appearance, yet someone who delights in the appearance does not for that reason love, but only when he also longs for the person when absent and desires his presence. In the same way, people cannot be friends without having first become well disposed, yet the well disposed are not for that reason any more friends; for they wish only good things to those toward whom they are well disposed, but would not act together with them in anything, nor would they be troubled on their behalf. Hence, by an extension of the term, one might call goodwill an inactive friendship, which, when it lasts over time and arrives at familiarity, becomes friendship — not the friendship based on usefulness nor that based on pleasure, for goodwill does not arise on the basis of those either. For someone who has been treated well returns goodwill in return for what he has received, thereby doing what is just; but a man who wants someone else to do well only because he hopes to gain some advantage through him is not really showing goodwill toward that person at all — he is showing it toward himself, in the same way that he is no true friend if his attentions are aimed at some use he can make of the other. In general, goodwill arises because of virtue and a kind of decency, when someone appears fine or courageous or something of this sort to another, as we said in the case of contestants. Concord too appears to be something friendly. This is why it is not agreement in opinion; for that could hold even among people who do not know one another. Nor do people say that those who are of one mind about just anything are in concord,
10| for instance about the heavenly bodies (for being of one mind about these is not a matter of friendship), but they say cities are in concord when they are of one mind about their common interests, and choose the same things and do what has been decided in common. It is about practical matters, then, that people are in concord, and among these, about matters of importance and things that can hold for both parties or for all, as when cities are in concord, for example when it is resolved by all that offices should be elective, or that they should ally with the Spartans, or that Pittacus should rule, at a time when he himself was also willing. But when each of the two parties wants the position for himself, as with the brothers in the Phoenician Women, they fall into civil strife; for being in concord is not a matter of each thinking the same thought, whatever it may be, but of thinking it about the same object, as when both the people [1167b] and the respectable citizens want the best to rule; for in this way what all aim at comes about for everyone. Concord, then, appears to be political friendship, exactly as it is said to be, for it concerns common interests and matters bearing on life. Concord of this kind exists among decent people; for these are in concord both with themselves and with one another, being, so to speak, on the same footing (for the wishes of such people remain fixed and do not shift back and forth like the Euripus), and they wish for what is just and advantageous, and aim at these things in common as well. But the base cannot be in concord except to a small degree, just as they can be friends only to a small degree, since they aim at more than their share where profit is concerned, but fall short in labors and public services; and each, wanting this for himself, scrutinizes his neighbor and holds him back, since if people do not watch out, the common good is destroyed. The result, then, is that they fall into civil strife, each
11| forcing themselves to it, but not willing to do what is just on their own. Benefactors are held to feel more affection for those they have benefited than the beneficiaries do for their benefactors, and this is inquired into as if it were contrary to reason. To most people it appears that this is because the one party owes and the other is owed: just as in the case of loans, debtors want the people they owe not to exist, while lenders actually take care for the safety of their debtors, so too, it is thought, those who have done a benefit want the people they benefited to exist, on the expectation of getting back their thanks, while the beneficiaries have no such concern to repay. Epicharmus would perhaps say that the people who say this are judging from a low point of view, but it does seem a natural human trait: for most people are forgetful, and are more eager to be well treated than to treat others well. But the cause would seem to be more a matter of nature, and the case of lenders is not even similar: for there is no affection toward the debtors, but rather a wish for their preservation for the sake of getting the money back; whereas those who have done good feel affection and love for those they have benefited even if they are of no use to them and never will be in the future. This is what happens also with craftsmen: every one loves his own work more than he would be loved by that work, were it to become ensouled. This happens perhaps most of all with poets: [1168a] they love their own poems excessively, cherishing them as if they were children. Something like this is what happens with benefactors too: the one who has been well treated is their work, and so they feel affection for this more than the work feels for its maker. The cause of this is that existence is choiceworthy and lovable to all, and we exist by way of activity (for we exist by living and acting), and the one who has made something exists, in a way, by activity in that work; he cherishes the work, therefore, because he cherishes his own existence too. And this is natural: for what a thing is in potentiality, its work reveals in actuality. And at the same time
12| for the benefactor there is something fine in his own action, so that he takes pleasure in the person in whom this fineness lies, while for the one who has been treated well there is nothing fine in the one who acted, but at most something advantageous, and this is less pleasant and less lovable. Now the activity of what is present is pleasant, and of what is future, the hope; of what has come to be, the memory; and the pleasantest of these is what accords with activity, and this is likewise the most lovable. For the one who has made something, then, the work remains (for the fine thing is long-lasting), but for the one who was treated well, the usefulness has passed away. And memory of fine things is pleasant, but of merely useful things is not very pleasant, or less so; while expectation seems to work the other way around. Loving seems to resemble a kind of making, being loved a kind of being acted upon; and to those who are superior in the relevant action there follows loving and the things that go with friendship. Further, everyone cherishes more the things that have come about through labor, as for instance people who have earned money themselves love it more than those who have inherited it: being treated well seems to involve no labor, while doing well by someone is laborious. This is also why mothers are more devoted to their children than fathers are: giving birth involves more labor, and mothers know more surely that the children are their own. This would seem to belong to benefactors as well. There is also a puzzle about whether one ought to love oneself most of all, or someone else. People criticize those who are most devoted to themselves, and call them self-lovers as a term of reproach, and it is held that the base person does everything for his own sake, and the worse he is the more so — indeed people accuse him of never acting from himself, of anything — while the decent person acts for the sake of the fine, and the better he is the more he acts for the sake of the fine, and for the sake of a friend,
13| setting his own interest aside. Yet actions are at odds with these accounts, and not without reason. [1168b] For people say that one ought to love most the one who is most a friend, and that the one who is most a friend is the one who wishes good things to another for that other's own sake, even if no one will know of it; and these features belong most of all to a person in relation to himself, as do all the rest of the traits by which a friend is defined; for it has been said that all the marks of friendship extend from oneself to others as well. And all the proverbs agree in this, such as 'one soul,' 'friends' goods are common,' 'friendship is equality,' and 'the knee is closer than the shin': for all these would apply most of all to a person's relation to himself, since he is a friend to himself most of all; and so one ought to love oneself most of all. It is reasonable, then, that there is a puzzle about which of the two views one ought to follow, since both carry conviction. Perhaps, then, one must divide such accounts and distinguish to what extent and in what way each is true. If we grasp in what sense each side speaks of self-love, this might become clear. Now those who make it a reproach call self-lovers the people who assign to themselves the greater share of money, honors, and bodily pleasures; for these are what most people desire and are earnest about, on the assumption that they are the best things, and this is why they are objects of fierce competition. Those, then, who are grasping about these things are gratifying their appetites and, in general, their emotions and the irrational part of the soul; and most people are of this sort; hence the term has come to be applied from the fact that the majority are base in this way; it is justly, then, that self-lovers of this kind are reproached. That most people are accustomed to call self-lovers those who assign such things to themselves is not unclear;
14| for if someone were always eager, more than anyone, to do just actions himself, or temperate ones, or any other of the actions in accordance with the virtues, and in general were always securing for himself what is fine, no one would call this person a self-lover, nor would anyone blame him. Yet such a person would seem to be a self-lover more than the other kind: he assigns to himself the finest things and the greatest goods, and he gratifies the most authoritative part of himself, and obeys this in everything; just as a city, or any other composite system, is held to be most of all its most authoritative part, so too is a human being; and so the one who loves this part and gratifies it is a self-lover most of all. And a person is called continent or incontinent according to whether his intellect masters him or not, on the assumption that each person is this, his intellect; [1169a] and people are held to have done things themselves, and voluntarily, most of all when they have done them in accordance with reason. That each of us is this, or is this most of all, is not unclear, and that the decent person cherishes this part most of all. Hence he would be a self-lover most of all, though of a different kind from the one that is reproached, differing from it as much as living in accordance with reason differs from living in accordance with emotion, and as much as desiring what is fine differs from desiring what merely seems advantageous. Now those who are exceptionally earnest about fine actions are welcomed and praised by everyone; and if everyone competed for what is fine and strained to do the finest actions, both the common good would be fully served and each individual would have the greatest of goods, given that virtue is a thing of this sort. So the good person must be a self-lover (for by doing fine actions he will benefit himself and help others as well), but the base person must not be, for he will harm both himself and his neighbors, following as he does
15| base emotions. In the corrupt man, then, duty and deed pull apart; the decent man, by contrast, performs exactly what duty requires: every mind picks out the best course for itself, and the decent man submits to that guidance. Also true of the excellent man is this: he undertakes much on behalf of his friends and of his homeland, and will lay down his life for them if the need arises; for he will give up money and honors and, in general, the goods that people fight over, securing for himself what is fine; he would choose intense pleasure for a short time over mild pleasure for a long time, and to live finely for one year rather than in an ordinary way for many years, and to do one fine and great action rather than many small ones. This is perhaps what happens to those who die for others: they choose something great and fine for themselves. And such people would give up money on condition that their friends get more of it: for the friend gets the money, while the man himself gets what is fine; he is assigning to himself, then, the greater good. And the same holds concerning honors and offices: he will give up all of these to his friend, since this is fine and praiseworthy for him. It is reasonable, then, that he is held to be good, since he chooses what is fine in preference to everything else. It is also possible to give up actions themselves to a friend, and it may be finer to become the cause of a friend's acting than to act oneself. In all the things that are praised, then, the good person is seen assigning to himself the greater share of what is fine. [1169b] In this sense, then, one ought to be a self-lover, as has been said; but in the sense in which most people are, one ought not to be. There is also a dispute about the happy person, whether he will need friends or not. For some say that the blessed and self-sufficient have no need of friends
16| and self-sufficient. For the good things already belong to them; being self-sufficient, then, they need nothing further, whereas a friend, being another self, supplies what one is unable to provide for oneself. Hence the saying: when fortune gives good things abundantly, what need is there for friends? But it seems odd, in assigning all the good things to the happy person, not to grant him friends, which seem to be the greatest of external goods. And if it belongs more to a friend to do well by others than to be treated well, and doing good belongs to the good person and to virtue, and it is finer to do well by friends than by strangers, then the excellent person will need people to benefit. Hence it is also asked whether one needs friends more in good fortune or in misfortune, on the ground that the unfortunate person needs people who will benefit him, while the fortunate person needs people he can benefit. Perhaps it is also odd to make the blessed person a solitary; for no one would choose to have all good things by himself alone, since man is a political being, naturally disposed to live together with others. This holds true of the happy person as well, for he has the things that are good by nature, and it is clear that it is better to spend one's days with friends and decent people than with strangers and whoever happens along. The happy person, then, needs friends. What, then, do those who spoke first mean, and in what way are they right? Is it that most people take useful people to be friends? Of such friends the blessed person will need none, since the good things already belong to him; nor, again, will he need friends who are pleasant, or only a little (for since his life is already pleasant, it has no need of imported pleasure); and since he needs none of these kinds of friends, he seems not to need friends at all. But this is perhaps not true. For it was said at the beginning that happiness is a kind of activity, and activity is clearly
17| something that comes to be, and does not belong to one already, as a piece of property does. But if being happy consists in living and being active, and the activity of the good person is excellent and pleasant in itself, as was said at the beginning, and what is one's own is among the pleasant things, while we are more able to observe our neighbors than ourselves, and their actions more than our own — then the actions of excellent people who are friends are pleasant to good people [1170a] (for both possess what is pleasant by nature); the blessed person, then, will need friends of this kind, if indeed he chooses to observe actions that are decent and his own, and such are the actions of a good person who is a friend. People also think the happy person ought to live pleasantly. Now life is hard for one who is solitary, since it is not easy to be continuously active by oneself, but it is easier together with others and in relation to others. The activity will therefore be more continuous when it is pleasant in itself, which is what must hold true of the blessed person; for the excellent person, insofar as he is excellent, delights in actions in accordance with virtue and is disgusted by those that proceed from vice, just as a musician takes pleasure in fine melodies and is pained by bad ones. A kind of training in virtue might also come about from living together with good people, as Theognis too says. But if one examines the matter more from the standpoint of nature, the excellent friend seems to be choiceworthy by nature for the excellent person. For it has been said that what is good by nature is good and pleasant in itself for the excellent person. Now life is defined, in the case of animals, by the capacity for perception, and in the case of human beings, by perception or thought; and a capacity is referred back to its actuality, and what is decisive lies in the actuality. Living, then, seems properly to consist in perceiving or thinking. And living is among the things that are
18| good and pleasant in their own right; for it is determinate, and what is determinate belongs to the nature of the good. And what is good by nature is also good for the decent person; that is why life seems to be pleasant to everyone. But one should not take into account a depraved and corrupted life, nor one spent in pains, for such a life is indeterminate, just as the things that belong to it are. This will become clearer in the discussion of pain that follows. But if living itself is good and pleasant (and this seems to be shown by the fact that everyone desires it, and especially decent and blessed people, since for them life is most choiceworthy, and their existence is the most blessed of all), and one who sees perceives that he sees, and one who hears that he hears, and one who walks that he walks, and likewise in all other cases there is something in us that perceives that we are active, so that if we perceive, we perceive that we perceive, and if we think, we perceive that we think, and to perceive that we perceive or think is to perceive that we exist (for existing, we found, was perceiving or thinking), [1170b] and perceiving that one is alive is among the things pleasant in themselves (for life is good by nature, and to perceive a good present in oneself is pleasant), and life is choiceworthy, and especially so for good people, because for them existing is good and pleasant (since in being jointly aware of what is good in itself they take pleasure), and as the excellent person is disposed toward himself, so he is also disposed toward his friend (for a friend is another self) — just as, then, each person's own existence is choiceworthy for him, so too, or nearly so, is his friend's existence. And existing was found to be choiceworthy because of perceiving oneself to be good, and this sort of
19| perception is pleasant in itself. One must therefore also be jointly aware that one's friend exists, and this would come about through living together and sharing in conversation and thought; for that is what living together would seem to mean in the case of human beings, and not, as with grazing animals, feeding in the same place. If, then, existing is choiceworthy in itself for the blessed person, being good by nature and pleasant, and his friend's existence is nearly the same, then the friend too would be among the things choiceworthy. And whatever is choiceworthy for him must belong to him, or in this respect he will be deficient. The person who is to be happy will therefore need excellent friends. Should one, then, make as many friends as possible, or, just as with hospitality it seems fitting to say that one should be neither a host to many nor inhospitable, will it likewise suit friendship neither to be friendless nor, again, to have an excessive multitude of friends? For friends of utility, what has been said would seem entirely fitting; for rendering service in return to many is burdensome, and a lifetime is not sufficient to do just that. Friends beyond the number sufficient for one's own life, then, are superfluous and an obstacle to living well, so there is no need of them. And a few friends for pleasure are enough too, just as a little seasoning is enough in food. But as for excellent friends, should one have as many as possible in number, or is there some measure to the quantity of friends too, as there is for a city? For a city could not come to be from ten people, nor is it still a city when made up of a hundred thousand. The right quantity is perhaps not some single number, but any number falling between certain fixed limits.
20| [1171a] So too there is a determinate multitude of friends, and perhaps the largest number is as many as one could live together with (for this seemed to be most characteristic of friendship); and that it is not possible to live together with many people and distribute oneself among them is not unclear. Further, those friends must also be friends with one another, if they are all going to spend their days together, and this is hard to achieve among a large number. It also becomes hard to share genuinely in the joys and sorrows of many people, for it is likely that one will find oneself rejoicing with one person and grieving with another at the same time. Perhaps, then, it is well not to seek to have as many friends as possible, but only as many as are sufficient for living together; for it would not seem possible to be a close friend to many people either. That is why one cannot be in love with several people either; for erotic love wants to be a kind of excess of friendship, and that is directed toward one person, and so too intense friendship is directed toward few. This seems to be borne out by the facts as well, for many people do not become friends according to comradely friendship, and the friendships celebrated in song are said to be between two. Those who have many friends and get on intimate terms with everyone seem to be friends with no one, except in the political sense — the sort of people also called ingratiating. In the political sense, then, it is possible to be a friend to many people without being ingratiating, but truly decent; but friendship for the sake of virtue and for the sake of the persons themselves is not possible toward many, and one should be content to find even a few such friends. But does one need friends more in good fortune or in misfortune? For they are sought in both: those who are unfortunate need assistance, while those who are fortunate need people to live with and people they can benefit, since they want to do good. Friendship is, then, more necessary
21| in misfortunes, and so we need useful friends there, though it is finer in good fortune, and so we also seek out decent friends: for it is more choiceworthy to benefit these and to spend time with them. Indeed, simply having friends near brings pleasure, whether things go well or badly. For those who are grieving are lightened when their friends grieve with them. And so one might be puzzled whether friends take a share of the burden as if it were a weight, or rather not this, but their presence, being pleasant, and the thought that they share the grief, makes the pain less. Whether then it is because of these things or because of something else that people are lightened, let that be set aside: at any rate what has been said does appear to happen. But the presence of friends seems to be something mixed. For the very seeing of one's friends is pleasant, [1171b] especially for someone unfortunate, and it becomes some help against being pained (for a friend is comforting both by sight and by speech, if he is tactful: for he knows one's character and what one takes pleasure and pain in); but to perceive that one's friend is pained at one's own misfortunes is painful: for everyone shrinks from being a cause of pain to his friends. This is why manly natures are careful not to let their friends share their pain, and unless a man is beyond measure insensible to pain, he cannot bear the pain that comes to be in them, and in general does not admit fellow-mourners, because he himself is not given to lamenting; but women, and men like women, delight in those who groan with them, and love them as friends and sympathizers. But it is clear that in all things one must imitate the better sort. And the presence of friends in good fortune both makes one's way of life pleasant and carries the thought that they take pleasure in one's own good things.
22| And so it would seem that one ought to call one's friends eagerly to share good fortune (for it is fine to be a benefactor), but to hold back in calling them to misfortune: for one ought to give them as little share as possible in one's evils, which is the source of the saying, enough that I am unlucky. One should summon them most of all when, with little trouble to themselves, they are going to be of great benefit to the person in question. But conversely, it is fitting perhaps to go unbidden and eagerly to those in misfortune (for it belongs to a friend to do well by another, and most of all to those in need who have not claimed it as their due: for this is finer and more pleasant for both); but toward good fortune to go eagerly in order to help (for there is also need of friends for this), but toward taking part in another's enjoyment to go without urgency: for it is not fine to be eager to receive benefit. Yet perhaps one must be careful of a reputation for unpleasantness in holding oneself back, for this sometimes happens. In any case, the presence of friends appears choiceworthy in all circumstances. Is it, then, just as for lovers seeing the beloved is the most cherished thing, and they choose this perception more than the rest, on the ground that it is by this perception most of all that love exists and comes to be, so also for friends is living together the most choiceworthy thing? For friendship is a partnership, and as a man is disposed toward himself, so also toward his friend; and with regard to himself, the perception that he exists is choiceworthy, and so also with regard to his friend: and the activity of this perception comes to be in living together, [1172a] so that they reasonably desire this. Whatever existence amounts to for each person, or whatever goal makes life worth choosing, that is exactly where each wants to pass his days alongside his friends: this is why some drink together, others dice together, others exercise together and hunt together
23| or philosophize together, each group spending their days together in whatever it is they cherish most in life: for since they wish to live together with their friends, they do these things and share in these, in whatever they suppose themselves to be living together in. And so the friendship of base people turns out corrupt (for they share in base things, being unstable, and they become base by being made alike to each other), while that of decent people is decent, growing along with their association; and they seem also to become better by being active together and correcting one another: for they take an impression from each other of what pleases them, whence the saying, from noble men, noble things. Let this much, then, be said about friendship: and it would follow next to go through the subject of pleasure.
1| After this it perhaps follows to go through the subject of pleasure. It appears, more than anything else, to be woven into our very nature as a species, which is why the young are trained by being steered through pleasure and pain: and it also seems to be of the greatest importance for virtue of character to take pleasure in what one ought and to hate what one ought. For these things extend through the whole of life, carrying weight and power toward virtue and the happy life: for people choose pleasant things and avoid painful ones; and on such matters it would seem least of all right to pass over them, especially since they admit of much dispute. For some say that the good is pleasure, while others, quite to the contrary, say it is altogether base, some perhaps being persuaded that this is truly how things stand, others thinking it better for our life to declare pleasure to be among the base things, even if it is not: for the many, they say, incline toward it and are enslaved to pleasures, and so one ought to lead them toward the opposite; for in this way they would arrive at the mean. But perhaps this is not well said. For accounts concerning things in the sphere of feelings and actions are less to be trusted than deeds: and so when they are out of tune with what is perceived, they are held in contempt and destroy the truth along with themselves: [1172b] for a man who censures pleasure, if he is ever seen reaching for it, seems by his leaning toward it to imply that it is all of that kind, since drawing distinctions is not a thing the many can do. So true accounts seem to be most useful, not only for knowing, but also for life: for being in harmony with the facts, they are trusted, and so they win over those who understand them to live according to them. Enough, then, of such matters: let us go over what has been said about pleasure. Now Eudoxus thought pleasure was the good, because he
2| saw all things, both rational and irrational, reaching for it, and that in all cases what is choiceworthy is what is decent, and what is most dominant is best: so the fact that all things are carried toward the same thing indicated, he thought, that this is best for all (for each thing finds its own good, just as it finds its own nourishment), and what is good for all, and what all things reach for, is the good. And his accounts were trusted more because of the virtue of his character than for their own sake: for he seemed to be exceptionally temperate; so it did not seem that he said these things as a friend of pleasure, but rather that this is truly how things stand. He thought it no less evident from the contrary case: for pain is in its own right something to be avoided by all, and so likewise its opposite is choiceworthy; and what is most choiceworthy is that which we choose neither because of something else nor for the sake of something else: and pleasure, he said, is admittedly such a thing; for no one asks a man for the sake of what he takes pleasure, on the ground that pleasure is choiceworthy in its own right. And, he said, when added to any of the goods it makes it more choiceworthy, for instance to acting justly and being temperate, and the good is increased by it. Now this argument seems to show that pleasure is one of the goods, and no more so than any other: for everything is more choiceworthy along with some other good than taken alone. It is by an argument of this very kind that Plato too does away with the claim that pleasure is the good: for he says that the pleasant life is more choiceworthy along with practical wisdom than without it, and if the mixture is better, then pleasure is not the good; for the good cannot become more choiceworthy by anything being added to it. And it is clear that nothing else either could be the good, if it becomes more choiceworthy when combined with any of the things good in their own right. What, then, is a thing of this sort, in which we too
3| we share; for such a thing is what is being sought. But those who object that what all things aim at is not good say approximately nothing. [1173a] For what everyone thinks, this we say is so; and the person who does away with this conviction will not himself say anything more convincing. For if it were mindless things that desired these, there would be something in the objection; but if intelligent beings desire them too, how could there be anything in it? Perhaps even in inferior beings there is some natural good stronger than they are in their own right, which reaches for the good proper to it. Nor does the argument about the contrary seem to be well stated either. For they say that if pain is bad, it does not follow that pleasure is good; for bad is opposed to bad, and both are opposed to what is neither—speaking not badly in this, but not stating the truth in the case at hand. For if both were bad, both ought to be avoidable, and of the two states that are neither good nor bad, neither ought to be preferable to the other, or they ought to be alike; yet in practice one is shunned as an evil and the other pursued as a good—which is exactly why they stand as opposites. Nor again, even if pleasure is not among the qualities, does it follow that it is not among the goods; for neither are the activities of virtue qualities, nor is happiness. They say the good is determinate, while pleasure is indeterminate, because it admits of more and less. Now if they judge this from the feeling of pleasure, the same will hold for justice and the other virtues as well, in respect of which they plainly say that people are more and less such-and-such, and act in accordance with the virtues more or less—for people are more just and more courageous, and one can act justly and act temperately more and less. But if they judge from the pleasures themselves, then perhaps they are not stating the real cause, if some pleasures are unmixed and others mixed. And what prevents it being the case, just as health, though determinate, admits of more
4| and less, that pleasure be like this too? For the same balance is not present in everyone, nor even in the same person always one and the same; rather it persists while relaxing up to a point, and differs in more and less. Something of this sort, then, may be true of pleasure as well. Positing the good as complete, while motions and comings-to-be are incomplete, they try to declare pleasure a motion and a coming-to-be. But they do not seem to speak well, nor does pleasure seem to be a motion. For speed and slowness seem proper to every motion, and if not in its own right, as with the motion of the heavens, then in relation to something else; but neither of these belongs to pleasure. For one can come to feel pleasure quickly, just as one can come to feel angry quickly, [1173b] but one cannot be pleased quickly, nor in relation to anything else, whereas one can walk quickly, and grow, and do all such things. So it is possible to change into pleasure quickly and slowly, but it is not possible to be active in accordance with it—I mean, to be pleased—quickly. And how could it be a coming-to-be? For it does not seem that just anything comes to be from just anything, but a thing dissolves back into that from which it comes to be; and that of which pleasure is a coming-to-be, of that pain would be the destruction. Pain, on their account, marks a shortfall from one's natural state, and pleasure its restoration. But these are bodily affections. If, then, pleasure is a replenishment of what is natural, then that in which the replenishment occurs would be the thing that feels pleasure; so it would be the body. But this does not seem to be so; so replenishment is not pleasure either—rather, when a replenishment is occurring one would feel pleasure, and when being cut one would feel pain. This opinion seems to have arisen from the pains and pleasures connected with food; for it is when people have become deficient and have first felt pain that they feel pleasure at the replenishment.
5| But this does not happen with all pleasures; for the pleasures of mathematics are painless, and among those connected with the senses, those through smell, and many things heard and seen, and memories, and hopes. Of what, then, will these be comings-to-be? For no deficiency of anything has occurred, of which there could be a replenishment. In reply to those who bring forward the shameful pleasures, one might say that these are not pleasant—for it does not follow, just because they are pleasant to people in a bad condition, that we should think them pleasant except to these people, just as things healthy, sweet, or bitter to the sick are not therefore healthy, sweet, or bitter (except to them), nor are the things that appear white to those with ophthalmia therefore white. Or one might put it this way: that the pleasures are choiceworthy, but not when derived from these sources, just as being wealthy is choiceworthy, but not by betraying someone, and being healthy, but not by eating just anything. Or the pleasures differ in kind: those from fine things are different from those from shameful ones, and it is not possible to feel the pleasure of the just person without being just, nor that of the musical person without being musical, and likewise in the other cases too. The contrast between a genuine friend and a flatterer also seems to reveal something: either pleasure fails to be a good, or pleasures come in distinct kinds; for the one seems to keep company with a view to the good, the other with a view to pleasure, and the one is reproached for it, while the other is praised on the ground that he keeps company with a view to other things. [1174a] And no one would choose to live having the mind of a child throughout his life, even though taking as much pleasure as possible in the things children take pleasure in, nor to enjoy doing something utterly shameful, even if never going to feel pain over it. And we would take pains about many things
6| even if they brought no pleasure, such as seeing, remembering, knowing, having the virtues. And if pleasures follow on these of necessity, that makes no difference; for we would choose these things even if no pleasure came from them. That pleasure, then, is not the good, and that not every pleasure is choiceworthy, seems clear; and that there are some pleasures choiceworthy in their own right, differing in kind or in their sources. Let what is said about pleasure and pain, then, be sufficient. What it is, or what sort of thing it is, would become clearer if we take it up again from the beginning. For sight seems to be complete at any time whatsoever; for it is not lacking in anything which, coming to be later, will complete its form—and pleasure seems to be like this too. For it is a kind of whole, and one could not take a pleasure at any time such that, if it went on happening for a longer time, its form would be completed. For this reason it is not a motion either. For every motion takes place in time and is for the sake of some end, as, for instance, building, and is complete when it has produced what it aims at—either in the whole of the time, or at this point. But in its parts, and in the time it takes, all motions are incomplete, and differ in kind both from the whole and from one another. For the fitting together of the stones is different from the fluting of the column, and these are different from the making of the temple; and the making of the temple is complete—for it lacks nothing with a view to what was proposed—while that of the base and of the triglyph is incomplete, for each is the making of a part. They differ, then, in kind, and it is not possible to take a motion complete in kind at any time whatsoever, but only, if at all, in the whole time. And likewise too in the case of walking and the rest. If
7| For locomotion is motion from one place to another, and its differentiae are by species: flying, walking, jumping, and the like. And this holds not only in this way, but also within walking itself: the from-where and to-where are not the same for the whole stadium-course as for a part of it, nor are they the same for one part as for another, nor is traversing this line the same as traversing that one; [1174b] for one does not merely traverse a line, but a line that is in a place, and this line is in a different place from that one. Now the exact account of motion has been given elsewhere; but it seems that motion is not complete in every period of time, but that most motions are incomplete and differ in species, if indeed the from-where and to-where give a motion its specific character. But the form of pleasure is complete in any period of time whatever. It is clear, then, that pleasure and motion would be different from each other, and that pleasure belongs among the things that are whole and complete. This would seem to follow also from the fact that it is not possible to be in motion without being in time, but it is possible to feel pleasure without being in time: for what happens in the now is a kind of whole. From this it is also clear that people are wrong to say that pleasure is a motion or a coming-into-being. For these terms are not said of everything, but only of things that are divisible and not whole: for there is no coming-into-being of seeing, nor of a point, nor of a unit, nor is any of these a motion or a coming-into-being; nor, then, is pleasure such a thing, for it is a kind of whole. Since every perception is active in relation to its perceptible object, and a perception that is well disposed is active completely in relation to the finest of the objects that fall under it (for this seems most of all to be complete activity; and let it make no difference whether we say the perception itself is active, or that in which it resides is active), then in each case the best activity is that of the thing that is in the best condition in relation to the most excellent of the things that fall under it. And this activity would be
8| the most complete and the most pleasant. For there is pleasure in connection with every perception, and likewise with thought and contemplation, and the most pleasant is the most complete, and the most complete is that of the thing in good condition in relation to the most excellent of the things that fall under it; and pleasure completes the activity. But pleasure does not complete the activity in the same way that the perceptible object and the perception, being excellent, complete it, any more than health and the doctor are causes of being healthy in the same way. That pleasure arises in connection with each perception is clear (for we say that sights and sounds are pleasant); and it is clear too that this happens most of all when the perception is at its best and is active in relation to an object of that same quality; and when the perceptible object and the perceiver are both of this quality, there will always be pleasure, so long as there is something to produce it and something to undergo it. Pleasure completes the activity not as the state that already inheres in it does, but as a kind of end that supervenes on it, the way the bloom of youth does for those in their prime. So then, as long as the object of thought or perception is as it should be, and likewise the thing that judges or contemplates it, [1175a] pleasure will be present in the activity; for when the passive and the active factor are similar and stand toward each other in the same way, the same result naturally comes about. So why does nobody experience pleasure without a break? Perhaps because fatigue sets in? For nothing human is able to be active continuously. So pleasure does not arise continuously either, since it follows upon the activity. Some things delight us because they are new, but afterward not to the same degree, and for the same reason: at first the mind is roused and is active about them intently, the way people are when they look closely at something with their eyes, but afterward the activity is no longer of that kind but
9| becomes careless; and so the pleasure fades too. One might suppose that all things desire pleasure, because all things also aim at living: for life is a kind of activity, and each thing is active about, and with, those things it cares for most — the musician, for instance, with his hearing, about melodies; the lover of learning with his thought, about objects of study; and so too with each of the rest. And pleasure completes the activities, and so it completes living too, which is what they desire. It is reasonable, then, that they should also aim at pleasure, since for each of them it completes living, which is desirable. Whether we choose living for the sake of pleasure, or pleasure for the sake of living, let this be set aside for the present. For these two appear to be yoked together and not to admit of separation: pleasure does not arise without activity, and pleasure completes every activity. This is why pleasures also seem to differ in species. For we think that things differing in species are completed by different things (this is how it appears both with natural things and with things produced by craft — animals, trees, a painting, a statue, a house, a piece of furniture); and likewise activities that differ in species are completed by things that differ in species. Now the activities of thought differ in species from those connected with the senses, and the sense-activities differ in species from one another; and so, then, do the pleasures that complete them. This would also become apparent from the fact that each of the pleasures is bound up as its own with the activity it completes. For the pleasure proper to an activity increases that activity. For those who are active with pleasure judge each thing better and work it out more precisely; for example, those who enjoy doing geometry become good geometers and understand each point better; and likewise music-lovers and lovers of building, and each of the others,
10| make progress in their own proper work by enjoying it. The pleasures increase the activities, and what increases a thing is proper to it; but [1175b] for things that differ in species, the things proper to them also differ in species. This would become still more apparent from the fact that pleasures arising from other activities are obstacles to the activity at hand. For lovers of the flute are unable to attend to arguments if they overhear someone playing the flute, since they enjoy flute-playing more than the activity at hand; so the pleasure connected with flute-playing destroys the activity connected with argument. The same thing happens in other cases too, whenever someone is active about two things at once: the more pleasant activity drives out the other, and the more it differs from it in pleasantness, the more it does so, until one no longer engages in the other activity at all. This is why, when we enjoy something intensely, we scarcely do anything else, and we do other things only when we are mildly pleased by them — as, for example, people in theaters who nibble on snacks do this most of all when the competitors performing are poor. Since, then, the pleasure proper to an activity makes activities more precise, more lasting, and better, while pleasures foreign to it damage them, it is clear that the two differ widely. For foreign pleasures do more or less what pains proper to an activity do: pains proper to an activity destroy it, as, for instance, if someone finds writing unpleasant and painful, or reasoning; for one person does not write, and the other does not reason, because the activity is painful. So the effect on the activity from pleasures and pains proper to it is opposite in each case; and those are proper to it which arise on the activity in its own right. And it has been said that foreign pleasures do something close to what pain does: they destroy the activity too, though not in the same way. And since activities differ in decency
11| and badness, and while some are choiceworthy, others are to be avoided, and others neither, the pleasures are likewise: for corresponding to each activity there is a proper pleasure. So the one proper to the excellent activity is decent, and the one proper to the base activity is bad; for even appetites for fine things are praiseworthy, while those for shameful things are blameworthy. But the pleasures present in the activities themselves are more proper to them than the desires are; for the desires are marked off both in time and in nature, while the pleasures are close to the activities, and so indistinguishable from them that there is a dispute whether the activity is the same as the pleasure. Still, pleasure does not seem to be thought, nor perception (for that would be absurd), but because the two are not found apart it appears to some people to be the same. So then, just as the activities are different, so are the pleasures. [1176a] Vision surpasses touch in cleanliness, as hearing and smell surpass taste; the pleasures differ in this same manner, and among them, and so likewise do the pleasures differ, and the pleasures of thought differ from these bodily ones, and each of the two classes differs within itself. Every creature seems to possess a pleasure suited to itself, just as it possesses a function of its own; namely, the pleasure that matches its activity. And this would be evident if one considered each case: for the pleasure of a horse, of a dog, and of a human being are different, just as Heraclitus says that donkeys would choose refuse rather than gold, since fodder is more pleasant than gold to donkeys. So the pleasures of things differing in species differ in species, and it is reasonable that those of the same things be undifferentiated. But they differ not a little at any rate in the case of human beings: for the same things delight some and pain others, and are painful and hateful to some but pleasant and lovable to others. And this happens with sweet things too: the same things do not seem so to a man in a fever and to a healthy man, nor does the same thing seem warm to a weak person and to a
12| person in good condition. And the same thing happens likewise in other cases as well. It seems that in all such cases, what is truly so is what appears so to the excellent person. And if this is well said, as it seems to be, and virtue and the good person, insofar as he is good, are the measure of each thing, then the things that appear pleasures to him would be pleasures, and the things pleasant would be the things he takes delight in. And if the things that are disagreeable to him appear pleasant to someone, that is no wonder; for there are many ways in which human beings are corrupted and damaged. Such things are not pleasant, but only to these people, and to people in that condition. So then, it is clear that the pleasures that are admittedly shameful should not be said to be pleasures at all, except to the corrupted. But among the pleasures that seem to be decent, which sort or which one should be said to be that of a human being? Or is it clear from the activities? For the pleasures follow upon these. So whether the activities of the complete and blessed man are one or several, the pleasures that complete these would properly be said to be the pleasures of a human being, and the rest would be pleasures in a secondary and much lesser way, just as the activities are. Now that we have discussed virtue and friendship and pleasure, it remains to go over happiness in outline, since we posit it as the end of human affairs. The account would be more concise if we take up again what has already been said. We said, then, that happiness is not a state of character; for otherwise it could belong to someone asleep throughout his life, living the life of a plant, and to someone experiencing the greatest misfortunes. [1176b] If, then, these consequences are not acceptable, but happiness must rather be posited as some kind of activity, as has been said earlier, and of activities some are necessary and choiceworthy for the sake of other things, while others are choiceworthy in their own right, it is clear that happiness must be posited as one of those choiceworthy in their own right and
13| not one of those choiceworthy for the sake of something else; for happiness lacks nothing but is self-sufficient. Those activities are choiceworthy in their own right from which nothing further is sought beyond the activity. And the actions in accordance with virtue seem to be of this sort; for doing fine and excellent things is among the things choiceworthy for their own sake. And so are the pleasant amusements; for people do not choose them for the sake of other things, since they are harmed by them rather than benefited, as they neglect their bodies and their property. Most of those who are counted happy take refuge in pastimes of this sort, which is why people clever at such pastimes are held in high regard among tyrants; for they make themselves pleasant in the very things the tyrants desire, and tyrants need people of that sort. So these things seem to belong to happiness because people in positions of power spend their leisure in them, but perhaps such people are no evidence of anything; for virtue does not consist in wielding power, nor does intellect, from which the excellent activities come. Nor, if these people, being untasted of pure and liberal pleasure, take refuge in the bodily pleasures, should we for that reason think these more choiceworthy; for children too think that the things valued among themselves are the best things there are. So it is reasonable that, just as different things appear honorable to children and to men, so too different things appear honorable to base people and to decent people. So then, as has often been said, the things that are honorable and pleasant are the things that are such to the excellent person; and for each person the activity in accordance with his own state of character is most choiceworthy, and so for the excellent person it is the activity in accordance with virtue. Happiness, then, does not lie in amusement; for it would indeed be absurd if the end were amusement, and if one were to labor and suffer hardship throughout life
14| all for the sake of amusing oneself. For we choose practically everything for the sake of something else, except happiness; for happiness is an end. But to be serious and to labor for the sake of amusement appears foolish and altogether childish. To amuse oneself, as Anacharsis says, so that one may be serious, seems to be correct; for amusement is like relaxation, and since people are unable to labor continuously, they need relaxation. Relaxation, then, is not an end; for it occurs for the sake of activity. [1177a] And the happy life seems to be a life in accordance with virtue; and this is a life lived with seriousness, not spent in amusement. And we say that serious things are better than laughable things and things done with amusement, and that the activity of the better part, or of the better person, is always more serious; and the activity of the better is already superior and more conducive to happiness. And bodily pleasures could be enjoyed by anyone at all, even a slave, no less than by the best person; but no one grants a slave a share of happiness, unless one also grants him a share of life. For happiness does not lie in such pastimes, but in the activities in accordance with virtue, as has been said before as well. And if happiness is activity in accordance with virtue, it is reasonable that it be in accordance with the most excellent virtue; and this would be the virtue of the best part of us. Whether this is intellect, then, or something else, which by its nature seems to rule and lead and to have understanding about fine and divine things, whether it is itself something divine or is the most divine element within us, the activity of this in accordance with its proper virtue would be complete happiness. That this activity is contemplative has been said. And this would seem to be in agreement both with what was said earlier and with the truth. For this activity is the most excellent,
15| since intellect is the most excellent thing within us, and among the objects of knowledge, those with which intellect is concerned are the most excellent. Further, it is the most continuous; for we are able to contemplate more continuously than we are able to do anything whatsoever. And we think that pleasure must be mixed in with happiness, and among the activities in accordance with virtue, the one in accordance with wisdom is admittedly the most pleasant; at any rate, philosophy seems to hold wondrously pleasant delights, in purity and steadfastness, and it is reasonable that the pastime of those who know be more pleasant than that of those who are still seeking. And what is called self-sufficiency would belong most of all to the contemplative activity; for while the wise person, like the just person and the rest, needs the necessities for life, once these have been adequately supplied, the just person still needs people toward whom and with whom he will act justly, and likewise the temperate person and the courageous person and each of the others, but the wise person is able to contemplate even by himself, and the wiser he is, the more he is able to do so; perhaps it is better for him to have co-workers, but all the same he is the most self-sufficient. [1177b] And this activity alone would seem to be loved for its own sake; for nothing comes from it beyond the contemplating itself, whereas from the practical activities we gain something more or less beyond the action itself. And happiness seems to lie in leisure; for we are unleisured in order that we may have leisure, and we make war in order that we may live in peace. Now the activity of the practical virtues occurs in political or military affairs, but the actions concerned with these seem to be unleisured — the military actions entirely so (for no one chooses to make war for the sake of making war, nor
16| brings about war: for one would seem an utterly bloodthirsty sort of person if he made war on his friends, in order that there might be battles and slaughter: but the political life is also unleisured, and aims, beyond the very activity of engaging in politics, at positions of power and honors, or at any rate at happiness for himself and for the citizens, an end that is different from political activity itself, and which we are seeking as clearly being something different. If then, among actions in accordance with the virtues, political and military actions stand out in nobility and greatness, but these are unleisured and aim at some end and are not choiceworthy for their own sakes, while intellect's activity, being contemplative, seems markedly more earnest in character: it pursues no goal outside itself, possesses a pleasure that belongs to it alone (and this pleasure further builds up the activity), and shows the self-sufficiency, leisure, and tirelessness proper to a human being, along with whatever else gets attributed to the blessed man — all of these evidently characterize this activity. This, accordingly, would constitute complete happiness for a human being, provided it spans a complete lifetime, since nothing incomplete counts as happiness. Such a life would be superior to the human level: for a person will not live like this insofar as he is a human being, but insofar as something divine is present in him; and by as much as this differs from the composite of soul and body, by so much does its activity differ from that in accordance with the other kind of virtue. If then intellect is something divine in comparison with man, so too the life in accordance with it is divine in comparison with human life. One should not, as some advise, think human thoughts because one is human, or mortal thoughts because one is mortal, but should instead, so far as possible, make oneself immortal, and do everything toward living in accordance with the most excellent thing within oneself: for even if it is small in bulk,
17| [1178a] in power and worth it far surpasses everything else. And each person would seem actually to be this, if indeed it is the authoritative and better part of him. It would be strange, then, if one were not to choose one's own life but that of something else. And what was said before will fit here too: for what is proper to each thing by nature is the most excellent and most pleasant thing for that thing; and so for man, the life in accordance with intellect is most pleasant, if indeed this is most of all what a man is. This life, then, is also the happiest. Second is the life in accordance with the other kind of virtue: for the activities in accordance with this are human activities. For we perform just and courageous acts, and the rest in accordance with the virtues, toward one another, in contracts and services and actions of every sort, and in our feelings, preserving what is fitting for each person; and all these appear to be human matters. Some of them also seem to result from the body, and the virtue of character is closely bound up in many ways with the feelings. Practical wisdom, too, is yoked together with virtue of character, and this with practical wisdom, if indeed the principles of practical wisdom accord with the ethical virtues, and the correctness of the ethical virtues accords with practical wisdom. These, being linked also to the feelings, would concern the composite of soul and body; and the virtues of the composite are human virtues; so too, then, is the life in accordance with them, and the happiness that goes with it. But the happiness of the intellect is separate: let this much be said about it, for to work it out with precision is a larger task than the one now before us. It would seem, too, to need external equipment to a small extent, or to a lesser extent,
18| than the ethical life does. For the necessities are needed by both alike, let us grant, even if the political man works harder over the body and such things — that would make only a small difference; but with a view to the activities there will be a great difference. For the generous man will need money in order to do generous acts, and so will the just man for repayments (for wishes are unclear, and even the unjust pretend to wish to act justly), and the courageous man will need power, if he is to accomplish any of the acts in accordance with virtue, and the temperate man will need opportunity: for how else will he, or any of the others, be made evident? It is also disputed whether choice or actions are more authoritative for virtue, on the supposition that it lies in both: [1178b] well, clearly the complete good would lie in both; but for actions many things are needed, and the greater and nobler they are, the more things are needed. But for the one who is contemplating, none of these things are needed, at least for the activity itself; rather, one might say, they are even obstacles, at any rate to contemplation. But insofar as he is a human being and lives together with a number of others, he chooses to do the acts in accordance with virtue; he will need such things, then, for living as a human being. That complete happiness is a contemplative activity would appear also from the following consideration. We suppose the gods to be most of all blessed and happy; but what sort of actions must we assign to them? Just acts? Or will they look ridiculous making contracts and returning deposits and so on? Courageous acts, then, enduring frightening things and facing danger because it is noble? Or generous acts? But to whom will they give? It would also be strange if
19| they are to have currency or something of the sort. And what would their temperate acts be? Is it not a vulgar kind of praise, that they do not have base appetites? If one goes through everything, all the things connected with action will appear small and unworthy of gods. And yet everyone supposes them to be alive, and therefore active; for surely they are not asleep like Endymion. If, then, for a living being acting is taken away, and still more producing, what is left but contemplation? So the activity of god, surpassing in blessedness, would be contemplative; and among human activities, then, the one most akin to this is the one most conducive to happiness. A sign of this too is that the other animals have no share in happiness, being entirely deprived of such activity. For gods, the whole of life is blessed; for humans, it is so to the extent that some likeness of such activity belongs to them; but none of the other animals is happy, since they in no way share in contemplation. To whatever extent, then, contemplation extends, so too does happiness, and those to whom contemplating belongs more fully are happier too, not incidentally but in virtue of the contemplation itself, for this is valuable in its own right. So happiness would be a kind of contemplation. But being human, one will also need external prosperity: for human nature is not self-sufficient for contemplating, but the body too must be healthy, and food and the rest of one's care must be available. [1179a] Still, one must not think that the man who is to be happy will need many great things, even if it is not possible to be blessed without external goods: for self-sufficiency and action do not lie in excess, and it is possible to do
20| noble deeds even without ruling over land and sea: for one could act in accordance with virtue even from moderate means, and this one can see clearly, for private individuals seem to do decent acts no less than men of power — indeed even more so. And it is enough for so much to be available: for the life of the one who is active in accordance with virtue will be happy. And Solon, too, perhaps described the happy well, when he said they were people moderately furnished with external things, but who had done the noblest deeds, as he thought, and had lived temperately: for it is possible, possessing moderate means, to do what one ought. Anaxagoras too seems to have supposed the happy man to be neither rich nor powerful, saying that he would not be surprised if such a person appeared strange to the many: for the many judge by external things, since these are all they perceive. So the views held by wise men appear to agree with what has been argued. Such considerations, then, carry some conviction; but in practical matters, truth is judged from actions and from life, since these are what is authoritative. One must, then, examine what has been said by bringing it to bear on actions and on life, and if it harmonizes with the actions, one should accept it, but if it conflicts, one should suppose it to be mere words. And the one who is active in accordance with intellect, and who cultivates this and is in the best condition, seems also to be most beloved by the gods. For if the gods have any care for human affairs, as they are held to have, it stands to reason that they delight in whatever is finest and most closely related to them (and that would be intellect), and that they repay with good those who cherish and honor this most of all, since such people look after what the gods hold dear and act correctly and nobly. That all this belongs
21| that this belongs most of all to the wise person is not unclear. He is therefore most beloved by god. And it is likely that the same person is also happiest; so that in this way too the wise person would be happiest. Now then, if what has been said about these matters and about the virtues, and further about friendship and pleasure, has been stated adequately in outline, should we suppose that our undertaking has reached its end? Or is it rather, as is said, [1179b] that in matters of action the end is not to survey and know each thing but rather to do it — nor, indeed, is knowing about virtue enough, but we must try to have and use it, or in some other way become good? If, then, arguments were sufficient by themselves to make people decent, they would justly carry many great rewards, as Theognis says, and such rewards would need to be procured; but as things stand, arguments appear to have the strength to stir and urge on the young who are naturally well-born, and to make a noble character, one truly a lover of the fine, take hold from virtue, while they are unable to stir the many toward nobility and goodness. For the many are not by nature disposed to obey a sense of shame but rather fear, nor to abstain from base things because of their disgracefulness but because of the punishments; for living by feeling they pursue the pleasures proper to themselves and the means by which these will come about, and they flee the opposite pains, and they have no notion at all of the fine and of what is truly pleasant, since they have never tasted it. What argument, then, could reshape people of this sort? For it is not possible, or not easy, to change by argument what has long been seized upon by character. Perhaps we should be content if, when everything is present through which we suppose people become decent, we get a share
22| of virtue. Now some think people become good by nature, others by habit, others by teaching. As for what comes from nature, clearly this is not up to us, but belongs, through certain divine causes, to those who are truly fortunate; while argument and teaching, it may be, do not have force in everyone, but the soul of the hearer must first have been worked upon by habits toward finding proper delight and proper hatred, like soil that is to nourish the seed. For someone who lives by feeling would not listen to an argument that turns him away, nor even understand it; and how is it possible to persuade someone in such a state to change his mind? And in general feeling does not seem to yield to argument but to force. So character must in some way already belong, ahead of time, to virtue — loving the fine and finding the base disgraceful. But it is hard to hit upon a correct upbringing toward virtue from youth unless one is raised under such laws; for living temperately and with endurance is not pleasant to most people, especially the young. That is why their nourishment and pursuits must be ordered by laws, for they will not be painful once they have become habitual. [1180a] But perhaps it is not enough for the young to get correct nourishment and care; rather, since they must also practice these things and become habituated to them once they are grown men, we would need laws for this as well, and in general for the whole of life. For the many obey necessity rather than argument, and penalties rather than the fine. This is why some believe lawgivers should summon people toward virtue and press them onward for the sake of what is fine, expecting a hearing from those already brought forward decently by habit, yet should lay chastisement and punishment upon the disobedient and the less well-favored by nature, and should exile those beyond cure
23| altogether. For, they think, the decent person, since he lives with an eye to the fine, will obey argument, while the base person, reaching for pleasure, will be chastised by pain like a beast of burden. That is also why they say the pains inflicted should be the ones most opposed to the pleasures he loves. If, then, as has been said, the person who is to be good must be nobly nourished and habituated, and must then go on living amid decent pursuits and doing base things neither unwillingly nor willingly, this would come about for people living according to a certain intellect and a correct ordering possessing strength. A father's command, then, possesses neither this strength nor real compulsion, nor for that matter does any single man's command carry it, unless that man happens to be a king or someone of like standing; law, by contrast, holds coercive force, being reasoned speech issuing from a certain practical wisdom and intellect. And while people hate those among men who oppose their impulses, even if they do so rightly, law is not oppressive in laying down what is decent. Only in the city of the Spartans, or in a few others besides, does the lawgiver seem to have taken care over nourishment and pursuits; in most cities such matters have been utterly neglected, and each person lives as he wishes, laying down the law for his children and wife in Cyclops fashion. Now the best thing would be for there to be a correct, common care, and for the community to be able to put it into practice; but where the community neglects this, it would seem to fall to each person to help his own children and companions toward virtue, or at any rate to make that his choice. And this he would seem more able to do if he had become skilled in lawgiving on the basis of what has been said. For it is clear that common care comes about through laws
24| and decent care through good laws. [1180b] Whether these are written or unwritten would seem to make no difference, nor whether it is one person or many who are to be educated through them, just as it makes no difference in the case of music, gymnastics, and the other pursuits. For just as in cities the established customs and the character of the people give force to the laws, so too in households the father's words and habits give force, and even more so because of kinship and benefits received; for the children already begin, by nature, with affection and obedience. Further, education tailored to the individual differs from education given in common, as in medicine; for in general rest and abstaining from food are beneficial to a person with fever, but perhaps not to some particular person, and likewise a boxing trainer perhaps does not fit out everyone with the same style of fighting. It would seem, then, that the individual case is treated with greater precision when the care given is particular to that person, for then each one is more likely to hit upon what suits him. But a doctor, a trainer, and everyone else who knows the universal — what applies to everyone, or to people of a certain kind (for the sciences are said to be, and are, of the common) — would give the best care in each particular case too. Not that this rules out someone caring well for one particular person even without scientific knowledge, if he has closely observed, through experience, what happens in each case — just as some people seem to be the best doctors for themselves, though they would be unable to be of any help at all to someone else. Nonetheless, it would seem that anyone who wishes to become skilled in the craft and given to theoretical study must proceed to the universal, and come to know that as far as possible; for it has been said that the sciences are concerned with this. And perhaps anyone who wishes, through care, to make people better — whether many or few — must also try to become skilled in lawgiving
25| if it is through laws that we become good. For to dispose well whoever is set before us, whoever that may be, is not a task for just anyone, but if for anyone, for the one who knows, as in medicine and in the rest of the fields where there is some kind of care and practical wisdom involved. Should we, then, next examine from where, or how, one might become skilled in lawgiving? Or, as in other cases, is it from statesmen? For lawgiving seemed to be a part of statesmanship. Or does statesmanship not appear to resemble the rest of the sciences and capacities? For in the other cases the same people are seen both handing down the capacities and exercising them from what they have handed down, as with doctors or painters; but as for political matters, the sophists profess to teach them, [1181a] yet none of them practices politics — rather, those active in politics do, who would seem to do this through some capacity and experience rather than through thought. For they are not seen writing or speaking about such matters (though that would perhaps have been finer than composing speeches for the lawcourts and the assembly), nor again have they made their own sons, or any others among their friends, into statesmen. Yet it would have been reasonable for them to do so, if they had been able; for they would have left nothing better to their cities, nor would they have chosen for themselves to possess any capacity rather than this one, nor indeed for those dearest to them. Still, experience does not seem to contribute a small amount; for otherwise people would not become statesmen through political familiarity. That is why, for those who reach after knowledge about political matters, experience seems needed in addition. But among the sophists, those who profess to teach it appear to be very far removed from actually teaching it. For in general they do not even know what sort of thing it is, or what sort of things it concerns; for if they did
26| they would not have set it down as the same as rhetoric, nor even as inferior to it, nor would they have thought that legislating was easy for someone who simply collected the laws that are well regarded — for, they say, one need only select the best of them, as if the selecting itself did not require understanding, and as if judging correctly were not the greatest thing, just as in matters of music. For those experienced in each field judge the products correctly, and understand by what means and how each is brought to completion, and which things harmonize with which; but for those without experience it is enough if it does not escape them whether the work has been done well or badly, as in painting. Now laws are like the products of political science: [1181b] how, then, could anyone become skilled in legislation from these, or judge which are the best, on this basis? For it does not appear that people become skilled physicians from written treatises either. And yet these try to state not only the treatments, but also how patients might be cured and how one ought to treat each case, distinguishing the different conditions; and these seem to be useful to those with experience, but useless to those without knowledge. So perhaps collections of laws and of constitutions too would be very useful to those able to study them and judge what is done well or the opposite, and which things fit with which; but for those who go through such things without the relevant state of character, correct judgment could not be present in them, unless it comes about by chance — though they might perhaps become more intelligent about these matters. Since, then, our predecessors have left the subject of legislation unexamined, it is perhaps better for us to look into it ourselves, and indeed into the subject of constitutions generally, so that, as far as possible, philosophy concerning human affairs may be brought to completion. First, then, let us try to go over whatever has been well said on particular points by earlier thinkers; then, from the constitutions that have been collected, let us examine what preserves and what destroys cities, and what preserves or destroys each of the constitutions, and for what causes some
27| are governed well and others the opposite. For once these matters have been studied, we might perhaps better discern both which constitution is best, and how each should be arranged, and using what laws and customs. Let us then begin and speak of these things.
1| [1214a] The one who declared his own opinion at Delos, before the god, inscribed it on the porch of the temple of Leto, distinguishing things that do not all belong to the same thing — the good, the fine, and the pleasant — making the most just the finest, and health the best, and sweetest of all is to get what one desires. But let us not concede this to him. For happiness, being the finest and best of all things, is the pleasantest. Now there are many inquiries concerning each subject and each nature that involve difficulty and require investigation; some of these bear only on knowing, while others bear also on the acquisition and practice of the thing. As for those inquiries that have only a theoretical philosophy, they must be treated at the fitting occasion, so far as is proper to the method. But first we must inquire in what living well consists and how it is to be acquired — whether all who attain this designation become happy by nature, as some are tall and others short, and others differ in complexion, or through learning, happiness being a kind of knowledge, or through some kind of training (for many things belong to human beings neither by nature nor through learning but through habituation — bad qualities to those habituated badly, good ones to those habituated well) — or in none of these ways, but by one or the other of two things: either, like those possessed by nymphs or by a god among human beings, through the inspiration of some divinity, as if inspired, or through fortune (for many say that happiness and good fortune are the same thing).
2| Now it is not unclear that the presence of these advantages comes to human beings through all of these causes, or some of them, or one of them (for practically all comings-into-being fall under these principles; indeed one might bring together all actions arising from thought under those arising from knowledge). But faring well and living blessedly and finely would seem to lie chiefly in three things, the things that seem most choiceworthy. For some say that practical wisdom is the greatest good, others virtue, others pleasure. And some dispute about their relative magnitude with regard to happiness,
3| [1214b] claiming that one contributes more to it than another — some holding that practical wisdom is a greater good than virtue, others that virtue is greater than practical wisdom, others that pleasure is greater than both of these. And to some it seems that living happily comes from all of these together, to others from two of them, to others from one alone of these. Having fixed our attention on these matters, then, everyone able to live according to his own choice should set up some target for living well — either honor or reputation or wealth or education — looking to which he will perform all his actions (since not to have one's life arranged toward some end is a sign of great folly); above all, then, one must first determine within oneself, neither rashly nor carelessly, in which of the things belonging to us living well consists, and without which things it is not possible for human beings to have this. For that without which it is not possible to be healthy is not the same thing as being healthy; and this holds likewise in many other cases too, so that living finely and the things without which it is not possible to live finely are not the same either (of such things, some are not peculiar to health or to life but common, so to speak, to all things, both states and actions — for instance, without breathing or being awake or partaking of motion nothing at all, good or bad, could belong to us — while others are more peculiar to each particular nature;
4| and these must not be overlooked, for eating meat and taking walks after dinner are not equally proper to good bodily condition as the things just mentioned). For these are the causes of the dispute about faring happily — what it is and through what it comes to be; for the things without which it is not possible to be happy, some people take to be parts of happiness itself. Now to examine all the opinions that people hold about it is superfluous (for many things appear so even to children and to the sick and to those out of their minds, about which no one with any sense would raise difficulties; for these people need not arguments but, some of them, the age at which they will change, others medical or civic correction — for drugging is a correction no less than blows); and in the same way as these, one need not examine the opinions of the many either (for they speak at random about practically everything,
5| [1215a] and most of all about happiness; for it would be absurd to bring an argument to those who need no argument at all, but rather an affection). But since there are difficulties proper to each subject of inquiry, it is clear that there are also difficulties concerning the strongest way of living and the best life. These opinions, then, it is well to examine; for the refutations by disputants of the arguments opposed to them are demonstrations of their own arguments. Further, it is useful for our work not to overlook such things, above all with a view to that toward which every inquiry must strain — out of what things it is possible to have a share in living well and finely, or, if it is somewhat invidious to say 'blessedly,' at least with a view to the hope that would arise concerning each of these, for reasonable people. For if living well consists in things that come about through fortune or through nature, it would be beyond hope for many people (for its acquisition is not through care, nor is it up to them, nor a matter of their own effort); but if it consists in one's being a certain sort of person oneself and in the actions proceeding from oneself, the good would be both more common and more divine — more common because it would be possible for more people to share in it, more divine because happiness would then belong to those who make themselves and their actions of a certain quality. Most of the matters disputed and raised as difficulties will become clear if it is well determined what one ought to think happiness is — whether it consists only in the soul's being of a certain quality, as some of the wise and older thinkers supposed, or whether the person himself must indeed be of a certain quality, but still more the actions must be of a certain quality.
6| Now that lives are distinguished, and some do not even dispute about this sort of well-being but pursue it, as it were, for the sake of necessities — for instance those concerned with vulgar crafts and with money-making and the menial trades (I call vulgar those pursuits practiced only with a view to reputation, menial those that are sedentary and wage-earning, and money-making those concerned with buying and selling in the marketplace, that is, retail trade) — while there are three ways of life ranked as leading to happiness, corresponding to the goods spoken of earlier as the greatest for human beings — virtue, practical wisdom, and pleasure — we see that there are also three lives that all those who happen to have the power choose to live: the political, the philosophical, and the life of enjoyment.
7| [1215b] Of these, the philosopher wishes to be concerned with practical wisdom and with the contemplation of truth, the political man with fine actions (these being the actions that proceed from virtue), and the man of enjoyment with bodily pleasures. Hence one person calls one man happy, another calls another, as was said before too. Anaxagoras of Clazomenae, when asked who was the happiest man, said, 'None of those you have in mind — rather, someone who would seem strange to you.' He answered in this way because he saw that the questioner supposed it impossible for someone not great and handsome or rich to attain this designation, while he himself perhaps thought that the man who lives without pain and in purity with respect to justice, or who shares in some divine contemplation, was, to speak of him as a human being, blessed. Now about many other matters too it is not easy to judge well, but most of all about that which seems to everyone the easiest thing, and which it seems every man can know — what among the things in life is choiceworthy, and which, if one got it, one would have one's desire fulfilled. For there are many such outcomes on account of which people give up life — for instance, diseases, extreme pains, storms — so that it is clear that, on account of these things at least, not to have come to be would have been choiceworthy from the start, if someone had offered the choice.
8| And besides these things, what about the life that people live while still children? For no one in his right mind would put up with going back to that either. Again, many of the things that involve neither pleasure nor pain, and many of the things that do involve pleasure but not a fine one, are such that not existing would be better than living. And in general, if one were to collect together all the things that everyone does and undergoes, none of them, however, chosen willingly, since none of them is chosen for its own sake, and were to add an unlimited stretch of time on top of that, no one would choose to live for the sake of these things any more than not to live. But surely no one would prize life for the pleasure of food alone, or of sex, either, once the other pleasures were taken away that knowing, or seeing, or any of the other senses provide for human beings—no one would, unless he were an utter slave. For it is clear that for anyone who makes this choice it would make no difference whether he became a beast or a man: at any rate the ox in Egypt,
9| [1216a] which they honor as Apis, has power over more things of this sort than many a monarch does. Nor likewise would anyone prize life for the pleasure of sleeping: for what difference is there between sleeping an unbroken sleep from the first day to the last for a thousand years, or however many, and living the life of a plant? Plants, at any rate, seem to share in some such life as this, and so do infants. For infants too, from their first coming-to-be in the mother, continue in a state of natural growth, but are asleep the whole time. So it is clear from considerations of this kind that what the good, and what the well, in living is escapes those who look into it. Anaxagoras, at any rate, is said to have answered someone who was raising such puzzles and asking for what reason one would choose to come into being rather than not, by saying, "For the sake of studying the heavens and the order of the whole universe." He, then, thought the choice to live was worth having for the sake of some kind of knowledge. But those who bless Sardanapallus, or Smindyrides the Sybarite, or others of those who live the life of enjoyment, all these evidently place happiness in enjoying oneself. Others again would choose neither practical wisdom of any kind nor bodily pleasures over the actions that come from virtue.
10| At any rate, some choose these actions not only for the sake of reputation, but even when they are not going to win a good reputation. But most so-called statesmen do not truly deserve the name; for they are not statesmen in truth. For the true statesman is one who chooses fine actions for their own sake, while the majority take up living in that way for the sake of money and gain. Given what has just been said, it is evident that everyone assigns happiness to three ways of life: the political, the philosophical, and the one devoted to enjoyment. Of these, as for the pleasure concerned with the body and with enjoyments, what it is and of what kind it is and through what it arises is not unclear, so that the question to investigate is not what these pleasures are, but whether they contribute anything toward happiness or not, and how they contribute, and whether, if certain pleasures must be attached to living well, it is these that must be attached, or whether we must share in these in some other way, while there are other pleasures on account of which people reasonably think the happy person lives pleasantly and not merely without pain. But about these matters we must inquire later; let us first look into virtue and practical wisdom, both what the nature of each of them is, and whether these—either themselves, or the actions that come from them—are parts of the good life,
11| [1216b] since people attach them to happiness, even if not all people do, still at least those human beings worth taking seriously all do. Socrates the elder, then, thought that the end was to know virtue, and he inquired what justice is, and what courage is, and each of its parts. And he did this reasonably; for he thought all the virtues were forms of knowledge, so that knowing justice and being just would happen at the same time. For we have at the same time learned geometry and building, and we are builders and geometers. That is why he inquired what virtue is, but not how it comes to be and out of what. Now this is what happens in the case of the theoretical sciences (for astronomy is nothing other, nor is the science of nature, nor geometry, than coming to know and to study the nature of the things that underlie these sciences—though nothing prevents them, incidentally, from also being useful to us for many necessary purposes); but for the productive sciences, the end of the science and the knowledge is something different, as health is the end of medicine, and good order, or some other such thing, is the end of politics. Now it is a fine thing, indeed, to know each of the fine things,
12| but nonetheless, in the case of virtue, it is not knowing what it is that is most valuable, but knowing out of what it arises. For we do not wish to know what courage is, but to be courageous, nor what justice is, but to be just, just as we wish to be healthy rather than to know what being healthy is, and to be in a good state rather than to know what being in a good state is. And we must try to seek conviction about all these matters by argument, using as witnesses and examples the things that appear to be so. For it would be best if all human beings were seen to agree with what is going to be said, but failing that, at least all in some way—which they will do once they have been brought over; for each person has some affinity for the truth, from which we must in some way demonstrate the matters at hand. For starting from things that are said truly but not clearly, as we proceed we shall arrive also at what is said clearly, always exchanging the more familiar of the things habitually said in a confused way. And arguments differ from one inquiry to another, according as they are stated philosophically or not philosophically. That is why even for statesmen one must not think that this kind of inquiry is superfluous, an inquiry through which not only the what is made clear, but also the why. For that sort of thing is philosophical in every branch of inquiry.
13| This, however, calls for a great deal of caution. [1217a] For there are some who, because it seems to belong to a philosopher to say nothing at random but always with an argument, often without realizing it say things that are foreign to the subject and empty. And they do this sometimes out of ignorance, sometimes out of pretension, and by these means even experienced people, capable of acting, are taken in by those who have neither the architectonic nor the practical understanding, nor are capable of it. They suffer this because of a lack of education; for lack of education, in regard to any given matter, consists in being unable to judge which arguments belong to the matter and which are foreign to it. It is also well to judge separately the account of the cause and the thing being demonstrated, both because of what was just said, that one must not attend to everything by way of arguments, but often rather to what appears to be so (whereas as things stand, whenever people are unable to refute an argument, they are forced to believe what has been said), and also because often what seems to have been shown to be true by an argument is indeed true, yet not on account of the cause the argument alleges. For it is possible to show what is true by way of something false; this is clear from the Analytics. Now that these preliminary remarks have been made, let us begin, as has been said, from the first things, which are not stated clearly, and, seeking to arrive at clarity, ask what happiness is.
14| It is agreed, then, that this is the greatest and best of human goods. And we say "human" because there might well be a happiness belonging to something else better than man, for instance a god. For of the other animals, all those whose nature is inferior to man's, none has any share in this name: a horse is not happy, nor a bird, nor a fish, nor anything else that exists which does not, by its very designation, share in its nature in something divine, but which lives better or worse according to some other participation in goods. But that this is so must be examined later; for now we say that of goods, some are achievable in action for man and some are not achievable in action. We put it this way because some existing things have no share at all in motion, and so none in the goods that belong to it either; and these are perhaps the best in nature. Others are achievable in action, but achievable in action by beings more powerful than us. Since "achievable in action" is said in two ways (for we count as achievable both the things for the sake of which we act and the things which, for the sake of those, share in action — for instance we count both health and wealth among the things achievable in action, and also the things done for the sake of these, the healthful practices and the money-making activities), it is clear that happiness too must be posited as the best of the things achievable in action by man.
15| [1217b] We must therefore examine what the best is, and in how many senses it is spoken of. It appears to be found chiefly in three opinions. For some say that the good itself, of all things, is best, and that the good itself is that to which it belongs both to be first among goods and to be, by its presence, the cause to the other things of their being good. Both of these belong, they say, to the Form of the good. I mean by "both": being first among goods, and being the cause to the other goods, by its presence, of their being good. For the good is said most truly of that Form (since the other goods are goods by participation in and likeness to it), and it is first among goods: for when the thing participated in is done away with, the things that participate in it are also done away with — the things that are said to be goods by participating in that Form — and the first stands to the later in just this relation. So the good itself is the Form of the good; for it is separate from the things that participate in it, just as the other Forms are. Now to examine this opinion thoroughly belongs to another line of inquiry, and one that is for the most part necessarily more a matter of logical argument (for arguments that are at once destructive and general belong to no other science);
16| but if we must speak of it concisely, we say, first, that to say there is a Form not only of the good but of anything whatever at all is spoken merely logically and emptily. This has been examined in many ways by many people, both in the exoteric discourses and in the discourses proper to philosophy. Next, even granting as fully as possible that the Forms exist, and that there is a Form of the good, it is perhaps of no use for a good life or for actions. For the good is spoken of in many ways, and in as many ways as being. For being, as has been distinguished elsewhere, signifies in one sense what a thing is, in another its quality, in another its quantity, in another its time, and besides these, in one sense it lies in being moved, in another in moving; and the good is present in each of these cases: in substance it is intellect and god, in quality it is the just, in quantity it is the measured amount, in time it is the right moment, and in the case of motion it is that which teaches and that which is being taught. Just as being, then, is not some one thing over the things mentioned, so neither is the good, and there is no single knowledge either of being or of the good.
17| But not even the things said to be good in a similar way of speaking are to be studied by a single science — for instance the right moment or the measured amount — but one science studies one right moment and another studies another, and one science studies one measured amount and another studies another: for instance, concerning food, medicine and gymnastic study the right moment and the measured amount, while concerning acts of war it is generalship, and so with each science concerning its own action; so that it can hardly be that the good itself is studied by a single science.
18| [1218a] Further, in all cases where there is a prior and a posterior, there is no common element beyond these, and one that is separate. For there would then be something prior to the first: the common and separate element would be prior, because when the common element is done away with, the first is done away with too. For instance, if the double is first among the multiples, it is not possible for the multiple, which is predicated in common, to be separate; for then it would be prior to the double. If it should follow that the common element is the Form, as it would if one made the common element separate: if justice is a good, so is courage. There is, then, they say, some good itself. Now this "itself" is added on to the common account. But what could this be, except that it is eternal and separate? But a thing that is white for many days is no more white than a thing white for one day; so neither is the good more good for being eternal. Nor, then, is the common good the same as the Form; for the common element belongs to all of them alike. And the demonstration ought to run the reverse way from how they now demonstrate the good itself. As it stands, they demonstrate the things agreed to be goods from things not agreed on, proving them from numbers — that justice and health are goods —
19| on the ground that they are orderings and numbers, on the assumption that good belongs to numbers and units because the one itself is good. But one ought to argue from the things agreed on, such as health, strength, and temperance, that the fine belongs more to the things unchanging. For all these latter things are order and rest: if that is so, those other things are good in a higher degree, since order and rest belong to them more. The proof that the one itself is the good, on the ground that numbers desire it, is also a reckless one; for they do not say clearly in what way numbers desire, but assert this all too simply, and how could one suppose there is desire in things in which life is not present? One ought to labor over this point, and not lay claim to anything without argument, when even with argument it is not easy to believe. And to say that all existing things desire some one good is not true: for each thing desires its own particular good — the eye desires sight, the body health, and so one thing desires one thing and another another. That there is no good itself, then, involves difficulties of this sort, and also that it is of no use to political science, but that political science, like the other sciences, has some good of its own — as gymnastic has good condition — and further there is the point written in the argument: for the Form of the good itself is either useful to no science, or useful alike to all;
20| further, it is not achievable in action. Likewise, the common good is neither itself good
21| [1218b] (for it might belong even to a small good) nor is it something practicable. For medicine does not concern itself with how a thing might belong to whatever happens to have it, but with how health might belong. And likewise each of the other crafts too. But "good" is said in many ways, and one part of it is the fine, and one part is practicable while another is not practicable. The practicable good is of this sort: that for the sake of which. But this is not found among things unchangeable. It is clear, then, that neither the Form of the good nor the universal good is the very good being sought (for the one is unchangeable and not practicable, while the other is changeable but not practicable); but that for the sake of which, as an end, is best and is the cause of the things falling under it, and first of all. So this would be the good itself, the end of the things practicable by man. And this is what falls under the ruling science over all the others. This ruling science is political science, household management, and practical wisdom. For these states differ from the others in being of this sort; but whether they differ from one another in anything must be said later. That the end is the cause of the things falling under it, teaching makes clear. For once they have defined the end, people show the other things, namely that each of them is good; for the end, that for the sake of which, is a cause. For example, since being healthy is such-and-such, this-here must be what is beneficial toward it; and the healthy thing is the cause of health as having set it in motion, and thus the cause of its coming to be, but not the cause of health's being good. Further, no one demonstrates that health is good, unless he is a sophist and not a doctor (for such people play sophistical tricks with arguments belonging to others), just as no one demonstrates any other principle either. As for the good as an end for man, and the best of practicable things, we must consider in how many ways "the best of all" is meant, since this is agreed to be best, and after this take up another starting point.
1| After this we must take up another starting point and speak of what follows. All goods, then, are either external or in the soul, and of these the ones in the soul are more choiceworthy, just as we also distinguish in the exoteric discourses; for practical wisdom, virtue, and pleasure are in the soul, and some or all of these are held by everyone to be an end. Of the things in the soul, some are states or capacities, and others are activities and motions. Let this, then, be laid down, and also concerning virtue, that it is the best disposition or state or capacity of each of the things that has some use or function. [1219a] This is clear from induction; for in every case we posit it this way. For example there is a virtue of a cloak: for it has some function and use, and the best state of the cloak is its virtue. And likewise of a ship and a house and the rest. So also of the soul; for it too has some function. And let the function of the better state be better; and as the states stand to one another, so let the functions arising from them stand to one another. And the function is the end of each thing. It is clear, then, from this, that the function is better than the state.
2| For the end is best as an end; for it is laid down that the end is the best and the last thing, that for the sake of which everything else is. That the function, then, is better than the state and the disposition, is clear. But "function" is said in two ways. For of some things the function is something other than the use, as of house-building the function is a house, not house-building, and of medicine health, not the process of healing or doctoring; but of other things the use is the function, as of sight, seeing, and of mathematical knowledge, contemplation. So it is necessary that, of those things whose function is the use, the use be better than the state. These matters having been distinguished in this way, we say that the function of the thing and of its virtue is the same, but not in the same manner. For example, of the shoemaking craft and of the practice of shoemaking, the shoe: if, then, there is some virtue of the shoemaking craft and of a good shoemaker, the function is a good shoe. And in the same manner in the other cases too. Further, let the function of the soul be to cause living, and of this the use and being awake; for sleep is a kind of inactivity and rest. So since the function must be one and the same for the soul and for its virtue, the function of virtue would be a good life.
3| This, then, is the complete good, which was happiness. This is clear from what has been laid down (for happiness was the best thing, and ends are in the soul and among the best of goods, and happiness itself is either a state or an activity); since activity is better than disposition, and the best activity better than the best state, and virtue is the best state, the activity of virtue must be the best thing belonging to the soul. And happiness too was the best thing. Happiness, then, is an activity of a good soul. And since happiness was something complete, and life is both complete and incomplete, and virtue likewise (for the one is whole, the other a part), and the activity of incomplete things is incomplete, happiness would be an activity of a complete life in accordance with complete virtue. That we state its genus and its definition correctly, the things that seem so to all of us bear witness.
4| [1219b] For "faring well" and "living well" are the same as "being happy," each of which is a use and an activity, and so are living and acting (for the practical too is a using; for the smith makes a bridle, but the horseman uses it); and also the fact that neither a single day, nor a child, nor every age makes one happy (which is why the saying of Solon is right too, not to call the living happy but only when he has reached his end; for nothing incomplete is happy, since it is not whole); further, praises of virtue are given because of deeds, and encomia are of deeds; and it is the winners who are crowned, not those capable of winning but not winning; and judging what sort of person someone is comes from his deeds; further, why is happiness not praised? Because it is on account of it that the other things are praised, either by being referred to it or by being parts of it. Hence felicitation, praise, and encomium are different. For an encomium is an account of some particular deed; praise is of being such-and-such generally; but felicitation is of an end. And what is sometimes puzzled over is also clear from this: why the good are in no way better than the base for half of life.
5| For all are alike when asleep. The cause is that sleep is an inactivity of the soul, not an activity. Hence too, if there is some other part of the soul, such as the nutritive part, its virtue is not a part of the whole virtue, just as the virtue of the body is not either; for in sleep the nutritive part is more active, but the perceptive and desiring parts are incomplete in sleep. But to the extent that they share in some kind of motion, the images occurring to the good are also better, unless it is on account of disease or mutilation. After this we must examine the soul; for virtue belongs to the soul, not incidentally. Since we are seeking human virtue, let it be laid down that the soul has two parts that share in reason, though not both sharing in reason in the same way, but one by nature fitted to command, the other to obey and listen; and if there is some other part irrational in a different way, let this part be set aside. It makes no difference whether the soul is divisible or indivisible; it has, however, different capacities, including the ones mentioned, just as in a curved thing the concave and the convex are inseparable, and so are the straight and the white; yet the straight is not white, except incidentally, and not as the substance of the same thing.
6| Also excluded is any other part of the soul there may be, for instance the nutritive part. For the parts just mentioned are peculiar to the human soul; that is why the virtues of the nutritive and growing part are not human virtues either — for if one is to act qua human being, reasoning must be present, and a starting-point, and action, [1220a] and reasoning governs not reasoning but desire and the affections; so these parts must necessarily be present. And just as good bodily condition is composed of the virtues of the several parts, so too is the virtue of the soul, insofar as it is an end. Virtue is of two kinds, the ethical and the intellectual. For we praise not only the just but also the intelligent and the wise; virtue, or its work, was posited as what is praiseworthy, and these do not perform an activity, but there are activities of them. Since the intellectual virtues involve reason, such virtues belong to the part that has reason, which is the commanding part of the soul insofar as it has reason; the ethical virtues belong to the part that is without reason but is by nature such as to follow the part that has reason — for we do not say what someone's character is like by calling him wise or clever, but by calling him gentle or rash. After this we must first examine ethical virtue: what it is, what its parts are (for the inquiry has been brought round to this), and through what it comes about. One must inquire as everyone does when they inquire while already possessing something, so as always to try, by way of things truly said but not clearly, to grasp what is both true and clear.
7| For at present we are in the same position as if, concerning health too, we knew that it is the best condition of the body, and that Coriscus is the darkest man in the marketplace: for we do not know what each of these actually is, yet being in this state is a step toward knowing what each of them is. Let it be laid down, then, first, that the best condition arises from the best things, and that the best actions concerning each thing come from the virtue of that thing — for instance, the best exercises and diet are those from which good condition arises, and it is from good condition that people exercise best; further, that every condition arises from, and is destroyed by, the same things applied in a certain manner, as health is affected by diet, exercise, and season. This is clear from induction. Virtue, then, is a condition of this kind: it arises from the best motions concerning the soul, and it is the source from which the best works and affections of the soul are produced, and it arises and is destroyed by the same things applied in a certain way, and its use bears on the same things by which it is both increased and destroyed, disposing it toward what is best. A sign of this is that virtue and vice both concern pleasant and painful things: for punishments, being cures, and coming about through opposites, are, as in other cases, brought about through these.
8| That ethical virtue, then, concerns pleasant and painful things is clear. Since character (ēthos), as the very word indicates, gets its growth from habit (ethos), [1220b] and one is habituated, when not innate, by repeatedly being moved in a certain way, until this becomes actually operative — a thing we do not see in inanimate things (for however many thousand times you throw a stone upward, it will never do this except by force) — therefore let character be defined as this: a quality of the part of the soul that is without reason but capable of following the commanding reason. We must state, then, in respect of what the soul's characters are qualities. It is in respect of the capacities for the affections, in virtue of which people are called subject to affections, and in respect of the states, in virtue of which people are said to be related to these affections by being affected in a certain way or by being unaffected. After this comes the division among the affections, the capacities, and the states, taken separately. By affections I mean things such as these: spirit, fear, shame, appetite — in general, things generally followed by perceptible pleasure or pain in themselves. In respect of these there is no quality, but one is affected; in respect of the capacities there is quality. By capacities I mean those in virtue of which people who act on the affections are so called — for instance, quick-tempered, unfeeling, amorous, bashful, shameless. States are whatever are responsible for these being present either in accordance with reason or in the contrary way — for instance, courage, temperance, cowardice, self-indulgence.
9| Now that these have been distinguished, we must grasp that in everything continuous and divisible there is excess, deficiency, and a mean, and these either relative to one another or relative to us — as in gymnastics, in medicine, in building, in navigation, and in any action whatever, whether scientific or unscientific, whether skilled or unskilled. For motion is continuous, and action is a kind of motion. In all cases the mean relative to us is best: for this is as knowledge and reason direct. And everywhere this is what produces the best state. This is clear both from induction and from argument. For contraries destroy one another, and the extremes are contrary both to each other and to the mean: for the mean is each extreme relative to the other, as the equal is greater than the lesser and less than the greater. So ethical virtue must necessarily concern certain means and be a kind of mean state. We must grasp, then, what kind of mean is virtue, and concerning what sort of means. Let this be taken for the sake of example, and let each case be studied from the outline. Irascibility — Unfeelingness — Gentleness. Rashness — Cowardice — Courage.
10| [1221a] Shamelessness — Bashfulness — A sense of shame. Self-indulgence — Insensibility — Temperance. Envy — No name — Righteous indignation. Gain — Loss — The just. Wastefulness — Stinginess — Generosity. Boastfulness — Self-deprecation — Truthfulness. Flattery — Being disagreeable — Friendliness. Obsequiousness — Surliness — Dignity. Softness — Love of hardship — Endurance. Vanity — Smallness of soul — Greatness of soul. Extravagance — Pettiness — Magnificence. Cunning — Simple-mindedness — Practical wisdom. These, and things like them, are the affections that occur in souls, and all are said to occur either by excess or by deficiency. For the quick-tempered man is one who is angry more than he should be, and more quickly, and at more people than he should be angry at; the unfeeling man is one who is deficient in whom, when, and how he is angry. The rash man is one who fears neither what he should, nor when, nor how; the coward is one who fears both what he should not, and when he should not, and how he should not. Likewise the self-indulgent man, and the man ruled by appetite, is the one who exceeds in everything it is possible to exceed in, while the insensible man is one who is deficient and desires not even so much as is better and in accordance with nature, but is unaffected like a stone. The greedy man is one who seeks advantage from every quarter; the man prone to loss is one who does so from no quarter, or from few. The boaster is one who claims more for himself than he has; the self-deprecator is one who claims less. The flatterer is one who joins in praising more than is right; the disagreeable man, less. Excessive eagerness to please is obsequiousness; slight and grudging eagerness is surliness. Further, the man who cannot bear any pain, not even if it were better for him, is soft; the man who bears all pain alike has, strictly speaking, no name, but is called by metaphor hard, wretched, and given to hardship.
11| The vain man is one who thinks himself worthy of greater things than he is; the small-souled man, of lesser things. Further, the wasteful man is one who exceeds in every kind of expenditure; the stingy man is one who is deficient in every kind. Likewise the petty man and the ostentatious man: the latter exceeds what is fitting, the former falls short of what is fitting. And the cunning man seeks advantage in every way and from every quarter; the simple man does not, even from where he should. The envious man is pained at more instances of others' good fortune than he should be pained at (for even those who deserve to fare well pain the envious by faring well); the opposite type is rather more nameless,
12| [1221b] The person who exceeds does so by not being pained even at people who do not deserve their good fortune, but is easygoing about it, the way gluttons are easygoing toward food; the person who is deficient is hard to please, in the manner of envy. But to define, for each particular case, how someone stands toward it non-accidentally in this way is a needless refinement; for no branch of knowledge, whether theoretical or productive, states or practices this while adding such further specification — that belongs rather to the sophistical objections raised against the logical crafts. Let it be defined in this rough way for now, then, and more precisely when we speak about the opposed states. Now species of these very affections get their separate names by differing in respect of the excess either of time, or of degree, or in relation to one of the things that produce the affections. I mean, for example: a person is called quick-tempered by being affected faster than he should be; harsh and hot-tempered by being affected more than he should; bitter by being someone who keeps his anger stored up; and a striker and a reviler by the punishments he inflicts out of anger. People are called dainty eaters, gluttons, and wine-lovers by having their capacity for being affected, toward the enjoyment of one kind of food or drink or another, run beyond reason. But one must not fail to notice that some of the things named are not simply a matter of how one takes them, even where the taking in question is by way of being affected more.
13| For example, a man is not called an adulterer by approaching another man's wife more than he should — for there is no "should" here at all — but this is itself already a kind of vice. For in this word both the affection and the being of such-and-such a character are taken together as one. And outrage is similar. That is why people dispute the charge: they admit to having had intercourse, but not to having committed adultery, since they acted in ignorance or under compulsion; and to having struck someone, but not to having committed outrage; and likewise in other such cases. Now that these points have been taken, it must next be said that, since the soul has two parts, and the virtues are divided correspondingly to these — some belonging to the part that possesses reason, namely the intellectual virtues, whose work is truth, whether about how a thing stands or about its coming to be; others belonging to the part that is without reason but possesses desire (for it is not just any part of the soul, if it is divisible into parts, that possesses desire) — it is necessary that a character be base or excellent by pursuing and avoiding certain pleasures and pains. This is clear from the divisions concerning the affections, the capacities, and the states. For the capacities and the states belong to the affections, and the affections themselves are marked off by pain and pleasure; so that, both for these reasons and because of the positions laid down earlier, it follows that every ethical virtue is concerned with pleasures and pains.
14| For every soul, in respect of the very things by which it is naturally disposed to become worse or better, has its pleasure directed toward and concerned with these same things. [1222a] And we say people are base on account of pleasures and pains, by pursuing and avoiding either in a manner they should not, or things they should not. That is also why everyone readily defines the virtues as a freedom from affection and a calm concerning pleasures and pains, and the vices as the opposite of this. But since it is laid down that virtue is that state from which people are capable of doing what is best, and in accordance with which they are best disposed with respect to what is best, and since what is best and finest is what accords with right reason, and this is the mean, relative to us, between excess and deficiency, it would necessarily follow that ethical virtue, taken for each person by himself, is a mean, and is concerned with certain middle points among pleasures and pains and among pleasant and painful things. The mean will lie sometimes among pleasures (for there too there is excess and deficiency), sometimes among pains, and sometimes among both. For the person who exceeds by delighting in what is pleasant exceeds, and so does the one who exceeds by being pained at its opposite, and this either without qualification or in relation to some standard — for instance, when he does not feel as most people do; while the good person feels as he should. Since, further, there is a state from which the one who has it will be such that, with respect to the very same thing, one person embraces the excess and another the deficiency, it is necessary that, just as these are opposed both to each other and to the mean, so too the states are opposed to each other and to virtue.
15| It happens, however, that in some cases both oppositions are equally evident, in others the one toward excess is more evident, and in still others the one toward deficiency. The cause of this difference is that the inequality, or the closeness, to the mean does not always fall the same way; rather, sometimes one would move more quickly from the excess to the middle state, sometimes from the deficiency — and whichever extreme is further removed from the mean is held to be the more contrary to it. For example, with the body, in matters of exertion, excess is healthier than deficiency and nearer to the mean, while in matters of food, deficiency is healthier than excess. So too the deliberately chosen states that love exercise will, according to each of the two choices, be more health-loving in different ways — in one case those that work harder, in the other those that hold back more; and the one opposed to the moderate and to what reason prescribes is, in the one case, the person averse to exertion, and not both extremes together, while in the other case it is the person given to indulgence, and not the one given to going hungry. This happens because nature, from the outset, is not removed from the mean equally in every respect, but we are less inclined to hard work and more inclined to indulgence. The same holds concerning the soul as well. And we set down as the contrary that state into which we fall more readily, and into which most people fall, while the other state, as if it did not exist, escapes notice —
16| for because it is rare, it goes unnoticed — for example, we set anger as contrary to gentleness, and the irascible person as contrary to the gentle one. [1222b] And yet there is also an excess in the direction of being gracious, of being conciliatory, and of not growing angry even when struck. But few people are like this, and everyone leans more toward the other extreme instead. That is also why spiritedness is not a matter of flattery. Now that the survey of the states, taken according to each of the affections, has been carried out — the excesses and deficiencies, and the opposed states, in respect of which people stand in accordance with right reason (what right reason is, and by looking to what standard one should speak of the mean, must be examined later) — it is clear that all the ethical virtues and vices are excesses and deficiencies concerning pleasures and pains, and that pleasures and pains arise from the states and affections already mentioned. But indeed the best state with regard to each thing is the middle one. It is clear, then, that the virtues will be either all of them, or some of them, these very means. Let us, then, take up another starting point for the inquiry that follows. All substances that exist by nature are, in a way, principles, and that is why each of them is capable of generating many things like itself — for example, a human being generates human beings, and, being an animal at all, generates animals in general, and a plant generates plants. And besides this, the human being alone among the animals is also a principle of certain actions —
17| for we would not say that any of the other animals acts. Among principles of this kind, those from which motions first arise are called sovereign, and most justly so in the case of those from which it is not possible for things to be otherwise — a sovereignty which, perhaps, is what God exercises. But among unmoved principles, such as the mathematical ones, there is no such sovereignty, although it is spoken of by way of resemblance; for there too, if the principle were changed, it would above all be the things demonstrated from it that would change, while they do not change themselves through one being destroyed by another, except by destroying the hypothesis and proving through that. But the human being is a principle of a certain motion, for action is motion. Now since, just as in other cases, the principle is the cause of the things that exist or come to be on account of it, we must understand the matter as we do in the case of demonstrations. For if, given that the triangle has two right angles, it is necessary that the quadrilateral have four right angles, it is clear that the cause of this is the triangle's having two right angles. And if the triangle changes, the quadrilateral must change too — for example, if the triangle comes to three right angles, the quadrilateral comes to six, and if four, to eight. And even if it does not change, but is of a certain sort, that other thing too must necessarily be of that same sort. And it is clear from the Analytics that what we are attempting to show is necessary:
18| But as things stand it is possible neither to say nothing nor to speak with precision, except to this extent: if nothing else is the cause of the triangle's being as it is, this would be a starting point and cause of what comes after. So that if indeed some of the things that are admit of being otherwise, their principles too must necessarily be of this kind. [1223a] For what results from necessary things is necessary, but from these other things it is possible for the contraries to come about, and whatever is up to human beings themselves — many things of this sort exist — and they themselves are the principles of such things. So that of whatever actions a human being is the principle and is in control, it is clear that it is possible both for them to come about and not to come about, and that it is up to him whether these come about or not, of whatever things he is in control of their being and not being. Whatever a person is able to do or not do, he himself is the cause of these; and of whatever he is the cause, it is up to him. Since virtue and vice, and the deeds that come from them, are in part praiseworthy and in part blameworthy (for praise and blame are not given for what belongs to us of necessity or by chance or by nature, but for whatever we ourselves are the cause of — for whatever another is the cause of, that other bears the blame and the praise), it is clear that virtue and vice too are concerned with these things of which one is oneself the cause and the starting point of actions. We must therefore grasp of what sort of things a person is himself the cause and the starting point of actions. Now we all agree that whatever is voluntary and in accordance with each person's own choice, that person is the cause of; but whatever is involuntary, he is not himself the cause of.
19| And everything a person does by choosing, he clearly also does willingly. It is clear, then, that virtue and vice too would belong among things voluntary. We must therefore grasp what the voluntary is and what the involuntary is, and what choice is, since virtue and vice are defined by reference to these. First we must examine the voluntary and the involuntary. It would seem that this must be one of three things: either in accordance with desire, or in accordance with choice, or in accordance with thought — the voluntary being in accordance with one of these, the involuntary being contrary to one of these. But indeed desire divides into three: wish, spirit, and appetite; so these must be divided, and first with respect to appetite. It would seem that everything in accordance with appetite is voluntary. For everything involuntary seems to be forced, and the forced is painful, as is everything that people do or undergo under compulsion, as Evenus too says — for every compelled thing is by nature painful. So that if a thing is painful, it is forced, and if forced, painful. But everything contrary to appetite is painful (for appetite is of what is pleasant), so it is forced and involuntary. Therefore what is in accordance with appetite is voluntary —
20| for these are opposite to one another. Further, wickedness in every case makes one more unjust, and lack of self-control seems to be a form of wickedness, and the person who lacks self-control is the sort who acts in accordance with appetite against reasoning, and he displays lack of self-control whenever he acts on it; and acting unjustly is voluntary, [1223b] so that the person who lacks self-control will act unjustly by acting in accordance with appetite; therefore he will act willingly, and what is in accordance with appetite is voluntary; and indeed it would be absurd if people became more just by becoming lacking in self-control. — From these considerations, then, it would seem that what is in accordance with appetite is voluntary, but from the following, the opposite. For everything a person does willingly, he does because he wishes it, and what he wishes, he does willingly. But no one wishes for what he thinks is bad. Yet the person who lacks self-control does not do what he wishes: for acting through appetite against what one thinks is best is what lacking self-control is. So that it will follow that the same person acts both willingly and unwillingly at the same time; but this is impossible. Further, the person with self-control will act justly, and more so than the person who lacks it. For self-control is a virtue, and virtue makes people more just. And a person exercises self-control whenever he acts against appetite in accordance with reasoning. So that if acting justly is voluntary, just as acting unjustly is (for both of these seem to be voluntary, and necessarily, if one of the two is voluntary, so is the other), while what is contrary to appetite is involuntary, then the same person will at the same time do the same thing both willingly and unwillingly. And the same account holds also concerning spirit. For lack of self-control and self-control seem to concern spirit too, just as they concern appetite —
21| and what is contrary to spirit is painful, and holding it back is forced, so that if the forced is involuntary, everything in accordance with spirit would be voluntary. And Heraclitus too seems to say this, looking to the strength of spirit, that restraining it is painful: "for it is hard," he says, "to fight against spirit; for it buys what it wants at the cost of soul." But if it is impossible for the same person to act both willingly and unwillingly at the same time with respect to the same thing, what is in accordance with wish is more voluntary than what is in accordance with appetite and spirit. And here is evidence: we do many things willingly without anger and without appetite. It remains, then, if the voluntary and what accords with wish are the same, to examine this. But this too appears impossible. For it is our premise, and it seems true, that wickedness makes people more unjust, while lack of self-control appears to be a kind of wickedness; but the opposite will result. For no one wishes for what he thinks is bad, yet he does it when he becomes lacking in self-control; if, then, acting unjustly is voluntary, and the voluntary is what accords with wish, then whenever a person becomes lacking in self-control, he will no longer be acting unjustly, but will be more just than before he became lacking in self-control. But this is impossible. It is clear, then, that the voluntary is not acting in accordance with desire, nor is the involuntary acting contrary to desire —
22| and that it is not in accordance with choice either is again clear from the following. What is in accordance with wish has been shown not to be involuntary, [1224a] but rather everything a person wishes is also voluntary (but it has been shown only that it is possible to act willingly even without wishing it); but we do many things willingly all of a sudden, whereas no one chooses anything suddenly. And if the voluntary was necessarily one of these three things — in accordance with desire, or in accordance with choice, or in accordance with thought — and two of these are not it, it remains that the voluntary consists in acting in some way that involves thinking. Further, let us carry the argument a little further and put a final touch on the determination of the voluntary and the involuntary. For doing something by force and not by force seems to be closely related to what has been said: for the forced is involuntary, and we say that everything involuntary is forced. So we must first examine the forced — what it is, and how it stands in relation to the voluntary and the involuntary. Now the forced and the necessary seem to be opposed, and force and necessity seem opposed, to the voluntary and to persuasion, in the case of actions. But in general we speak of the forced and the necessary also in the case of inanimate things: for we say that a stone is carried upward and fire downward by force and under compulsion. But when these move in accordance with their nature and their own proper impulse, they are not said to move by force, yet they are not said to move voluntarily either — rather this opposition has no name.
23| But whenever they move contrary to this, we say it is by force. Likewise also in the case of ensouled beings and animals we see many things done and undergone by force, whenever something from outside moves them contrary to the impulse within them. In inanimate things the principle is simple, but in ensouled things it is more complex; for desire and reason do not always agree. So that in the case of the other animals the forced is simple, just as in inanimate things (for they do not have reason and a desire opposed to it, but live by desire alone); but in a human being both are present, and at a certain age, at which we also attribute action to a person. For we do not say that the infant acts, nor the wild beast, but only the one who already acts through reasoning. Now it seems that everything forced is painful, and no one does something by force while also enjoying it. This is why the greatest dispute concerns the person with self-control and the person without it. For each of them acts on himself while having opposed impulses, so that the person with self-control, it is said, drags himself away by force from pleasant appetites (for he feels pain in dragging himself away against the desire that resists), while the person without self-control acts by force against reasoning. But he seems to feel less pain: for appetite is of the pleasant, which he follows while enjoying it, so that the person without self-control acts more willingly and not by force, because it is not painful for him.
24| Persuasion is opposed to force and necessity. The self-controlled person is led by what he has been persuaded of, and proceeds not by force but willingly. [1224b] But appetite leads without persuading — for it has no share in reason. That these people alone seem to act by force and unwillingly, and for what cause — namely, because of a certain resemblance to the case of force, the sense in which we speak of force even in the case of inanimate things — has been stated. But nevertheless, if one adds the qualification appended in the definition, the point just made is resolved even there. For whenever something from outside, contrary to the impulse within, moves or brings to rest, we call it force; whenever not, not force. But in the unrestrained and the self-controlled person, the impulse in accordance with himself, being present within, leads (for he has both): so that neither of the two acts by force, but on this account each would act willingly, and not under compulsion. For we call necessity the external principle — the one contrary to the impulse — that either impedes or moves, as if someone took hold of a person's hand and struck someone with it while he resisted with both his wish and his appetite. But whenever the principle is from within, it is not by force. Further, both pleasure and pain are present in both cases. For the self-controlled person, too, feels pain, when he is already acting contrary to his appetite, and feels the pleasure that comes from hope, because he will be benefited later, or is even already being benefited, being in health.
25| And the unrestrained person, too, feels pleasure when, acting without restraint, he gets what he desires, but feels the pain that comes from hope, for he thinks he is doing something bad. So that there is some sense in saying that each of the two acts by force, and that each, because of desire in one case and because of reasoning in the other, sometimes acts unwillingly; for since these two are separate, each is knocked aside by the other. This is why people even transfer the point to the soul as a whole, because they see something of this sort within the soul. Now in the case of the parts it is possible to say this; but the whole soul of both the unrestrained and the self-controlled person acts willingly, and neither acts by force, but rather something within them does, since we also have both by nature. For reason too exists by nature, in that, if its generation is allowed to proceed and is not maimed, it will be present; and so does appetite, in that it follows and is present in us straight from birth. It is roughly by these two marks that we distinguish what is by nature: by whatever follows all things straight from birth, and by whatever comes to develop straight, for us, if its generation is allowed to proceed — for example, gray hair and old age and other such things. So that it is not the case that each of the two acts in accordance with nature in the same sense; rather, each acts in accordance with nature simply speaking, but not the same nature. These, then, are the puzzles concerning the unrestrained and the self-controlled person, about whether both, or one of the two, act by force, so that either they act unwillingly, or willingly and by force at once — and if what is by force is involuntary, then they act willingly and unwillingly at once.
26| From what has been said it is now roughly clear to us how we should answer. [1225a] But people are also said, in another way, to act by force and under compulsion, when reason and desire are not at odds, whenever they do something that they suppose to be both painful and base, but which, if they did not do it, would bring blows or bonds or death. For they say they were compelled to do these things. Or is this not so, but rather do all such people do this very thing willingly? For it is possible not to do it, but instead to undergo that suffering. Further, perhaps one would say this holds of some of these cases and not others. For whenever it is up to the person himself whether such a thing occurs or not, then whatever he does that he does not wish to do, he does willingly, and not by force; but whenever it is not up to him, he acts by force in a sense, though not simply speaking, because he does not choose this very thing that he does for its own sake, but for the sake of something else — since even among these cases there is a certain difference. For if a person, groping in the dark, should kill someone in order not to be caught, he would be ridiculous if he said that he acted by force and under compulsion; rather, the evil he would suffer by not doing it must be greater and more painful. For in that way he will be acting under compulsion, and not by force — or not by nature — whenever he does something bad for the sake of something good, or to be released from a greater evil, and unwillingly at that.
27| For these things are not up to him. This is why many people classify erotic love as involuntary, and likewise certain fits of anger and natural impulses, because they are strong and beyond nature; and we grant forgiveness for them, on the ground that nature is naturally disposed to be forced. And a person would seem more to act by force and unwillingly when it is in order not to suffer intense pain, than when it is in order not to suffer mild pain, and in general more when it is in order not to suffer pain than when it is in order not to fail to feel pleasure. For what is up to a person — the thing to which the whole matter is referred back — is what his own nature is capable of bearing; whatever it is not capable of bearing, and whatever does not belong to that person's nature of desire or reasoning, is not up to him. This is why, in the case of those who are possessed and who prophesy, even though they are performing a work of thought, we nevertheless say that it is not up to them either to say what they said or to do what they did. But surely it is not because of appetite either. So that certain thoughts and affections too are not up to us, nor are the actions that follow such thoughts and reasonings, but rather, as Philolaus said, there are certain accounts that are stronger than we are. So that if we needed to examine the voluntary and involuntary also in relation to force, let this point be distinguished in this way (for those who most impede the voluntary, as though acting by force, in fact act willingly).
28| Since this point has reached its conclusion, and the voluntary has been defined neither by desire nor by choice, it remains, then, to define it in terms of thought. [1225b] It seems that the voluntary is opposed to the involuntary, and that acting while knowing — whether the person one acts on, or the instrument, or the end for the sake of which — (for sometimes one knows that it is one's father, but not that it is in order to kill him, but in order to save him, as the daughters of Pelias did; or one knows this as a drink, but as a love-charm and wine, when in fact it was hemlock) is opposed to acting in ignorance — of the person, or the instrument, or the object — because of ignorance, and not accidentally; and what is done because of ignorance — of the object, the instrument, and the person — is involuntary. The opposite, therefore, is voluntary. So whatever a person does that was up to him not to do, and does without being in ignorance and because of himself, these must necessarily be voluntary, and this is what the voluntary is; whatever he does in ignorance, and because of his ignorance, is unwilling. But since understanding and knowing are said in two ways — one, having the knowledge; the other, using the knowledge — a person who has it but does not use it might in one sense be justly said to be ignorant, and in another sense not justly, as for example if he failed to use it through negligence. Likewise, a person who does not have the knowledge might also be blamed, if he does not have something that was easy or necessary to have, because of negligence or pleasure or pain.
29| These points, then, must be further distinguished. Let the voluntary and the involuntary, then, be distinguished in this way; and after this let us speak about choice, first working through the puzzles about it in argument. For one might be uncertain to what genus it belongs by nature and in what class it should be placed, and whether the voluntary and the object of choice are not the same, or are the same. Above all it is said by some — and to one who investigates it would seem — that choice is one of two things, either opinion or desire; for both appear to accompany it. Now that it is not desire is clear. For it would have to be either wish, or appetite, or spirit; for no one desires anything without being affected by one of these. Now spirit and appetite belong to beasts as well, but choice does not. Further, even in those in whom both of these are present, they choose many things without spirit or appetite; and when in the grip of such affections, they do not choose but hold firm. Further, appetite and spirit are always accompanied by pain, but we choose many things without pain. But surely wish and choice are not the same either. For people wish for some of the same things even while knowing them to be impossible — for example, to be king of all mankind, and to be immortal — but no one chooses what he does not fail to recognize is impossible, nor in general things that are possible but that he thinks are not up to him to do or not do.
30| So this much is clear: what is chosen must be one of the things that are up to oneself. [1226a] And it is equally clear that it is not opinion, nor simply believing something. For what is chosen was one of the things up to oneself, but we hold opinions about many things that are not up to us — for instance, that the diagonal is commensurable. Again, choice is not true or false. Nor, further, is it the opinion, about things that are practicable and up to oneself, by which we happen to think that something ought to be done or not done. This point is common to opinion and wish alike: no one chooses an end, but rather the things that lead to the end. I mean, for example, no one chooses to be healthy, but rather to walk about or to sit, for the sake of being healthy; nor to be happy, but to make money or take a risk for the sake of being happy. And in general, whenever someone chooses, it is always evident both what he chooses and for the sake of what he chooses it; and the "for the sake of what" is that for the sake of which he chooses something else, while the "what" is the thing he chooses for the sake of something else. But it is the end above all that one wishes for, and one holds the opinion that one ought to be healthy and to fare well. So it is clear from this that choice is something other than both opinion and wish. For wishing and opinion are directed above all at the end, but choice is not. That choice, then, is neither wish nor opinion nor supposition taken simply, is clear.
31| But how does it differ from these, and how does it stand in relation to the voluntary? At the same time it will become clear what choice is. Among things capable of both being and not being, some are such that it is possible to deliberate about them, while about others it is not possible. For some things are capable of both being and not being, but their coming to be is not up to us — some come about through nature, others through other causes — and about these no one would attempt to deliberate, unless in ignorance. But about the things where not only being and not-being are possible, but also deliberation on the part of human beings, these are all the things it is up to us to do or not to do. That is why we do not deliberate about the affairs of the Indians, nor about how the circle might be squared. The former are not up to us; the latter is simply not something practicable at all. But neither do we deliberate about all the practicable things that are up to us.] (This also makes it clear that choice is not simply opinion.) And the things that are chosen and practicable are among the things that are up to us. That is why one might raise the puzzle: why is it that doctors deliberate about matters within their own science, while grammarians do not?
32| The cause is this: since error comes about in two ways — either we err in reasoning, or in the very doing of the thing according to perception — in medicine it is possible to err in both ways, but in grammar only in perception and action, [1226b] concerning which, if one were to keep examining, one would go on to infinity. Since, then, choice is neither opinion nor wish, taken as either one alone, nor both together either (for no one chooses on a sudden, though he does seem, on a sudden, both to do something and to wish it), it must be, as it were, from both. For both are present in the one who chooses. But how it comes from these must be looked into. And the word itself makes this somewhat clear. For choice (proairesis) is indeed a taking (hairesis), but not simply that — rather, a taking of one thing before another; and this cannot occur without examination and deliberation. That is why choice comes from a deliberative opinion. Now no one deliberates about the end — this stands fixed for everyone — but about the things tending toward it: whether this or that tends toward it, or, given that it has been decided, how it will come about. And we all deliberate about this until we trace the origin of the coming-to-be back to ourselves. If, then, no one chooses without having prepared himself and deliberated whether it is worse or better, and one deliberates about all the things, among those up to us, that are capable of both being and not being and that bear on the end, it is clear that choice is a deliberative desire for what is up to oneself. For we all deliberate about the very things we also choose, though not everything we deliberate about do we also choose.
33| By "deliberative" I mean a desire whose starting point and cause is deliberation, and which reaches out toward its object because of the deliberating. That is why choice is found neither in the other animals, nor at every age, nor in a human being in every condition. For neither is deliberation found there, nor a grasp of the reason why; but there is nothing to prevent many from having the opinion that something ought to be done or not done, while reasoning it through by calculation is another matter. For the deliberative part of the soul is the part that contemplates a certain cause. For the "for the sake of which" is one of the causes; for the "because of what" is a cause, and that for the sake of which something is or comes to be, this we say is a cause — for instance, the collecting of money is a cause of walking, if he walks for the sake of this. That is why those who have set no goal before themselves are not deliberative. So then, since what is up to oneself is either to act or not to act, and if someone acts or refrains through himself and not through ignorance, he acts or refrains willingly, and yet we do many such things without having deliberated or thought ahead, it must be that everything chosen is voluntary, but not everything voluntary is chosen, and that all things done by choice are voluntary, but not all involuntary things fail to be by choice.
34| At the same time it is clear from this also that those legislators do well who mark off some of the affections as voluntary, others as involuntary, and others as out of forethought: [1227a] for even if they do not draw the line with precision, still they touch on the truth in some way. But we shall speak about these matters in our examination concerning just acts. That choice is neither simply wish nor simply opinion is clear, but rather opinion together with desire, whenever these are brought to a conclusion out of deliberation. Now since the one who deliberates always deliberates for the sake of something, and there is always some goal for the one deliberating, with reference to which he examines what is advantageous, no one deliberates about the end — this is a starting point and a supposition, just as in the theoretical sciences the suppositions are (we have spoken about these briefly in the opening remarks, and with precision in the Analytics) — but the inquiry, both by those with a craft and those without one, concerns the things that lead toward the end, for instance, whether they should go to war or not go to war — this is what people deliberate about. And what is the "because of which," that is, the "for the sake of which" — for instance wealth or pleasure or some other such thing that happens to be the goal — will come about more from what is prior. For the one who deliberates deliberates, if he has examined starting from the end, either as to what tends toward it, so as to bring it back to himself, or as to whether he himself is capable of reaching the end.
35| The end is by nature always something good, and it is about this that people deliberate in particular cases — for instance, a doctor would deliberate whether to give a certain drug, and a general where to make camp — for these, the good is the end that is simply best. But contrary to nature, and through perversion, it is not the good but the apparent good that is the end. The cause is this: of the things that are, some cannot be used for anything other than what they are naturally for — sight, for instance; for it is not possible to see what there is no sight of, nor to hear what there is no hearing of; but from knowledge one can produce a result even in a case where the knowledge is not properly of it. For the same knowledge does not relate to health and disease in the same way, but to the one according to nature, to the other contrary to nature. Likewise, wish too is by nature directed at the good, but contrary to nature it is also directed at the bad, and by nature one wishes for the good, but contrary to nature, and through perversion, also for the bad. And yet the corruption and perversion of each thing is not toward just anything at random, but toward its contraries and the things in between. For it is not possible to step outside these, since even deception does not occur toward just any random things, but, for things that have contraries, toward the contraries — and among these contraries, toward those that are contrary according to the relevant knowledge.
36| It follows, then, that both deception and choice must move from the mean to the contraries (and contrary to the mean are both the excess and the deficiency). The cause is the pleasant and the painful; for things stand in such a way that to the soul the pleasant appears good and the more pleasant better, and the painful appears bad and the more painful worse.
37| [1227b] So from these considerations too it is clear that virtue and vice have to do with pleasures and pains. For they are about what is chosen by deliberate choice, and choice is about the good and the bad, and about what appears so, and pleasure and pain are by nature things of that kind. It is necessary, then, since ethical virtue is itself a kind of mean and is wholly concerned with pleasures and pains, while vice lies in excess and deficiency and is about the same things as virtue, that virtue be the state of character, disposed toward choice, that is a mean relative to us in things pleasant and painful, in respect of whatever a person's character is said to be of a certain sort by being pleased or pained — for the lover of sweet things or the lover of bitter things is not said to have a character of a certain sort. With these points marked out, let us say whether virtue makes choice free of error, and the end correct, so that a person chooses what he ought to choose for the sake of, or, as some think, whether it makes reason correct. This latter is continence, for continence does not corrupt reason. But virtue and continence are different things. We must speak of them later, since for those who think that virtue supplies correct reason, this is the cause they point to. For that is what continence does, and continence is one of the praiseworthy things.
38| We speak having first raised the difficulty. For it is possible for the target to be correct but for one to go wrong in the things that lead to the target; and it is possible for the target to have been missed, but for the things that accomplish it to be correctly done, and possible for neither to be the case. Does virtue, then, make the target correct, or the things that lead to the target? Let us posit that it is the target, because there is no syllogism or reasoning about this. Rather, let this be laid down as a kind of starting point. For neither does the doctor consider whether one ought to be healthy or not, but whether one ought to walk or not, nor does the trainer consider whether one ought to be in good condition or not, but whether one ought to wrestle or not. Likewise no other craft deliberates about the end: for just as hypotheses are starting points for the theoretical sciences, so too for the productive sciences the end is a starting point and a hypothesis. Since this person must be made healthy, this other thing must necessarily be present if that is to come about, just as there, if the triangle has two right angles, this other thing must necessarily be the case. The starting point of thinking, then, is the end, while the completion of the thinking is the starting point of action. If, then, either reason or virtue is the cause of every correctness, and if it is not reason, then it would be through virtue that the end is correct, but not the things that lead to the end.
39| The end is that for the sake of which. For every choice is of something and for the sake of something. That, then, for the sake of which is the mean, and virtue is the cause of this by choosing that for the sake of which. Choice, however, is not of this itself, but of the things that are for the sake of it. Hitting upon these things — the things one must do for the sake of the end — belongs to another capacity.
40| [1228a] But that the end of choice be correct is a matter for which virtue is the cause. And this is why we judge what sort of person someone is from his choice: for this is a matter of for the sake of what he acts, not of what he does. Vice likewise makes choice for the sake of the opposite things. If, then, someone who has it in his own power to do fine things and refrain from shameful ones does the opposite, it is clear that this person is not virtuous. So it is necessary both that vice be voluntary and that virtue be voluntary: for there is no necessity to do base things. This is why vice is blameworthy and virtue praiseworthy: for involuntary shameful and bad things are not blamed, nor are good things praised, if involuntary, but only voluntary ones. Further, we praise and blame everyone by looking to their choice rather than to their works — even though the actuality is more choiceworthy than the virtue, since people also do base things under compulsion, but no one chooses under compulsion. Further, because it is not easy to see what a person's choice is like, we are for this reason forced to judge what sort of person someone is from his works. The actuality, then, is more choiceworthy, but the choice is more praiseworthy. These conclusions follow both from what has been laid down and, further, agree with the observed facts.
1| That there are means among the virtues, and that these are matters of choice, and that the vices are the contrary extremes, and what these are, has been stated in general terms. Taking them one by one, let us now speak of them in order, and let us speak first about courage. It is held by nearly everyone that the courageous person is concerned with fears, and that courage is one of the virtues. We earlier distinguished, in our outline, both rashness and fear as contraries: for they are in a way opposed to each other. It is clear, then, that those spoken of in terms of these states will likewise be opposed to one another — for instance the cowardly person (for he is so called in respect of fearing more than he ought and being confident less than he ought) and the rash person: for he too is so called in respect of being the sort of person who fears less than he ought and is confident more than he ought. This is also why he gets his name from it: the rash person is called this, by a cognate word, from rashness. So then, since courage is the best state concerning fears and confidence, and one must be neither like the rash (for in some respects they fall short, in others they exceed) nor like the cowardly (for these too do the same thing, though not about the same things but from the opposite direction —
2| [1228b] for in respect of confidence they fall short, while in respect of fear they exceed) — it is clear that the middle disposition between rashness and cowardice is courage: for this is the best. The courageous person is held, for the most part, to be free of fear, while the cowardly person is prone to fear, and the one fears many things and few, great and small, and does so intensely and quickly, while the other does the opposite, either not fearing or fearing gently and with difficulty and rarely and only great things; and the one endures things that are intensely fearful, the other does not even endure things that are mildly so. What sort of things, then, does the courageous person endure? First, is it things fearful to himself, or things fearful to another? If things fearful to another, no one would say this was anything impressive; but if things fearful to himself, then he would have great and many fearful things for himself. Things productive of fear are so for each person to whom they are fearful — for instance, if they are intensely fearful, the fear would be strong, but if only mildly so, the fear would be weak. So it follows that the courageous person makes for himself great and many fears. But it was held, on the contrary, that courage renders one free of fear, and that this consists in fearing either nothing or few things, and gently and with difficulty. But perhaps the fearful, like the pleasant and the good, is spoken of in two ways.
3| For some things are so without qualification, while other things are pleasant and good to someone but not without qualification — rather, on the contrary, they are base and not pleasant — namely, whatever is beneficial to the wicked, and whatever is pleasant to children insofar as they are children. Likewise too, of fearful things, some are fearful without qualification, others fearful to someone. The things a coward fears, insofar as he is a coward, are in some cases fearful to no one, in others only mildly fearful; but the things that are fearful to most people, and whatever is fearful to human nature, these we call fearful without qualification. The courageous person is without fear in the face of these, and endures such fearful things — things which are in one way fearful to him, in another way not: fearful insofar as he is a human being, but not fearful, or only mildly so or not at all, insofar as he is courageous. Yet these things are indeed fearful, since they are fearful to most people. This is why the state is praised: for it is like being strong and healthy. For these too are not such by being unaffected by anything — the one by no toil, the other by no excess whatsoever — but by being unaffected by these, either wholly or nearly so, by the very things that affect the many and most people. So the sickly and the weak and the cowardly are affected in some way even by the common affections, only more quickly and more severely than most people; and further, by the things that affect most people, these too are unaffected, either wholly or nearly so.
4| A puzzle is raised: if nothing is frightening to the courageous man, then he would not be afraid either. [1229a] Or does nothing prevent this, in the way stated? For courage is a following of reason, and reason bids us choose the fine. Hence anyone who endures these things not for this reason is either out of his mind or rash; only the one who is fearless for the sake of the fine is courageous. So the coward fears even what he ought not, and the rash man is confident even about what he ought not; but the courageous man does both as he ought, and in this respect he is a mean. For whatever reason bids, these are the things he is both confident about and afraid of. And reason does not bid us endure things that are greatly painful and destructive, unless they are fine. So the rash man is confident about these things even when reason does not bid it, while the coward is not even when it does; only the courageous man is confident when reason bids it. There are five kinds of courage spoken of by resemblance; for people endure the same things, but not for the same reasons. One is political courage; this is the courage that comes from shame. Second is military courage; this comes from experience and knowledge — not, as Socrates said, knowledge of the dangerous things themselves, but knowledge of the means of help against dangers. Third is the courage that comes from inexperience and ignorance, on account of which children and madmen — some endure things hurled at them, others pick up snakes.
5| Another is the courage that comes from hope, by which those who have often been fortunate endure dangers, and so do drunkards; for wine makes people hopeful. Another comes from an irrational passion, such as erotic love or spirit. For if a man is in love, he is rash rather than cowardly, and he endures many dangers — like the man in Metapontum who killed the tyrant, and the man told of in the story from Crete. And likewise through anger and spirit; for spirit drives one out of one's senses. That is why wild boars are thought to be courageous, though they are not; for when they are driven out of their senses they behave this way, but otherwise they are erratic, like rash men. Still, the courage that comes from spirit is the most natural; for spirit is unconquerable, which is why children fight best of all. Political courage comes about through law. But in truth none of these is courage; rather, all of them are useful for exhortations amid dangers. About the things that are frightening we have so far spoken simply, but it is better to define the matter further. In general, then, the things called frightening are the things productive of fear. And such are whatever appear productive of destructive pain; for to those who expect some other kind of pain, some other pain and a different affection might perhaps arise, but it will not be fear — for instance if someone foresaw that he would feel the pain that the envious feel, or the kind felt by the emulous or the ashamed.
6| But fear arises only over pains of this kind that appear likely to occur, whose nature is destructive of life. [1229b] That is why some people, though very soft, are courageous about some things, while others, though tough and enduring, are cowardly. And indeed it seems to be more or less distinctive of courage to be somehow concerned with death and the pain connected with it. For if someone were the sort of person able to endure heat and cold and pains of that kind, on the ground that reason says they carry no danger, but were soft and thoroughly fearful in the face of death — not because of some other affection but because of destruction itself — while another were soft in the face of those pains but unaffected in the face of death, the former would seem to be a coward, the latter courageous. For indeed danger, among frightening things, is spoken of only in cases of this kind, when what is productive of destruction of this sort is near. And it appears as danger whenever it appears near. So we have said what the frightening things are, the ones we say the courageous man is concerned with: those that appear productive of destructive pain; yet these must appear near and not far off, and be, or appear, of such a magnitude as to be proportionate to a human being. For some things must necessarily appear frightening to every human being and throw him into confusion. For nothing prevents its being the case, as with hot and cold things, that some of the other powers too are beyond us and beyond the states of the human body —
7| and likewise with the affections of the soul. So cowards and rash men are deceived on account of their states; for to the coward, things that are not frightening seem frightening, and things mildly frightening seem intensely so; to the rash man the opposite — frightening things seem to inspire confidence, and intensely frightening things seem mild; while to the courageous man things appear most nearly as they truly are. Hence a person is not courageous if he endures frightening things through ignorance — for instance if someone endured thunderbolts hurtling at him because of madness — nor if, knowing how great the danger is, he endures it through spirit, as the Celts take up arms and go to meet the waves, and in general barbarian courage is accompanied by spirit. Some endure through other pleasures as well. For spirit too contains a certain pleasure; it comes with the hope of retaliation. But all the same, whether it is for this pleasure or for another that someone endures death, or flees greater pains, none of these people could rightly be called courageous. For if dying were pleasant, the licentious would often die through lack of self-control, just as now, although dying itself is not pleasant, many, through lack of self-control, fall knowingly into the things that produce it, none of whom would be thought courageous, even if they are quite ready to die.
8| Nor, if people are fleeing toil, as many do, is any of these courageous either — as Agathon too says: [1230a] "For base mortals, worsted by toil, are enamored of death." (Agathon, fr. 7) Just as the poets tell the story of Chiron, that because of the pain from his wound he prayed to die, though he was immortal. Similar to these are also those who endure dangers through experience, in the way that most military men endure them. For the truth is the very opposite of what Socrates thought, when he supposed courage to be a kind of knowledge. For those who know how to climb the ship's masts are not confident because they know the frightening things, but because they know the means of help against dangers; nor is that on account of which people fight more confidently, courage. For in that case strength and wealth would be courage too, according to Theognis: "For every man is mastered by poverty..." (Theognis 177) Clearly, some who are cowards nonetheless endure through experience; and this is because they do not think there is danger, for they know the means of help. A sign of this: whenever they think they have no help, and the danger is already near, they do not hold their ground. But of all such courageous people, those who endure because of shame would most appear to be courageous, just as Homer too says that Hector endured the danger from Achilles: "But shame seized Hector" (source unknown) "Polydamas will be the first to heap reproach on me."
9| (Homer, Iliad 22.100) And this is political courage. But true courage is neither this nor any of the others, though it resembles them — just as the courage of wild beasts does, which charge to meet the blow because of spirit. For one ought not to stand one's ground out of fear of disgrace, nor through anger, nor because one does not think one will die, nor because one has protective powers; for on that basis a person would not think anything frightening at all. But since every virtue involves choice — and how we mean this has been said before, namely that it makes one choose everything for the sake of something, and that this, the for-the-sake-of-which, is the fine — it is clear that courage too, being a virtue, will make one endure frightening things for the sake of something, so that it is neither through ignorance (for it rather makes one judge correctly) nor for pleasure, but because it is fine, since, if it is not fine but mad, one does not endure it, for that would be shameful. So we have now said, more or less adequately for the present approach, what courage is a mean about, between which extremes, and why, and what force the frightening things have. After this we must try to give an account of temperance and self-indulgence. The self-indulgent person is spoken of in many ways. For there is the person who has not in some way been chastised or cured, just as the uncut is what has not been cut; and of these, one is capable of it, the other incapable.
10| [1230b] For what is uncut is both what is unable to be cut and what is able to be cut but has not been cut. And the same holds for the undisciplined. For that name applies both to what is not naturally receptive of discipline, and to what is naturally receptive of it but has not been disciplined with regard to the errors concerning which the temperate person acts rightly—as with children: it is with respect to this lack of discipline that they are called undisciplined. And there is yet another way, in which those who are hard to cure or altogether incurable by discipline are called this. Since undisciplined is said in several ways, it is clear that these people are concerned with certain pleasures and pains, and that they differ from one another and from other people in how they are disposed with respect to these; we described earlier how, in naming the condition undisciplined, we transfer the term. Those who are unmoved, through lack of perception, toward these same pleasures—some call insensible, others use other names for such people. This affection is not very well recognized, nor superficial to grasp, because everyone errs more toward the other extreme, and the deficiency and perception of such pleasures is not natural to anyone. Such people are found chiefly among those the writers of comedy bring on stage as rustics, who do not go near pleasures even to the moderate and necessary degree. Since the temperate person is concerned with pleasures, he must also be concerned with certain appetites.
11| We must grasp, then, which ones. For it is not with respect to all pleasures, nor all pleasant things, that the temperate person is temperate, but in common opinion he is concerned with two of the objects of perception—the objects of taste and of touch—while in truth he is concerned with touch. For with regard to the pleasure through sight in fine things, apart from sexual appetite, or pain in shameful things, and with regard to the pleasure through hearing in things well-harmonized or ill-harmonized, and further with regard to the pleasures through smell, both from good odors and from bad ones, the temperate person is not concerned. For no one is called undisciplined for undergoing or not undergoing these. At any rate, if someone, looking at a fine statue or horse or person, or listening to someone singing, should have no wish to eat or drink or have sex, but wish only to look at the fine things and listen to the singers, he would not seem to be undisciplined—no more than those charmed by the Sirens. But it is with respect to these two objects of perception—the ones with respect to which the other animals too happen to have perception, and to feel pleasure and pain—namely the objects of taste and touch, that undisciplined applies. With respect to the pleasant things of the other senses, nearly all animals appear to be alike insensible,
12| [1231a] for instance with regard to harmony or beauty. For nothing worth mentioning appears to happen to them from the mere viewing of fine things or the hearing of well-harmonized sounds, unless some monstrous exception occurs; nor again with regard to good or bad smells, and yet they have all their senses sharper than we do. But even of smells, they enjoy those which give pleasure incidentally, not those which give pleasure in their own right. By not in their own right I mean those we enjoy because we are hoping for or remembering something—for instance the smells of relishes and drinks (for it is on account of a different pleasure that we enjoy these, namely that of eating or drinking); but in their own right, for instance, are the smells of flowers. That is why Stratonicus put it well when he said that the one kind smells fine, the other pleasant. Likewise even with respect to taste, animals are not excited over every pleasure, nor over those whose perception is at the tip of the tongue, but over those perceived at the throat, and the affection resembles touch more than taste. That is why gluttons pray to have not a long tongue but the throat of a crane, as Philoxenus son of Eryxis did. So that undisciplined must be taken, to put it simply, as concerned with the objects of touch. And likewise the undisciplined person is concerned with things of this kind.
13| For drunkenness and gluttony and lechery and greed for delicacies and all things of this sort are concerned with the perceptions just mentioned, into which the parts of undisciplined conduct are divided. But with regard to the pleasures through sight or hearing or smell, no one is called undisciplined even if he exceeds; rather we blame these errors without reproach, and in general with regard to whatever people are not said to be self-controlled about, those who lack self-control in them are neither undisciplined nor temperate. Insensible, then, or whatever we ought to call him, is the one so disposed as actually to fall short even of what it is necessary for practically everyone to share in and enjoy; the one who exceeds is undisciplined. For everyone by nature enjoys these things and conceives appetites for them, and they are not, and are not called, undisciplined (for they do not exceed by enjoying more than they should when they get them, or by being pained more than they should when they do not); nor are they unfeeling (for they do not fall short in enjoyment or pain, but rather exceed). Since, then, there is excess and deficiency with regard to these things, it is clear there is also a mean, and this state is the best one, and is opposed to both extremes. So that if temperance is the best state with regard to the things the undisciplined person is concerned with, then the mean concerning the pleasant things of perception just mentioned would be temperance, being a mean between undisciplined conduct and insensibility.
14| The excess is undisciplined conduct; [1231b] the deficiency is either nameless or is addressed by the names already given. A more precise division of this genus of pleasures will be made later, in the discussion of self-control and lack of self-control. In the same way we must grasp the matter concerning gentleness and harshness. For we see that the gentle person too is concerned with the pain arising from spirit, in being disposed in a certain way toward it. We described earlier, and set in opposition to the irritable and harsh and savage person (for all these belong to the same disposition), the servile and the senseless person. For it is roughly these terms people use most for those whose spirit is not stirred even on the occasions it should be, but who let themselves be abused readily and are lowly in the face of slights. For opposed to quickly is slowly, and to mildly is violently, and to being pained for a long time is being pained for a short time by this pain which we call spirit. Since, then, as we said also concerning the other cases, here too there is excess and deficiency (for the harsh person is one who is affected in this way both more quickly and more intensely and for a longer time, and when he should not be and toward the wrong people and over many things, while the servile person is the opposite), it is clear that there is also a mean between this inequality.
15| Since, then, both those states are in error, it is clear that the mean state between them is the decent one: for it neither anticipates nor lags behind, nor is it angry at those it should not be, nor fails to be angry at those it should. So that since gentleness too is the best state with regard to these affections, gentleness would be a kind of mean, and the gentle person a mean between the harsh person and the servile one. Greatness of soul, too, and magnificence, and liberality are means. Liberality concerns the acquisition and the giving up of money. The one who takes more pleasure than he should in every acquisition, and is pained more than he should at every loss, is illiberal; the one who feels both less than he should is prodigal; the one who feels both as he should is liberal. And by as he should I mean, both in these cases and in the others, as correct reason prescribes. Since those two states are in excess and deficiency, and where there are extremes there is also a mean, and this is best, and for each thing there is one best in form: liberality must be a mean between prodigality and illiberality with regard to the acquisition and giving up of money. We speak of money and of the acquisition of money in two senses.
16| For one use of a possession is in its own right, [1232a] as with a shoe or a cloak, while another is accidental, though not in the way one might use a shoe as a weight, but rather as in selling it or renting it out—for one is still using the shoe. Now the miser is the one who is serious about money, and money stands for possession in place of accidental use. The illiberal man and the prodigal, on the other hand, would be concerned with the accidental mode of moneymaking, and indeed with natural moneymaking too the illiberal man pursues increase; the prodigal falls short even in necessities, while the liberal man gives away his surplus. Species of these very types are spoken of, differing by more and less with respect to their parts: for instance the illiberal man is called stingy, tight-fisted, and shabby—stingy in not letting go of anything, sordidly greedy, in accepting gain from anything whatever, tight-fisted the one who strains hard over small things, while the swindler and the cheat is the man who is unjust in accordance with illiberality. And likewise for the prodigal: the squanderer is the one who spends in a disorderly way, the thoughtless one is the man who cannot bear the pain that comes from calculation. Concerning greatness of soul, we must mark out what is proper to it from what is attributed to great-souled people. For just as other things that lie close by and resemble one another go unnoticed up to a point as they proceed further apart, the same thing happens with greatness of soul.
17| Hence sometimes the opposite types lay claim to the same name, as the prodigal man does to the liberal, the self-willed man to the dignified, and the rash man to the courageous; for they do concern the same things and border on one another up to a point, just as the courageous man is one who holds firm against dangers, and so is the rash man, but the one in this way, the other in that—and these differ the most. Now we speak of the great-souled man in keeping with the very meaning of the name, as of someone who has a kind of greatness of soul and of power. Hence he also seems to resemble the dignified man and the magnificent man, since he seems to accompany all the virtues as well. For to judge correctly the great and small among goods is praiseworthy. And the things that seem great are those that the person with the best state of character pursues as being pleasant to him in such matters. And greatness of soul is the best state; and the virtue concerned with each thing judges correctly the greater and the lesser in it—whatever the practically wise man and virtue itself would prescribe—so that either all the virtues follow it, or it follows all of them. Further, it seems characteristic of the great-souled man to be disdainful. Now each virtue makes people disdainful of what is great contrary to reason,
18| [1232b] as courage disdains dangers (for it thinks that only what is shameful is great, and that not every abundance of dangers is fearsome), and the temperate man disdains great and numerous pleasures, and the liberal man disdains money. This seems to belong to the great-souled man too, because he is serious about few things, and these great ones, and not because some other person thinks so; and a great-souled man would care more what seems so to one serious person than to the many who happen along, just as Antiphon said to Agathon after he had been condemned, when Agathon praised his defense speech. And it seems that disregard is most of all the characteristic affection proper to the great-souled man. Again, concerning honor and life and wealth, about which people seem to be serious, he cares about none of the others except honor. And he would be pained at being dishonored and ruled by someone unworthy, and he rejoices most when he attains honor. So on this showing he would seem to be inconsistent: for being most of all concerned with honor and yet being disdainful of the many and of reputation do not sit together. So we must distinguish this and then speak to it. For honor is both small and great in two ways: either by being given by many people who happen along, or by being given by those worth taking account of; and again, honor differs by what it is bestowed for. For it is not great by the number of those honoring, nor by the quality alone, but also by being itself something honorable—
19| for in truth offices too and other goods are honorable, and worth being serious about, are those that are truly great, so that no virtue exists without greatness; hence each virtue seems to make people great-souled, in respect of that with which each of them is concerned, as we said. But nonetheless there is some one greatness of soul distinct from the other virtues, just as we must also call, in a special sense, great-souled the man who has this. Since, then, among goods some are honorable and some are as was distinguished before, and of such goods some are great in truth and some small, and of these some people are worthy of them and think themselves worthy, it is among these that the great-souled man must be sought. And there must be four ways in which people differ. For it is possible to be worthy of great things and to think oneself worthy of them; it is possible to be worthy of small things and to think oneself worthy of things of that size; and it is possible to be in the reverse condition with respect to each of these: for one sort of person might be such as, though worthy of small things, to think himself worthy of the great honorable goods, while another, though worthy of great things, might think himself worthy of small ones. Now the man who is worthy of small things but thinks himself worthy of great ones is blameworthy (for it is senseless and not fine to get things beyond one's worth); and blameworthy too is whoever, being worthy, does not think himself worthy to share in such things as belong to him—
20| [1233a] what remains here, then, is the man opposite to both of these, who, being worthy of great things, thinks himself worthy of them, and is such as to think himself worthy. This man is praiseworthy and is the mean between the other two. Since, then, concerning the choice and use of honor and the other honorable goods the best disposition is greatness of soul, and this is what we attribute—and not concerning things useful—to the great-souled man, and at the same time this mean is the most praiseworthy: it is clear that greatness of soul too would be a mean, and of the opposite states—as we set out schematically—the one that tends toward thinking oneself worthy of great goods while being unworthy is vanity (for we call those people vain who think themselves worthy of great things without being so), while the one concerned with not thinking oneself worthy of great things while being worthy is smallness of soul (for it seems characteristic of the small-souled man that, although the things exist by which he could justly be thought worthy, he does not think himself worthy of anything great); so that greatness of soul must be a mean between vanity and smallness of soul. The fourth of the types distinguished is neither wholly blameworthy nor great-souled, being one who has no greatness in this respect at all: for he is neither worthy nor does he think himself worthy of great things, and so he is not opposite to anyone. And yet it might seem to be opposite to the man who, being worthy of great things, thinks himself worthy of great things, that a man who is worthy of small things should think himself worthy of small things.
21| But he is not opposite, either in not being blameworthy (for he has things as reason bids), and he is by nature the same as the great-souled man (for both think themselves worthy of the things of which they are worthy); and the one could become great-souled (for he will think himself worthy of what he is worthy of), while the small-souled man—who, though great goods in respect of honor belong to him, does not think himself worthy of them—what would he do if he were worthy only of small things? For if he would be vain in claiming great things, he would be still more so in claiming lesser ones. Hence no one would call a man small-souled if, being a resident alien, he does not think himself worthy to rule, but yields; but one would call him so if he were well-born and thought ruling something great and yet did not claim it. And the magnificent man too is not concerned with action and choice of just any kind, but with expenditure, unless we speak by way of metaphor somewhere; and without expenditure there is no magnificence. For what is fitting lies in adornment, and adornment does not come from expenditures that happen along, but consists in an excess over what is necessary. So the man who chooses to spend greatly in a manner of size that is fitting, and who desires such a mean and such a pleasure, is magnificent. But the man who goes to excess and out of tune is nameless.
22| Still, there is a certain kinship with those some people call tasteless and vulgar show-offs. [1233b] For example: if someone, being rich, spends on the wedding of his beloved child and thinks it fitting for himself to make such preparations as one who is hosting the members of a private religious dining-club, this man is petty; but the one who receives such guests in that same fashion, not for the sake of reputation nor out of ostentation, is like the vulgar show-off; while the one who does it according to worth and as reason dictates is magnificent. For what is fitting is in accordance with worth: nothing that goes beyond one's worth is fitting. What is fitting must be so (for the fitting corresponds to worth, and is itself fitting) both with respect to what it concerns (for example, a fitting wedding for a household servant is a different thing from a fitting wedding for a beloved) and with respect to the person himself, granting that it is on such a scale or of such a kind — for instance, he thought the public display which Themistocles made at Olympia was not fitting for Themistocles, because of his previously low station, but was fitting for Cimon. But the man who behaves haphazardly, with no regard to worth, is none of these. And it is the same with liberality: there is a person who is neither liberal nor illiberal. And in general nearly all the other praiseworthy and blameworthy traits of character are, some of them, excesses, others deficiencies, and others intermediate states involving feeling — for example the envious man and the man who gloats over others' misfortunes. For as the states from which they are named go: envy is being pained at people faring well in accordance with their worth, while the feeling of the man who gloats over misfortune has, on this same matter, no name — though the man who has it is plain to see — being pleasure at misfortunes that go beyond a person's worth.
23| Between these two is the man given to righteous indignation, which is what the ancients called nemesis: being pained at misfortunes and successes that go beyond a person's worth, but pleased at those that accord with worth — which is why they even think nemesis is a god. Shame is the mean between shamelessness and being overawed: the man who cares about no one's opinion at all is shameless, the man equally cowed by everyone's opinion is craven, while the man who is respectful of the opinion of people who appear decent is properly modest. Friendship is the mean between enmity and flattery: the man who readily falls in with everyone's desires is a flatterer, the man who opposes everyone is quarrelsome, while the man who neither follows nor resists every pleasure, but goes by what appears best, is a friend. Dignity is the mean between self-will and obsequiousness: the man who lives with no regard for anyone else is self-willed and contemptuous, the man who defers to everyone in everything, or rates himself below everyone, is obsequious, while the man who does so in some respects and not others, and behaves this way toward those who deserve it, is dignified. The truthful and straightforward man, whom they call plain-spoken, is the mean between the ironical dissembler and the boaster. For the man who understates and lies about himself in the worse direction, without being ignorant that he does so, is an ironical dissembler,
24| [1234a] while the man who overstates in the better direction is a boaster, and the man who presents himself as he actually is, is truthful and, in Homer's phrase, sound-minded; and in general one is a lover of truth, the other a lover of falsehood. Wit, too, is a mean, and the witty man is the mean between the boor — the man hard to get a rise out of — on the one side, and the buffoon on the other. Just as, in the matter of food, the fussy eater differs from the man who eats everything, in that the one accepts nothing or little, and only with difficulty, while the other accepts everything readily, so too the boor stands to the vulgar man and the buffoon: the one accepts nothing as funny, and only with difficulty, the other accepts everything readily and with pleasure. Neither is right; rather, one should accept some things and not others, and do so as reason dictates — and this is the witty man. The demonstration is the same as before: this kind of wit — not the kind we speak of by way of metaphor — is the most decent state, the mean is praiseworthy, and the extremes are blameworthy. Since wit is twofold (for one kind consists in enjoying what is funny, including what is said at one's own expense, if it is of a certain sort — mockery being one instance of this — while the other consists in being able to produce such things oneself), these two are different from each other, but both, all the same, are means.
25| For the man who is able to produce such things, extending to whatever a person of good judgment will be pleased by — even if the joke is at his own expense — will be the mean between the vulgar man and the humorless man. This standard, moreover, surpasses the one holding that a joke must not pain whatever sort of person happens to be its target: what matters more is winning the approval of someone holding the middle position, since it is such a person who judges soundly. Now all these means are praiseworthy, but they are not virtues, nor are their opposites vices, since they occur without choice. All of these belong among the divisions of the feelings, for each of them is a certain feeling. But because they are natural, they contribute toward the natural virtues: for, as will be said later, each virtue exists in some sense by nature, and again in another way, together with practical wisdom. Envy, then, contributes toward injustice (for the actions arising from it are directed against another person), and righteous indignation contributes toward justice, shame toward temperance — which is why people even define temperance within this genus — while the truthful man and the false man are, respectively, sound-minded and mindless. And the mean is more opposed to the extremes than the extremes are to each other,
26| [1234b] because the mean occurs together with neither of the extremes, while the extremes are often found together with one another: sometimes the same people are both rash and cowardly, and prodigal in some respects and illiberal in others — in general, badly uneven. For when people are unevenly disposed in a good way, they turn out to be men of the mean, since in a sense the mean contains the extremes within it. But the oppositions do not seem to hold between the extremes and the mean equally in both directions; rather, sometimes the opposition is one of excess, sometimes one of deficiency. The reasons are the first two stated earlier: scarcity — as with people insensible to pleasures, who are few — and the fact that whichever direction we more often err toward seems more opposed to the mean; and there is a third reason, namely that the more similar of two things appears less opposed, as is the case with rashness in relation to courage, and prodigality in relation to liberality. On the other praiseworthy virtues, then, more or less enough has been said; justice must now be discussed.
1| Concerning friendship — what it is and what kind of thing it is, and who the friend is, and whether friendship is spoken of in one sense or in several, and if in several, how many, and further how one ought to treat a friend, and what is just as between friends — this must be examined no less than any of the other fine and choiceworthy matters of character. For it seems to be above all the work of political science to produce friendship, and people say that this is why virtue is useful: for it is not possible for people who wrong one another to be friends to each other. Again, everyone says that justice and injustice have their fullest application among friends, and the same man is thought to be both good and a friend, and friendship is held to be a certain state of character; and if someone wishes to arrange things so that people do not do wrong, it is enough to make them friends, since true friends do not wrong one another. But then again, if people are just, they will not do wrong either — so justice and friendship are either the same thing, or something close to it. Beyond this, we suppose the friend to be among the greatest goods, and friendlessness and isolation to be a terrible thing, because our whole life and our voluntary company is spent with such people: we pass our days together with family, or with kin, or with companions, [1235a] or with children, or parents, or a wife.
2| And the particular claims of justice as between friends lie within our own control, while those toward others have been fixed by law and are not within our control. Many difficulties arise concerning friendship. First, as raised by those who approach the subject from outside and speak of it in more general terms: some hold that like is friend to like, which is the source of the saying that a god always leads like to like (Homer, Odyssey 17.218) — for "jackdaw sits by jackdaw," and "thief recognized thief, and wolf, wolf." The natural philosophers even arrange the whole of nature by taking as their starting point that like goes toward like, which is why Empedocles said that the dog sits on the roof-tile because it has the most in common with it. Some, then, speak of friendship in this way; but others say that opposite is friend to opposite. For what is loved and desired is friend to everyone, and the dry does not desire the dry, but the moist — which is the source of the saying "the earth loves the rain," and "change in all things is sweet" (Euripides, Orestes 234) — change being a change into the opposite. And like is hostile to like: for "potter is angry with potter" (Hesiod, Works and Days 25), and animals that feed on the same things are hostile to one another.
3| These, then, are the beliefs, and this is how far apart they stand. Some say the like is a friend and the contrary an enemy — the smaller is always the enemy of the greater, and "it opens a day of hatred" (Euripides, Phoenissae 539). Further, the places of contraries are set apart, while friendship seems to bring together. Others say that contraries are friends, and Heraclitus rebukes the poet who wrote, "would that strife might perish from among gods and men" (Homer, Iliad 18.107) — for there could be no harmony without high and low notes, nor could there be animals without the contraries of female and male. These, then, are two opinions about friendship, both far too universal and far too separated from one another. But there are other opinions already closer to and more akin to the observed facts. Some hold that it is impossible for the bad to be friends, but only the good; others find it strange if mothers do not love their children (friendship plainly exists even among wild animals, since they choose to die before their young); and others hold that only the useful is a friend. A sign of this, they say, is that everyone pursues useful things, while they throw away even their own parts when these are useless — as old Socrates used to say, comparing spit and hair and nails, and saying that we throw away our useless parts, and in the end the body itself, once it has died —
4| [1235b] for the corpse is useless. But things that are useful, people preserve, as in Egypt. Now all these views seem to be opposed to one another. For the like is useless to the like, and contrariety stands as far as possible from likeness, and the contrary is most useless to the contrary — since the contrary is what destroys the contrary. Again, some think it easy to acquire a friend, while others think it is very rare to recognize one, and impossible without misfortune (since everyone who is doing well wants to be thought to have friends); and some do not think it right to trust even those who stay by them in misfortunes, holding that they are deceiving and pretending, so as to acquire, through their association with the unfortunate, the friendship of the fortunate again once fortune returns. We must, then, take up a way of approach that will best render for us what is believed about these matters, and that will resolve both the puzzles and the contrarieties. This will happen if it is shown that the contrary opinions are reasonably held — for an account of this kind will be most in agreement with the observed facts. And it turns out that the contrarieties persist only if what is said is in one sense true and in another sense not. There is also a puzzle as to whether it is the pleasant or the good that is the object of love. For if we love what we desire, and erotic love above all is of this kind (for "there is no lover who does not love forever" — Euripides, Troades 1051)
5| — and desire is of the pleasant, then in this respect the object of love is the pleasant; but if it is what we wish, the object of love is the good. And the pleasant and the good are different things. About these matters, then, and the others akin to them, we must try to draw distinctions, taking the following as our starting point. What is an object of desire and of wish is either the good or the apparent good. That is why the pleasant, too, is an object of desire, since it is a kind of apparent good. To some it seems good, and to others it appears good even when it does not seem so — for imagination and opinion are not located in the same part of the soul. That both the good and the pleasant are objects of love, however, is clear. Now that this has been settled, we must take up a further assumption. Of goods, some are goods without qualification, while others are goods for someone, but not without qualification; and the same things are both good without qualification and pleasant without qualification. For we say that the things beneficial to a healthy body are goods for the body without qualification, while the things beneficial to a sick body are not — for example, medicines and surgical incisions. Likewise, the things pleasant to the body without qualification are those pleasant to a healthy and sound body, such as seeing in the light rather than in the dark — though for someone with inflamed eyes it is the opposite. And the more pleasant wine is not the one that pleases a palate ruined by heavy drinking, since people do not pour vinegar into such a palate either, but the wine judged pleasant by an uncorrupted sense of taste.
6| [1236a] The same holds likewise in the case of the soul: what is pleasant is not what pleases children and animals, but what pleases people in a settled condition. At any rate, when we remember both kinds of pleasure, it is the latter that we choose. And as a child or an animal stands to a person of settled condition, so the base and senseless person stands to the decent and practically wise person. To these latter, what is pleasant is what accords with their states of character, and these are the good and the fine things. Since, then, "good" is said in several ways (for we call one thing good because it is of a certain quality, and another good because it is beneficial and useful), and since, further, the pleasant is in one sense pleasant and good without qualification, and in another sense pleasant and an apparent good for someone — just as, in the case of inanimate things, it is possible for us to choose and love something for each of these reasons, so too with a human being. For we love one person because he is of a certain quality and on account of virtue, another because he is beneficial and useful, and another because he is pleasant and on account of pleasure. A person becomes a friend, then, whenever the one loved loves in return, and this fact does not somehow escape their notice. It necessarily follows, therefore, that there are three species of friendship, and that they are not all called friendship in a single sense, nor as species of one genus, nor yet purely by chance sharing of a name. For they are said with reference to some one and primary thing, just as "medical" is said in several senses.
7| For we speak of a medical soul, a medical body, a medical instrument, and a medical function — but the primary sense is the strict one. And the primary thing is that in which the account itself resides in us. Take, for instance, a medical instrument, which is whatever the doctor would use: the account of the instrument is not contained in the account of the doctor. Now everywhere the search is for the primary thing; but because the primary thing is universal, people take the primary thing to be a universal too, and this is false. And so, in the case of friendship as well, they are unable to account for all the observed facts. For when a single account does not fit, some suppose that the other kinds of friendship do not exist at all; but they do exist, only not in the same way. Others, when the primary kind of friendship does not fit some case, say — on the assumption that, if it were primary, it would be universal — that the other kinds are not friendship at all; yet there are many species of friendship. This has already emerged from what has been said, since friendship has been distinguished as spoken of in three ways. One kind is distinguished by virtue, another by the useful, and another by the pleasant. Of these, the friendship based on the useful is the friendship of the majority of people (for people love one another because they are useful, and only up to that point — as the proverb says, "Glaucus, an ally is a man so long as he fights; the Athenians no longer recognize the Megarians" — an anonymous elegiac fragment, no. 6 Bergk)
8| — and the friendship based on the pleasant belongs to the young (for they have a perception of this; that is why the friendship of the young is prone to change, since as their characters change with their age, what is pleasant to them changes too); while the friendship based on virtue belongs to the best people. [1236b] It is clear from this that the primary friendship, the friendship of good people, is a mutual loving and a mutual choosing directed at one another. For what is loved is a friend to the one who loves it, but the one who loves is a friend only if he is also loved in return and loves in return. Now this kind of friendship exists only among human beings (for only a human being perceives choice); but the other kinds exist also among animals, and even usefulness appears to be present to a small extent both toward human beings in domesticated animals and among animals toward one another — as Herodotus says of the plover and the crocodile, and as diviners speak of birds sitting together or apart. And base people, too, could be friends with one another both on account of the useful and on account of the pleasant. Some say that, because the primary kind of friendship is not present in them, they are not friends at all — for the base person will wrong the base person, and those who are wronged do not love one another. Others say that they do love one another, only not with the primary kind of friendship, since nothing prevents the other kinds. For people put up with one another for the sake of pleasure even while being harmed, so long as they lack self-control; and even those who love one another for the sake of pleasure do not seem to be friends either, when the question is examined with precision, because this is not the primary kind of friendship. For that kind is stable, while this kind is unstable.
9| But this is indeed, as has been said, friendship, though not that primary friendship, but derived from it. Now to speak of the friend only in that primary sense does violence to the observed facts, and forces us into paradoxical statements; but to give a single account covering all cases is impossible. It remains, then, to say this: that in one sense the primary friendship alone is friendship, and in another sense all the kinds are, not as things that merely share a name and bear no relation to one another, nor yet as falling under a single species, but rather as all related to one thing. Now since what is good without qualification and what is pleasant without qualification are the same thing and coincide, unless something impedes this, and the true friend is also the primary friend without qualification, and such a friend is one who is chosen for his own sake, for himself (and he must be of this kind: for just as one wishes goods to exist for one's own sake, so one must also choose that one exist oneself), the true friend is also pleasant without qualification; that is why even the friend of any lesser kind is thought pleasant. But we must draw a further distinction on this point; it presents a difficulty: is it what is good for oneself, or what is good without qualification, that is the object of friendship, and is loving in actuality accompanied by pleasure, so that what is loved is also pleasant, or not? For both must be brought together into the same account: things that are not good without qualification but bad without qualification are, as chance has it, to be avoided;
10| and what is not good for a given person is nothing to him, but this is exactly what is under investigation: that things good without qualification should be good in this way. For what is choiceworthy is the good without qualification, but what is good for a given person is his own good:
11| [1237a] and these two need to be brought into agreement. And virtue does this; and political science aims at this too, that this agreement should come to exist in those who do not yet have it. A man who is well set up and already advanced along the road has this by nature (for the things good without qualification are by nature good for him), and likewise a man rather than a woman, and one well-endowed by nature rather than one ill-endowed; and the road runs through the pleasant: the fine things must of necessity be pleasant. But when this is not in accord, he is not yet good in the complete sense; for it is possible for lack of self-control to arise in him: since it is precisely when the good is at odds with the pleasant among the affections that lack of self-control occurs. So then, since the primary friendship is in accordance with virtue, such people will themselves also be good without qualification. And this is not because they are useful, but in another way: for what is good for this particular person and what is good without qualification are two different things. And it is the same with what is advantageous as it is with states of character. For what is advantageous without qualification is different from what is fine in this sense — as exercising is different from taking medicine. So too the state of character that is a human being's virtue is affected in the same way. Let the man in question be one of those good by nature: for the virtue of the man good by nature is good without qualification, but the virtue of the man not of that sort is good only for him. And the pleasant is the same way. Here we must pay close attention, and inquire whether friendship without pleasure is possible, and what the difference is, and in which of the two loving properly consists, and whether it is because a man is good, even if not pleasant, that we love him, and not for this other reason — since loving is spoken of in two ways — or whether the good in actuality never appears without pleasure.
12| It is clear that, just as in the case of knowledge, the most recent instances of study and learning are especially perceptible through the pleasure they give, so too are recognitions of familiar people, and the account is the same in both cases. At any rate, by nature what is good without qualification is pleasant without qualification, and to those for whom it is good, it is pleasant. That is why like things straightway delight one another, and for a human being nothing is more pleasant than a human being. So that since this holds even for someone incomplete, clearly it holds still more for one who has been brought to completion: and the good man is complete. And if loving in actuality with pleasure is a mutual choice arising from recognizing one another, clearly friendship in the primary sense, taken as a whole, is a mutual choice of things good and pleasant without qualification, because they are good and pleasant. This friendship is a state of character from which such a choice proceeds. For its function is an activity, and this activity is not external but is in the very person who loves, whereas every capacity is directed outward: for it lies either in another thing, or in the agent insofar as he is other than himself. That is why loving is a form of enjoyment, but being loved is not. For being loved is an activity of the object of love, while loving is also an activity of friendship; and the one occurs in an ensouled being, the other occurs even in an unensouled thing: for even inanimate things are loved. But since loving in actuality is making use of the thing loved in so far as it is loved,
13| [1237b] and the friend is loved by the friend qua friend, and not qua musical or qua skilled in medicine, the pleasure, then, that comes from him qua himself, is the pleasure proper to friendship. For it is him one loves, not because he is something else. So that unless one takes delight in him qua good, it is not the primary friendship. And none of his accidental attributes ought to stand in the way, any more than his goodness ought to be required to give delight. For what is left, if he happens to smell extremely bad? He is cherished for his goodwill, though one does not live together with him. This, then, is the primary friendship, which everyone agrees is friendship; the other kinds are both taken to be friendship, and disputed as such, because of this one. For friendship is thought to be something stable, and this alone is stable. For what has been judged is stable, and things that do not come about quickly or easily do not make the judgment a correct one. And friendship cannot be stable without trust, and trust does not come about without time. For one must have made trial, as Theognis also says: "You could not know the mind of a man, nor of a woman, until you had tried them, as you would a beast of burden." (Theognis, 125f.) Nor does a person become a friend without time; rather, people merely wish to be friends, and this state most of all passes unnoticed as being friendship. For when people are eager to be friends, because they perform all the offices of friendship for one another, they think that they are not merely wishing to be friends, but already are friends.
14| But what happens in other cases happens in the case of friendship too: for it is not the case that people are healthy just because they wish to be healthy, so neither, if people wish to be friends, are they thereby already friends. Here is a sign of it: people disposed in this way without trial are easily slandered; for concerning matters on which they have given one another proof, they are not easily slandered, but concerning matters on which they have not, they would be persuaded whenever their detractors bring forward plausible tokens. At the same time it is also clear that this friendship does not occur among base people: for the base and ill-natured man is distrustful toward everyone, since he measures others by himself. That is why good people are more easily deceived, unless their distrust rests on actual trial. Base people choose the things naturally good in preference to a friend, and none of them loves a human being more than things. So they are not friends. For among such people things do not become common property the way they do among friends; for the friend is attached to the things, not the things to the friend. The primary friendship, then, does not occur among many people, because it is difficult to make trial of many; for one would need to live together with each of them. Nor should one choose in the same way concerning a cloak and concerning a friend; and yet in all matters it seems that the man of sense ought to choose the better of two things, and if he has long used the worse and not yet the better, he ought to choose the better one — yet one should not do this in place of a friend of long standing, taking an unknown person instead simply because he might be better:
15| [1238a] for a friend does not come about without trial, not even in a single day, but time is required. That is why the "bushel of salt" has passed into a proverb. At the same time, a person must not only be good without qualification, but good for you as well, if indeed he is to be a friend who is a friend to you. For a man is good without qualification by being good, but he is a friend by being good for another; and he is both good without qualification and a friend when these two coincide, so that what is good without qualification is also good for this other person — even if he is not good without qualification but virtuous, he may still be good for another because he is useful. And being a friend to many people at once, and loving many at once, are hindered by the same thing: for it is not possible to be active toward many people at once. From these considerations, then, it is clear that it is rightly said that friendship belongs among stable things, just as happiness belongs among self-sufficient things. And it is rightly said, "For it is nature that is stable, not wealth." (Euripides, Electra 941) But it would be far better to say that virtue is more stable than nature, and that time is said to reveal the person loved, and misfortunes reveal him more than good fortunes do. For then it becomes clear that the possessions of friends are held in common — for these people alone, instead of the things good by nature and bad by nature, over which good fortune and bad fortune turn, choose the human being over having some of these things and not having others:
16| Misfortune reveals those who are not truly friends, but became friends merely for the sake of usefulness. Time reveals both kinds: for the useful friend is not quickly apparent, but the pleasant friend more so. Except that not even the friend who is pleasant without qualification is quickly apparent. For people are like wines and foods: in their case too, what is pleasant becomes apparent quickly, but as more time passes it turns out unpleasant and not sweet — and it is the same with human beings. For what is pleasant without qualification must be defined by its end result and by time. The majority too would agree — not from outcomes alone; rather, as in the case of a drink, they call it 'sweeter': for this is not pleasant on account of its outcome, but because of its lack of continuity, and it is the first taste that deceives. The primary friendship, then — the one for the sake of which the others are so called — is friendship based on virtue, and it is for the pleasure that virtue gives, as has been said before. The other friendships arise also among children, animals, and base people. Hence the saying: 'age delights age' and 'the base man is fused to the base by pleasure' (Euripides, fragment 298, Bellerophon). For it is possible for base people to be pleasant to one another too — not insofar as they are base, or as neither of the two is base, but, say, because both are singers, or because one is a lover of song and the other a singer, and insofar as everyone has some good in them, and it is in that respect that they fit together with one another:
17| Further, they could be useful and beneficial to one another, not without qualification but in relation to their choice — or insofar as neither is base. [1238b] And it is possible for the decent person to be a friend to a base one. For he could be useful in relation to choice — the base man useful to the excellent man in relation to the choice the excellent man actually has, and the excellent man useful to the incontinent person in relation to the choice he actually has, and to the base person in relation to the choice in accordance with nature. And he will wish him goods — goods without qualification for the case where they are goods without qualification, but for that person other things on a hypothesis, in the way that poverty or illness is advantageous to him, and these for the sake of what is good without qualification — just as one wishes to drink the medicine itself: for he does not wish this for its own sake, but wishes it for the sake of something else. Further, in the ways in which people who are not excellent could also be friends to one another: for one might be pleasant not insofar as he is base, but insofar as he shares in something common, for instance if he is musical. Further, insofar as there is something decent present in everyone: for this reason some people could be sociable even with the excellent person. Or insofar as they fit each individual: for everyone has some portion of the good. These, then, are the three species of friendship; and in all of these, friendship is spoken of in a way that involves equality. For even friends based on virtue are, in a way, friends of one another in an equality of virtue. But there is another differentia among these, the friendship based on superiority — as, for example, the virtue of a god in relation to a human being. For this is a different species of friendship, and so, generally, is that of ruler and ruled, just as what is just is also different in each case:
18| For it is equal by proportion, not equal by number. Father to son belongs to this genus, and so does benefactor to the one benefited. But there are differentiae even among these themselves: the relation of father to son is different from that of husband to wife — the latter being as of ruler to ruled, the former as of benefactor to the one benefited. In these relations, being loved in return either does not apply, or does not apply in the same way. For it would be ridiculous if someone were to blame god because he is not loved in return in the same way he loves, or to blame the ruler and the ruled in that respect. For it belongs to the ruler to be loved, not to love — or to love in a different way. And the pleasure differs not at all between that of the self-sufficient man in his own possession or child, and that of the person in need, in what comes to him from another. In the same way too, among friends who are friends for the sake of usefulness and among those who are friends for the sake of pleasure, some are on a basis of equality, others on a basis of superiority. Hence those who think in that way make complaints if their friends are not equally useful and do not benefit them equally — and the same happens in the case of pleasure. This is clear in erotic relationships: for this is often the cause of their fighting with one another. For the lover does not realize that the same account does not apply to both of them regarding their eagerness.
19| Hence the beloved thinks he has found grounds for a quarrel; such things a person not in love would say. But others suppose that the same account applies to both. [1239a] As has been said, then, there being three species of friendship — based on virtue, based on usefulness, and based on pleasure — these in turn are divided into two. For some are on the basis of equality, others on the basis of superiority. Both, then, are friendships, but it is those on the basis of equality who are friends in the strict sense: for it would be strange for a grown man to be called a friend to a small child, and yet he does love and is loved. In some cases the superior party must be loved, but if he loves, he is reproached for loving someone unworthy of it. For the worth of friends is measured, and by a certain equality. Some, then, are unworthy of being loved equally because of a deficiency in age, others because of virtue, birth, or some other such superiority. The superior party is always thought entitled to love either less or not at all — in the case of usefulness, in the case of pleasure, and in the case of virtue alike. In cases of small superiority, then, disputes reasonably arise (for the small carries no weight in some cases, as with the weighing of wood, but it does with gold; yet people judge the small badly — for what is one's own good appears large because it is near, while what belongs to another appears small because it is far off): but when the excess is great, people themselves no longer seek to be loved in return as they ought, or to be loved in return equally — as, for instance, if someone were to make such a claim on god.
20| It is clear, then, that people are friends in the strict sense when they are on an equal footing, but loving in return can exist without their being friends. It is also clear why people seek the friendship based on superiority more than the one based on equality: for in that way they get, at once, both being loved and superiority. Hence the flatterer is, in some people's eyes, held in higher honor than the friend: for he makes both things appear to belong to the one being flattered. This is especially true of those who love honor: for being admired belongs to superiority. By nature, some people turn out to be fond of loving, others fond of honor. The one fond of loving is the person who takes more delight in loving than in being loved; the one fond of honor delights more in being loved. The one, then, who delights in being admired and loved is a friend of superiority; the one who delights in the pleasure of loving is the person fond of loving. For loving is necessarily present in one who is active, whereas being loved is accidental: for it is possible to be loved without knowing it, but not to love without knowing it. And in respect of friendship itself, loving belongs to the friend more than being loved does, while being loved belongs rather to what is lovable. Here is a sign: a friend, if he could not have both, would choose to know rather than to be known — as women do in cases of substituted children, and as Antiphon's Andromache does.
21| For wanting to be known seems to be for one's own sake, and for the sake of receiving some good rather than doing one, while wanting to know is for the sake of acting and of loving. [1239b] For this reason we praise those who persist in loving even toward the dead: for they know, but are not known in return. It has been stated, then, that there are several ways of being friendship, and how many ways — that there are three — and that being loved and loving in return differ, as do friends on the basis of equality from those on the basis of superiority. But since 'the dear' is also spoken of in a still more universal sense, as was said at the outset, by those who bring in considerations from outside (for some say that like is dear to like, others that the opposite is), we must also say how these views stand in relation to the kinds of friendship we have described. Now the claim about the like is traced back both to the pleasant and to the good. For the good is simple, while the bad is many-shaped. And the good man is always alike and does not change in character, while the base and senseless man is not at all the same in the morning as in the evening. Hence, unless base people come to an agreement, they are not friends to one another, but drift apart; and friendship that is not stable is not friendship. So in this way like is dear to like, because the good is alike; but in a way this holds also with respect to the pleasant — for the same things are pleasant to like people, and each thing is by nature pleasant to itself.
22| That is why voices and states of character and spending the day together are most pleasant for creatures of the same kind to one another, and this holds for the other animals too. And in this way it is possible even for base people to be fond of one another. For a bad person is fused to a bad person by pleasure. But the contrary is dear to the contrary as what is useful, since like is useless to like itself. That is why a master needs a slave and a slave a master, and a woman and a man need each other, and the contrary is pleasant and desired as useful, and not as an end but as tending toward the end. For when someone gets what he desires, he is at the end, but he no longer reaches out for the contrary — for instance, the hot no longer reaches for the cold, nor the dry for the wet. Yet in a way the friendship of contraries too is a friendship of the good. For they reach out for each other because of the mean between them: they reach for each other as tallies do, because in this way a single mean comes to be out of both. Further, it belongs to the contrary accidentally, but to the mean in its own right. For contraries do not reach out for one another, but for the mean. For those who have been chilled too much, if they are warmed, are settled into the mean, and those who have been overheated, if they are cooled — and likewise in the other cases. If not, they are always in a state of desire, not in the mean states.
23| But the one who is in the mean rejoices without desire in what is pleasant by nature, whereas those others rejoice in everything that removes them from their natural state. Now this form is found even among the inanimate; but friendliness comes about only when it occurs among the animate. [1240a] That is why sometimes people take pleasure in their unlikes — for example, the austere in the witty, and the sharp-tempered in the easygoing. For they are settled into the mean by one another. So it is accidentally, as was said, that contraries are dear, and it is because of the good. How many forms of friendship there are, then, and what the differences are in virtue of which people are called friends, and lovers, and beloved, and are friends in this way even without this — this has been stated. But whether a person is a friend to himself or not admits of much investigation. For it seems to some that each person is a friend to himself most of all, and using this as a standard they judge friendship toward other friends. But according to the accounts and what is thought to hold of friends, some things run contrary, while others appear to be alike. For this friendship is in a way one of analogy, but not without qualification. For being loved and loving are divided between two parties; on account of which a person is more properly a friend to himself in the way it has been said the incontinent and the continent person are, whether willingly or unwillingly, in that the parts of the soul stand in a certain relation to one another — and all such questions are alike: whether one is a friend and an enemy to oneself, and whether one can do injustice to oneself.
24| For all these things occur in two parties that are divided; so, insofar as the soul too is in a way two, these predicates apply to it, but insofar as it is not divided, they do not apply. From one's disposition toward oneself the remaining ways of loving have been marked off, as we are accustomed to examine in our discussions. For a friend seems to be one who wishes for someone the things that are good, or that he thinks are good, not for his own sake but for that other person's sake. In another way, a friend is one for whom a person wishes existence for that other's sake and not his own, even if he is not the one distributing the goods — such a person would seem to be a friend most of all, not by wishing existence to this other for his own sake. In another way, a friend is one with whom a person chooses to live together for the sake of the association itself and not for the sake of something else — as fathers wish existence to their children, but live together with others. Now all these ways conflict with one another. For some do not think they are loved unless the wish is for what is theirs, others unless it is for their existence, others unless it is for living together. Further, we shall posit that sharing in another's pain, not for the sake of something else, is a mark of affection — as when slaves feel for their masters, because their masters are harsh when in pain, but not for the masters' own sake — the way mothers feel for their children, and birds that share in one another's labor pains.
25| For the friend wants, above all, not merely to share the pain with his friend, but to feel the very same pain — for example, to thirst along with one who thirsts, if that were possible — because that is nearest to it. The same account holds for rejoicing too: rejoicing not for the sake of something else, but for that other person's sake, because he rejoices, is a mark of friendliness. [1240b] Further, such things as these are said about friendship: that friendship is equality, and that true friends are not one soul. All these are referred back to the single person. For a person wishes the good things for himself in this way too. For no one benefits himself for the sake of something else, nor for gratitude. Nor does he say that he did it insofar as he is one; for the one who makes it plain that he loves, rather than actually loving, seems to want to be loved. And existence most of all, and living together, and rejoicing together, and sharing pain together, and indeed being one soul, and being unable even to live without one another, but dying together — for that is how the single person is, and he perhaps keeps company with himself. All these things belong to the good person in relation to himself. For in the base person there is discord, as in the incontinent. And on this account it seems possible for a person to be an enemy to himself as well; but insofar as he is one and undivided, he is an object of desire to himself. Such is the good person, and the friend in accordance with virtue, since the wicked person is not one but many, and is different even within the same day, and unstable. So that his friendship toward himself too is traced back to the friendship of the good person.
26| For it is because in some way he is alike and is one, and is good to himself, that in this respect a person is a friend and an object of desire to himself; and it is by nature that he is such, while the wicked person is contrary to nature. The good person neither reproaches himself at the same time as he does something, as the incontinent does, nor does his later self reproach his earlier self, as the person given to regret does, nor his earlier self his later self, as the liar does. And in general, if one must draw distinctions as the sophists do, just as Coriscus and good Coriscus are distinct — for it is clear that the same person is good to some degree, since when people accuse themselves they kill themselves; yet every man seems to be good to himself. The person who is good without qualification seeks also to be a friend to himself, as has been said, because he has within himself two elements which by nature wish to be friends and which it is impossible to tear apart. That is why in the case of a human being each person seems to be a friend to himself, but not in the case of the other animals — for example, a horse is not, then, a friend to itself. Nor are children, until they already have choice; for it is only then that the intellect is at discord with appetite. The friendship a person has toward himself resembles friendship in virtue of kinship: for neither relation is in one's own power to dissolve, but even if kinsmen fall out, they are nonetheless still kinsmen, and a person is still one, as long as he lives.
27| In how many senses, then, loving is spoken of, and that all friendships are traced back to the primary one, is clear from what has been said. [1241a] It is proper to this inquiry to consider also concord and goodwill. For to some it seems these are the same thing, to others that they do not occur apart from each other. Goodwill is neither wholly other than friendship nor the same as it. For since friendship is divided into three kinds, goodwill belongs neither to the useful kind nor to the kind based on pleasure. For if it is because someone is useful that a person wishes him the good things, he would be wishing them not for that other's sake but for his own; but it seems that goodwill, just like friendship, is not goodwill toward the one who is well-wished for its own sake, but for the sake of the one it benefits — well then, if goodwill were present in the friendship of the pleasant, people would feel goodwill even toward inanimate things. So it is clear that goodwill has to do with ethical friendship. But of the one who feels goodwill, only wishing is required, whereas of the friend, also doing what he wishes. For goodwill is a starting point of friendship: for every friend is well-disposed, but not everyone well-disposed is a friend. For the one who merely feels goodwill resembles someone just beginning, and that is why it is a starting point of friendship, but not friendship. For friends seem to be of one mind, and those of one mind seem to be friends. But friendly concord is not about everything, but about the things practicable for those who are of one mind, and whatever tends toward living together — and it is not merely a matter of thought or of desire alone (for it is possible to desire the contraries of what one thinks, as happens when this is at discord in the incontinent person); rather, one must be of one mind in accordance with choice, not in accordance with desire.
28| Concord concerns good things: base people, at any rate, when they choose and desire these same goods, harm one another. And concord too, it seems, is not spoken of in a single sense, any more than friendship is: rather, there is a primary kind, good by nature, and this is why base people cannot have concord with one another; and there is another kind, in accordance with which even base people are in concord, whenever they have the same choice and desire for the same things. But they must desire the same things in such a way that it is possible for both to have what they desire. For if they desire something of a kind that cannot belong to both, they will fight; but people in concord do not fight. There is concord when the same choice holds concerning ruling and being ruled — not that each of the two should rule, but that the same one should. And concord is political friendship. Let this much be said, then, about concord and goodwill. A puzzle arises as to why those who have done a benefit love those who received it more than those who received the benefit love those who did it. Yet it seems that justice requires the opposite. One might suppose this happens because of what is useful and advantageous to oneself: for the one is owed something, and the other must pay it back. But this is not the whole explanation; the fact is also natural.
29| For actuality is more choiceworthy, [1241b] and the product and the actuality stand in the same ratio to one another, and the one who has been benefited is, as it were, the product of the one who did the benefit. This is why even among animals there is such concern for offspring, both to beget them and to preserve what has been begotten. And so fathers love their children (and mothers love their children more than fathers do) more than they are loved in return; and children in turn love their own offspring more than they love their parents, because activity is the best thing; and mothers love their children more than fathers do, because they think the children are their own product more than the fathers do — for people mark off the product by the difficulty of producing it, and the mother suffers more in the process of birth. Let friendship toward oneself and friendship among several people be defined in this way, then. It seems that justice is a kind of equality, and that friendship consists in equality, if it is not pointless to say that friendship is equality. All constitutions are a kind of justice: for a constitution is a community, and everything held in common is constituted by way of justice; so that as many kinds as there are of friendship, there are also of justice and of community, and all these border closely on one another and have differentiae that lie near together. But since soul stands to body, craftsman to instrument, and master to slave in a similar way, there is no community between these.
30| For here there are not two parties, but one is one thing, and the other is nothing belonging to that one. Nor is the good divisible between the two, but the good of both belongs to the one for whose sake it exists. The body, after all, is an instrument fused by nature to its owner, and a slave functions for his master rather like a limb, a tool that happens to be removable, whereas a tool functions like a slave that has no soul. The other communities are either a part of the communities of the city, such as that of clansmen or of religious associations, or else associations formed for the sake of making money, which are constitutions of a kind as well. All constitutions coexist within households, both the correct ones and their deviations (for the same thing holds here as with musical modes and with the constitutions found in cities): the kingly constitution is that of the one who begot the children, the aristocratic is that of husband and wife, and the constitutional (polity) is that of brothers; the deviation from these is tyranny, oligarchy, and democracy respectively. So many, then, are the kinds of justice as well. And since equality is of two kinds, one by number and one by proportion, there will also be kinds of justice, of friendship, and of community corresponding to these. For the democratic community and comradely friendship are by number, since they are measured by the same standard; but the aristocratic community, which is best, and the kingly, are by proportion.
31| For what is just is not the same for the one who exceeds and the one who is exceeded, but rather what is proportionate. And friendship is the same way between father and child, and in communities the manner is the same. [1242a] Friendships are called kin-friendship, comradely friendship, and communal friendship, the last also called political friendship. Kin-friendship has many kinds: one is like that of brothers, another like that of father and sons (for the paternal kind is by proportion, while that of brothers is by number, since this kind lies close to comradely friendship — for here too people claim a privilege of seniority). Political friendship is constituted especially in accordance with usefulness. For people seem to come together because they are not self-sufficient, though they would come together also for the sake of living together. Political friendship alone, and the deviation from it, are not only friendships, but their members also share a community with one another as friends do; the other kinds rest on superiority. What is just is found most of all in the friendship of the useful, because this is what political justice is. For a saw and a craft come together in a different way, not for the sake of anything held in common (for one is like an instrument, the other like a soul), but for the sake of the one who uses it. Yet it also turns out that the instrument itself receives a kind of care, a care that is proportionate to its work; for it exists for the sake of that work. And being a drill has a double sense, of which the more authoritative is the activity, namely boring. And in this class fall body and slave, as has been said before.
32| To inquire how one should associate with a friend is to inquire into something just. For, speaking generally, everything just is directed toward a friend. For what is just concerns certain people who share something in common, and a friend is one who shares something in common — one shares in kinship, another in life together. For man is not only a political animal but also a household-managing animal, and he does not pair off at some chance time with whatever female or male happens along, the way the other animals do — (the text is corrupt here) — but man is a communal animal toward those with whom he has a natural kinship. So there is community, and something just, even where there is no city; and a household is a kind of friendship. The friendship of master and slave is the same as that of craft and instruments and of soul and body; friendships of this kind are neither friendships nor forms of justice, but analogous to these, just as what is healthful is not just but analogous to it. The friendship of wife and husband is as something useful, and is a community; that of father and son is the same as that of a god toward a man, and of one who has done a benefit toward the one who received it, and in general of the one who rules by nature toward the one who is ruled by nature. But the friendship of brothers toward one another is especially of the comradely kind, the kind based on equality: 'For I was not shown to be a bastard in this man's eyes: the same father was called father of us both — Zeus my ruler.'
33| (citation: Sophocles, fr. 755 in Jebb and Pearson; 684 in Nauck) These words, in fact, are spoken by people seeking equality. [1242b] This is why the principles and sources of friendship, of political community, and of justice are found first in the household. Since there are three kinds of friendship — based on virtue, based on usefulness, based on pleasure — and each of these has two variants (for each of them holds either by superiority or by equality, and what is just concerning them is clear from the claims of those in dispute), in the kind based on superiority what is claimed is the proportionate share, but not in the same way by both parties: rather, the one who exceeds claims the proportion inversely, so that what comes from the lesser party stands to what comes from himself as he himself stands to the lesser one — disposed as a ruler toward the ruled; but if not this, then he claims what is equal by number. And indeed this is what happens in other communities as well. For sometimes people share equally by number, sometimes by ratio. For if they contributed an equal amount of money, they also receive an equal amount by the same number; but if not an equal amount, they receive proportionately. The one who is exceeded, on the contrary, reverses the proportion, and joins the terms crosswise. In this way it would seem that the one who exceeds comes off worse, and that friendship and community become a kind of public service he performs. Something else, then, is needed to equalize the parties and make the proportion work out.
34| This is honor — the very thing that belongs, by nature, to the ruler and to god in relation to the one ruled. The gain must be made equal to the honor. Friendship on equal terms is political friendship. Political friendship is based on usefulness, and just as cities are friendly to one another, so too are citizens; and in the same way — 'Athenians no longer recognize Megarians' (an anonymous elegiac fragment, no. 6, Bergk) — citizens too no longer recognize each other once they are no longer useful to one another, but friendship then passes from hand to hand. Here too there is a ruler and a ruled, but it is neither the natural kind of rule nor the kingly kind, but the kind that rules by turns, and not for the sake of the god's doing well by it, but so that the good and the service may be made equal. Political friendship, then, wants to rest on equality. Of the friendship of usefulness there are two species, the legal and the ethical. Political friendship looks to what is equal and to the matter itself, as sellers and buyers do. Hence the saying: 'a wage for a dear friend' (Hesiod, Works and Days 371). Now when this political friendship rests on an explicit agreement, it is legal; but when the parties entrust the terms to each other's discretion, it wants to be ethical friendship, the friendship of comrades.
35| That is why complaint arises most of all in this kind of friendship, and the cause is that it goes against nature. For the friendship of usefulness and the friendship of virtue are different things; but people who want to have both at once associate with one another for the sake of usefulness, [1243a] while making it out to be ethical, as if they were decent people — hence, as though they trusted one another, they do not make it legal. For in general the friendship of usefulness produces the most complaints of the three (virtue-friendship gives no ground for complaint, since those who find each other pleasant and have already given and received part company at once; but those bound by usefulness do not dissolve their friendship right away, unless they deal with one another in the legal, comradely manner). All the same, of the friendship of usefulness, the legal kind gives no ground for complaint. Legal dissolution is measured against currency (for equality is measured by this), while the ethical kind is voluntary. That is why in some places there is a law that those who deal with one another on this friendly footing should have no legal actions over voluntary transactions — and rightly so, for it is not natural for there to be justice between good people, who deal with one another as good and trustworthy. In this kind of friendship the complaints on both sides are ambiguous, as to how each party lodges his complaint, whenever they have trusted one another in the ethical rather than the legal way. And it raises a genuine difficulty which way one ought to judge what is just — whether by looking to the deed itself, how much service was rendered, or looking to what it was worth to the one who received it. For it may turn out as Theognis says: 'To you, goddess, this is a small thing, but to me a great one' (Theognis 14). But the opposite may also happen, as in the saying: to you this may be child's play, but to me it is death.
36| From this the complaints arise. For the one party claims he deserves an equal return, on the ground that he rendered great service, because he did it for someone in need, or some other such thing, measuring it by how much benefit it was capable of giving the other, but not by what it actually was to himself; the other measures it the opposite way, by how much it was worth to the other, not by how much it was worth to himself. And sometimes, shifting ground, each disputes both ways at once. The one measures by how little it turned out to cost himself; the other by how much it was capable of being worth to himself — as, for instance, if a man ran a risk and thereby did another a service worth a drachma, the one reckons by the size of the risk, the other by the sum of money, just as in the repayment of currency debts. And indeed the dispute there too concerns these same points: the one claims by what it was worth then, the other by what it is worth now, if they have not settled the terms beforehand. Now political friendship looks to the agreement and to the matter itself, while ethical friendship looks to the intention. This is why the latter is more properly justice, and this justice is friendly justice. The cause of the conflict is that ethical friendship is finer, while the friendship of usefulness is more necessary. People start out as though they were ethical friends, bound together by virtue; but when some private interest comes squarely into play, they show themselves to have been something else all along — for most people pursue what is fine only out of surplus, when they can afford it.
37| That is why they pursue the finer kind of friendship too, out of surplus. [1243b] So it is clear how these matters ought to be sorted out. If they are ethical friends, one must look to whether their intentions are equal, and neither party may claim anything further from the other beyond that. But if they are friends of usefulness and political friends, the terms are whatever they agreed would be advantageous. And if one states the agreement one way and the other states it another way, it is not fine for either to press his own claim by force — since both should state the fine (generous) account, and equally so on the other side — but since they did not settle their terms as ethical friends should, someone must judge between them, and neither party should deceive the other by playing a part he does not mean. Hence each must be content to accept his own fortune in the matter. That ethical friendship goes by intention is clear from this: even if a man, having received great benefits, fails to repay them because he lacks the means, but does as much as he can, this is honorable — just as god too accepts sacrifices offered according to the giver's capacity. But a seller will not be satisfied unless the buyer can say he is unable to give more, nor will a lender be. Many complaints arise in friendships that are not on the same straight line of exchange, and it is not easy to see what is just. For it is hard to measure with one and the same standard what does not run along the same line — as happens, for instance, in erotic relationships. For the one party pursues the other as pleasant, for the sake of living together, while the other sometimes pursues him as useful; and when the lover ceases to love, as one party changes, the other changes too, and then they reckon everything against each other — as Python and Pammenes fell out, and as teacher and pupil do (for knowledge and money are not measured by the same standard), and as the physician Herodicus did against the man who paid him too little a fee, and as the lyre-player and the king did.
38| For the one dealt with the other as with someone pleasant, the other as with someone useful; and the one, when it came time to pay, made himself out to be the pleasant one, and said that just as the other had delighted him by singing, so he in turn had made a like promise to him. All the same, it is clear how one ought to judge even in such cases: here too one must measure by a single standard, but not by a fixed unit, but by a ratio — one must measure by proportion, just as the political community itself is measured. For how will a shoemaker share a community with a farmer, unless their works are equalized by proportion? For relationships that do not lie on the same straight line, the measure is proportion — for instance, if the one complains that he gave wisdom and the other gave him money, one must set wisdom against wealth, and then ask what was given relative to each. For if the one gave half of the lesser amount, and the other did not give even a small fraction of the greater, it is plain that the second is doing wrong. And here too there is a dispute at the outset, if the one claims they came together as useful to one another, while the other denies this and says it was on the basis of some other kind of friendship.
39| [1244a] As for the friend who is good and who is a friend on the basis of virtue, one must consider whether one ought to render useful service and help to him, or rather to the one who can and will make some return. This is in fact the same problem as whether one ought to do good rather to one's friend or to the person of worth. If the same man is both friend and person of worth, the matter is perhaps not too difficult, provided one does not exaggerate the one quality and belittle the other, treating him as a very great friend but only a mildly decent person. But if this is not the case, many problems arise — for instance, if the one man was a friend but will be one no longer, while the other will be a friend but is not one yet; or if the one became a friend but is not one now, while the other is a friend now but neither was one before nor will be one — but that case is more troublesome still. Perhaps Euripides has something to say to this: 'For fine words you might bring a just wage of words, but the man who gave a deed deserves a deed' (Euripides, fragment 882, Nauck). Not everything is owed to a father — there are things owed rather to a mother, even though the father is the better parent. For not everything is sacrificed to Zeus either, nor does he hold every honor, but only certain ones. So perhaps there are things owed to the useful person, and other things owed to the good person. For instance, it does not follow that because someone provides grain and life's necessities, one must therefore also live together with him.
40| Nor, then, should the one we live together with be given what he does not himself give — that belongs to the useful friend. But those who do this, giving everything to the beloved when they ought not, are worth nothing. And the definitions of friendship given in philosophical discussions are all in some way definitions of friendship, but not of the same friendship. For to the useful friend belongs wishing him good things, and this also applies to the one who has done well by us and to the one who is of the right character (this definition does not specify which kind of friendship it is); to another belongs wishing him existence, to another living-together, and to the friend based on pleasure belongs sharing pain and sharing joy. All these definitions are stated in reference to some friendship, but none applies to a single kind. That is why they are many, and each seems to be the definition of one friendship, though it is not — for instance, the choice that wishes the friend to exist. For indeed the superior friend, and the one who has done well by another, also wishes his own work to endure; and one must repay the one who gave us our existence — but living-together belongs not to this one, but to the pleasant friend. Some friends wrong one another, for it is the things involved that they love more, and not the person who has them. That is why a man loves those people too, just as he chooses wine because it is pleasant, and chooses wealth because it is useful —
41| — because it is more useful. For that reason one should not be indignant, as if he had chosen the greater good over the lesser. But some do bring accusations against their friends: for they are now looking for the friend as good, though earlier they had looked for him as pleasant or as useful. [1244b] We must also examine self-sufficiency and friendship, to see how they stand in relation to each other's powers. For one might raise the puzzle whether, if a man were self-sufficient in every respect, there will be a friend for him. If a friend is sought on account of need, and the good man will be most self-sufficient — since the happy man is the one who is happy through virtue — what need would he have of a friend? For the self-sufficient man needs neither useful people, nor people who give delight, nor living-together, since he is sufficient company for himself. This is most evident in the case of god: for it is clear that, needing nothing further, he will not need a friend either, nor will he have need even of a master. So the happiest man too will have the least need of a friend, except insofar as it is impossible for him to be wholly self-sufficient. It follows of necessity that the man who lives best has the fewest friends, and that they grow ever fewer, and that he does not take pains to have friends, but is indifferent not only to useful ones but even to those choiceworthy for living-together. And yet, at that very point, it would seem clear that the friend exists not for the sake of use nor of benefit, but that only the friend loved for virtue's sake is truly a friend. For when we are in need of nothing, it is then that everyone seeks those to share enjoyment with, and seeks those to confer benefit on rather than those who will benefit them. And we have better judgment when we are self-sufficient than when we are in need — which is exactly when we most need friends worthy of living-together.
42| We must examine this puzzle to see whether part of it is stated correctly while part escapes notice because of the comparison being made. It becomes clear once we grasp what living in actuality is, and grasp it as an end. It is clear, then, that this is perceiving and knowing, so that living-together too is perceiving-together and knowing-together. Now perceiving oneself and knowing oneself is most choiceworthy for each person, and it is for this reason that the desire for living is innate in all — for living must be reckoned a kind of knowing. If, then, one were to cut off and set apart knowing in itself, taken alone (but this escapes notice, as is written in the argument, though in the actual fact it does not escape notice), it would make no difference from knowing someone else instead of oneself — and it would be the same thing to live another's life instead of one's own. Reasonably, then, perceiving and knowing oneself is more choiceworthy. For one must combine two things together in the argument: that living is choiceworthy, and that it is good, and from these, that it belongs to such things themselves to have this nature.
43| [1245a] If, then, in such a pair of correlated columns one member is always ranked among the choiceworthy, then the knowable and the perceptible too are, generally speaking, choiceworthy by sharing in a determinate nature — so that wishing to perceive oneself is the same as wishing to be a determinate sort of thing. Since, then, we are not each of these things in ourselves, but by participation in the respective powers, in perceiving or knowing (for the one who perceives becomes perceptible in this respect and by this — in the way, and to the extent, and of the object of which he previously perceives — and the one who knows becomes known by knowing) — for this reason one always wishes to live, because one always wishes to know, and this because one wishes oneself to be the object known. Now to choose living-together might seem, on examination, somewhat foolish — first with regard to what is shared even with the other animals, such as eating together or drinking together: for what difference does it make whether these things happen to people who are near one another or apart, if you take away speech? But sharing in whatever speech happens to come up is another such foolish thing too; and at the same time, neither teaching nor learning is possible between self-sufficient friends — for if he is learning he himself is not as he should be, and if he is teaching his friend is not — and friendship is likeness, and likeness is what friendship requires.
44| But it certainly does appear otherwise, and indeed we all more gladly share good things with friends, each to the extent that it falls to him and of whatever best thing he is capable — but of these goods, to one it is bodily pleasure, to another the contemplation of music, to another philosophy. And one must be together with one's friend. That is why the poet says, "far-off friends are a trouble" — so that, this being so, friends ought not to be separated from one another. Hence erotic love too seems to resemble friendship: for the lover desires living-together, though not in the way he most should, but according to perception alone. The argument, then, in raising its puzzles, asserts that; but the fact plainly turns out otherwise, so it is clear that whoever raises the puzzle is somehow misleading us. We must look from here for the truth. For the friend wishes to be, as the proverb says, "another Heracles, another self." But the traits of a self are scattered, and it is difficult for them all to come to be present in one person: rather, the friend is closest kin by nature, while in body he is merely another resembling person, and in soul he is another again, and of these traits one differs from another part by part. But none the less a man wishes the friend to be, as it were, himself divided into another. So perceiving one's friend must in a way be perceiving oneself, and knowing one's friend must in a way be knowing oneself.
45| So it stands to reason that even in common pleasures, sharing enjoyment and living together with one's friend is pleasant — since perception of him always accompanies it — and more so in the more divine pleasures. The reason is that it is always more pleasant to contemplate oneself in the better good. [1245b] And this is sometimes an affection, sometimes an action, sometimes something else. And if it is pleasant to contemplate oneself living well, then likewise to contemplate one's friend living well in the same way; and in living-together they work together, and their partnership lies above all in the things directed to the end. That is why we must study together and feast together, not for the sake of food and the necessities — such gatherings seem to be true companionship, but are in fact mere enjoyments. But each person wishes to live together in that end which he is capable of attaining; and failing that, they choose above all to do well by their friends and to be well treated by them. That one ought to live together, then, and that all wish this above all, and that the happiest and best man is most of this sort, is clear. But that it did not appear so according to the earlier argument — this too happened reasonably, even though the speaker was saying true things. For though the comparison is true in its construction, the solution does not follow from it. For because god is not the sort of being who needs a friend, we suppose the same must hold of the man who is like god. And yet by this same argument, the excellent man would not even think: for god is not well off in the sense of thinking of other things, but is in a better state than to think of anything besides himself. The reason is that for us, well-being depends on something else, but for him, he himself is his own well-being.
46| Both our seeking and praying to have many friends, and at the same time saying that no one is a friend to a person with many friends, are said correctly. For if it were possible to live together with many at once and to share perception with as many people as possible, that would be most choiceworthy; but since this is very difficult, the activity of shared perception must necessarily be confined to fewer people, so that it is not only difficult to acquire many friends (for this requires testing), but also to make use of them once one has them. And sometimes we want the person we love to be away and doing well, and sometimes we want to share in the same things with him, and wanting to be together is itself a mark of friendship. For when it is possible to be together and to fare well at the same time, everyone chooses this; but when it is not possible, then, just as with Heracles, his mother would perhaps have chosen for him to be a god rather than to be with her and serve Eurystheus as a slave. One might say something similar about what the Laconian said as a joke, when someone told him, while he was being battered by a storm at sea, to call upon the Dioscuri. It seems that it belongs to the one who loves to keep his friend from sharing in hardships, while it belongs to the one who is loved to want to share in them, and both of these things happen reasonably. For nothing should be as painful to a friend as not seeing his friend; yet it seems one ought to choose not what is good for oneself. That is why lovers prevent their friends from sharing their troubles: it is enough that they themselves suffer, so that they do not appear to be looking to their own interest and to be choosing to feel pleasure while their friend is in pain.
47| [1246a] Further, there is the fact that people bear evils more lightly when they do not bear them alone. But since both faring well and being together are choiceworthy, it is clear that being together with a lesser good is in some way more choiceworthy than being apart with a greater good. But since it is unclear how much weight togetherness carries, people already disagree about this, and some think that sharing in everything together is what friendship is, and say, for instance, that it is more pleasant to dine together sharing the same things; others, however, do not want this. But if one takes extreme cases, people agree that it is better to be together faring very badly than to be apart faring very well. Something similar holds also concerning misfortunes. For sometimes we want our friends to be away and not even grieve with us, when they are not going to accomplish anything more by being present; but sometimes it is most pleasant to have them present. This apparent contradiction is quite reasonable. For it comes about on account of what was said before: because we simply avoid looking at a friend who is grieving or in a bad state, just as we avoid looking at ourselves in such a state, while seeing a friend is pleasant, like anything else among the most pleasant things, for the reason already stated — pleasant, that is, when he is not suffering, even if one is oneself suffering. So whichever of these turns out to be more pleasant tips the scale toward wanting him present or not. This also happens among worse people, and comes about for the same reason: for they are especially eager that their friends not fare well, and that they themselves not be forced to fare badly. That is why sometimes they destroy their loved ones along with themselves. For one is more keenly aware of one's own evil if one remembers that one once fared better, than if one thought one had always fared badly.
1| One might raise the puzzle whether it is possible to use each friend both for the purpose for which he is naturally suited and otherwise, and whether such use is either in its own right or accidental — for example, whether an eye can be used to see, or also, otherwise, by squinting, to look past things so that one thing appears as two. Both of these uses belong to the eye as an eye; but there is another use that is accidental, as if one were to sell it or eat it. It is the same with knowledge: one can use it both truly and to make an error, as when someone deliberately writes something incorrectly — in that case he is using his knowledge now as if it were ignorance, just as if he had turned his hand backward; and dancing-girls sometimes use the foot as a hand and the hand as a foot. If, then, all the virtues are forms of knowledge, it would be possible to use justice as one uses injustice, and so a man doing unjust acts would be acting unjustly from justice, just as errors of ignorance would be done from knowledge; but if this is impossible, it is clear that the virtues cannot be forms of knowledge. [1246b] Nor, even if it is not possible to be ignorant as a result of knowledge but only to err, and to do the same things one would do from ignorance, will such a man be acting from justice as one acts from injustice. But since practical wisdom is a form of knowledge, and something true, the same reasoning will apply to it as well:
2| for it would then be possible to act foolishly as a result of practical wisdom, and to make the very same errors as the foolish person. But if the use of each thing, as that thing, were single and simple, then people acting in this way would in fact be acting with practical wisdom. Now in the case of the other branches of knowledge, some other governing power produces the perverse turn; but what produces it for the power that governs all of them? For it can no longer be knowledge or intellect. But surely it is not virtue either, for virtue makes use of it. For the virtue of the ruling part makes use of the virtue of the ruled part. What, then, is it? Is it as when lack of self-control is called a vice of the irrational part of the soul, and the person who lacks self-control is, in a way, licentious even while possessing intellect? But if, when the appetite is strong, it perverts reason and reason calculates the opposite of what it should, then clearly, even if there is virtue in the appetitive part while there is ignorance in the rational part, the two exchange their roles. So that it will be possible to use justice both justly and badly, and practical wisdom both wisely and foolishly; and so too the opposite virtues. For it would be absurd if vice, arising at some point in the irrational part, could pervert the virtue in the rational part and make it fall into ignorance, while virtue in the irrational part, when ignorance is present in the rational part, does not in turn pervert that ignorance and make it judge with practical wisdom and choose what is needed, and again if practical wisdom in the rational part does not make the licentiousness in the irrational part act with self-control —
3| which is precisely what self-control seems to be. So there would also be a using of things with practical wisdom that stems from ignorance. But these consequences are absurd, and above all the idea of using something with practical wisdom as a result of ignorance, for we see this happening in none of the other cases — just as licentiousness does not pervert medicine or grammar. But in any case, whoever holds the ignorance, if it is opposed to virtue — since what is present is not superiority but virtue itself — is, on the whole, rather disposed toward vice when in such a condition. For indeed the unjust man can do everything the just man can do, and in general incapacity is included within capacity. So it is clear that those other states are at once practically wise and good, and the Socratic saying is correct, that nothing is stronger than practical wisdom. But in saying that it was knowledge, he was not correct; for it is virtue, and not knowledge, but another kind of cognition. But since it is not only practical wisdom and virtue that produce success,
4| [1247a] but we also say that fortunate people fare well, on the assumption that good fortune too produces success, and produces the same effects as knowledge, we must examine whether one person is by nature fortunate and another unfortunate, or not, and how matters stand concerning these things. For we see that there are indeed some people who are fortunate. Though they are foolish, they succeed in many things in which chance is decisive; and further, also in things where there is a craft, but where a great deal of chance is nevertheless present too, such as generalship and navigation. Are such people fortunate, then, because of some state they possess, or is it not through their own being of a certain kind that they are effective at achieving strokes of luck? For at present people think of it in this way, as though it belonged to certain people by nature: nature makes people of a certain kind, and they differ from birth, just as some are grey-eyed and others dark-eyed because having such-and-such a quality goes along with being of such-and-such a kind — so too with the fortunate and the unfortunate. For it is clear that they do not succeed by practical wisdom. For practical wisdom is not irrational, but has an account of why it acts as it does, whereas these people could not say why they succeed (for then it would be a craft); further, it is evident that, being foolish, it is not merely that they are foolish about other matters (for there would be nothing strange in that:
5| For example, Hippocrates, though he was a geometer, seemed in other respects to be stupid and senseless, and while sailing he lost a great deal of gold to the toll-collectors at Byzantium through simplicity, as they say -- but the point is that men are senseless even in the very matters in which they are lucky. For in shipowning it is not the cleverest who are lucky, but, as in a throw of dice, one man throws nothing while another throws a high score, in accordance with a nature by which he is lucky -- or through being loved, as people say, by god, and success being something that comes from outside. For example, a badly built ship often sails better, not because of itself, but because it has a good pilot; but this man is lucky in that he has, as his pilot, a good guardian spirit. But it is strange for a god or a guardian spirit to love a man of this sort rather than the best and the most practically wise man. If then success must come about either by nature or by intellect or by some superintending care, and the latter two are not the case, then the lucky would be lucky by nature. But nature, indeed, is a cause either of what is always so or of what is so for the most part, whereas luck is the opposite. If then succeeding contrary to reasonable expectation is thought to belong to luck, then, if a man is lucky through luck, the cause could not be of the sort that produces the same result always or for the most part.
6| Further, if a man succeeds or fails because he is of such-and-such a sort -- as, because he is grey-eyed, he does not see sharply -- the cause is not luck but nature; he is not lucky, then, but rather well-endowed by nature. So this would have to be said, that those we call lucky are not lucky through luck. Then they are not lucky at all: [1247b] for luck is the cause, when good luck is a cause, of good things among things that belong to luck. But if this is so, is it that there will be no luck at all, or that there will be luck, but it will not be a cause? But it is necessary both that it exist and that it be a cause. It will then be a cause of certain good things or bad things for someone. But if it must be done away with altogether, and we must say that nothing comes about from luck, but that, there being some other cause, we call it luck because we do not see that cause (which is why, in defining luck, people set it down as a cause that human calculation cannot account for, on the assumption that some nature is at work) -- this, then, would be a different problem. But since we see some people succeed by luck once, why should they not succeed again as well? It is because of bringing off one success, and then again another; for the same cause is at work. This, then, will not belong to luck; but when the same thing keeps turning out, among things unlimited and indeterminate, the result will indeed be good or bad, but there will be no knowledge of it, because of that very unlimitedness -- since otherwise some people would learn how to be lucky, or indeed all the sciences would be, as Socrates said, forms of good luck. What then prevents such things from happening to a person one after another many times in succession -- not because it must be so, but simply as it might happen that the dice always fall on the lucky throw?
7| But what then? Are there not, in the soul, impulses -- some arising from calculation, others from irrational desire, and are the latter prior? For if the desire that comes about through appetite for the pleasant is by nature, then everything would by nature tend toward the good. If, then, there are some who are well-endowed by nature -- just as there are people who cannot sing correctly by knowledge, yet are so well constituted that they are moved without reason -- their nature is so constituted that they desire this object, and at this time, and in this way, as they ought, and where they ought, and when: these people will succeed, even though they happen to be senseless and without reason, just as some people will sing well without being able to teach singing. Those of this sort are the lucky ones -- all those who, without reason, succeed for the most part. The lucky, then, would be lucky by nature. Or is good luck spoken of in more than one sense? For some things are done from impulse, by people who have chosen beforehand to act, while others are not, but the opposite. And in the case of those in which people seem to have calculated badly, we say that they succeeded and had good luck; and again, in the case of these others, we say it if they would have deliberated to the same effect, or would have gotten a lesser good. Those in the first class, then, can be lucky through nature (for the impulse and desire, being directed at what was needed, succeeded, while the calculation was foolish;
8| and in their case, whenever the calculation, though it does not seem to be correct, is nevertheless the one credited with the result, it is really luck that is the cause of it -- luck itself being, in this case, correct, and so it saved him -- though at other times, because of desire, he calculated in the same way again and also failed): but in the case of the others, how will good luck come about, in line with a natural aptitude of desire and appetite? [1248a] But surely good luck and luck in this case are twofold, and it is the same there too, or else there are several kinds of good luck. But since we observe that some people are lucky in spite of all the sciences and correct calculations, it is clear that the cause of their good luck must be something else. But is that good luck, or is it not, in which a man desired what he needed, and when he needed it, when human calculation could not account for it? For this is not entirely without reason, nor is the desire natural, but it is corrupted by something. It is thought, then, to be good luck, because luck is the cause of things that happen contrary to reason, and this is contrary to reason (for it goes against scientific knowledge and the universal); but, as it appears, it is not from luck, though it is thought to be for this reason. So this argument does not show that good luck is by nature, but that not all those who seem to be lucky succeed through luck, but rather through nature; nor does it show that luck is the cause of nothing at all, but only that it is not the cause of all the things it is thought to be. But one might raise this difficulty: is luck the cause of this very thing, of desiring what one ought and when one ought? Or will it be so of everything in this manner? For it will apply also to thinking and to deliberating:
9| for surely a man did not deliberate by already having deliberated, and deliberate this too by a prior deliberation, but there is some starting point; nor did he think by already having thought before he thought, and so on to infinity. Intellect, then, is not the starting point of thinking, nor is deliberation the starting point of deliberating. What else, then, is there besides luck? So that everything would come to be from luck. Or is there some starting point outside of which there is no other, and can this, simply by being what it is, produce a result of this kind? What is being sought is this: what is the starting point of motion in the soul? Clearly, just as in the universe as a whole it is god, so too in the soul. For the divine element in us somehow moves everything; and the starting point of reason is not reason, but something better. What, then, could be better than knowledge and intellect, except god? For virtue is an instrument of intellect. And this is why, as the ancients used to say, those are called lucky who, whatever they set out to do, succeed though they are without reason, and for whom deliberation is of no use. For they have a starting point of this sort, one better than intellect and deliberation (others have reason, but do not have this), and inspiration -- though they cannot exercise this by method. For being without reason, they hit the mark; and among these, the divination even of the practically wise and the wise is quick, and one must set aside, almost entirely, the sort that comes from reasoning; some use it through experience, others through habit in observation:
10| but these faculties belong to god. This element sees well both what is to come and what now is, and it belongs to those in whom this reason is set loose. That is why melancholic people have vivid dreams. For it seems that the starting point has more strength once reason is set loose: [1248b] and just as the blind remember better once released from attention to visible things, because the faculty of memory becomes stronger. It is clear, then, that there are two kinds of good luck: one divine (which is why the lucky man is thought to succeed on account of god), the other by nature. This latter kind operates by correcting impulse, the other kind operates apart from impulse; both kinds are without reason. And the one is the more continuous good luck, while the other is not continuous. Now, each virtue has been discussed individually before; but since we have distinguished their power separately, we must also articulate the virtue that arises out of them, which we have already called nobility-and-goodness. That the person who is truly to attain to this name must possess the individual virtues is clear. For it is not possible for it to be otherwise in any other case either. For no one is healthy in the whole body while none of its parts is healthy, but it is necessary that all, or most and the most authoritative, parts should be in the same condition as the whole. Being good, then, and being noble-and-good, are not the same only in name, but have a difference in their own right. For of all good things there are ends, which are choiceworthy for their own sake.
11| Among these, the things that are fine are all those that are praiseworthy simply for being what they are. For these are the things from which both the actions are praiseworthy and the things themselves are praiseworthy: justice itself and just actions, and temperate people, for temperance too is praiseworthy. But health is not praiseworthy, nor is its function; nor is being strong praiseworthy, nor is strength. These are goods, but not praiseworthy things. And the same is clear likewise in the other cases, by induction. A good man, then, is one for whom the things good by nature are good. For the things fought over and thought to be the greatest goods -- honor, wealth, bodily excellences, good fortune, and positions of power -- are goods by nature, but it is possible for them to be harmful to some because of their states of character. For neither a senseless man nor an unjust or licentious one would benefit at all from using them, just as a sick person does not benefit from using the diet of a healthy person, nor does a weak or maimed person benefit from the equipment of the healthy and the whole-bodied. A man is fine-and-good in that the fine things among goods belong to him for their own sake, and in that he is someone who does fine actions, and does them for their own sake. And the fine things are the virtues and the deeds that come from virtue.
12| There is a certain political state of character, of the sort the Spartans have, or others like them might have. This state is of the following kind: for there are those who think one must have virtue, but for the sake of the things good by nature.
13| [1249a] That is why such men are good -- for the things good by nature are good for them -- but they do not have fineness-and-goodness. For the fine things do not belong to them for their own sake; whereas fine-and-good men choose them for their own sake, and not only these but also things that are not fine by nature but are good by nature, which become fine for men of this kind. For things become fine whenever that for the sake of which people act and choose is fine, and this happens because for the fine-and-good man the things good by nature are fine. For the just is fine, and this is what accords with worth, and such a man is worthy of these things. And the fitting is fine, and these things are fitting for him: wealth, good birth, power. So that for the fine-and-good man the very things that are advantageous are also fine; but for most people this does not hold together. For the things that are good without qualification are not good for them in the same way, but good for the good man; whereas for the fine-and-good man they are also fine. For he has done many fine actions for their own sake. But the man who thinks he must have the virtues for the sake of external goods does fine actions only incidentally. Fineness-and-goodness, then, is complete virtue. And concerning pleasure it has been said what sort of thing it is and how it is a good, and that the things pleasant without qualification are also fine, and the things good without qualification are also pleasant. But pleasure does not arise apart from activity; and for this reason the truly happy person will also live most pleasantly, and people do not claim this without reason. Now since there is also some standard for the doctor, by reference to which he judges what is healthy for the body and what is not, and up to what point each thing is to be done while the body is still well and healthy -- and if less or more is done, it is no longer so -- in the same way, for the excellent person too, concerning actions and choices among the things good by nature but not praiseworthy, there must be some standard, both of the state of character and of the choice, and concerning avoidance
14| [1249b] and concerning abundance and scarcity of money, and concerning good fortunes. Now in what was said earlier, the standard given was 'as reason dictates'; but this is just as if someone, in discussing diet, were to say that it is as medicine, and as its reasoning, prescribes. This is true, but it is not clear. One must, then, as in the other cases too, live with reference to the ruling element, and with reference to the state of character in accordance with the activity of the ruling element -- as a slave lives with reference to his master, and each thing with reference to the rule appropriate to it. And since a human being too is by nature composed of a ruling element and a ruled element, each person ought to live with reference to his own ruling principle (and this is twofold: for the ruling principle of medicine is one thing, and health another; and the former exists for the sake of the latter) -- and this is how it stands with respect to the contemplative element. For god does not rule by giving orders, but is that for the sake of which practical wisdom gives its orders (and the 'that for the sake of which' is twofold; this has been distinguished elsewhere), since that god at any rate needs nothing. Whichever choice and possession, then, of the things good by nature -- whether of body or money or friends or the other goods -- will most produce the contemplation of god, that is the best, and that standard is the finest; and whichever, either through deficiency or through excess, prevents one from serving and contemplating god, that is bad. And the soul has this same relation, and this is the best standard for the soul: to perceive the irrational part of the soul as little as possible, insofar as it is such. Let it, then, be said what the standard of fineness-and-goodness is, and what the aim of the things good without qualification is.
1| Great Ethics, Book A. [section 1] Since we have chosen to speak about ethical matters, the first thing to consider would be what part character is a part of. To put it concisely, it would seem to be a part of nothing other than political science. For nothing can be done in political affairs without being a certain kind of person -- I mean, for example, a good person; and being good consists in having the virtues. [section 2] It is necessary, then, if someone is going to be capable of action in political affairs, that his character be good. [section 3] The inquiry concerning character is, then, as it appears, a part and a starting point of political science, but the whole undertaking would rightly, it seems to me, be named not ethics but politics. [section 4] It is necessary, then, as it appears, first to speak about virtue -- both what it is and from what it arises. For it is perhaps of no use to know virtue but not understand how it will come to be and from what. For we must not only investigate in order to know what it is, but also investigate what it will arise from. For we wish at the same time to know it and to be such ourselves; and we will not be able to do this unless we know both from what and how it will come to be.
2| [section 5] It is necessary, then, to know what virtue is (for it is not easy to know what it will arise from and how, while being ignorant of what it is -- just as with the sciences). And we must not fail to notice whether anyone earlier has spoken about these matters. [section 6] Pythagoras, then, was the first to attempt to speak about virtue, but not correctly; for by reducing the virtues to numbers he did not produce an inquiry proper to the virtues, since justice is not a number equal multiplied by equal. [section 7] After him Socrates, coming later, spoke better and at greater length about these matters, but he too was not correct. For he made the virtues into forms of knowledge, and this is impossible. For all forms of knowledge involve reason, and reason arises in the rational part of the soul; so on his view all the virtues come to be in the rational part of the soul. It follows, then, that by making the virtues forms of knowledge he does away with the irrational part of the soul, and in doing this he does away with both emotion and character. [section 8] For this reason he did not lay hold of the virtues correctly. After this Plato divided the soul correctly into the part having reason and the part without reason, and assigned to each the virtues appropriate to it. Up to this point, then, well done; but after this he was no longer correct. For he mixed virtue [and yoked it] into the inquiry concerning the good, and this was not correct; for it was not proper to the subject. For someone speaking about being as such and about truth ought not to have set out an account of virtue, for the one has nothing in common with the other.
3| [section 9] These men, then, touched upon the subject to this extent and in this way; it would follow next to consider what we ourselves ought to say about these matters. First, then, we must see that of every science and capacity there is some end, and this end is a good; for no science and no capacity exists for the sake of nothing. [section 10] If, then, of all capacities the end is some good, it is clear that the end of the best capacity would also be the best good. But surely political science is the best capacity, so that its end would be [the] good. About the good, then, as it appears, we must speak -- and not about the good without qualification, but about the good for us; for it is not the good of god we are concerned with. That question belongs to another account, and the inquiry into it is foreign to our purpose here. [section 11] We must, then, speak about the good of political science. But again this too must be divided further. About the good in which sense? For it is not a simple thing. The good is spoken of either as that which is best in each of the things that are, and this is what is choiceworthy on account of its own nature; or as that in which the other things share and so are good, and this is the Form of the good. [section 12]
4| Should we, then, speak about the Form of the good, or not, but rather about the good as the common element present in all things? For this would seem to be different from the Form. For the Form is separate and exists in its own right, whereas the common element is present in all things, and is not the same as what is separate; for what is separate and by nature exists in its own right could never be present in all things at once. [section 13] Should we, then, speak about this good that is present within things, or not? Why or why not? Because this is the common element, as both the definition and induction show; and the definition seeks to state the substance of each thing -- either that it is good, or that it is bad, or whatever else it may be; and the definition says that the good in general is of such-and-such a kind, namely whatever is choiceworthy on its own account; and the good present in all things is like the definition in this respect. [section 14] But the definition says that a thing is good, whereas no science and no capacity says of its own end that it is good -- that is a matter for another capacity to consider (for neither the doctor nor the builder says that health, or the house, is good, but rather that the one produces health, and how it does so, and the other a house).
5| [section 15] It is clear, then, that political science too should not speak about the common good [as such]. For it is itself one among the rest of the sciences, and it was not the business of any capacity or science to speak of this as an end; nor, then, is it the business of political science to speak about the common good defined by definition. [section 16] But neither is it its business to speak of the common element arrived at by induction. Why? Because whenever we wish to show that some particular good thing is good, we show it either by definition -- that the same account applies both to the good and to this thing which we wish to show is good -- or by induction, as for instance when we wish to show that magnanimity is good, we say that justice is good, and courage, and the virtues in general, and that magnanimity is a virtue, so that magnanimity too is good. [section 17] So political science should not speak about the common good arrived at by induction either, because the same impossible consequences will result for this as for the common good defined by definition. For in that case too it will simply be saying that it is good. It is clear, then, that we must speak about the best good, and about what is best for us.
6| [section 18] But on the whole one can see that it is not the business of any single science or capacity to consider the good in general. Why? Because the good exists in all the categories; for it exists in the what, and in the of-what-quality, and in the how-much, and in when, and in relative-to-something [and to-what], and in short in all of them. [section 19] But surely the good when is known in medicine by the doctor, and in the pilot's art by the pilot, and in each science by its own practitioner. For the doctor knows when one ought to operate, and the pilot knows when one ought to sail; and in each science each practitioner will know the good when that belongs to it -- for the doctor will not know when is the good time in the pilot's art, nor will the pilot know it in medicine. So the common good should not be spoken of in this way either; for the when is common to all of them. [section 20] Likewise the relative-to-something good, and the good according to the other categories, is common to all the sciences, but it is the business of no single capacity or science to speak of the good when in each particular case, nor again is it the business of political science to speak about the common good. We must, then, speak about the good -- and about the best good, and about what is best for us.
7| [section 21] Nor, when one wants to demonstrate something, should one use examples that are not clear, but rather use the clear to explain the unclear, and the perceptible to explain the intelligible; [and] these are the clearer things. So whenever someone undertakes to speak about the good, he ought not to be speaking about the Form. [section 22] And yet they think that they must, when they speak about the good, speak about the Form; for they say that one must speak about the good in the fullest sense, and that each thing is most fully [the] thing of that sort, so that the Form is the good in the fullest sense, as they suppose. [section 23] Now this argument is perhaps true; but the political science or capacity that this discussion concerns does not examine the good in that sense, but rather the good for us, [for neither any science nor any capacity, in speaking of its end, says that the end is good in that sense, so neither does political science]. Hence it does not make its argument about the good in accordance with the Form. [section 24] But perhaps [he says] someone will say that, using this good as a starting point and proceeding from it in the case of particulars, he is still not speaking correctly even so. For one must take starting points that are proper to the matter. For it would be absurd if someone, wishing to show that a triangle has angles equal to two right angles, were to take as his starting point that the soul is immortal.
8| [section 25] For that is not a proper starting point; the starting point must be proper to the matter and connected to it. But as things stand, even without the soul being immortal, he will show that the triangle has angles equal to two right angles. [section 26] In the same way, then, it will be possible to observe the other goods without reference to the good according to the Form, which shows that this is not the proper starting point for this good. And the one who did the same in the case of the virtues was not right either. For he thought that none of them ought to be in vain, but from making the virtues into forms of knowledge it followed for him that the virtues were in vain. Why? Because with the sciences it follows that whoever knows what the science is, at the same time also possesses that knowledge (for if someone knows what medicine is, he is straightway a person possessing it, and likewise with the other sciences); but this does not hold in the case of the virtues. For it is not the case that if someone knows what justice is, he is thereby just; and the same holds for the others. It follows, then, that the virtues are in vain and are not forms of knowledge. [section 1]
9| Since these points have been settled, let us try to say in how many ways goods are spoken of. For of goods, some are honored, some are praiseworthy, and some are powers. The honored is of this kind: the divine, the better, such as soul, intellect, the more ancient, the principle, and things of this sort; for the things upon which honor rests are honored, and honor attends all such things. Virtue too, then, is honored, whenever indeed someone becomes a person of excellence as a result of it; for at that point he has already arrived at the shape proper to virtue. [section 2] The praiseworthy would be the virtues as states; for it is from the actions that arise from them that praise comes about. Goods of power are such things as rule, wealth, strength, beauty; for with these the excellent person could make good use, and the base person bad use; [section 3] hence such things are called goods of power — and they are indeed goods, since each of them is judged by the use the excellent person makes of it, not the use the base person makes of it. But it happens to belong to these same goods that chance is also a cause of their coming to be. For wealth comes about by chance, and rule, and in general everything that falls into the rank of a power. [section 4] There remains, then, a fourth kind of goods as well, the kind that preserves and produces good, such as exercises that produce health, and anything else of that sort.
10| [section 5] But goods admit of yet another division too: some goods are choiceworthy in every way and altogether, others not. For example, justice and the other virtues are choiceworthy in every way and altogether, whereas strength and wealth and power and things of that sort are choiceworthy neither in every way nor altogether. And there is also another way besides: [section 6] of goods, some are ends and others are not ends — health, for instance, is an end, while the things done for the sake of health are not ends. And in all cases of this kind, the end is always better; health, for instance, surpasses the things that promote it, and quite generally, whatever the rest exist for ranks always as the superior good. Again, among the ends themselves, the complete is always better than the incomplete. [section 7] Complete is that of which, once it is present, we still need nothing further; incomplete is that of which, once it is present, we still need something more — for example, once justice [only] is present, we still need many other things, but once happiness is present, we no longer need anything further. This, then, is the best thing for us, the thing we are seeking, which is the complete end; and the complete end is the good, and the end of goods. [section 8]
11| as though it too were to be counted in along with the rest; but that is absurd. For since the best is the complete end, and the complete end, speaking simply, would seem to be nothing other than happiness, and we compose happiness out of many goods — if, then, in examining the best you also count it in with those others, it will turn out to be better than itself. For it is itself the best. Take, for example, the health-promoting things together with health, and consider which of all these is best: the best is health. If, then, this is best of them all, it is also better than itself. [section 9] An absurdity results, then. Perhaps, then, the best should not be examined in this way after all. But is it perhaps to be examined in this other way, as apart from itself? Or is this too absurd? For happiness is composed out of certain goods; and to examine whether that out of which it is composed is better than it is absurd; for happiness is not something other apart from these goods, but is these very things. [section 10] But could one perhaps rightly examine it in this way instead, by comparing the best? Namely, comparing happiness itself, being what it is out of these goods, against other things not contained within it — would examining the best this way be correct? But the best that we are now seeking is not something simple. For example, someone might say that practical wisdom is the best of all goods, when all the goods are compared one against another.
12| [section 11] But perhaps the best good ought not to be sought in this way either. For we are seeking the complete good, and practical wisdom, being only one thing on its own, is not complete; so this is not the best that we are seeking, nor is the best to be sought in this manner. [section 1] After this point, then, goods admit of another division. For of goods, some are in the soul, such as the virtues; others are in the body, such as health and beauty; and others are external, such as wealth, rule, honor, and anything else of that kind. And of these, the goods in the soul are best. [section 2] The goods in the soul are further divided into three: into practical wisdom, into virtue, and into pleasure. Now, then, what comes after this we all say — and it seems to be so — is also the end of goods and the most complete thing, namely happiness; and we say that this is the same as faring well and living well. [section 3] But the end is not simple but twofold. For in the case of some things, the end is the actuality itself and the use of it, as with sight, [this is the seeing]; and indeed the use is more choiceworthy than the state, for the use is the end. For no one would want to have sight if he were never going to see, but would rather be blind.
13| [section 4] And likewise with hearing and things of that sort. So whatever things there is both [the] use and possession of, the use is always better and more choiceworthy than the possession; for the use, the activity, is the end, while the possession exists for the sake of the use. [section 5] After this, then, if one examines this point in the case of all the crafts, one will see that there is not one house and, separately, a good house, but that the house itself, that which the builder is productive of, its virtue is the [virtue] productive of this same thing well. Likewise [and] in all the other cases. [section 1] After this, then, we observe that we live by nothing else than soul; and virtue is in the soul. Indeed we say that the same thing constitutes the soul and constitutes the virtue of the soul. But virtue does this well in each thing of which it is the virtue, while the soul does the other things too, but it is by soul that we live; so it is through the virtue of the soul that we shall live well. [section 2] And living well and acting well are nothing other than what we call being happy. So being happy, and happiness, consists in living well, and living well consists in living in accordance with the virtues, not in accordance with the vices. This, then, is the end, both happiness and the supreme good.
14| [section 3] Happiness, then, would consist in a certain use and activity. For of the things of which there was possession and use, the use, the activity, is the end; and the virtue of the soul is a possession; but there is also an activity, [the] use, of the virtues; so that the end would be the activity and the use of it; happiness, then, would consist in living in accordance with the virtues. [section 4] Since, then, happiness is the best good, and this is an end, and a complete end consists in activity, we would be happy in living in accordance with the virtues, and we would possess the best good. [section 5] But since happiness is a complete good and an end, this too must not escape notice: that it is also in something complete. For it will not be in a child (for a child is not happy), but in a man; for he is complete. Nor again is it in an indefinite time, but in a complete time. And a complete time would be as much as a person lives. And indeed it is rightly said among the many that one must judge the happy person over the greatest span of his life, on the ground that the complete thing must be complete both in a complete time and in
15| a complete person. [section 6] And that it is an activity, one could see from this too. For in sleep — for instance if someone were to sleep his whole life through — we are not at all willing to call such a person happy; for living belongs to him, but living in accordance with the virtues does not belong to him, which was the thing that consisted in activity. [section 7] After this, what is about to be said would seem neither too proper to these matters nor too far removed from them. For instance, since there is, as it seems, a certain part of the soul by which we are nourished, which we call the nutritive part (for it is reasonable that this exists; at any rate we see that stones are incapable of being nourished, so that it is clear that being nourished belongs to things that have soul; [section 8] and if it belongs to things that have soul, the soul would be the cause of it; [section 9] but of the parts of the soul, none of these would be the cause of being nourished — neither the rational part, nor the spirited part, nor the appetitive part — but some other thing besides these, to which we have no more proper name to give than the nutritive part);
16| what then, someone might say, is there also a virtue of this part of the soul? For if there is, clearly it will be necessary for it too to be active; for the activity of complete virtue is happiness. Now whether there is a virtue of this or not is another discussion; but if indeed there is, there is no activity of it. For of things of which there is no impulse, there will be no activity of these either; and there does not seem to be an impulse in this part, but it seems to be like fire. For that too will consume whatever you throw into it, but if you do not throw anything in, it has no impulse to take anything. So too does this part of the soul behave: if you throw in nourishment, it nourishes, but if you do not throw in nourishment, it has no impulse to nourish. Hence there is no activity either, where there is no impulse either. So this part contributes nothing toward happiness. [section 10] After this, then, it would be necessary to say what virtue is, since happiness is the activity of this. So to speak simply, virtue is the best possession; but perhaps it is not sufficient to speak so simply, and one must draw the distinction more clearly.
17| [section 1] First, then, one must speak about the soul, not about what the soul is (for that is another discussion), but only in outline, and divide it. The soul, as we say, is divided into two parts, the part having reason and the part without reason. In the part having reason there arise practical wisdom, quickness of understanding, wisdom, ease in learning, memory, and such things; and in the irrational part there arise these things called virtues — temperance, justice, courage, and all the other qualities of character that seem praiseworthy. [section 2] For it is in respect of these that we are called praiseworthy; but in respect of the states of [the] part having reason no one is praised. For no one is praised for being wise, nor for being prudent, nor at all in respect of any such thing. Nor indeed is the irrational part praised, except insofar as it is subservient and serves the part having reason. [section 3] Ethical virtue is destroyed by deficiency and by excess. And that deficiency and excess destroy it, one can see from ethical matters (and one must use the clear cases as evidence for the unclear ones). One can see it straightaway in the case of physical training; for when much exercise occurs, strength is destroyed,
18| and likewise when little occurs. And similarly with drink and food; for when much occurs, health is destroyed, and likewise when little; but when a due measure occurs, strength and health are preserved. [section 4] And the same thing happens likewise in the case of temperance and courage and the other virtues. For if you make someone so fearless that he fears not even the gods, he is not courageous but mad, while if he fears everything, he is a coward; so the courageous person will be neither the one who fears everything nor the one who fears nothing. The same things, then, both increase and destroy virtue. [section 5] For indeed those who fear too much, and fear everything, are destroyed, and likewise those who fear nothing at all. Courage has to do with fears, so that moderate fears increase courage. By the same things, then, courage is both increased and destroyed; for it undergoes this because of fears. And likewise too the other virtues. [section 1] But one should not define virtue only by such things, but also by pain and pleasure; for it is because of pleasure that we do base things, and it is because of pain that we abstain from fine things; and in general it is not possible to grasp virtue and vice apart from pain and pleasure.
19| [section 2] Virtue, then, is concerned with pleasures and pains. Ethical virtue gets its name from this, if one must look at the truth as it stands, speaking close to the letter of the word (and perhaps one must). For "character" gets its name from "habit"; [section 3] it is called "ethical" on account of being habituated. From this it is also clear that none of the virtues of the irrational part comes to be in us by nature; for nothing that exists by nature is altered by habituation. For example, a stone, and heavy things generally, are naturally disposed to be carried downward; so if someone throws it upward many times and accustoms it to being carried upward, it will nevertheless never be carried upward, but always downward. The same holds [and] for other such things. [section 1] After this, then, those who wish to say what virtue is must know what the things are that arise in the soul. What arise are these: affections, capacities, states; so it is clear that virtue would be one of these. [section 2] Affections, then, are anger, fear, hatred, longing, envy, pity, and the like, which pain and pleasure regularly accompany; capacities are those in virtue of which we are said to be susceptible to these, those in virtue of which we are capable of becoming angry, being pained, feeling pity, [and] such things;
20| [section 3] states are those in virtue of which we are well or badly disposed with regard to these things — for example, with regard to getting angry: if we are prone to anger to excess, we are badly disposed with regard to anger, and if we do not get angry at all over things we should, we are likewise badly disposed with regard to anger. Being in the mean, then, is neither feeling excessive distress nor being wholly unfeeling. [section 4] So when we are disposed in this way, we are well disposed. And likewise [and] with the other similar cases. For being even-tempered and gentle is a mean between irascibility and unfeelingness with regard to anger. Likewise [and] in the case of boastfulness and so on. For claiming to have more of one's possessions than one has belongs to boastfulness, and claiming less belongs to self-deprecation; so the mean between these is truthfulness. [section 1] The same holds for all the other cases as well. For this belongs to a state: being well or badly disposed with regard to these things, and being well disposed with regard to them is being disposed neither toward excess nor toward deficiency; [section 2] the state of being well disposed, then, is in relation to the mean of such things, in respect of which we are called praiseworthy, and being badly disposed is in relation to excess and deficiency. Since, then, virtue is a mean concerning these affections, and the affections are either pains or pleasures or not without pain or pleasure, virtue is concerned with pains and pleasures — and this too makes it clear.
21| [section 3] There are also other affections, as it might seem to someone, in which the vice does not lie in a certain excess and deficiency — for example, adultery and the adulterer; the more culpable adulterer is not the one who corrupts more free women. But this too, and anything else of this kind, is bound up with the pleasure that goes with self-indulgence, or else it has what is blameworthy in a deficiency and in an excess. [section 1] After this, then, it is perhaps necessary to say what is opposed to the mean — whether excess or deficiency. For to some means deficiency is contrary, to others excess: for example, to courage it is not rashness, which is an excess, but cowardice, which is a deficiency, that is contrary; but to temperance, which is a mean between self-indulgence and insensibility concerning pleasures, it does not seem that insensibility, being a deficiency, is the contrary, but rather self-indulgence, being an excess. [section 2] But in fact both are contrary to the mean, excess and deficiency alike; for the mean is more than the deficiency and less than the excess. That is why the prodigal call the generous stingy, and the stingy call the generous prodigal; and the rash and reckless call the courageous cowardly, while the cowardly call the courageous reckless and mad.
22| [section 3] It is, it would seem, for two reasons that we set excess and deficiency in opposition to the mean. Either we look at the matter itself and ask which is nearer to the mean and which farther — for example, with generosity, whether prodigality or stinginess is farther from it. Prodigality would seem more like generosity than stinginess does; stinginess is therefore farther off. [section 4] And what lies farther from the mean would seem to be more contrary to it. So on this basis, taken from the matter itself, deficiency appears more contrary. But there is also another way: whatever we are more naturally disposed toward is more contrary to the mean. For example, we are more naturally disposed to be self-indulgent than well-ordered; so our tendency runs more toward what we are naturally disposed toward, and whatever we tend toward more is also more contrary; and we tend toward self-indulgence more than toward orderliness; so excess would be more contrary to the mean than deficiency is — for self-indulgence is an excess of temperance. [section 5] What virtue is, then, has been examined (for it seems to be a kind of mean of the affections, so that anyone who is to win a good reputation for character must preserve the mean in each of the affections; that is why it is a difficult task to be good;
23| [section 6] for in each case hitting the mean is a task; anyone can draw a circle, but finding the center already within it is difficult; likewise it is easy to become angry, and easy to feel the contrary of this too, but being in the mean is difficult. In general one can see in each of the affections that what lies on either side of the mean is easy, but the mean, in respect of which we are praised, is difficult; that is why goodness is rare); [section 7] since, then, we have spoken about virtue, after this it would be the next thing to examine whether it is possible for it to come about or not — or rather, as Socrates said, whether being good or bad is not up to us at all. For if, he says, one were to ask anyone whatever whether he would wish to be just or unjust, no one would choose injustice. [section 8] And likewise with courage and cowardice and the other virtues, always in the same way. It is clear, then, that if some people are bad, they would not be bad willingly; so it is clear that they are not good willingly either. [section 9] — But this argument is not true. For why does the lawgiver not permit doing bad things, and command doing fine and good ones? And why does he impose a penalty for bad acts, if one does them, and for good acts, if one fails to do them? Yet he would be absurd to legislate about things that are not up to us to do.
24| [section 10] Rather, it seems, being good and being bad are up to us. — Further, the praise and blame that occur bear witness to this. For there is praise for virtue and blame for vice; and there is no praise or blame for what is involuntary; so it is clear that doing good things and doing bad things are equally up to us. [section 11] — They also used to offer a certain comparison of this kind, wishing to show that virtue and vice are not voluntary. For why, they say, does no one blame people when they are sick or ugly? But this is not true; for we do blame such people too, when we think them responsible for being sick or for being in bad bodily condition, which shows that the voluntary is present here as well. It seems, then, that the voluntary belongs to virtue and vice. [section 1] — One might also see this more clearly from the following. Every nature is generative of a substance of the same kind that it itself is — for example, plants and animals, since both are generative. And they generate from starting points, as the tree generates from the seed; for this is a kind of starting point. And what comes after the starting points is disposed accordingly; for as the starting points are, so too are the things that come from them. This can be seen more clearly in the case of geometry.
25| [section 2] For there too, since certain principles are taken as given, whatever the principles are, so too are the things that follow from the principles — for example, if the triangle has angles equal to two right angles, and the square to four, then however the triangle changes, the square changes along with it (for they convert with each other), and if the square does not have angles equal to four right angles, neither will the triangle have angles equal to two right angles. [section 1] So too, and in the same way, with man. Since man is generative of substance, he is also generative, from certain principles, of the actions he performs. For what else could it be? For we say that none of the soulless things act, nor any of the ensouled things other than man. It is clear, then, that man is generative of actions. [section 2] Since, then, we see that actions change, and we never do the same things, and actions are generated from certain principles, it is clear that, since the actions change, the principles of the actions, from which they come, also change — just as we said when comparing the case in geometry. [section 3] Now the principle of action, both good action and bad, is choice and wish and everything in accordance with reason. It is clear, then, that these too change. And we change in our actions voluntarily; so the principle — [and] choice — changes [for] voluntarily. So it is clear that it would be up to us to be both good and bad.
26| [section 4] — Now perhaps someone would say: since it is up to me to be just and good, if I wish it, I will be the best of all. But this is not possible. Why? Because this does not happen even in the case of the body. For it is not the case that, if someone wishes to take care of his body, he will therefore have the best body of all. For it is necessary not only that the care be present, but also that the body be, by nature, fine and good. So the body will be better, but not best of all. [section 5] And one must suppose the same about the soul: for the person who chooses to be best will not be so, unless nature too is present, but he will be better. [section 1] Since, then, it appears that being good is up to us, it is necessary to speak next about the voluntary — what the voluntary is; for the voluntary is the thing most decisive for virtue. To speak simply, the voluntary may be said to be what we do without being compelled; but perhaps we should speak more clearly about it. [section 2] Now that in accordance with which we act is desire; and desire has three species: appetite, spirit, wish. First, then, we must examine action in accordance with appetite, whether it is voluntary or involuntary. [for example] It would not seem to be involuntary. Why, and on what grounds? Because whatever we do not do voluntarily, we do under compulsion, and upon everything done from necessity there follows
27| pain, whereas pleasure follows upon what is done through appetite, so that on this reasoning at least, what is done through appetite would not be involuntary, but voluntary. [section 3] — But again another argument opposes this, the one concerning lack of self-control. For no one, it is said, does bad things voluntarily, knowing that they are bad; but surely, it is said, the person who lacks self-control, knowing that these things are base, does them nonetheless, and does them in accordance with appetite; therefore he does not act voluntarily; therefore he acts under compulsion. [section 4] Here again the same argument will meet us. For even if it is in accordance with appetite, it is not from necessity; for pleasure follows upon appetite, and what is done for the sake of pleasure is not from necessity. — And in another way this too would become clear, that the person who lacks self-control acts voluntarily. For those who act unjustly act unjustly voluntarily, and those who lack self-control are unjust and act unjustly; so the person who lacks self-control would act voluntarily in what pertains to his lack of self-control. [section 1] — But again another argument opposes this, one which says it is not voluntary. For the person who has self-control acts voluntarily in what pertains to his self-control; for he is praised, and people are praised for voluntary things. But if what is in accordance with appetite is voluntary, what is against appetite is involuntary; and the person who has self-control acts against appetite; so the person who has self-control would not, in having self-control, be acting voluntarily. But this does not seem to be so; therefore what is in accordance with appetite is not voluntary either.
28| [section 2] Again, likewise with things in accordance with spirit; for the same arguments that fit the case of appetite apply here too, so that they will produce the same difficulty; for it is possible to lack self-control or to have self-control with respect to anger. [section 3] Further, of the kinds of desire we distinguished, wish still remains, for us to examine whether it is voluntary. But surely those who lack self-control, in the very things toward which they are impelled, wish for these at the time; therefore those who lack self-control do base things while wishing them. But no one voluntarily does bad things knowing that they are bad; yet the person who lacks self-control, knowing that the bad things are bad, does them while wishing to. Therefore he does not act voluntarily, and therefore wish is not voluntary either. [section 4] — But this argument does away with lack of self-control and the person who lacks it. For if he does not act voluntarily, he is not blameworthy; but the person who lacks self-control is blameworthy; therefore he acts voluntarily; therefore wish is voluntary. Since, then, certain arguments appear to be opposed to one another, we must speak more clearly about the voluntary. [section 1] It would be best, then, to speak first about force and about necessity. For force exists even among soulless things. For each of the soulless things has been assigned its own proper place — fire above, earth below; yet it is possible to force even a stone to be carried upward and fire downward.
29| [section 2] And it is possible to force an animal too — for example, to seize a horse running straight ahead and turn it back. Now for all those for whom the cause of their doing something contrary to nature, or contrary to what they wish, lies outside them, we will say that they act under force, if they act at all; but where the cause lies within them, in themselves, we will no longer say that these are being forced. [section 3] Otherwise, the person who lacks self-control will object, denying that he is base; for he will say that he does base things under compulsion, forced by appetite. [section 1] Let this, then, be our definition of the forced: that of which the cause lies outside, the cause by which people are forced to act (whereas of that of which the cause lies within, in themselves, there is no force). Again, we must speak about necessity and the necessary. The necessary is not to be spoken of without qualification or in every case — for example, the things we do for the sake of pleasure. For if someone were to say, 'I was compelled by pleasure to corrupt my friend's wife,' he would be absurd. [section 2] For the necessary is not found in every case, but rather already in external things — for example, whoever is harmed in exchanging one thing for some other, greater thing, being compelled by circumstances. For example, 'I was compelled to walk more strenuously into the field'; for otherwise I would have found the things in the field ruined. It is in such cases, then, that the necessary is found.
30| [section 1] Since, then, the voluntary lies in none of these impulses, what remains is that it is what comes about from thought. For the involuntary is what comes about by necessity and by force, and, as a third case, what does not come about with thought. This is clear from what actually happens. For whenever someone strikes another, or kills him, or does something of this kind without having thought about it beforehand, we say that he did it unwillingly, on the ground that the voluntary consists in having thought about it. [section 2] For example, they say that a certain woman once gave a love-potion to someone to drink, and the man then died from the potion, and the woman was acquitted before the Areopagus; and being present there, they released her for no other reason than that she had not acted with forethought. For she gave it out of affection, but she was mistaken in this; and for that reason it did not seem to be voluntary, because she did not give the potion with the thought of destroying him. Here, then, the voluntary falls under what is done with thought. [section 1] It further remains to examine choice, whether it is a desire or not. For desire arises in the other animals too, but choice does not; for choice involves reason, and reason is not present in any of the other animals. Desire, then, would not be choice —
31| [section 2] But is it perhaps wish? Or is that not it either? For wish is even of things impossible — for example, we wish to be immortal, but we do not choose this. Further, choice is not of the end, but of the things toward the end; for example, no one chooses to be healthy, but we choose the things toward health — to walk, to run — whereas we wish for ends. [section 3] For we wish to be healthy. So it is clear on this ground too that wish and choice are not the same thing; rather choice seems to be just what its very name indicates — we choose this instead of that, the better instead of the worse. So whenever we exchange the better for the worse where a selection is being made, there choosing would seem to be properly at home. [section 4] — Since, then, choice is none of these things, is it perhaps what belongs to thought — is choice a matter of thinking? Or is that not it either? For we think about and hold opinions about many things in thought; do we, then, also choose the things we think about? Or not? For we often think about matters in India, yet we surely do not also choose them. [section 5]
32| Choice, then, is not thought either. — Since, then, choice is, taken by itself, none of these things, and these are what occur in the soul, it is necessary [then] that choice consists in some combination of them. Since, then, as was said before, choice concerns the goods that lead toward the end and not the end itself, and concerns things possible for us, and things that admit dispute as to whether this or that is to be chosen, it is clear that one would first need to think about them and deliberate, and then, when after thinking it through something appears to us better, there follows a certain impulse to act, and it is in doing this that we seem to act by choice. [section 6] If, then, choice is a deliberative desire accompanied by thought, then the voluntary is not the same as the chosen. For we do many things voluntarily before thinking and deliberating — for example, we sit down and stand up and do many other such things voluntarily, but without thinking — whereas everything done by choice was accompanied by thought. [section 7] The voluntary, then, is not the chosen, but the chosen is voluntary; for if we choose to do something after deliberating, we do it voluntarily. A few even among the lawgivers appear to mark off the voluntary and what is done from choice as being different things, setting lesser penalties on voluntary acts than on those done by choice.
33| [section 8] — Choice, then, has to do with things that can be done, and among these, with those that are up to us both to do and not to do, and to do in this way or in that, and among those in which it is possible to grasp the reason why. And the "why" is not a simple thing. [section 9] For in geometry, when someone says the square has angles equal to four right angles, and one asks why, he says: because the triangle too has angles equal to two right angles. In cases of this kind, then, they get the "why" from a fixed starting point; but among the things that can be done, where choice operates, it is not so — for no starting point is laid down as fixed — but if someone should demand, "why did you do this?", one says, "because it could not be otherwise," or "because it is better this way." From the very outcomes — whichever appear to be better — these are what one chooses, and for these reasons one chooses them. [section 10] That is why, in such matters, deliberation concerns how one ought to act, but in the sciences it does not. For no one deliberates over how he ought to write the name Archicles, because it is fixed how one ought to write the name Archicles. The error, then, does not arise in the thinking, but in the activity of writing. For where the error is not in the thinking, people do not deliberate about those things either; but where the "how it ought to be" is already indeterminate, that is where the error lies.
34| [section 11] Now the indeterminate is found among the things that can be done, and among these, in cases where the errors are of two kinds. We go wrong, then, both in the things that can be done and, likewise, in matters bearing on the virtues. For in aiming at virtue we go wrong along the paths that naturally lead to it. For error occurs both in deficiency and in excess, and we are carried toward each of these because of pleasure and pain; for on account of pleasure we do base things, and on account of pain we shy away from fine things. [section 1] — Further, thought is not like perception — for example, sight could not do anything other than see, nor hearing anything other than hear. Similarly, we do not deliberate over whether we ought to hear with our hearing or to see with our sight. But thought is not like this; it is capable of doing this and other things besides. [section 2] For this reason, deliberation already has a place here. Error, then, lies in the selection among goods — not concerning the ends, for on these everyone agrees (that health, for example, is a good), but already concerning the things bearing on the end — for example, whether it is good for health to eat this or not. It is above all in these matters that pleasure and pain cause us to stumble; for we avoid the one and choose the other.
35| [section 3] What is virtue's aim directed at — the end, or the things toward the end? For example, is it the fine, or the things that lead toward the fine? [section 4] How then does this stand with a science? Does it belong to the science of building to set the end well, or to see to the things toward the end? For if it sets this well — for example, to make a fine house — no one other than the builder will discover and supply the things toward this. And likewise in all the other sciences too. [section 5] In the same way, then, it would seem to stand with virtue as well: that its aim is directed rather [toward] the end, which must be rightly set, than at the things toward the end; and no one else will supply the means from which this will come about, or discover what is needed for it. And it is also reasonable that virtue should be the one that sets the end; for wherever there is a starting point of what is best, that same thing is both the setter and the producer. Nothing, then, is better than virtue; for it is for the sake of virtue that the other things exist too, and it is toward virtue that the starting point is directed, and it is for the sake of virtue, rather, that the things bearing on it exist. [section 6] The end resembles a kind of starting point, and it is for the sake of this that each thing exists. But this holds only in a certain way. So it is clear that in the case of virtue too, since it is the best cause, it aims at the end rather than at the things toward the end.
36| [section 1] — And the end of virtue is the fine. It is at this, then, that [virtue] aims rather than at the things from which it will come about. And further, these latter belong to virtue as well. But on the whole this seems strange; for perhaps someone might be a skilled imitator in painting, yet he would not be praised for it unless he sets himself the aim of imitating the best things. It belongs to virtue absolutely, then, to set the fine as its aim. Why then, one might ask, did we earlier say that the activity is better than the corresponding state, yet now we do not attribute to virtue, as being the finer thing, that from which the activity springs, but rather that in which there is no activity? Yes — but even now we are saying this in the same way: that the activity is better than the state. For other people, in observing the good person, judge him by his acting, because it is not possible to display the choice that each person holds; since if it were possible to know each person's judgment — how he stands with respect to the fine — he would be thought good even apart from acting. [Since we have marked off certain means concerning the emotions, we ought now to say which emotions these are.]
37| [section 1] Since courage concerns confidence and fear, we should consider what sorts of fears and confidences it concerns. Is it, then, the case that if someone fears losing his substance, he is a coward, and if someone is confident about such things, he is brave? Or not? Likewise, if someone fears sickness, or is confident about it, we should not call the one who fears it a coward, nor the one who does not fear it brave. Courage, then, does not concern fears and confidences of this sort. [section 2] But neither does it concern things of this kind: if someone does not fear thunder or lightning, or anything else among the things that are terrifying beyond what a human being can bear, he is not brave but rather a kind of madman. The brave man, then, is concerned with fears and confidences that are on the human scale; I mean, in the things that most people fear, or that everyone fears, the one who is confident in the face of these is brave. [section 3] Now that these points have been distinguished, since men are called brave in many different senses, we should consider which sort is truly brave. For there is also a man who is brave through experience, such as soldiers. These know, through experience, that in such-and-such a place, or at such-and-such a time, or when things stand thus, nothing can happen to them. But the man who knows this, and who stands his ground against the enemy on account of it, is not brave; for if none of these conditions holds, he does not stand his ground.
38| [section 4] Hence those who are brave through experience should not be called brave. Nor was Socrates right in saying that courage is a kind of knowledge. For knowledge arises when experience, gained through habit, becomes knowledge; but we do not say — nor will people say — that those who stand their ground through experience are brave. Courage, then, would not be knowledge. [section 5] Again, there are men who are called brave for the opposite reason, from lack of experience: those who have no experience of what is about to happen feel no fear, because of their inexperience. But these too should not be called brave. [section 6] And again, there are others who seem to be brave on account of some emotion, such as men in love, or men in a state of frenzy. But these too should not be called brave; for if the emotion is taken away from them, they are no longer brave, and the brave man must always be brave. [section 7] Hence one would not call even wild animals brave — boars, for instance — because they fight back once they have been struck and are in pain; and the brave man must not be brave on account of [the] emotion. [section 8] Again, there is another kind of courage that seems to be political courage — for instance, when men stand their ground against dangers out of shame before their fellow citizens, and are thought to be brave for it. Here is a sign of this: Homer has represented Hector as saying, 'Polydamas will be the first to reproach me,' and it is on this account that he thinks he must fight. But this kind should not be called courage either; for the same distinction fits every one of these cases. For whenever, upon the removal of something, courage does not survive, courage cannot be present any longer; so if I take away the shame on account of which he was brave, he will no longer be brave.
39| [section 9] Further, in yet another way, there are men who seem to be brave because of hope and expectation of some good outcome. But these too should not be called brave, since it appears absurd to call men of this kind, and in such circumstances, brave. None of these, then, should be counted as brave; we must consider, then, what sort of man is [the] brave man, and who the brave man is. [section 10] To put it simply, the brave man is one who is brave for none of the reasons already mentioned, but because he considers the act itself to be fine, and does it whether anyone is present to see or not. Nor, indeed, does courage arise entirely without emotion and impulse. But the impulse must arise from reason, for the sake of the fine. The man, then, who is impelled by reason, for the sake of the fine, to face danger, and who feels no fear in doing so, is brave, and courage concerns such things. [section 11] But he is not fearless in the sense that it so happens to the brave man that he feels no fear at all. For the man for whom nothing whatsoever is frightening is not brave in this sense; on this reckoning a stone, and the other inanimate things, would be brave. Rather, he must feel fear, but stand his ground nonetheless; for if, on the other hand, he stands his ground without feeling fear, he would not be brave. [section 12]
40| Further, too, as we distinguished above, courage concerns not all fears and dangers, but those that threaten the destruction of substance. Further, again, it does not concern any chance moment or all time indiscriminately, but the time when fears and dangers are close at hand. For if someone does not fear a danger that is ten years off, he is not yet brave on that account; for some men are confident because the danger is far away, but when it comes near, they die of fright. [section 1] Courage, then, and the brave man, are of this sort. Temperance is a mean between self-indulgence and insensibility with respect to pleasures. For temperance, and indeed every virtue without exception, is the best state; and the best state is a state directed at what is best, and the best is the mean between excess and deficiency; for men are blameworthy on both counts, both for excess and for deficiency. So, since the mean is best, temperance would be a kind of mean between self-indulgence and insensibility. [section 2] It would, then, be a mean between these. Temperance concerns pleasures and pains, but not all of them, nor those connected with everything. For it is not the case that if someone enjoys looking at a painting, or a statue, or something else of this kind, he is therefore self-indulgent; nor likewise with respect to hearing or smell — but temperance concerns the pleasures of touch and taste.
41| [section 3] Nor, indeed, with respect to these pleasures will the man of temperance be one so disposed as to be affected by none of them whatsoever (such a man is insensible); rather, he is already the man who is affected by them but is not led by them, so that, even while enjoying them to excess, he treats everything else as secondary — and he is already the man who does this for the sake of the fine itself and for no other reason: this is the temperate man. (The text is corrupt at this point.) [section 4] For whoever abstains from the excess of such pleasures out of fear, or for some other such reason, is not temperate. Indeed, we do not call the other animals temperate, apart from man, because they do not possess reason, by which one tests and chooses the fine. For every virtue is concerned with the fine and directed toward the fine. So temperance would concern pleasures and pains, and specifically those that arise in touch and taste. [section 1] Next in order after this would be to speak about gentleness — [and] what it is and in what it consists. Gentleness, [indeed], is a mean between irascibility and lack of spirit. And in general the virtues seem to be a kind of mean. That they are means one might also show as follows: if the best lies in a mean, and virtue is the best state, [and the best is the mean,] then virtue would be the mean.
42| [section 2] This will become clearer if we examine it point by point. The irascible man is the one who is angry with everyone, in every way, and to excess; and such a man is blameworthy (for one ought not to be angry with everyone, nor on every occasion, nor in every way and always; but again, neither should one be so disposed as never to be angry with anyone at all — [section 3] for this man too is blameworthy, being one who feels no pain at all). Since, then, both the man who exceeds and the man who falls short are blameworthy, the man between these two would be gentle and praiseworthy. For neither the man who is deficient in anger nor the man who is excessive in it is praiseworthy, but the man who is moderate with respect to these things — this man is gentle. And gentleness would be a mean between these emotions. [section 1] Liberality is a mean between prodigality and stinginess. These states concern money: the prodigal man is the one who spends on what he should not, more than he should, and when he should not; the stingy man, by contrast, is the one who does not spend on what he should, as much as he should, and when he should. [section 2] Both of these are blameworthy. Of the two, one falls short, the other exceeds. The liberal man, then, since he is praiseworthy, would be a mean between them. Who, then, is he? He is the one who spends on what he should, as much as he should, and when he should.
43| [section 1] There are also several species of ungenerosity — we call some people misers, and skinflints, and shameful profiteers, and petty. All of these fall under ungenerosity. For the bad is many-formed, the good single-formed — just as health is simple, but disease many-formed. Likewise virtue is single-formed, but vice many-formed. For all these people are blameworthy about money. — Does the generous person, then, also acquire and provide money, or not? No, for this belongs to no other virtue either. For making weapons does not belong to courage, but to another craft, and it belongs to courage to use them rightly once they are in hand; likewise with temperance and the rest. So this does not belong to generosity either, but already to money-making. [section 1] Greatness of soul is a mean between vanity and smallness of soul, and it concerns honor and dishonor — and honor not the sort that comes from the many, but the sort that comes from serious people, and it concerns this more especially. For serious people, knowing and judging rightly, will honor rightly; so the great-souled person will want to be honored more by those who know in themselves that he is worthy of honor. Nor will he be concerned with every honor, but with the best honor, and with what is honorable as a good and holding the rank of a starting point.
44| [section 2] Now those who are easily despised and inferior, yet think themselves worthy of great things and think besides that they ought to be honored, are vain; and those who think themselves worthy of less than is fitting for them are small-souled. [section 3] The person in the middle between these, then, is the one who thinks himself worthy neither of less honor than is fitting, nor of more than he is worth, nor of every honor; and this is the great-souled person. So it is clear that greatness of soul is a mean between vanity and smallness of soul. [section 1] Magnificence is a mean between ostentation and stinginess. Magnificence concerns expenditures which it is fitting to make in a fitting way. Whoever spends where he ought not is ostentatious — for instance, if someone entertains a group who are contributing to a shared meal as though he were hosting a wedding feast, such a person is ostentatious (for the ostentatious person is one who displays his own means of wealth at the wrong occasion). [section 2] The stingy person is the opposite of this — one who, where he ought, will not spend on a great scale, or, if he does spend, on a wedding or a chorus-financing, spends not worthily but meanly; such a person is stingy. [section 3] Magnificence is evident even from its name as being the sort of thing we say it is; for since it spends greatly on the fitting occasion, the name magnificence is rightly given to it. Magnificence, then, since it is praiseworthy, would be a kind of mean between excess and deficiency with respect to fitting expenditures, in the matters where this is called for. There are also, as people think, several other things called magnificence — for instance they say someone walked magnificently, and other such expressions.
45| Such uses of "magnificence" are metaphors, and not strict; for magnificence does not lie in these things, but in what we have said. [section 1] Righteous indignation is a mean between envy and malicious pleasure; for both of these are blameworthy, while the person disposed to righteous indignation is praiseworthy. Righteous indignation concerns goods that happen to belong to someone unworthy of them — it is a kind of pain. The person prone to righteous indignation, then, is pained at such things. And this same person will again be pained if he sees someone faring badly who does not deserve it. So righteous indignation and the person prone to it are presumably of this sort, while the envious person is the opposite of this. For the envious person, without qualification, is pained whether someone deserves to fare well or not. Similarly the person who takes malicious pleasure will be pleased at someone faring badly, whether that person deserves it or not. But the person prone to righteous indignation is not [like this], but is a kind of mean between the two. [section 1] Dignity is a mean between arrogant self-will and obsequiousness, and concerns social encounters. For the self-willed person is the sort who will encounter no one and converse with no one (and the name seems to be given from his character — for the self-willed person is, so to speak, one who pleases himself alone, from the fact that he pleases only himself). [section 2]
46| The obsequious person is the sort who associates with everyone, in every way and on every occasion. Neither of these is praiseworthy, but the dignified person, being in the middle between them, is praiseworthy; for he is neither open to all nor open to none, but open toward those who deserve it, and closed toward these same people otherwise. [section 1] A sense of shame is a mean between shamelessness and being overawed, and concerns actions and speech. For the shameless person is the one who, in every matter and before everyone, says and does whatever comes to hand, while the overawed person is the opposite of this — one who is cautious about doing and saying anything at all [before] anyone at all (for such a person, being overawed at everything, is incapable of action). [section 2] A sense of shame and the person who has it are a kind of mean between these. For he will neither say and do everything without qualification, as the shameless person does, nor will he be cautious about everything in every way, as the overawed person is, but he will act and speak in the matters, on the occasions, and to the extent that he ought. [section 1] Wit is a mean between buffoonery and boorishness, and concerns [the] jests. For the buffoon is the one who thinks he ought to make a joke of everything and everyone, while the boor is the one who is willing neither to make a joke himself nor to be the butt of one, but grows angry.
47| [section 2] The witty person is in the middle between these, neither joking at everyone in every way, nor again being boorish [himself]. The witty person turns out to be spoken of in two ways: both the one who is able to jest gracefully, and the one who bears being the butt of a joke, is called witty; and wit is of this sort. [section 1] Friendliness is a mean between flattery and hostility, and concerns actions and speech. For the flatterer is the one who adds more than is fitting and more than exists, while the disagreeable person is hostile and even strips away what is actually there. Neither of these, then, is rightly praiseworthy, but the friend is in the middle between them; [section 2] for he will neither add more than what exists, nor praise what is not fitting, nor again make things less, nor will he oppose another's view in every case, contrary to what seems right to him. [section 1] The friend, then, is of this sort; and truthfulness is midway between self-deprecation and boastfulness. It concerns speech, though not all speech. For the boaster is the one who claims to have more than he has, or to know what he does not know, while the self-deprecator is the opposite of this, claiming to have less than he has, and, though he knows something, not asserting it but concealing his knowledge.
48| [section 2] The truthful person will do neither of these things. For he will claim neither more nor less than what he has, but will say that he has and knows just what he actually has and knows. Now whether these are virtues or not would be a separate discussion; but that they are means of the sort we have described is clear, for those who live in accordance with them are praised. [section 1] It remains to speak about justice — what it is, and among what sorts of things, and concerning what matters. First, then, let us grasp what the just is. The just is twofold: one kind of it is in accordance with law. [section 2] For people say that just things are what the law prescribes. And the law bids us do the courageous things and the temperate things, and in general all the things that are spoken of in accordance with the virtues. This is why, they say, justice seems to be a kind of complete virtue; for if the just things are what the law bids us do, and the law prescribes what accords with all the virtues, then the person who abides by the just things in accordance with law will be completely serious in virtue, so that the just person and justice are a kind of complete virtue. [section 3] There is, then, one sort of just thing found in and concerning these matters; but this is not the just thing, nor the justice concerning these matters, that we are looking for. For in accordance with these just things it is possible for a person to be just toward himself alone (for the temperate person, and the courageous person, and the person of self-mastery, and
49| is such a person in his own right); but justice toward another is a different thing from the justice that goes by law, as we have said. For among things just toward another, it is not possible for a thing to be just in its own right. This is the justice we are seeking, and the virtue of justice concerned with these matters. [section 4] The just, then, toward another is, to put it simply, the equal. For the unjust is the unequal; for whenever people assign to themselves the greater share of goods and the lesser share of evils, this is unequal, and in this way they think they are doing injustice and suffering injustice. [section 5] It is clear, then, since injustice lies in inequalities, that justice and the just lie in an equality of dealings. So it is clear that justice would be a kind of mean between excess and deficiency, between too much and too little. [section 6] For the unjust man has more by doing injustice, and the man who suffers injustice has less by suffering it; and the mean between these is the just. The mean is the equal; so that the just would be the equal between more and less, and the just man is the one who wishes to have the equal. [section 7] The equal occurs in the fewest terms in two; therefore to be equal toward another is the just, and a person of this kind would be just.
50| [section 8] Since, then, justice lies in the just, and in the equal, and in a mean, and since the just is said to be just [in] certain persons, and the equal is equal among certain persons, and the mean is a mean for certain persons, it follows that justice and the just will be both toward certain persons and among certain persons. [section 9] would be... (text breaks off) The proportional occurs in the fewest terms in four; for as A is to B, so C is to D. For example, it is proportionate for the man who possesses much to contribute much, and the man who possesses little to contribute little; and likewise again for the man who has labored much to receive much, and the man who has labored little to receive little. As the man who has labored stands to the man who has not labored, so the much stands to the little. And as the man who has labored stands to the much, so the man who has not labored stands to the little. [section 10] Plato too seems to make use of this proportion of the just in the Republic. For, he says, the farmer produces grain, the builder a house, the weaver a cloak, the shoemaker a shoe. The farmer, then, gives grain to the builder, and the builder gives a house to the farmer; and likewise all the others stand in such a relation that they exchange what is theirs for what belongs to the others.
51| [section 11] And this proportion is as follows: as the farmer stands to the builder, so the builder stands to the farmer; and likewise the same proportion holds toward one another for the shoemaker, the weaver, and all the rest. And it is this proportion that holds the constitution together. So the just appears to be the proportionate. For the just holds constitutions together, and the just is the same thing as the proportionate. [section 12] But since the builder makes his own product worth more than the shoemaker does, and yet it was necessary for the shoemaker [and] to exchange with the builder, while it was not possible to get a house in return for shoes, at this point people came to the idea — since all these things are purchasable — of using, for this purpose, what they called money, calling it currency, and by giving each thing's worth in it, of making their exchange with one another, and by this means holding the political community together. [section 13] Since, then, the just consists in these things and in what has been said before, the justice concerned with these matters would be the state that has an impulse joined with choice with regard to these things and among these things. And the reciprocal is also just — not, however, as the Pythagoreans said. For they thought it just that whatever a man did, he should suffer the same in return;
52| [section 14] but a thing of this sort does not hold toward everyone. For what is just between a slave and a free man is not the same as what is just between free men; for if a slave strikes a free man, it is not just for him to be struck back only once, but many times. And the reciprocal is just when it is in accordance with proportion. For as the free man stands to the slave in being superior, so the doing-back stands to the doing. And likewise it will hold for a free man in relation to a free man. For it is not just, if someone has knocked out another's eye, that only his eye be knocked out in return, but that he suffer more, following the proportion; for he was the one who began it and did the wrong first, and he does wrong on both counts, so that the wrongs too are proportionate, and it is just that he suffer more in return than he did. [section 15] Since the just is spoken of in many ways, we must distinguish about which kind of just our inquiry is concerned. There is, as people say, a certain justice between slave and master, and between son and father. But the justice in these relations would seem to be spoken of only by an equivocation with political justice (for the just that our inquiry concerns is political justice); [section 16] for this is most of all found in
53| equality (for citizens are in some sense partners, and wish to be alike by nature, though they differ in character); whereas between son and father, and between slave and master, there would seem to be no justice at all. For there is no justice of my foot or my hand toward me, nor likewise of any of my bodily parts; and in the same way the son would seem to stand toward the father, for the son is in a sense a part of the father — except that once he has taken the standing of a man and been separated from his father, then he is already in a relation of equality and likeness with his father; and it is people of this kind that citizens wish to be. [section 17] And in the same way there is no justice between slave and master, for the same reason; for the slave is something belonging to the master. But indeed, even if there is some justice for him, it is household justice toward him. This, however, is not what we are seeking, but political justice; for political justice seems to lie in equality and likeness. [section 18] But the justice in the partnership of woman and man is close to political justice; for the woman is inferior to the man, but more closely his own, and shares in equality somewhat more, because their life is close to a political community, so that the justice of a wife toward her husband is in some way already, more than the others, of a political kind.
54| [section 19] Since, then, the just is what exists in political community, justice and the just man will be concerned with political justice. Of just things, some are by nature, some by law. We must understand this not to mean that they could never change; for even things that exist by nature undergo change. [section 20] I mean, for example, that if we were all to practice throwing always with the left hand, we would become ambidextrous; but by nature the left hand is the left hand, and the right is by nature no less better than the left, even if we do everything with the left as with the right. Nor, because things change, are they for that reason not by nature; rather, if for the most part and for the greater length of time a thing remains so — the left remaining left and the right remaining right — this is by nature. [section 21] Likewise with things just by nature: if a thing changes on account of our usage, it is not for that reason not just by nature, but it is. For what remains so for the most part — this is plainly just by nature. For whatever we ourselves establish and legislate, this too is already just, and we call it just by law. What is by nature, then, is a better justice than what is by law. But what we are seeking is political justice. And the political is what is by law, not what is by nature.
55| [section 22] The unjust and the act of injustice might seem to be the same thing, but they are not. For the unjust is what is defined by law — for instance, defrauding a deposit is unjust — while the act of injustice is the actual doing of something unjustly. Similarly the just and the act of justice are not the same: the just is what is defined by law, while the act of justice is the doing of just things. [section 23] When, then, is an act just, and when not? To put it simply, when a man acts by choice and voluntarily (what voluntary is has been stated by us above), and when he acts knowing both whom he acts on and by what means and for what end, in that way he does a just act. In the same way and on the same terms the unjust man too will be one who knows both whom he acts on and by what means and for what end. But when someone does something unjust knowing none of these things, he is not unjust, but unfortunate. For if, thinking he was killing the enemy, he killed his father, he did something unjust, yet he wrongs no one — he is unfortunate. [section 24] Since, then, not wronging someone while doing unjust things consists in this ignorance — as was also said a little above, namely when a man does not know whom he harms nor by what means nor for what end — we must go further and distinguish the kind of ignorance, so as to see how, given that the ignorance occurs, the man he harms will not have been wronged. Let this, then, be the distinction.
56| [section 25] When ignorance is the cause of a man's doing something, he does it not voluntarily, so that he does not wrong anyone; but when he himself is the cause of the ignorance, and does something in accordance with an ignorance of which he himself is the cause, then he does wrong, and such a man will rightly be called unjust. Take the case of drunk men: those who, being drunk, do something bad, do wrong, for they are themselves the cause of their ignorance — it was in their power not to drink so much as to strike their father without knowing it. [section 26] Likewise [and] with the other kinds of ignorance: as many as come about through the agents themselves, those who do wrong in accordance with them are unjust; but those of which the agents are not themselves the cause, but the ignorance is the cause even for those who acted of their acting, are not unjust. Such ignorance is natural ignorance — for instance, small children strike their fathers in ignorance, but since the ignorance in their case is natural, it does not make the children be called unjust because of this act; for the ignorance is the cause of their doing this, but they are not themselves the cause of the ignorance, and so they are not called unjust either. [section 27] But now, what about being wronged? Is it possible to be wronged voluntarily, or not? We do just and unjust things voluntarily, but we are not wronged voluntarily; for we avoid being punished, so it is clear that we would not be wronged voluntarily. For no one voluntarily submits to being harmed, and being wronged is being harmed.
57| [section 28] Yes, but there are some who, though they ought to have an equal share, yield it up to others, so that if having the equal share was just, and having less is being wronged, and a man has less voluntarily, then, the argument says, he is voluntarily wronged. But from this very point it is again clear that he is not wronged voluntarily. For all who take less get something in exchange — honor, or praise, or reputation, or friendship, or something else of that kind; and one who gets something in exchange for what he gives up is not wronged; and if he is not wronged, then he is not wronged voluntarily either. [section 29] Again, those who take less and are supposedly wronged, who do not get an equal share — such people preen and pride themselves over it, saying "though it was open to me to take an equal share, I did not take it, but yielded it to my elder or to my friend." But no one prides himself on being wronged. If men do not pride themselves on the wrongs done to them, but do pride themselves on cases like this, then they are not wronged at all by having less in this way; and if they are not wronged, they would not be wronged voluntarily either. [section 30]
58| — But against these points, and against arguments like them, stands the argument drawn from the case of the person lacking self-control. For the person lacking self-control harms himself by doing base things, and he does these things voluntarily; so he harms himself knowingly, and thus he is voluntarily wronged by himself. But here [the] distinction added will block this argument. The distinction is this: no one wishes to be wronged. Now the person lacking self-control acts as he wishes in acting according to his lack of self-control, so that if he wrongs himself, he wishes to do base things to himself. But no one wishes to be wronged; so not even the person lacking self-control would voluntarily wrong himself. [section 31] But perhaps here again one might raise a difficulty: is it possible for a man to wrong himself at all? Looking at the case of the person lacking self-control, it does seem possible. And again, consider it this way. If the things the law prescribes doing are just, then one who does not do them does wrong; and if he does not do what the law bids toward the person it bids him act toward, he wrongs that person. Now the law bids a man be temperate, acquire property, take care of his body, and so on with the rest of such things; so one who does not do these things wrongs himself. For the reference of such wrongs is to no one else.
59| [section 32] — But perhaps these claims were not true after all, and it is not possible for a man to wrong himself. For it is not possible for the same person, at the same time, to have both more and less, nor to be at once both willing and unwilling; but the one who wrongs, insofar as he wrongs, has more, and the one who is wronged, insofar as he is wronged, has less. If, then, a man wrongs himself, it would be possible for the same person, at the same time, to have both more and less. But this is impossible; therefore it is not possible for a man to wrong himself. [section 33] — Again, the one who wrongs, wrongs voluntarily, while the one who is wronged is wronged involuntarily, so that if it were possible for a man to wrong himself, it would be possible for him to do the same thing at once both involuntarily and voluntarily; but this is impossible; so not on this ground either is it possible for a man to wrong himself. [section 34] — Again, suppose one took the matter from the particular kinds of wrongdoing. For all who do wrong either defraud a deposit, or commit adultery, or steal, or do some other of the particular kinds of wrongdoing; but no one has ever defrauded himself of a deposit, nor committed adultery with his own wife, nor stolen his own property from himself. So if wrongdoing consists in such acts, and none of these can be done against oneself, then it would not be possible to wrong oneself.
60| [section 35] — But if not, at least it is not the political kind of wrong, but the household kind. For the soul, being divided into several parts, has within itself one part worse and one better, so that if any wrong arises within the soul, it belongs to the parts in relation to one another; and we distinguished the household wrong by reference to the worse and the better part, so that a man becomes unjust and just toward himself in this sense. But this is not what we are examining, but rather the political kind. [section 36] So in wrongs of the sort we are inquiring into, it is not possible for a man to wrong himself. But then, which of two parties does wrong, and in which does the wrongdoing reside — in the one who unjustly has something, or in the one who judged and awarded it, as in athletic contests? For the man who receives the palm from the umpire — the one presiding and making the judgment — does no wrong, even if it is unjustly given to him; rather it is the one who judged badly and gave it who does wrong. And even he does wrong in one respect and not in another: insofar as he did not judge what was just in truth and in nature, in this respect he does wrong; but insofar as he judged according to what seemed just to him, in this respect he does no wrong.
61| [section 1] Now that we have spoken about the virtues — what they are, and in what part they reside, and with what sort of things each of them is concerned — that if our best conduct follows correct reasoning — putting it this way, that to do well is to follow correct reasoning — this resembles someone claiming that health is best maintained if one applies the healthful measures. Such a statement is unclear; someone will say to me, 'tell me clearly what the healthy things are.' [section 2] So too with reason: what is reason, and what is right reason? It is perhaps necessary first of all to give an account of that in which reason arises. [section 3] Now it was determined earlier, in outline, concerning the soul, that one part of it has reason and the other part of the soul is without reason; and the part of the soul that has reason admits a division into two, of which one is the deliberative part and the other the scientific part. That these are different from one another would become clear from what underlies them. [section 4] For just as color and flavor and sound and smell are different from one another, so too nature has assigned different perceptions to them (for we recognize sound by hearing, flavor by taste, and color by sight); and one must suppose the rest holds in the same way: since the underlying things are different, the parts of the soul by which we recognize them must also be different.
62| [section 5] Further, the intelligible and the perceptible are different from each other; and we recognize both of these by the soul; so the part concerned with perceptible things and the part concerned with intelligible things would be different. And the deliberative and choosing part is concerned with perceptible things that are in motion, and in general with whatever is subject to coming-to-be and passing-away. [section 6] For we deliberate about those things that are up to us either to do or not to do, once we have chosen; and it is about these that deliberation and choice, whether to act or not to act, are concerned. These things are perceptible and in motion, subject to change; so the choosing part of the soul is, in its account, concerned with perceptible things. [section 7] Now that these matters have been determined, we should next say — since our account concerns the truth and we are examining how the truth stands, and there is knowledge, practical wisdom, intellect, wisdom, and supposition — what each of these is concerned with. [section 8] Knowledge, then, is concerned with what is knowable, and this extends by way of demonstration and argument; practical wisdom is concerned with things that can be done, in which there is choice and avoidance, and it is up to us to do or not to do them. [section 9] Now among things made and things done, the productive and the practical are not the same. For in the case of productive things there is some end beyond the making itself — for example, beyond housebuilding, since it is the making of a house, the house is its end beyond the making; and likewise with carpentry and the other productive crafts.
63| [section 10] But in the case of practical things there is no end other than the action itself — for example, beyond playing the lyre there is no other end, but this very thing is the end, the actuality and the action. Practical wisdom, then, is concerned with action and with things that can be done, while craft is concerned with production and with things that can be made; for the exercise of craft belongs more to things made than to things done. [section 11] So practical wisdom would be a certain state concerned with choice and action regarding the things that are up to us to do or not to do, so far as these bear on what is advantageous. [section 12] Practical wisdom is a virtue, it would seem, not a form of knowledge. For men of practical wisdom are praiseworthy, and praise belongs to virtue; further, there is a virtue belonging to every kind of knowledge, but there is no virtue of practical wisdom — rather, as it seems, practical wisdom is itself a virtue. Intellect is concerned with the starting-points of intelligible things and of the things that are; for knowledge is concerned with things that exist by way of demonstration, but starting-points are not demonstrable, so knowledge could not be concerned with starting-points, but intellect is. [section 14]
64| Wisdom is composed of knowledge and intellect. For wisdom is concerned both with starting-points and with the things already demonstrated from starting-points, which is what knowledge is concerned with; so, insofar as it is concerned with starting-points, it partakes of intellect, and insofar as it is concerned with what comes after the starting-points and exists by way of demonstration, it partakes of knowledge; so it is clear that wisdom is composed of both intellect and knowledge, and that it would be concerned with the same things as both intellect and knowledge. [section 15] Supposition is that state in which, concerning all things, we hold both possibilities open — that they are so, and that they are not so. [section 16] Are practical wisdom and wisdom the same, or not? Wisdom is concerned with things that exist by demonstration and are always the same, whereas practical wisdom is not concerned with these but with things that are subject to change. I mean, for example, that straight or curved and concave and things of that sort are always such; but advantageous things are not so fixed as never to change into something else — rather, they do change: what is advantageous now is not advantageous tomorrow, and what is advantageous for one person is not for another, and it is advantageous in one situation and not advantageous in another. Practical wisdom 1197b is concerned with advantageous things, but wisdom is not. Wisdom and practical wisdom are therefore different.
65| [section 17] Is wisdom a virtue, or not? This would become clear from practical wisdom itself, that wisdom is a virtue. For if practical wisdom is a virtue, as we say, of the one of the two parts that have reason, and practical wisdom is inferior to wisdom (for it is concerned with lesser things: wisdom is concerned with the eternal and the divine, as we say, while practical wisdom is concerned with what is advantageous to a human being) — then if the lesser of the two is a virtue, it is reasonable that the better one is a virtue as well; so it is clear that wisdom is a virtue. [section 18] And so is practical wisdom, concerning things that can be done. For a person of good judgment is so called from being able to deliberate and to judge and see something correctly; but his judgment concerns small things and is exercised in small matters. Good judgment, then, and the person of good judgment, are some part of practical wisdom and of the person of practical wisdom, and do not exist apart from these; for you could not separate the person of good judgment from the person of practical wisdom. [section 19] For cleverness and the clever person are neither practical wisdom nor a person of practical wisdom, yet the person of practical wisdom is clever; hence cleverness in some way cooperates with practical wisdom.
66| [section 20] But even a base person is called clever — for example, Mentor was thought to be clever, but he was not a person of practical wisdom. For it belongs to the person of practical wisdom and to practical wisdom to aim at the best things and always to choose and act on these, whereas it belongs to cleverness and the clever person to consider from what means each of the things to be done might come about, and to procure these means. The clever person, then, would seem to be concerned with such things, and with these matters. [section 21] One might raise a puzzle and wonder why, in speaking about character and about a treatise on political matters, we are speaking about wisdom. The answer is that, first of all, an inquiry into wisdom would perhaps not seem foreign to our purpose, if indeed it is a virtue, as we say. Further, it perhaps belongs to the philosopher also to examine, in passing, whatever things happen to fall under the same subject. [section 22] And it is necessary, too, since we are speaking about the things in the soul, to speak about all of them; and wisdom is also in the soul; so we are not speaking about the soul in a way that is foreign to our purpose. [section 23] And just as cleverness stands to practical wisdom, so it would seem to stand in relation to all the virtues as well. I mean, for instance, that there are also virtues arising by nature in each person — certain impulses in each, without reason, toward brave and just actions, and correspondingly toward the actions proper to each virtue.
67| [section 24] There are also virtues that come about by habituation and by choice. Those virtues that exist together with reason in their complete form are praiseworthy. Natural virtue, then, is this: the virtue that, separated from reason, is a small thing and falls short of being praiseworthy, but when added to reason and choice makes virtue complete. Hence it works together with reason, and the natural impulse toward virtue does not exist apart from reason. [section 25] Nor again does reason and choice come to be virtue in its complete form without the natural impulse. This is why Socrates spoke incorrectly when he said that virtue is reason; for he said it is of no use to do the acts of a courageous or a just man unless one knows and chooses them by reason. So he said virtue is reason — incorrectly; but people today speak better, for they say that virtue is doing what is fine in accordance with right reason. [section 26] Yet even they are not correct. For someone might do just acts with no choice at all, and with no knowledge of what is fine, but from some irrational impulse, and still do them correctly and in accordance with right reason (I mean, he acted as right reason would direct); but all the same, an action of this kind has nothing praiseworthy about it. Rather it is better, as we define it, that the impulse toward the fine be together with reason; for it is this that is both virtue and praiseworthy.
68| [section 27] One might raise the question whether practical wisdom is a virtue or not. But from the following it should become clear that it is a virtue. For if justice and courage and the other virtues are praiseworthy because they are productive of fine actions, then it is clear that practical wisdom too would be one of the praiseworthy things and one of the things ranked among the virtues. For the things toward which courage impels one to act are the same things toward which practical wisdom impels; for in general, whatever this directs, courage acts accordingly, so that if courage is praiseworthy for doing what practical wisdom directs, then practical wisdom itself would be, in the fullest sense, both praiseworthy and a virtue. [section 28] Whether practical wisdom is a productive craft or not, one might see from the following, looking to the sciences — for example, to house-building. For in house-building, as we say, there is one person called a master-builder, and another who serves under him, the builder; and this latter is a producer of a house. But the master-builder too, insofar as he makes the house, is a producer of a house. And it is the same with the other productive crafts, in which there is a master-craftsman and one who serves under him. So the master-craftsman too will be a producer of something, and of that same thing of which the one who serves under him is also a producer.
1| [section 29] If, then, the case is similar with the virtues too — which is likely and reasonable — practical wisdom would also be practical. For all the virtues are practical, and practical wisdom is, as it were, a kind of master-craftsman over them; for whatever this directs, the virtues and those who act in accordance with them do accordingly. Since, then, the virtues are practical, practical wisdom too would be practical. [section 30] But does practical wisdom rule over everything in the soul, as it seems to and as is disputed, or not? For it would not seem to rule over the better things — for instance, it does not rule over wisdom. But, it is said, practical wisdom takes care of everything, and has authority in directing. [section 31] But perhaps the case is like that of the steward in a household. For he has authority over everything and manages everything, but he does not yet rule over everything; rather he provides leisure for the master, so that the master, not being hindered by necessary matters, may not be shut out from doing some fine and fitting action. [section 32] In just this way and similarly to this, practical wisdom is, as it were, a steward of wisdom, and provides it with leisure and the doing of its own work, by holding in check the passions and bringing these to moderation. Book B
2| [section 1] After this it would be necessary to make an examination concerning fairness — what it is, and among what people, and about what matters. Fairness, and the fair-minded man, is that which falls short of what is just according to law. For in cases where the lawgiver is unable to define precisely each particular but speaks in general terms, the man who yields in these cases, and who chooses what the lawgiver wished to define particularly but was not able to, is the fair-minded man. But he does not fall short of the just simply speaking; for he does not fall short of what is just by nature and truly so, but of what is just according to law, which the lawgiver, being unable, left undetermined. [section 1] Reasonableness and the reasonable man are concerned with the same things as fairness — with the just [and] the things that have been left deficient by the lawgiver through his not having defined them precisely — being one who judges correctly the things left deficient by the lawgiver, and who recognizes that although they have been left deficient by the lawgiver, they are nevertheless just; such a man is reasonable. Reasonableness, then, does not exist apart from fairness; for judging belongs to the reasonable man, but acting [and] in accordance with the judgment belongs to the fair-minded man.
3| [section 1] Good deliberation is concerned with the same things as practical wisdom (for it concerns the practicable things, those that involve choice and avoidance), but it does not exist apart from practical wisdom. For practical wisdom is the practical capacity concerning these things, while good deliberation is a state, or disposition, or something of this kind, that is capable of hitting upon what is best and most advantageous among practicable things. [section 2] Hence things that turn out well by chance would not seem to belong to good deliberation; for in cases where there is no reasoning that looks to what is best, you would not call someone in whom something turned out well by chance well-deliberating, but fortunate; for successes that come about without the reasoning that judges are strokes of good fortune. [section 3] Does it ever belong to justice to give each person equal treatment in one's dealings — I mean, for example, meeting each person as he happens to be, whatever sort he is? Or not? For this would seem to belong rather to the flatterer and the toady; but to render one's dealings with each person according to worth — this would seem to belong to the just and the serious man simply speaking. But one might raise a difficulty about this too. [section 4] If indeed to act unjustly is to harm someone willingly and knowingly — both whom, and how, and for the sake of what — and harm and injustice have to do with goods, and concern goods, then the man who acts unjustly, and the unjust man, would know what sorts of things are good and what sorts are bad; and knowledge about such matters is the special property of the practically wise man and of practical wisdom. So it turns out to be strange that the greatest good, practical wisdom, should accompany the unjust man.
4| [section 5] Or would practical wisdom not seem to accompany the unjust man after all? For the unjust man does not look to, nor is he able to judge, what is good simply speaking as against what is good for himself; rather he goes wrong. [section 6] This is precisely what belongs to practical wisdom — to be able to view these matters correctly — just as, in the case of medicine, we all know what is healthy simply speaking and productive of health, that hellebore and the purgative and cutting and cauterizing are healthy and productive of health, but nevertheless we do not possess medical knowledge; for we do not further know what is good for a particular person, as the doctor knows for whom this is good, and when, and in what condition he must be. For it is precisely in this that medical knowledge consists. So then, though we know what is healthy simply speaking, we nevertheless do not possess medical knowledge, nor does it accompany us. [section 7] And the unjust man is the same way. He knows that, simply speaking, 1159b tyranny and rule and power are good things; but whether they are good for him, or not, or when, or in what condition he must be, this he no longer knows. And this belongs above all to practical wisdom, so that practical wisdom does not accompany the unjust man. For he chooses, on account of which he acts unjustly, the things that are good simply speaking, not the things that are good for himself. For wealth and rule are, simply speaking, a good thing, yet perhaps not a good thing for him; for having become prosperous and having come to rule, he will do many bad things to himself and to his friends, since he will not be able to make right use of his rule.
5| [section 8] This too raises a puzzle worth considering: whether there is injustice toward the base man, or not. For if injustice consists in harm, and harm consists in deprivation of goods, it would seem that he is not harmed; for he thinks the things that are goods are goods for him, but they are not goods — for office and wealth will harm the base man who is unable to use them rightly. If, then, their presence will harm him, the one who deprives him of them would not seem to be doing him injustice. [section 9] Such an argument would seem paradoxical to most people; for everyone thinks himself capable of using office, power, and wealth well, judging incorrectly. [section 10] This is clear too from the lawgiver: for the lawgiver does not entrust ruling to everyone, but has fixed both the age and the means that the man who is to rule must have, on the ground that it is not possible for everyone to rule. If, then, someone should be indignant that he does not rule, or that no one allows him to steer the ship, one might say to him, "You have nothing of the sort in your soul — you will not be able either to rule or to steer." [section 11]
6| Or rather: in the case of the body, we see that those who take in things that are unqualifiedly good are not thereby able to be healthy; rather, if a body in bad condition is to become healthy, water and scanty food must first be given it. Must not the man whose soul is in bad condition abstain from wealth, office, power, and such things generally, in order to work no evil — inasmuch as the soul is more easily moved and more easily changed than the body? For just as the man whose body is in bad condition is fit to live on such a regimen, so too the man whose soul is in bad condition is fit to live in this way, possessing none of these things. [section 12] This too raises a puzzle: whenever it is not possible to do the courageous act and the just act at the same time, which should one do? Now in the case of the natural virtues we said that only the impulse toward the fine [must] be present, without reason; but choice lies in reason, and in what possesses reason. So that at the very moment the choosing [also] occurs, complete virtue too will be present — the virtue we said goes together with practical wisdom, and not without the natural impulse toward the fine. [section 13] Nor will virtue be opposed to virtue. For it is natural for it to yield to reason, [or] as reason commands, so that it inclines toward whatever reason leads it to; for reason is what chooses the better. For the other virtues do not arise without practical wisdom, nor is practical wisdom complete without the other virtues, but they work together with one another, accompanying practical wisdom.
7| [section 14] No less will the following raise a puzzle: whether the case is the same with the virtues as with the other goods, both external goods and goods of the body. For these, when they occur in excess, make people worse — for instance, great wealth, once it has come about, has made people contemptuous and disagreeable; and likewise with the other goods — office, honor, beauty, stature. [section 15] Is it the case with virtue too, then, that if justice or courage comes to someone in excess, he will be worse, or not? "No," he says. But honor comes about from virtue, and honor, when it becomes great, makes people worse; so that it is clear, he says, that virtue, as it advances toward greatness, will make people worse; for virtue is the cause of honor, so that virtue too, becoming greater, would make people worse. [section 16] Or is this not true? For if virtue has many other functions, as indeed it does, this too is among its chief ones: the ability to use rightly these goods and others of the kind, once they are present. If, then, the excellent man, when honor or great office comes to be present to him, does not use them rightly, he would no longer be excellent; so neither honor nor office will make the excellent man worse, and therefore neither will virtue.
8| [section 17] But on the whole, since it has been determined by us at the start that the virtues are means, and the more something is a virtue the more it is a mean, it is therefore not the case that virtue, advancing toward greatness, will make one worse, but rather better; for the mean was a mean between the deficiency and excess of the affections. [section 1] So much for this. After this it is necessary, making a fresh start, to speak about self-control and lack of self-control. Just as virtue and vice themselves [also] are strange cases, so too the accounts that are to be given of these matters must turn out strange. [section 2] For this virtue is not like the others. In the other virtues, reason and the affections move toward the same thing and are not opposed to one another; but in this one, reason and the affections are opposed to one another. [section 3] There are three things that occur in the soul in respect of which we are called base: vice, lack of self-control, and brutishness. Now what vice and virtue are, and in what they consist, has been stated by us above; now we must speak of lack of self-control and brutishness.
9| [section 1] Brutishness is a kind of excessive vice. For whenever we see someone who is thoroughly base, we call him not a man but a beast, on the ground that brutishness is a certain kind of vice. [section 2] The virtue opposed to this is nameless; it is such as to be above man — a kind of heroic and divine virtue. This virtue is nameless because it is not the virtue of a god; for a god is better than virtue and is good not by virtue of virtue — for in that case virtue would be better than the god. [section 3] Hence the virtue opposed to the vice of brutishness is nameless. What is opposed to a vice of this kind must be divine and above man; for just as the vice of brutishness is above man, so too is the virtue opposed to it. [section 1] Concerning lack of self-control and self-control, we should first state the puzzles and the arguments that run counter to the apparent facts, so that, by examining together the puzzles and the opposing arguments, and testing them, we may see the truth about these matters as far as is possible; for in this way it will be easier to see the truth. [section 2] Now Socrates the elder did away with the notion altogether, and denied that
10| lack of self-control exists, saying that no one who knows that bad things are bad would choose them; yet the person who lacks self-control seems, though knowing that things are base, nevertheless to choose them, led on by his affection. Because of this argument he did not think lack of self-control existed. [section 3] This is not correct. For it is absurd, persuaded by this argument, to do away with what plainly occurs; for there are people who lack self-control, and they themselves, knowing that things are base, nevertheless do them. [section 4] Since, then, lack of self-control exists, does the person who lacks self-control have some knowledge which he contemplates and examines as he does the base things? But again this would not seem so. For it is absurd that the first and most secure of the things within us should be overcome by anything; for knowledge is the most steadfast and most compelling of all the things within us; so that again this argument runs counter (with a gap in the text at this point) to the claim that it is not knowledge. [section 5] But is it perhaps not knowledge but opinion? Yet if the person who lacks self-control has opinion, he would not be blameworthy. For if he does something base without knowing it precisely but merely holding an opinion, one might grant him pardon for giving in to pleasure and doing base things, since he does not know precisely that they are [not] base, but only holds an opinion; and those to whom we grant pardon, we do not blame; so that the person who lacks self-control, if indeed he has opinion, will not be blameworthy.
11| [section 6] but he is blameworthy. Arguments of this sort produce puzzlement. For some denied that there is knowledge in such a case, since they made something absurd result; and others again denied even that there is opinion, for these too again [made] something absurd result. [section 7] — But one might also raise a puzzle about the following. Since the temperate person is held to be also self-controlled, will strong appetites arise in the temperate person? If he is to be self-controlled, he must have strong appetites (for you would not call someone self-controlled who masters moderate appetites); but if he will [not] have strong appetites, he will no longer be temperate (for the temperate person is the one who feels no appetite and is affected by nothing). [section 8] — These points too raise a further puzzle in turn, for it follows from the arguments that the person lacking self-control is sometimes praiseworthy and the self-controlled person blameworthy. Suppose, he says, someone has gone wrong in his reasoning, and it seems to him, when he reasons it out, that fine things are base, while his appetite draws him toward the fine things; then his reasoning will not allow him to act, but led by his appetite he acts (for this is what the person lacking self-control was); he will therefore do the fine things, since his appetite leads him to them (while his reasoning will hinder him, for by his reasoning he goes wrong about the fine things); this person, then, will be lacking in self-control, yet praiseworthy, for he does the fine things, and so is praiseworthy. What follows here, then, is absurd.
12| [section 9] Again, suppose he goes wrong in his reasoning the other way, and fine things do not seem to him to be fine, while his appetite draws him toward the fine things; and the self-controlled person is the one who feels the appetite but does not act on it, because of his reasoning; then the person who has gone wrong in his reasoning about the fine things will prevent himself from doing the things he desires to do, and so will prevent himself from doing the fine things (for appetite led him toward these); but the person who does not do the fine things when he ought to is blameworthy; the self-controlled person, then, will sometimes be blameworthy. What follows here too, then, is absurd. [section 10] — One might also raise the puzzle whether lack of self-control, and the person who lacks it, occur in all things and about everything alike, such as money, honor, anger, and reputation (for people are held to lack self-control about all of these), or whether this is not so, but lack of self-control concerns some one delimited thing. These, then, are the points that give rise to the puzzle; and the puzzles must be resolved. [section 11] First, then, the puzzle about knowledge; for it seemed absurd that someone who has knowledge should either throw it away or have it change. [section 12] The same argument applies to opinion as well; for it makes no difference whether it is opinion or knowledge — if the opinion is strong through being firm and unshakeable, it will differ in no way from knowledge, since opinion carries the conviction that things are as one believes them to be, just as Heraclitus of Ephesus holds such an opinion about the things that seemed so to him.
13| [section 13] There is nothing absurd, however, in the person lacking self-control doing something base, whether he has the knowledge or the sort of opinion we are speaking of. For 'to know' is used in two ways: one is to have the knowledge (for we say someone knows whenever he has the knowledge), the other is to be actually exercising the knowledge already. The person lacking self-control, then, is one who has the knowledge of fine things but is not exercising it; [section 14] so when he is not exercising this knowledge, there is nothing absurd in his doing base things while having the knowledge. It is like the case of people asleep. For these, though they have the knowledge, nonetheless both do and undergo many distressing things in their sleep. For the knowledge is not being exercised in them. It is the same with the person lacking self-control. For he is like someone asleep, and is not exercising his knowledge. [section 15] The puzzle, then, is resolved in this way. For the puzzle was whether the person lacking self-control throws away his knowledge at that moment, or has it change. For both seem to be absurd. — But again this can be made clear from the following, just as we said in the Analytics, that a syllogism arises out of two premises, and of these the first is universal, and the second falls under it and is particular. For example: I know that every feverish person should be made healthy; and this man is feverish; therefore I know that this man too should be made healthy. There is, then, a case where I know by the universal knowledge but not by the particular one.
14| [section 16] An error, then, arises for the person who has the knowledge here too: for example, I know that every feverish person should be made healthy, yet if this man is feverish, I do not know it. In the same way, then, in the case of the person lacking self-control who has the knowledge, the same error will occur. For it is possible for the person lacking self-control to have the universal knowledge, that things of this sort are base and harmful, and yet not know, in the particular case, that this thing here is base; so that, having the knowledge in this way, he will go wrong; for he has the universal knowledge, but not the particular. [section 17] There is, then, nothing absurd in this happening in the case of the person lacking self-control either — that one who has the knowledge does something base. For the case is like that of people who are drunk. For the drunk, when their drunkenness leaves them, are again the same as they were; their reasoning and their knowledge did not fall out of them, but were overpowered by the drunkenness, and once freed from the drunkenness they are again the same as they were. It is the same, then, with the person lacking self-control. For once the affection has gained the upper hand, it made his reasoning lie still; and when the affection departs, like the drunkenness, he is again the same as he was. [section 18] There was also another argument about lack of self-control that raised
15| a puzzle, to the effect that the person lacking self-control would sometimes be praiseworthy and the self-controlled person blameworthy. But this does not follow. For the one who is deceived in his reasoning is neither self-controlled nor lacking self-control, but rather it is the one who has correct reasoning, and by this judges what things are base and what fine; and the person lacking self-control is the one who deserts such reasoning, while the self-controlled person is the one who obeys it and is not led by his appetites. For not even in the case of someone to whom it does not seem base to strike his father, while he desires to strike him, is the one who abstains from this self-controlled; [section 19] so that if there is neither self-control nor lack of self-control in such cases, then lack of self-control would not be praiseworthy, nor self-control blameworthy, as it seemed to be. [section 20] Among cases of lack of self-control, some are pathological and some are natural. Pathological, for instance, are cases like these: there are people who pull out their hair and gnaw at it. If, then, someone masters this pleasure, he is not praiseworthy, nor, if he fails to master it, is he especially blameworthy. Natural cases are of this sort: they say a son once, being tried in court for striking his father, defended himself by saying, 'for this man too struck his own father,' and was on this ground acquitted; for the fault seemed to the jurors to be natural — as though, if someone were to master the urge to strike his father, he would not be especially praiseworthy.
16| [section 21] It is not, then, cases of this sort that we are now inquiring into, whether of lack of self-control or of self-control, but those in respect of which we are called blameworthy or praiseworthy without qualification. Among goods, some are external, such as wealth, office, honor, friends, reputation, while others are necessary and concern the body, such as touch and taste [the person, then, who lacks self-control about these would seem, strictly speaking, [also] to be a person lacking self-control,] and the bodily pleasures; and the lack of self-control we are inquiring into would seem already to concern these. [section 22] The puzzle was about what, exactly, lack of self-control concerns. Now concerning honor, a person is not said, without qualification, to lack self-control; for the person who lacks self-control about honor is in a way even praised, for he [is] in some sense a lover of honor. But as a whole, in cases of this sort too, we speak of the person lacking self-control by adding what it concerns — lacking self-control about honor, or reputation, or anger. But to the person who lacks self-control without qualification we do not add what it concerns, as though it were plain and evident without the addition what it concerns; for the person who lacks self-control without qualification concerns bodily pleasures and pains. [section 23] — This is clear too from the following: since the person who lacks self-control is blameworthy, the things underlying it must themselves be blameworthy. Now honor and reputation and office and money, and whatever else the term 'lacking self-control' is applied to, are not blameworthy, but the bodily pleasures are blameworthy; hence it is reasonable that the person who indulges in these more than he ought is called, in the full sense, a person lacking self-control.
17| [section 24] Since, among the various lacks of self-control spoken of with regard to other things, the lack of self-control concerned with anger is the most blameworthy, is the lack of self-control concerned with anger more blameworthy than that concerned with pleasures? The lack of self-control concerned with anger is like children who are eager to be of service: for these too, when the master says "give me," carried away by their eagerness, give something before hearing what they are supposed to give, and so go wrong in the giving; for often, when they ought to give a book, they give a pen instead. [section 25] The person who lacks self-control with respect to anger is affected in a similar way: for when he first hears it said that he has been wronged, his spirit rushes toward retaliation, without waiting any longer to hear whether he ought to retaliate or not, or that it is not deserved so severely. [section 26] Now this sort of impulse toward anger, which seems to be lack of self-control with respect to anger, is not much to be blamed, whereas the impulse toward [the] pleasure is blameworthy. For it differs from the other because of reason, which turns one away from acting, and yet one acts against reason all the same; hence it is more blameworthy than the lack of self-control due to anger. For the lack of self-control due to anger is accompanied by pain (for no one who is angry fails to feel pain), while that due to appetite is accompanied by pleasure; hence it is more blameworthy, for the lack of self-control due to pleasure seems to involve insolence.
18| [section 27] Are self-control and endurance the same thing, or not? Self-control is concerned with pleasures, and the self-controlled person is the one who masters pleasures, while endurance is concerned with pains: the one who endures and holds out under pains has endurance. [section 28] Again, lack of self-control and softness are not the same. Softness, and the soft person, is the one who does not hold out under exertions—not all exertions, but those which anyone else would necessarily hold out under—whereas the person who lacks self-control is the one who cannot hold out against pleasures, but is softened and led by them. [section 29] There is again someone called licentious: is the licentious person the same as the person who lacks self-control, or not? The licentious person is of such a sort as to think that what he does is both best and most advantageous for him, and to have no reasoning opposed to what appears pleasant to him; the person who lacks self-control has reasoning that opposes him, in the direction his appetite leads him. [section 30] Which is easier to cure, the licentious person or the person who lacks self-control? On this showing it would perhaps seem not to be the person who lacks self-control—the licentious person is easier to cure, for if reasoning came to be in him teaching him that these things are base, he would no longer do them; but in the person who lacks self-control the reasoning is already present, and still he acts against it, so such a person would seem incurable.
19| [section 31] But which is in the worse condition—the one in whom nothing good at all is present, or the one in whom something good is present alongside these bad things? Clearly the former, and the more honorable the thing badly disposed in him is, the worse off he is. Now the person who lacks self-control has, as a good, reasoning that is correct; the licentious person does not have this. [section 32] Further, reasoning is the ruling principle in each person: in the person who lacks self-control the principle—being the most honorable thing—is well disposed, while in the licentious person it is badly disposed; so the licentious person would be worse than the person who lacks self-control. [section 33] Further, just as with the bestiality we spoke of, the vice in question cannot be seen existing in a beast, only in a human being (for "bestiality" is the name given to excessive vice)—why is that? For no other reason than that a base ruling principle does not exist in a beast, and the ruling principle is reasoning. Given this, which would do more harm—a lion, or a Dionysius or a Phalaris or a Clearchus or one of these depraved men? Clearly these men; for a base ruling principle, once present, contributes to great evils, whereas in a beast there is no ruling principle at all. [section 34] In the licentious person, then, a base ruling principle is present. For he does base things, and his reasoning agrees with this and holds that he ought to do these things, so the ruling principle present in him is unsound. Hence the person who lacks self-control would seem to be better than the licentious person.
20| [section 35] There are also two kinds of lack of self-control. One is a sort of impetuous, unpremeditated kind that arises suddenly (as when we see a beautiful woman, we are immediately affected in some way, and from that affection an impulse arises to do something one perhaps ought not to do); the other is a sort of weak kind, present along with the reasoning that would turn one away. The former would not seem to be very blameworthy—it occurs even in serious, excellent people, in those of a hot and well-formed nature; the latter occurs in those who are cold-natured and melancholic, and such people are blameworthy. [section 36] Further, it is possible, by anticipating with reasoning, to be affected not at all: reasoning that a good-looking woman will come, and that one must therefore hold himself in check. The person who lacks self-control from a fresh impression, having forestalled it with such reasoning, will be affected by nothing and will do nothing shameful. But the one who knows through reasoning that he ought not, yet gives way to pleasure and is softened by it, is more blameworthy. For the excellent person would never become self-lacking in this way, and reasoning, once it has forestalled the impression, does not fail to cure him. For this reasoning is present in him as a ruler, whom the other person does not obey at all, but instead gives way to pleasure, and is softened and in a way weakened.
21| [section 37] Whether the temperate person is self-controlled was raised as a difficulty earlier; let us discuss it now. The temperate person is also self-controlled: for the self-controlled person is not only the one who, when appetites are present, holds them back through reasoning, but also the one who is of such a character that, even if appetites were not present, he would be the sort to hold them back should they arise. [section 38] The temperate person is the one who has no base appetites, together with reasoning about these matters that is correct; the self-controlled person is the one who has base appetites, together with reasoning about these matters that is correct. So the self-controlled will follow along with the temperate, and the temperate person will be self-controlled, but the self-controlled person will not be temperate. For the temperate person is the one not affected by base appetites, while the self-controlled person is the one who is affected and masters them, or is capable of being affected; neither of these belongs to the temperate person; hence the self-controlled person is not temperate. [section 39] Is the licentious person self-lacking, or the self-lacking person licentious? Or does neither follow from the other? The person who lacks self-control is one whose reasoning fights against his affections, whereas the licentious person is not of this sort, but is one who, in doing base things, has his reasoning voting along with him at the same time; so the licentious person is not of the sort the self-lacking person is, nor is the self-lacking person of the sort the licentious person is.
22| [section 40] Further, the licentious person is also more depraved than the person who lacks self-control. For things that are natural are harder to cure than things that have come about from habit (habit is indeed thought to be strong for this very reason, that it settles into nature). [section 41] Now the licentious person is himself of such a sort as to be base by nature, and it is because of this that the reasoning in him is base as well; but the person who lacks self-control is not so—it is not because he himself is of that sort that his reasoning is not excellent, for he would have had to be base if he were by nature the sort the base person is. [section 42] The person who lacks self-control, [then], seems to be base by habit, while the licentious person is base by nature; the licentious person is therefore harder to cure. For habit is driven out by another habit, but nature is driven out by nothing. [section 43] Since the person who lacks self-control is of such [a] sort as to know and not be deceived in his reasoning, and the practically wise person is also of such a sort as to view each particular thing by correct reasoning, [but] can the practically wise person lack self-control, or not? One might raise a difficulty from what has been said; but if we follow what was said earlier, the practically wise person will not lack self-control. For we said that the practically wise person is not one in whom correct reasoning is merely present, but one for whom the doing of what appears best in accordance with the reasoning also belongs; and if the practically wise person does what is best, the practically wise person could not lack self-control—rather, such a person is clever.
23| [section 44] For we distinguished above the clever man and the practically wise man, as being different. For they are concerned with the same things, but the one is capable of acting on the things he ought, while the other is not capable of acting. It is possible, then, for the clever man to be lacking in self-control (for he is not capable of acting on the things he ought), but it is not possible for the practically wise man to be lacking in self-control. [section 1] After this it would be right to speak about pleasure, since our account concerns happiness, and everyone supposes happiness to be either pleasure and living pleasantly, or at any rate not without pleasure. And those who are uneasy about pleasure and do not think it right to count pleasure among the goods nevertheless add freedom from pain. [section 2] Freedom from pain, then, is close to pleasure. For this reason we must speak about pleasure, not only because others too think we must, but because it is actually necessary for us to speak about pleasure. For since our account concerns happiness, and we have distinguished happiness and say it is the activity of virtue in a complete life, and virtue is concerned with pleasure and pain, it would be necessary to speak about pleasure, since happiness does not exist without pleasure.
24| [section 3] Let us first state, then, what some say in claiming that pleasure ought not to be taken as part of the good. First, they say pleasure is a coming-into-being, and a coming-into-being is something incomplete, and the good could never occupy the place of the incomplete. Second, that there are some base pleasures, and the good could never consist in baseness. Again, that pleasure arises in all things alike: for it arises in the base person and in the excellent one, and in a beast and in a grazing animal, whereas the good is unmixed with base things and not something held in common by many. (Here the text breaks off.) And they say that pleasure is not the most dominant thing, whereas the good is most dominant. And that pleasure is an impediment to doing fine actions, whereas what hinders fine actions could not be good. [section 4] First, then, we should speak to the first point, about coming-into-being, and try to refute this argument on the ground that it is not true. For, first, not every pleasure is a coming-into-being. The pleasure that arises from contemplating is not a coming-into-being, nor is that from hearing and seeing and smelling. For it does not arise out of a deficiency, as the others do, such as the pleasure from eating or drinking. For these arise out of deficiency and excess, in that either the deficiency is filled up or the excess is removed.
25| [section 5] For this reason it seems to be a coming-into-being. And deficiency and excess are pain. Pain, then, is present wherever there is a coming-into-being of pleasure. But in the case of seeing and hearing and smelling, it is not possible to have felt pain beforehand; for no one who takes pleasure in seeing or in smelling has felt pain beforehand. [section 6] Likewise too in the case of thought, it is possible to take pleasure in contemplating something without having felt pain beforehand. So there would be some pleasure that is not a coming-into-being. If, then, pleasure, as their argument said, is for this reason not a good — because it is a coming-into-being — and yet there is some pleasure that is not a coming-into-being, this pleasure would be a good. [section 7] But in fact, taken as a whole, no pleasure at all is a coming-into-being. For even those pleasures from eating and drinking are not comings-into-being; rather, those who say these pleasures are comings-into-being are mistaken. For they suppose that, since pleasure comes about when the intake of food occurs, it is for this reason a coming-into-being; but it is not. [section 8] For since there is some part of the soul by which we feel pleasure at the same time as the intake of what we are in need of, this part of the soul is active and is in motion, and its motion and activity is pleasure. So because that part of the soul is active at the same time as the intake, or on account of its own activity, they suppose pleasure to be a coming-into-being, because the intake is evident while the part of the soul is not evident.
26| [section 9] It is like someone supposing a human being to be a body, because the body is perceptible while the soul is not; yet [the] soul certainly exists too. It is the same in this case as well: for there is some part of the soul by which we feel pleasure, which is active at the same time as the intake. For this reason no pleasure at all is a coming-into-being. [section 10] And, they say, restoration to one's nature is perceptible. But indeed there is pleasure even for those who are not being restored to their nature: for being restored is the filling-up, for what is deficient by nature, of that deficiency, whereas, as we say, it is possible to feel pleasure without being in a state of deficiency. For deficiency is pain, and we say we feel pleasure without pain and prior to pain; so pleasure would not be the restoration of what is deficient, for in the case of such pleasures nothing at all is deficient. So if pleasure seemed not to be a good because it was a coming-into-being, and yet no pleasure at all is a coming-into-being, pleasure would be a good. [section 11] But after this, they say, not every pleasure is a good. One might grasp this point as well in the following way. Since we say the good is spoken of in all the categories (for it is found in substance, and in relation, and in quantity, and in time, and in general in all of them), that other point becomes clear at once. For upon every activity of a good thing some pleasure follows, so that since the
27| good is found in all the categories, pleasure too would be a good. So since in these categories there are both goods and pleasure, and pleasure that comes from good things is pleasure, every pleasure would be a good. [section 12] At the same time it is clear from this that pleasures also differ in species. For the categories in which pleasure occurs also differ. For it is not as it is with the sciences, for example grammar or any other science whatsoever. For if Lamprus possesses grammar, the grammarian will [and] be affected by this grammar in the same way as any other person whatsoever who possesses grammar, and there are not two different grammars, one in Lamprus and one in Ileus; but with pleasure it is not so. For the pleasure from drunkenness and the pleasure from sexual intercourse do not affect a person in the same way. For this reason pleasures would seem to differ in species. [section 13] But indeed, they say, because some pleasures are base, pleasure did not seem to them to be a good. But this sort of thing, and this sort of judgment, is not peculiar to pleasure, but applies to nature and to knowledge as well. For there is also a base nature, such as that of worms and beetles and, in general, of dishonored animals, but nature is not for this reason a base thing.
28| [section 14] Likewise there are also base sciences, such as the menial crafts, but nevertheless knowledge is not for this reason base; rather, both knowledge and nature are, in their genus, good. For just as one ought not judge a sculptor by the sort of works from which he failed and worked badly, but by those in which he worked well, so too one ought not judge knowledge, or nature, or anything else, by what sort of thing it is on the basis of its base instances, but on the basis of its excellent ones. [section 15] Likewise pleasure too is, in its genus, a good, since indeed that there are base pleasures does not escape us either. For since the natures of animals are also different, some base and some excellent — for example the nature of a human being is excellent, while that of a wolf or some other beast is base, and likewise the nature of a horse and of a human being and of a donkey and of a dog are different from one another — [section 16] pleasure is a settling, out of what is contrary to nature, into each thing's own nature. So this would be a distinguishing feature: to a base nature belongs a base pleasure. For it is not the same thing for a horse and for a human being, and likewise not for the others either; but since natures differ, pleasures too differ. For pleasure was a restoration, and restoration, they say, settles a thing into its nature, so that the restoration belonging to a base nature is base, and that belonging to an excellent nature is excellent.
29| [section 17] But those who claim that pleasure is not something serious are affected the way people are who, not knowing nectar, think the gods drink wine and that there is nothing more pleasant than this. This is what they undergo through ignorance. Similar to this is what happens to those who say all pleasures are processes of becoming and not a good; for because they do not know pleasures other than the bodily ones, and see that these are processes of becoming and not serious, they think, without qualification, that pleasure is not a good. [section 18] Since, then, pleasure occurs both while nature is being restored and while it is in its settled state — for instance, the fillings-up from a state of deficiency occur while it is being restored, while the pleasures from sight, hearing, and the like occur while it is in its settled state — the activities of nature in its settled state would be better; for the pleasures spoken of in both these ways are activities. So it is clear that the pleasures from sight, hearing, and thinking would be the best, since the bodily pleasures at least come from a filling-up. [section 19] Further, this too was said, that pleasure is not a good: for what is present in all things and common to all is not a good. Such a thing belongs rather to the ambitious person and to ambition. For the ambitious person is the one who wants to be the only one to have something, and by this to surpass others; and so pleasure, if it is going to be a good, would need to be of this sort.
30| [section 20] Or is this not so, but rather the opposite — would it not seem to be a good for this very reason, that all things desire it? For it is the nature of all things to desire the good, so that if all things desire pleasure, pleasure would be a good in kind. [section 21] Again, they said pleasure was not a good because it is an obstacle. But their claiming it to be an obstacle appears to come from not examining the matter correctly. For the pleasure that comes from the very thing being done is not an obstacle; but if it is a different pleasure, it is an obstacle — for instance, the pleasure from drunkenness is an obstacle to acting. [section 22] But in that case knowledge too will be an obstacle to knowledge; for it is not possible to be active in respect of both at the same time. But why is knowledge not a good, if it produces the pleasure that comes from knowledge? And will it be an obstacle? Or not, but will it rather promote action? [section 23] For pleasure, arising from the action itself, spurs one on to act more; since if you make the serious person act in accordance with virtue, and act with pleasure in doing these things — will he not be far more active in the action? And if a person acts while feeling pleasure, he will be serious; but if he does fine actions while feeling pain, he is not serious. For pain belongs to things done under compulsion, so that if someone feels pain in doing fine actions, he acts under compulsion; and one who acts from compulsion is not serious.
31| [section 24] But surely it is not possible to do the actions in accordance with virtue without either feeling pain or pleasure; and there is no intermediate state. Why? Because virtue lies in affection, and affection lies in pain and pleasure, and there is nothing in between; it is clear, then, that virtue too comes with pain or pleasure. If, then, someone does fine actions while feeling pain, he is not serious. So virtue would not come with pain; therefore it comes with pleasure. [section 25] So pleasure is not only not an obstacle, but is also an incentive to action, and in general it is not possible to act without the pleasure that arises from the action itself. [section 26] There was another argument, that no knowledge produces pleasure. But this too is not true. For caterers, garland-makers, and [the] perfumers are producers of pleasure. [But in the case of the other kinds of knowledge, pleasure is not present as an end, but rather they come with pleasure and not without pleasure.] So there is also knowledge that is productive of pleasure (here the text breaks off). [section 27] Further, there was still another argument, that pleasure is not the best thing. But by this same argument you would also do away with the virtues spoken of individually. For courage is not the best thing — is it, then, not a good for this reason? Or is this absurd? Likewise in the case of the others. So pleasure too is not, for this reason, not a good, because it is not the best thing.
32| [section 28] One might raise this same difficulty by turning to the virtues as well. For instance, since reason sometimes masters the affections (for this is what we say of the self-controlled person), and the affections, conversely, sometimes master reason (as happens with the uncontrolled), then, since the irrational part of the soul, when it has vice, masters reason when reason is well disposed (for this is what the uncontrolled person is like), reason, being likewise badly disposed, will in the same way master the affections when they are well disposed and possess their proper virtue; and if this is so, it will follow that virtue is used badly — for reason, being badly disposed and using virtue, will use it badly. Now this sort of consequence would seem to be absurd. [section 29] Against such a difficulty it is easy to argue back and to resolve it from what we have said before about virtue. For we say virtue exists when reason, being well disposed, is in due proportion with the affections that have their proper virtue, and the affections with reason; for when they are disposed this way they will be in harmony with each other, so that reason always prescribes what is best, and the affections, being easily well disposed, do what reason prescribes.
33| [section 30] If, then, reason is badly disposed but the affections well disposed, there will be no virtue, since reason is deficient (for virtue comes from both together); so it is not possible to use virtue badly either. — And, without qualification, it is not, as others think, that reason is the principle and guide of virtue, but rather the affections. For an irrational impulse toward the fine must first come into being (and this does happen), and then afterward reason comes to ratify and judge it. One could see this from children and from creatures that live without reason; for in these, impulses of the affections toward the fine arise first without reason, and reason, coming later and concurring with them, brings about the doing of fine actions. But if the starting point toward fine actions is taken from reason, the affections do not follow along in agreement, but often oppose it; hence the affection, when well disposed, resembles a starting point toward virtue more than reason does. [section 1] It would follow next to speak of this, since the discussion concerns happiness — namely, about good fortune. For most people think that the happy life is the fortunate life, or at least not without good fortune, and perhaps rightly; for without external goods, of which fortune is in control, it is not possible to be happy. Hence one must speak about good fortune, and, without qualification, who the fortunate person is, and in what respects and about what.
34| [section 2] First, then, one who came to these questions and looked closely at them might raise a difficulty. For one could not say that luck is a nature. For nature [always] is, of that of which it is a cause, productive for the most part in the same way, but luck never is, but acts disorderly and as it chances; hence luck is spoken of in cases like these. Nor again could one say it is some intellect or right reason; for here too there is no less the ordered and the always-the-same, but luck is not like that. Hence also where there is most intellect and reason, there [and] luck is least, and where there is most luck, there intellect is least. [section 3] But then is good luck a kind of care exercised by the gods? Or would this not seem so? For we think it right that god, being in control of such things, apportions both goods and evils to those who deserve them, but luck, and the things that come from luck, truly happen as chance has it. But if we attribute this sort of thing to god, we will make him a poor judge, or an unjust one; and that is not fitting for [the] god. [section 4] But indeed, apart from these, one could assign luck to nothing else, so it is clear it must be one of these. Now intellect and reason and knowledge seem entirely foreign to it. But then neither would care and goodwill on god's part seem to be good luck, because good luck occurs among base people too;
35| [section 5] and it is not likely that god cares for the base. What remains, then, and is most proper to good luck, is nature. Good luck and luck occur in things that are not up to us, nor among things of which we ourselves are in control and have the power to do. Hence no one calls the just man fortunate, as just, nor the courageous man, nor in general anyone in respect of virtue; for these things are up to us, both to have and not to have. But already in cases like the following we will call good luck more properly by that name: for we call the well-born man fortunate, and in general anyone to whom such goods belong of which he himself is not in control. [section 6] But even here good luck would not be spoken of in the strict sense. The fortunate man is spoken of in many ways: for one to whom it happened, contrary to his own reckoning, to do something good, we call fortunate, and one who, though by reason he should have incurred a loss, gained instead, we call fortunate. [section 7] Good luck, then, consists in some good coming to be present contrary to reason, and in not incurring an evil that was reasonably expected. But good luck would seem, more properly and more its own, to consist in obtaining a good: for obtaining a good would seem in its own right to be good luck, while not incurring an evil is good luck only accidentally.
36| [section 8] Good luck, then, is an irrational nature: for the fortunate man is one who has, without reason, an impulse toward goods, and attains them, and this belongs to nature; for there is present in the soul, by nature, something of the sort by which we are moved without reason toward what is good for us, [section 9] and if one were to ask a man so disposed, "why does it please you to act in this way?" — "I do not know," he says, "but it pleases me" — undergoing something like what those who are inspired undergo; for the inspired too have, without reason, an impulse to do something. [section 10] We have no proper and distinct name by which to call good luck, but we often say it is a cause; but "cause" is foreign to the name. For the cause and that of which it is the cause are different things, and it is called a cause even apart from the impulse that attains goods — for example, the cause of not incurring an evil, or again, of a man who did not expect to get a good, nonetheless getting one. [section 11] Good luck of this sort, then, is different from that other kind, and this one seems to come about from a reversal in circumstances, and is good luck accidentally. So that even if this too is good luck, still, in relation to happiness, that other kind of good luck would be the more proper one — the kind in which the origin of the impulse toward attaining goods lies within the person himself.
37| [section 12] Since, then, happiness does not exist without external goods, and these come about from good luck, as we said before, good luck would be a contributing factor to happiness. [section 1] Concerning good luck, then, so much. Since we have spoken about each of the virtues taken separately, it remains to speak of them as a whole, putting the particulars together and summing them up. [section 2] Now the name applied to the person of complete excellence is not badly chosen — the fine-and-good. For they say someone is fine and good when he is completely excellent. For they use "fine and good" in respect of virtue: they call the just man fine and good, the courageous man, the temperate man, and so on in general in respect of the virtues. [section 3] Since, then, we divide things into two, and say that some are fine and others [also] good, and of the goods some are good without qualification and others not, and things fine are, for instance, the virtues and the actions that proceed from virtue, while goods are, [for example], rule, wealth, reputation, honor, and things of that kind — the fine-and-good man, then, is one for whom the things good without qualification are good, and the things fine without qualification are fine. [section 4] For such a man is fine and good. But one for whom the things good without qualification are not good is not fine and good, just as things healthy without qualification would not seem to keep healthy a man who is not healthy. For if wealth and rule, once present, do him harm, they would not be choiceworthy for him; rather, he will wish to have only such things as will not harm him.
38| [section 5] But a man who is the sort to hold back some of the goods so that they not belong to him would not seem to be fine and good; but the man for whom all the goods, being goods, are actually good, and who is not corrupted by them — by wealth and rule, for instance — such a man is fine and good. [section 1] Concerning acting rightly in accordance with the virtues, we have spoken, but not adequately. For we said it was acting according to right reason; but perhaps someone, not knowing this very thing, might ask what acting according to right reason actually is, and where right reason is to be found. Acting according to right reason occurs, then, [section 2] whenever the irrational part of the soul does not prevent the rational part from exercising its own activity. For then the action will be in accordance with right reason. For since we have one part of the soul that is worse and another that is better, and the worse always exists for the sake of the better — just as, in the case of body and soul, the body exists for the sake of the soul — so too we will say the body is in good condition when it is disposed so as not to hinder, but rather to contribute and to help urge on, the soul in accomplishing its own function (for the worse exists for the sake of the better, so as to cooperate with the better) —
39| [section 3] So whenever the passions do not prevent the intellect from doing its own work, then what happens will accord with right reason. Yes, but someone might perhaps say: when are the passions in such a state that they do not prevent it, and when are they in that state? For I do not know. [section 4] This sort of thing is not easy to state. Nor is it for the doctor either; but when he tells the feverish patient to take barley-gruel — how am I to perceive that he has a fever? "When," he says, "you see that he is pallid." But how am I to recognize the pallor? Here the doctor must be understood to mean: if you do not have, on your own part, a perception of such things, then no further instruction will help. The same account holds in common for the other cases of this kind. [section 5] It is similar too in the case of recognizing the passions: for one must contribute something of one's own toward the perception. [section 6] Someone might perhaps also raise this further question: if I know these things in fact, will I therefore already be happy? For people think so. But that is not how it is. For none of the other kinds of knowledge either hands over to the learner the use and the activity of what is learned, but only the state; so here too it does not hand over the use of knowing these things — for happiness is an activity, as we say — but only the state; and happiness consists not in knowing the things out of which happiness is composed, but in making use of them.
40| [section 7] But the use and the activity of these things does not belong to what is handed over by teaching; for no science hands over its use either, but only the state. [section 1] On all these points it is necessary to speak about friendship — what it is, and toward whom, and about what; for friends seem to be useful throughout the whole of life in everything, and friendship seems to be a good, and would contribute toward happiness. [section 2] First, then, it is perhaps better to go through the points that are raised as puzzles and inquired into: whether friendship exists among like people, as is commonly held and said. For they say, "like flies to like," and speak of the like being drawn to the like. And they say that once, when a dog kept sleeping on the same tile, Empedocles, being asked why the dog always slept on the same tile, said that the dog had something like itself in the tile, meaning that the dog kept returning to it because of the likeness. [section 3] Again, on the other hand, it seems to some others that friendship arises more among opposites. For they say, "earth longs for rain when the ground is dry," and that the opposite wishes to be friend to its opposite; for among like things, they say, it is not even possible for friendship to arise. For the like, they say, has no need at all of the like, and so on with such claims.
41| [section 4] Further, there is the question whether becoming a friend is a difficult thing or an easy one; the flatterers, at any rate, who quickly attach themselves, are not friends, but appear to be friends. [section 5] Further, questions of this sort are also raised: will the good man be a friend to the bad man, or not? For friendship, they say, lies in trust and firmness, and the bad man is least of all like that; and is the bad man a friend to the bad, or not even that? [section 6] First, then, we must determine what sort of thing it is that we are inquiring about when we examine friendship. For, as some think, there is friendship also toward god and toward soulless things — not correctly. For we say that friendship, properly speaking, exists where there is the possibility of a corresponding love in return, but friendship toward god does not admit of being loved in return, nor of loving at all in the full sense; for it would be absurd if someone said that he loved Zeus. [section 7] Nor again is it possible to be loved in return by soulless things. Yet there is a kind of friendly feeling even toward soulless things, for instance toward wine or some other such thing. For this reason we do not inquire into friendship toward god, nor toward soulless things, but friendship toward ensouled things, and among these, toward those in which loving in return is possible. [section 8]
42| If, after this, one were to examine what the lovable is, it is nothing other than the good. Now the lovable and that-which-must-be-loved are different, just as the willable and that-which-must-be-willed are different. [section 9] For the willable is the good without qualification, while that-which-must-be-willed is what is good for each person; so too the lovable is the good without qualification, while that-which-must-be-loved is what is good for oneself, so that the one is both that-which-must-be-loved and lovable, while the merely lovable is not necessarily that-which-must-be-loved. [section 10] Here, then, and on account of just this point, the puzzle arises whether the good man is a friend to the bad man or not. For what is good for a given person is somehow bound up with the good, and that-which-must-be-loved is bound up with the lovable; and being pleasant and being advantageous also go along with, and follow upon, the good. [section 11] Now the friendship of good men exists when they love each other in return; and they love each other because they are lovable; and they are lovable because they are good. [section 12] Will the good man, then, someone says, not be a friend to the bad man? He will indeed be. For since the advantageous and the pleasant follow upon the good, then insofar as the bad man happens to be pleasant, in that respect he is a friend; and again insofar as he is advantageous, in that respect too he is a friend.
43| [section 13] But such friendship will not exist in accordance with the lovable. For the lovable was the good, and the bad man is not lovable; rather, such friendship exists in accordance with that-which-must-be-loved. For these friendships — the one in accordance with the pleasant and the one in accordance with the advantageous — derive from the complete friendship, the one found among good men. [section 14] So the man who loves for the sake of the pleasant does not love with the friendship that is in accordance with the good, nor does the man who loves for the sake of the advantageous. [section 15] And these are indeed the kinds of friendship — the one in accordance with the good, the one in accordance with the pleasant, and the one in accordance with the advantageous — not the same as one another, and yet not wholly unrelated to each other either, but somehow depending upon the same thing. For example, we call a scalpel "medical," we call a man "medical," and we call a science "medical"; these are not said in the same way, but the scalpel is called medical because it is useful for the medical art, the man because he is capable of producing health, and the science because it is the cause and the principle. [section 16] In the same way the kinds of friendship, too, are not spoken of in the same way — that of good men, on account of the good, and that in accordance with the pleasant, and that in accordance with the advantageous. Nor indeed are they spoken of merely as homonyms; rather, they are not the same, but they are concerned somehow with the same things and arise from the same source.
44| [section 17] If, then, someone should say, "the man who loves for the sake of the pleasant is not a friend to this person, for he is not a friend in accordance with the good," such a person is proceeding toward the friendship of good men, which arises out of all these things together — out of the good and the pleasant and the advantageous — so that it is true that he is not a friend [in accordance with] that friendship, but in accordance with the friendship based on the pleasant or on the advantageous. [section 18] Will the good man, then, be a friend to the good man, or not? For, someone says, the like has no need at all of the like. Now this argument is looking for the friendship based on the advantageous; for it is insofar as the one has need of the other that, being friends in that way, they are friends in the friendship based on the advantageous. [section 19] But the friendship based on the advantageous has been distinguished from that based on virtue and that based on pleasure. It is likely, then, that good men are friends much more than others; for everything belongs to them — the good and the pleasant and the advantageous. But the good man is also a friend to the bad man; [section 20] for insofar as the bad man is perhaps pleasant, in that respect he is also a friend. And the bad man is a friend to the bad man too; for insofar as the same thing is perhaps advantageous to them, in that respect they are friends. For we see this happening: when the same thing is advantageous to two people, they become friends on account of the advantage, so that nothing will prevent even bad men from having something advantageous in common.
45| [section 21] The most stable, most enduring, and finest friendship, then, is the friendship among good people, the friendship that rests on virtue and the good — and reasonably so. For virtue is not subject to change, and it is virtue that this friendship is grounded in, so that a friendship of this kind is likely not to change either; but what is advantageous is never the same from one time to another. That is why friendship based on advantage is not stable, but shifts along with the advantage. [section 22] The same holds of friendship based on pleasure. So the friendship of the best people is the one that comes about on the basis of virtue, the friendship of the many is the one based on advantage, and the friendship based on pleasure is found among the vulgar and among people taken at random. [section 23] Now it does happen that people feel resentment and wonder, when they fall in with worthless friends; but there is nothing strange in this. For whenever a friendship takes its start from pleasure — the very thing on account of which the parties are friends — or from advantage, then as soon as that thing is gone the friendship does not continue either. [section 24] But often the friendship remains, even though one party has treated the friend badly, and that is why people feel resentment; and this too is not unreasonable. For your friendship with this person did not exist on account of virtue in the first place, so it is not strange either that he does nothing that belongs to virtue. So people who feel resentment on these grounds are not right to do so: for having formed the friendship for the sake of pleasure, they think they are entitled to what belongs to friendship based on virtue — and that is not possible. For friendship based on pleasure and advantage does not partake of virtue.
46| [section 25] So people who have shared pleasure with one another go looking for virtue, and they are not right to do so; for virtue does not follow upon pleasure and advantage, but rather both of these follow upon virtue. For it would be strange if one did not think that good people are pleasant to themselves and to one another; indeed even the worthless, as Euripides says, are pleasant to themselves — for "bad clings to bad." So it is not that virtue follows upon pleasure, but that pleasure follows upon virtue. [section 26] ...whether it must be so or not — for it would be strange to say it need not be. For if 1210a you take away from them their being pleasant to one another, they will procure other friends, pleasant ones, for the sake of living together; for there is nothing more essential to living together than being pleasant. [section 27] It would be strange, then, not to think that good people, above all, ought to live together; and this cannot happen without what is pleasant. So it seems that being a source of pleasure to one another must belong especially to people of this kind. [section 28] Now since friendships have been divided into three kinds, and among these a puzzle arose, whether friendship arises in equality or in inequality — it exists, in fact, on both grounds. For the friendship based on likeness is that of good people, and this is also complete friendship; while the friendship based on unlikeness is the one based on advantage. For to the wealthy man the poor man is a friend on account of his lack of the very things the rich man has in abundance, and to the good man the worthless man is a friend for the same reason: for on account of his lack of virtue, he attaches himself to the one from whom he supposes he can get it for himself — and that is why he is a friend to him.
47| [section 29] Friendship based on advantage, then, arises among unlike people; that is also why Euripides says: "the rain-soaked heaven longs for the parched earth" — since these, being opposites, come to have friendship on the basis of advantage. And indeed if you like, take the most opposite things of all, fire and water — even these are useful to one another. [section 30] For fire, they say, if it does not have moisture, is destroyed, since the moisture supplies it, as it were, with a kind of nourishment — but only so much nourishment as it can master; for if you make the moisture greater, it will get the mastery and cause the fire to be destroyed, whereas if it is proportionate, it will be of benefit. It is clear, then, that friendship arises through advantage even among the most opposite things. [section 31] All friendships, both those in equality and those in inequality, are traced back to the three kinds already distinguished. — And in all friendships a difference arises between the parties whenever they do not love, or do good, or render service, or anything of that sort, in like measure; for whenever one party does so intensely and the other falls short, the complaint and the blame follow the shortfall. [section 32] Nonetheless, in the case of those friendships where the end of the friendship is the same for both — for instance, if both are friends to one another on the basis of advantage, or both on the basis of pleasure — [and] the shortfall lies with the other party, then if you do me more good than I do you, I no longer dispute that you should not be loved more by me than I am by you —
48| [section 33] but in a friendship where we are not friends on account of the same thing, the differences are more pronounced. For the shortfall on each side is unclear. Take the case where one party is a friend for pleasure and the other for advantage — here the dispute arises; for the one who has the advantage on his side does not think that pleasure is a fair exchange for advantage, nor does the one who has the advantage in pleasure think it fair to receive gratitude for his pleasure in the form of advantage. That is why differences arise more in friendships of this kind. [section 34] Those who have the advantage in wealth or anything else of that sort do not think that they themselves ought to love, but think that they themselves ought to be loved by those who are more deficient. [section 35] But loving is better than being loved. For loving is a certain activity of pleasure, and a good, while from being loved no activity accrues to the one who is loved. [section 36] Further, knowing is better than being known; for being known and being loved belong even to inanimate things, whereas knowing and loving belong to living things. [section 37] Further, being capable of doing good is better than not being so: the one who loves, being capable of doing good, loves; the one who is loved, is loved, but does not do this.
49| [section 38] But people, out of love of honor, wish rather to be loved than to love, because there is a kind of superiority in being loved: for the one who is loved always has the advantage in pleasure or in wealth or in virtue, and the lover of honor reaches for that advantage. [section 39] And those who hold the position of superiority do not think they themselves ought to love; for they think they are giving something back, in the respects in which they are superior, to those who love them. Further, they also think of themselves as being in the lesser position; that is why they do not think they ought to love, but to be loved. But the person who is deficient in wealth or pleasures or virtue admires the one who is superior in these, and loves him because of either obtaining these things or expecting to obtain them. [section 40] There are also friendships of this kind arising from a shared disposition, from wishing something good for someone. But the friendship that arises on this basis does not have all these features together; for often we wish good things for another, yet do not wish to live together with him. [section 41] But should these be called friendship, or rather affections of the complete friendship that is based on virtue? For in that friendship all these features are present together: we would not wish to live with anyone else at all (for both the pleasant and the advantageous, and virtue too, belong to the good man), and we would wish good things most of all for this person, and living, and living well, for no one else but him.
50| [section 42] Whether there is also [friendship] for him toward himself, or not, let this be set aside for now — we shall speak of it later. But we wish everything for ourselves: for we wish to live together with ourselves (and perhaps this is even necessary), and we wish living well and living, and we wish the good, for no one else. [section 43] Further, we share the same feelings with ourselves more than with anyone: for if we stumble, or fall into any such trouble, we are pained at once. That is why it would seem that there is, in this way, a friendship of a person toward himself. [section 44] Such things, then — the shared feeling, and living well, and the rest — we say either with reference to friendship toward ourselves or with reference to complete friendship; for in both, all these features are present: for living together, and wishing to be, and to be well, and all the rest, belong to both of these. [section 45] ...that there is friendship; that is also why there are as many kinds of friendship as there are kinds of justice. Now there is a form of justice that holds between guest-friend and citizen, between slave and master, between citizen and citizen, between son and father, between wife and husband, and in all the other partnerships and friendships, simply speaking, that exist within each of these relations.
51| [section 46] The most stable of friendships would seem to be that of guest-friends; for they have no common end over which they compete, as citizens do — for citizens, competing with each other over superiority, do not remain friends. [section 47] The next thing to say would be whether there is friendship toward oneself, or not. Now we see, as we also said a little above, that friendship is recognized from its particulars, and these particulars are what we would wish for ourselves above all — for we wish ourselves goods, and existence, and well-being; and we are most sympathetically disposed toward ourselves; and we wish most of all to live together with ourselves. So if friendship is recognized from its particulars, and we would wish these particulars to belong to ourselves, it is clear that there is friendship toward oneself, just as we also said that injustice can be toward oneself. [section 48] For since the one who does injustice is one person and the one who suffers it is another, while each individual is one and the same, for this reason it did not seem that there could be injustice toward oneself; yet there will be, as we said when examining the parts of the soul — since the soul has more than one part — when these do not agree with one another, then there is injustice toward oneself.
52| [section 49] In the same way, then, friendship too would seem to hold toward oneself. For since, as we say, when we want to call someone emphatically a friend, we say 'my soul and his are one'; so since the soul has more than one part, the soul will be one when reason and the affections are in accord with each other (for that is how it will be one); so that, once it has become one, there will be friendship toward oneself. [section 50] This friendship toward oneself will occur in the excellent person; for only in him do the parts of the soul stand well toward one another, by not being at variance — since the base person is never a friend to himself, for he is always at war with himself. The person who lacks self-control, at any rate, when he does something for the sake of pleasure, soon after regrets it and reproaches himself; and the base person is in the same condition with respect to his other vices as well. For he continues fighting and opposing himself. [section 51] There is also friendship in equality — for example, that of comrades is in equality, both in the number and in the power of the good involved (for neither of them deserves to have more than the other, either in the number of goods or in power or in magnitude, but rather an equal share; for comrades wish to be, in a sense, equals)
53| [section 52] But the friendship of father toward son is in inequality, as is that of the ruled and the ruler, of the better and the worse, of wife and husband, and in general in cases where one party holds the position of the worse and the other of the better within the friendship. [section 53] For this is friendship in inequality according to proportion. For in giving a good, no one would ever give an equal share to the better person and to the worse, but always a greater share to the one who is superior. And this is equal in proportion; for the person who, being worse, has the lesser good is in a sense equal to the person who, being better, has the greater good. [section 1] Of all the friendships mentioned, loving occurs most of all, in a way, within kinship, and especially in that of father toward son. And why is it that the father loves the son more than the son loves the father? Is it, as some say — rightly enough, at least for most people — because the father has in a sense benefited the son, while the son owes gratitude for the benefit? [section 2] This reason [also] would seem to hold in the case of friendship based on advantage; but the situation here is somewhat like what we observe in the case of the sciences.
54| [section 3] I mean something like this: [it is] there are cases where the end and the activity are the same, and there is no end other than the activity — for example, for the flute-player the activity and the end are the same (for playing the flute is both his end and his activity) — but this is not so for the builder's craft (for there the end is something other than the activity); [section 4] Friendship, then, is a kind of activity, and there is no end for the activity of loving other than this activity itself. Now the father, in a sense, is always more engaged in activity, because the son is in a way something he has made. And we see this holding in other cases too; for everyone is, in a sense, well disposed toward whatever he himself has produced. [section 5] The father, then, is in a sense well disposed toward the son as being his product, drawn by both memory and hope; and this is why the father loves the son more than the son loves the father. [section 6] We must also examine the other things that are called and thought to be friendships, and ask whether they really are friendships. For example, goodwill is thought to be friendship. [section 7] Now goodwill would not seem, without qualification, to be friendship — for often, toward many people, either from seeing something or from hearing something good about them,
55| we become well disposed toward them; are we, then, already also friends toward them, or not? For if someone was well disposed toward Darius while he was in Persia, as perhaps someone was, it does not follow that he thereby had friendship toward Darius. [section 8] But goodwill would seem to be, at times, a starting point of friendship, and goodwill would become friendship if the person, being able to act, adds to it the wish actually to do good things for the sake of the one toward whom he is well disposed. [section 9] — Goodwill belongs to character and is directed toward character; for no one is said to be well disposed toward wine or toward any other inanimate good or pleasant thing, but goodwill is toward someone whose character is excellent. [section 10] — Goodwill does not exist apart from friendship, but within the same relation; and this is why it is thought to be friendship. [section 11] Concord is close to friendship, if you take concord in its strict sense. For if someone holds the same view as Empedocles, and it seems to him that the elements are what they also seemed to Empedocles, is this person then in concord with Empedocles, or not? For this is a matter of something else of this sort. [section 12] For, first, concord does not lie in matters of thought but in matters of action, and in these it consists not in thinking the same thing, but in having, together with thinking the same thing, the same choice regarding what they think about these matters. For if both think that someone should rule, but one thinks he himself should rule and the other thinks he himself should rule, are they already in concord, or not? But if I wish myself to rule and that other person also wishes me to rule, then we are already in concord.
56| [section 13] So to be in concord, in matters of action, is to have the same wish. Concord, in the strict sense, therefore, concord in the strict sense concerns the appointment of the same person as ruler in matters of action. [section 1] Since there is, as we say, friendship of a person toward himself, is the excellent person a self-lover, or not? A self-lover is one who does everything for his own sake, with a view to what is profitable to him. Now the base person is a self-lover (for he does everything for his own sake); but the excellent person is not. For he is excellent precisely because he does this for the sake of another; and so he is not a self-lover. [section 2] But everyone strives after goods and thinks that these ought to belong to himself above all. This is most evident in the case of wealth and rule. Now the excellent person will yield these to another, not on the ground that they do not belong to him most of all, but if he sees that another will be able to make better use of them than he himself would; the rest, however, will not do this, either through ignorance (for they do not think they would make bad use of such goods) or through love of honor in ruling. [section 3] The excellent person, however, will be affected by neither of these; and so he is not a self-lover, at least with respect to goods of this sort. But if he is a self-lover at all, it is with respect to the fine. For this alone he would not yield to another, whereas he will yield what is advantageous and pleasant.
57| [section 4] So the choice made for the sake of the fine will belong to the self-lover; but the choice said to be made for the sake of advantage and pleasure will not belong to the excellent person, but to the base person. [section 1] — Will the excellent person, then, love himself most of all, or not? In one sense he will love himself most, but in another sense not. For since we say that the excellent person will give up the goods that concern advantage to his friend, he will love his friend more than himself. [section 2] Yes, but insofar as he gives these things up to his friend, he thereby secures the fine for himself, and it is in that respect that he gives up such things. So in one sense he loves his friend more than himself, but in another sense he loves himself most: in respect of advantage he loves his friend, but in respect of the fine and the good he loves himself most; for he secures these for himself, and these are the finest things. [section 3] So he is a lover of the good, not a lover of self; for if he loves himself, it is only because he is good. But the base person is a lover of self; for he has nothing on account of which he might love himself, such as something fine, but he will love himself without any such thing, simply himself. That is why he, properly speaking, would be called a lover of self.
58| [section 1] Next it would be fitting to speak about self-sufficiency and the self-sufficient person: whether the self-sufficient person will need friendship in addition, or not, but will be self-sufficient to himself even in this respect. For the poets too say things of this sort: "when the divinity gives good fortune, what need is there of friends?" And from this the puzzle also arises: will the person who has all good things and is self-sufficient need a friend, or is it then that he needs one most of all? For whom will he benefit, or with whom will he live his life together? For he will surely not spend his life alone. [section 2] If, then, he will need these things, and these are not possible without friendship, the self-sufficient person would need friendship in addition. [section 3] Now the comparison habitually drawn in these arguments from the case of god is neither correct there nor would it be useful here; for it is not the case that, because god is self-sufficient and needs nothing, we too will therefore need nothing. [section 4] For there is also an argument of the following sort made about god. Since, he says, god has all good things and is self-sufficient, what will he do? For he will surely not sleep. He will contemplate something, then, he says; for this is the finest and most proper activity. What, then, will he contemplate? For if he contemplates something else, that thing will be better than himself. But this is absurd, that something else should be better than god. He will therefore contemplate himself. But this too is absurd; for when a man [who] examines himself, we reproach him as lacking sense. God, then, he says, will be absurd, contemplating himself.
59| [section 5] Let it be set aside, then, what god will contemplate; for it is not about the self-sufficiency of god that we are conducting our inquiry, but about human self-sufficiency: will the self-sufficient person need friendship, or not? Now if someone, looking to his friend, should see what a friend is and what sort of thing he is — (the text breaks off here) — such as to be another self, at least if you make him a friend in the fullest sense, as the saying goes: "this one is another Heracles, a friend is another self." [section 6] Since, then, knowing oneself is both the most difficult thing, as some of the wise have also said, and the most pleasant (for knowing oneself is pleasant), we are not able to observe ourselves from ourselves alone (and that we are not able to is clear from the fact that we reproach others for things while we ourselves do the same things without noticing it; [section 7] and this happens on account of goodwill, on account of feeling; and for many of us these things obscure our judgment, preventing us from judging correctly). So just as, when we want to see our own face, we look into a mirror and see it, likewise, when we want to know ourselves, we would come to know ourselves by looking at our friend; for the friend is, as we say, another self. [section 8]
60| If, then, knowing oneself is pleasant, and this is not possible to know without another, a friend, then the self-sufficient person would need friendship in order to know himself. [section 9] Further, if it is fine, as indeed it is, for someone who has the goods that come from fortune to do good to others, whom will he benefit? And with whom will he live his life together? For he will surely not spend his life alone; for living together is both pleasant and necessary. If, then, these things are fine and pleasant and necessary, and these are not possible without friendship, the self-sufficient person would need friendship in addition. [section 1] Should one acquire many friends, or few? Speaking simply, one should have neither many nor few [always]. For when there are many, it is a task to divide one's loving among each of them; for with respect to all other things too, our nature, being weak, is unable to extend itself very far. For neither do we see very far with our sight — if you set something too far beyond the proper measure, our sight falls short because of the weakness of our nature — nor with hearing, nor likewise with all the other senses. [section 2] So if one falls short in loving because of incapacity, one might justly incur complaints, and one would not be a friend, not loving in fact but only in name; and friendship does not want this.
61| [section 3] Further, if there are many, one cannot cease from grieving; for when there are many, it is likely that some misfortune is always befalling one or another of them, and when such things happen, grief is unavoidable. Nor again, on the other hand, should one have few, one or two, but a number proportioned to the occasion and to one's own impulse toward loving. [section 1] After this it would be fitting to examine how one should treat a friend. The inquiry does not apply to every kind of friendship, but to that in which friends most bring complaints against one another. In the other kinds they do not bring complaints in the same way; for instance, in the friendship of father toward son there is no complaint of the sort demanded in some friendships — as I have treated you, so you should treat me — and if not, then there is the severe complaint. [section 2] For among unequal friends there is no equality; and the friendship of father toward son is a friendship of inequality, likewise that of wife toward husband or of servant toward master, and in general of the inferior and the superior. Such friends, then, will not have complaints of this kind; but among equal friends, and in that kind of friendship, this sort of complaint does occur. So it would be fitting to examine how one should treat a friend in friendship among equals. (the text breaks off here)
1| [1249a] Fine things are praiseworthy, and shameful things are blameworthy. The virtues are responsible for fine things, and the vices for shameful things. Also praiseworthy are the causes of the virtues, and what accompanies the virtues, and what comes from them, and their works; and blameworthy are the opposites of these. If the soul is taken to have three parts, as in Plato, the virtue of the rational part [1249b] is practical wisdom; the virtue of the spirited part is gentleness and courage; the virtue of the appetitive part is temperance and self-control; and the virtue of the whole soul is justice, liberality, and greatness of soul. The vice of the rational part is folly; the vice of the spirited part is irascibility and cowardice; the vice of the appetitive part is self-indulgence and [1250a] lack of self-control; and the vice of the whole soul is injustice, illiberality, and smallness of soul. Practical wisdom is a virtue of the rational part, productive of the things that contribute to happiness. Gentleness is a virtue of the spirited part, by which people become hard to move to anger. Courage is a virtue of the spirited part, by which people are hard to terrify by fears concerning death. Temperance is a virtue of the appetitive part, by which people become without appetite for the enjoyment of base pleasures. Self-control is a virtue of the appetitive part, by which people restrain by reasoning an appetite that is rushing toward base pleasures. Justice is a virtue of the soul that distributes according to worth. Liberality is a virtue of the soul that spends readily on fine things. Greatness of soul is a virtue of the soul, by which one is able to bear
2| good fortune and bad fortune, and honor and dishonor. Folly is a vice of the rational part, a cause of living badly. Irascibility is a vice of the spirited part, by which people become easily moved to anger. Cowardice is a vice of the spirited part, by which people are terrified by fears, and especially those concerning death. Self-indulgence is a vice of the appetitive part, by which people choose base pleasures. About lack of self-control, nothing has been said here; but you can define it in this way: lack of self-control is a vice of the appetitive part, by which people are swept along by unreason, with appetite pushing them toward the enjoyment of base pleasures. Injustice is a vice of the soul, by which people become grasping for more than their worth. Illiberality is a vice of the soul, by which people reach for gain from every source. Smallness of soul is a vice of the soul, by which people are unable to bear good fortune and bad fortune, and honor and dishonor. It belongs to practical wisdom to deliberate; to judge good things and bad things and everything in life that is to be chosen and avoided; to use well all the goods one has; to deal with people rightly; to grasp the right occasions; to make shrewd use of both speech and action; and to have experience of everything useful. Memory, experience, and quickness of mind either each derive from practical wisdom, or accompany practical wisdom; or else some of them are, as it were, joint causes of practical wisdom, as experience and memory are, while others are, as it were, parts of it, as good deliberation and quickness of mind are. It belongs to gentleness to be able to bear accusations and slights in due measure, not to rush quickly toward retaliation, not to be easily moved to anger, to be unembittered in character and not contentious, and to have what is calm and settled in the soul. It belongs to courage to be hard to terrify by fears
3| concerning death, to be confident in the face of terrors, to be [1250b] bold in the face of dangers, to choose to die nobly rather than to be saved shamefully, and to be a cause of victory. It further belongs to courage to labor, to endure, and to choose to act with manly excellence. Courage is accompanied by boldness, high-spiritedness, confidence, and daring, and further by love of labor and endurance. It belongs to temperance not to marvel at the enjoyment of bodily pleasures, to be without appetite for the enjoyment of every shameful pleasure, to be wary even of license that is just, and to be stretched taut about one's life alike in small things and great. Temperance is accompanied by good order, propriety, a sense of shame, and caution. It belongs to self-control to be able to restrain by reasoning an appetite that is rushing toward base enjoyments and pleasures, to endure, and to be capable of bearing want and pain that are in accordance with nature. It belongs to justice to distribute according to worth, to preserve ancestral customs and established usages, to preserve the written laws, to speak the truth where it matters, and to keep agreements. The first of the forms of justice is toward the gods, then toward divine spirits, then toward one's country and parents, then toward the dead; among these is piety, which is either a part of justice or accompanies it. Justice is accompanied by holiness, truthfulness, good faith, and hatred of wickedness. It belongs to liberality
4| to be ready to spend money on praiseworthy things, and to be lavish where the expense goes toward what is needed; to be ready to help in a matter of property; and not to take from where one ought not. The liberal person is also clean in dress and in dwelling, and given to acquiring things that are elaborate and fine and afford pleasant pastime without practical profit, and to keeping animals that have some distinctive or remarkable quality. Liberality is accompanied by softness of character, tractability, kindness toward humanity, and being compassionate, fond of friends, hospitable, and a lover of the fine. It belongs to greatness of soul to bear well both good fortune and bad fortune, and honor and dishonor, and to marvel at neither luxury nor flattering attendance nor power nor victories in contests, but to have a certain depth and greatness of soul. The great-souled person is neither one who sets great store by life nor one who loves life. He is simple and noble in character, able to bear being wronged, and not vengeful. Greatness of soul is accompanied by simplicity and truthfulness. It belongs to folly to judge matters badly, to deliberate badly, to deal with people badly, to make bad use of the goods one has, and to hold false opinions [1251a] about what is fine and good for life. Folly is accompanied by inexperience, ignorance, lack of self-control, awkwardness, and forgetfulness. Irascibility has three forms: quick temper, bitterness, and sullen resentment. It belongs to the irascible person to be unable to bear even small slights or diminishments, to be punitive and vengeful, and to be easily moved to anger by any chance deed or word. Irascibility is accompanied by an irritable and changeable character, harsh speech, being pained at small things, and this same
5| ...to be affected quickly and over a brief occasion. It belongs to cowardice to be easily moved by chance fears, and especially by fears concerning death and bodily mutilation, and to suppose that it is better to save oneself by any means whatever than to die nobly. Softness, unmanliness, avoidance of exertion, and love of one's own life follow upon cowardice. There also underlies it a certain wariness and an unquarrelsome character. It belongs to self-indulgence to choose the enjoyment of pleasures that are harmful and shameful, and to suppose that those who live amid such pleasures are the happiest of all, and to be fond of laughter, fond of mockery, and fond of ribald jesting, and to be careless and slipshod in both word and deed. Disorder, shamelessness, unruliness, luxury, indolence, negligence, carelessness, and slackness follow upon self-indulgence. It belongs to lack of self-control to choose the enjoyment of pleasures even while reason forbids it, and, while supposing it better not to partake of them, to partake of them nonetheless, and to think that one ought to do both the fine things and the advantageous things, yet to abandon them on account of pleasures. Softness and regret follow upon lack of self-control, and most of the same things that follow upon self-indulgence as well. Injustice has three forms: impiety, greed, and insolence. Impiety is offense concerning the gods, and concerning spirits, or concerning the dead, and concerning parents and fatherland; greed concerns contracts, choosing an advantage contrary to what is deserved; insolence is that by which people procure pleasures for themselves by bringing others into disgrace — hence Evenus says of it: 'which, though it gains nothing, does wrong all the same'. It belongs to injustice to transgress ancestral customs and established usages, to disobey the laws and the rulers, and to
6| [1251b] lie, to swear falsely, and to transgress agreements and pledges. Slander, boastfulness, a pretended kindliness toward others, malice, and unscrupulous cunning follow upon injustice. Illiberality has three forms: sordid love of gain, stinginess, and niggardliness. Sordid love of gain is that by which people seek to profit from every source, and value the profit more than the shame it brings; stinginess is that by which people are unwilling to spend money even where it is needed; niggardliness is that by which people do spend, but little by little and poorly, and are harmed all the more by not laying out the expense at the right moment. It belongs to illiberality to value money above all else, and and to count nothing that produces profit a disgrace — a life that is hired, slavish, and squalid, estranged from love of honor and from liberality. Meanness, sullenness and pettiness of spirit, lowliness, lack of proportion, ignobility, and misanthropy follow upon illiberality. It belongs to pettiness of spirit to be unable to bear either honor or dishonor, either good fortune or bad fortune, but to be puffed up when honored, to be carried away by even a small stroke of good fortune, to be unable to bear even the slightest dishonor, to judge a mere failure to be a great disaster and misfortune, and to lament and chafe over everything. Further, the petty-spirited person is of such a kind as to call every slight an insolence and a dishonor, including things that happen through ignorance or forgetfulness. Meanness, complaint at one's lot, despondency, and lowliness follow upon pettiness of spirit. In general, it belongs to virtue to make the disposition of the soul excellent, employing calm and orderly motions that are in accord with one another in every part; that is why an excellent disposition of soul is also thought to be a model of a good constitution —
7| an excellent disposition. It belongs to virtue also to do good to those who deserve it, to love good people, and to be neither given to punishing nor to taking vengeance, but gracious, kindly, and forgiving. Kindness, fairness, gratitude, and good hope follow upon virtue. Further, there are such things as being fond of one's home, fond of one's friends, fond of one's comrades, fond of guests, fond of humanity, and fond of the fine — all of which belong to the things that are praised. The opposites of these belong to vice.
1| [1252a] Since we see that every city is some kind of community, and that every community is constituted for the sake of some good (for all men do everything for the sake of what seems to them good), it is clear that all communities aim at some good, and that the community which is most sovereign of all and includes all the others aims most of all at the good that is most sovereign of all. This is what is called the city, the political community. Now those who think that the statesman, the king, the household manager, and the master of slaves are the same do not speak well (for they suppose these differ not in kind but in the multitude or fewness of those under them — as if one who rules a few were a master, one who rules more a household manager, and one who rules still more a statesman or king, on the assumption that a great household and a small city do not differ; and that the statesman and the king differ in that when a man himself stands at the head he is a king, and when he rules and is ruled in turn according to the principles of such a science, he is a statesman) — but these claims are not true. This will become clear if we examine the matter according to the method we have laid down. For just as in other cases the compound must be divided down to its uncompounded elements (since these are the smallest parts of the whole), so too by examining what a city is composed of, we shall see better, both concerning these things, how they differ from one another, and whether it is possible to grasp something scientific about each of the things named.
2| If, then, one were to look at things as they grow from the beginning, in this case as in others, one would get the finest view of them. First, then, those who cannot exist without each other must necessarily pair together, as female and male for the sake of generation (and this not from choice, but because, as in the other animals and plants too, it is natural to desire to leave behind another such as oneself), and ruler and ruled by nature, for the sake of preservation. For that which is able by its intelligence to look ahead is by nature ruler and by nature master, while that which is able with its body to do this labor is ruled and is by nature a slave; hence the same thing is advantageous to master and slave.
3| [1252b] By nature, then, the female and the slave are distinguished (for nature makes nothing as the bronze-workers make the Delphic knife, in a stinting way, but one thing for one purpose; for thus each instrument would be completed most finely, if it served not many tasks but one). Among barbarians, however, the female and the slave hold the same rank. The reason is that they do not have that which is by nature a ruler, but their community comes to be one of female slave and male slave. Hence the poets say, 'It is fitting that Greeks rule barbarians,' as though barbarian and slave were by nature the same thing. From these two communities, then, the household first arises, and Hesiod spoke rightly when he wrote, 'first of all a house, and a wife, and an ox for ploughing' — for the ox serves the poor in place of a household slave. The community established by nature for everyday purposes, then, is the household, whose members Charondas calls 'those who share one's breadbin,' and Epimenides the Cretan 'those who share one's manger.' The community formed of several households for the sake of something more than daily use is the village. The village seems, according to nature, most of all to be a colony of a household, made up of those whom some call 'sharers of the same milk' — children and children's children.
4| For this reason cities were at first ruled by kings, and even now the nations still are; for they came together out of communities that were ruled by kings, since every household is ruled by its eldest member as a king, and so too are the colonies formed from it, on account of kinship. This is what Homer means when he says, 'Each man lays down the law for his children and his wives' — for they lived scattered, and this is how people dwelt in ancient times. And this is why all say that the gods too are ruled by a king — because they themselves, some still now and others in ancient times, were ruled by kings; for just as men make the gods' forms in their own likeness, so too they make the gods' ways of life. The community formed of several villages, when complete, is the city, which by now has reached, one may say, the limit of full self-sufficiency; it comes into being for the sake of life, but it exists for the sake of living well. Hence every city exists by nature, if indeed the first communities do; for the city is their end, and nature is an end. For what each thing is when its coming-into-being is complete — this we call the nature of that thing, whether of a man, a horse, or a household. Again, that for the sake of which a thing exists, its end, is best;
5| [1253a] and self-sufficiency is both an end and best. From this it is clear that the city belongs among the things that exist by nature, and that man is by nature a political animal, and that one who is without a city, not by chance but by nature, is either a mean sort of being or something greater than man — like the man reviled by Homer as 'clanless, lawless, hearthless'; for the man who is such by nature is also eager for war, since he is like an isolated piece in a game of draughts. That man is a political animal to a greater degree than any bee or any herd animal is clear. Nature, on our account, makes nothing pointlessly, and among the animals, speech belongs to man alone. Mere voice signals pain and pleasure, and is therefore found in the other animals too (for their nature extends this far — to having a sense of pain and pleasure and conveying these to one another), but speech exists to reveal advantage and harm, and consequently also right and wrong; for humans alone possess, unlike the other creatures, a perception of good and evil, of right and wrong, and the rest;
6| and community in these things is what makes a household and a city. And the city is by nature prior to the household and to each of us individually. Necessarily, the whole precedes the part in nature; since if the whole body is destroyed there will be no foot or hand, except in name only — as one might speak of a stone hand, for once destroyed it will be a hand of that sort only in name. Everything is defined by its function and its capacity, so that when things are no longer such as to perform their function, we must not say they are the same things, but that they are the same in name only. It is clear, then, that the city exists by nature and is prior to each individual; for if each individual when separated is not self-sufficient, he will be in a condition like that of the other parts in relation to the whole; and one who is unable to live in community, or who has no need to because of his self-sufficiency, is no part of a city, so that he is either a beast or a god. In all men, then, there is by nature an impulse toward this sort of community, and the one who first established it was the cause of the greatest of goods. For just as man, when perfected, is the best of animals, so too, when separated from law and justice, he is the worst of all; for injustice is most dangerous when armed, and man is born equipped with arms meant to serve practical wisdom and virtue, which it is possible to use for the most opposite ends. Hence, without virtue, man is the most unholy and savage of animals, and the worst in regard to sexual indulgence and gluttony.
7| But justice is a political matter; for the administration of right is the ordering of the political community, and justice is the discernment of what is right. [1253b] Since it is clear from what parts the city is composed, we must first speak of household management; for every city is composed of households. The parts of household management correspond in turn to the parts of which a household itself is composed; and a complete household consists of slaves and free persons. Since one must first investigate each thing in its smallest elements, and the first and smallest parts of a household are master and slave, husband and wife, father and children, we should examine these three relationships to see what each is and what it ought to be. These are: the relation of mastery, the relation of marriage (for the union of woman and man has no name of its own), and third, the relation of procreation (for this too has not been named by any special term). Let these, then, be the three relationships we have mentioned. There is also a part which some consider to be household management, others its greatest part; how matters stand with it we must consider — I mean what is called the art of acquisition. Let us first speak of master and slave, so that we may see what pertains to necessary use, and also whether we can grasp anything about them, for the sake of knowledge, better than what is now supposed. For some think that mastery is a kind of science, and that household management, mastery, statesmanship, and kingship are the same, as we said when we began.
8| But for others, mastery is against nature (for by law one man is a slave and another free, but by nature there is no difference); and for that reason this is not even just, for it is done by force. Since, then, property is a part of the household and the art of acquiring property is a part of household management (for without the necessities it is impossible even to live, let alone to live well), and just as for the definite crafts it would be necessary that there be the tools proper to them, if the work is to be accomplished, so too for the household manager. Now of tools some are lifeless and some are ensouled (for example, for the ship's captain the rudder is a lifeless tool, but the lookout is an ensouled one; for the assistant, in the crafts, has the character of a tool). So too a piece of property is a tool for living, and property in general is a multitude of tools, and the slave is a piece of property that is ensouled, and every assistant is, as it were, a tool that stands before other tools. For if each of the tools could perform its own work on command or by anticipation, the way they say of the statues of Daedalus, or the tripods of Hephaestus, which the poet says entered the gathering of the gods of their own accord, so that shuttles wove by themselves and picks played the lyre by themselves, then master-craftsmen would have no need of assistants and masters no need of slaves.
9| [1254a] Now the things called tools are tools of production, while a piece of property is a tool of action; for from the use of the shuttle something else comes to be beyond the use itself, but from clothing and from a bed there comes only the use. Further, since production differs in kind from action, and both need tools, it is necessary that these tools too have the same difference. But life is action, not production; and that is why the slave is an assistant in matters concerning action. Now a piece of property is described in the same way as a part is described: a part belongs not merely to some whole but is wholly that whole's; property stands the same way. So the master merely holds mastery over the slave and is not himself owned by him, while the slave, beyond simply serving the master, is entirely his. From this, then, it is clear what the nature of the slave is and what his capacity is: for he who, by nature, belongs not to himself but to another, while being a human being, is by nature a slave; and a man belongs to another whenever, being a human being, he is a piece of property; and a piece of property is a tool for action, and separable from its owner. But whether there is anyone who is by nature of this sort or not, and whether it is better and just for someone to be a slave or not, but rather all slavery is against nature — this must be examined after these matters.
10| Nor is it difficult to see this both by reasoning and to learn it from the facts. For ruling and being ruled belong not only among the necessary things but also among the advantageous, and from the moment of birth some things are marked off, some toward being ruled, others toward ruling. And there are many kinds both of rulers and of ruled (and the rule of better subjects is always better, for example rule over a human being rather than over a beast; for the work accomplished by better subjects is a better work; and wherever one thing rules and another is ruled, there is a certain work belonging to these). For all things that are composed of a number of parts and come to form some one common thing, whether out of continuous parts or out of separate ones, in all of them the ruling element and the ruled element are manifest, and this belongs to ensouled things from the whole of nature; for even in things that do not partake of life there is a certain ruling principle, as in a musical harmony. But these matters perhaps belong to a more external line of inquiry. First among animals, a living creature consists of a soul together with a body, one member ruling by nature, the other being ruled. And one must look for what is according to nature in things that are in their natural condition, rather than in things that are corrupted; and that is why one must study the human being who is in the best condition both in body and in soul, in whom this is evident,
11| [1254b] since in the case of those who are depraved or badly disposed, it would often seem that the body rules the soul, on account of their being in a base and unnatural condition. It is possible, then, as we say, to observe first in the living animal both mastering rule and political rule; for the soul rules the body with a mastering rule, while the intellect rules desire with a political or kingly rule. In these cases it is evident that it is according to nature and advantageous for the body to be ruled by the soul, and for the affective part to be ruled by the intellect and the part that has reason, whereas equality between them, or the reverse, is harmful to all. Again, it is the same way between man and the other animals: for tame animals are better in nature than wild ones, and for all of these it is better to be ruled by man, for in this way they attain safety. Further, as between male and female, the one is by nature superior and the other inferior, the one ruling and the other ruled. And the same manner of relation must necessarily hold among all human beings as well. All those, then, who are as different from other men as soul is from body and man from beast — and they are in this condition, all those whose function is the use of the body, and this is the best that comes from them — these are by nature slaves, for whom it is better to be ruled by this kind of rule, if indeed it is so even for the cases mentioned.
12| For he is by nature a slave who is capable of belonging to another (and that is why he does also belong to another), and who partakes of reason to the extent of perceiving it but not of having it. For the other animals do not perceive by reason but obey by their affections. And the use made of them differs little; for assistance for the necessities of the body comes from both alike, from slaves and from tame animals. Nature wishes, then, to make even the bodies of the free and of the slaves different, the latter strong for necessary use, the former upright and useless for such tasks, but useful for a political life (and this life in turn comes to be divided into the needs of war and of peace); but the opposite often happens as well, some having the bodies of free men and others having the souls; since this at least is evident, that if men were to become as different in body alone as the images of the gods, everyone would say that those who fell short deserve to be slaves to these. And if this is true in the case of the body, it is much more just that it be marked out in the case of the soul; but it is not equally easy to see the beauty of the soul as the beauty of the body.
13| [1255a] That there are, then, by nature some who are free and others who are slaves, is evident, and for these it is both advantageous and just to be slaves. But it is not difficult to see that those who assert the contrary are also right in a certain way. For being a slave and the slave himself are spoken of in two senses. For there is also a slave and a state of slavery by law: the law being a certain agreement by which what is conquered in war is said to belong to the conquerors. Now many of those versed in the laws bring this claim of right up on a charge, as they would indict an orator for proposing an illegal measure, on the ground that it is monstrous if the one who is able to use force, and is superior in power, will have as slave and subject the one who was forced. And some hold this view, others that view, even among the wise. The cause of this dispute, and what makes the arguments overlap, is that in a certain way virtue, when furnished with resources, is also most able to use force, and the conquering side is always superior in some good, so that it seems that force is not without virtue, but that the dispute is only about what is just (for on this account some think that the just is nothing but goodwill, while others think that this very thing is just, that the stronger should rule).
14| For once these arguments are separated out from each other, neither of them has any strength or plausibility on its own — I mean the argument that the better in point of virtue ought not to rule and be master. Now some people, holding fast, as they think, to a certain justice (for law is a kind of justice), lay it down that slavery arising from war is just — and yet at the same time they deny it. For it is possible that the origin of some wars is not just, and no one would ever say that a man undeserving of slavery is a slave; otherwise the result will be that people thought to be of the noblest birth turn out to be slaves, and children of slaves, if it should happen that they are captured and sold. That is why they refuse to call these people themselves slaves, but only the barbarians. Yet when they say this, they are seeking nothing other than the thing that is by nature a slave, which is exactly what we said at the outset; for they are forced to admit that some people are slaves everywhere and others nowhere. The same holds for nobility of birth as well: they consider themselves noble not only among themselves but everywhere, but the barbarians noble only at home, on the assumption that there is a nobility and freedom that is unqualified and one that is not unqualified — just as Theodectes' Helen says: 'Sprung from divine roots on both sides, who would think it fit to call me a slave-woman?'
15| But when they say this, they are marking off slave from free, and noble from ignoble, by nothing other than virtue and vice. [1255b] For they think it fitting that, just as a human being is born from a human being and a beast from beasts, so too a good offspring is born from good parents. But nature often wishes to do this, yet is not always able to. It is clear, then, that the dispute has some reason to it, and that it is not the case that some people are simply by nature slaves and others free; and also that in some cases such a distinction is marked out, where it is advantageous and just for the one to be a slave and the other to be a master, and where the one ought to be ruled and the other ought to exercise the rule it is by nature fitted to exercise, and so be master, while ruling badly harms them both alike (since part and whole share one advantage, just as body and soul do; the slave is in a sense a piece of the master — an animate piece of his body, yet one that stands apart. This is why master and slave can share a real benefit, even friendship, when nature has fitted each of them for the role toward the other; but where the relation does not arise this way, and rests instead on law and compulsion, the opposite is true). It is clear from these considerations too that mastery and statesmanship are not the same thing, nor are all the forms of rule the same as one another, as some people say. For the one is rule over people who are by nature free, the other over slaves; and household management is a monarchy (for every household is ruled by one), while statesmanship is rule over people who are free and equal.
16| Now the master is not so called in virtue of a branch of knowledge, but in virtue of being a certain kind of person, and likewise the slave and the free man. Yet there could be a kind of knowledge belonging to mastery and a kind belonging to slavery — the kind belonging to slavery being the sort of thing the man in Syracuse used to teach; for there, taking a fee, he used to teach boys the routine services of household duty. And instruction in such things could extend even further, to cookery and the other branches of service of that kind. For among such tasks some are more honorable than others, some more necessary, and, as the proverb says, 'slave before slave, master before master.' All such branches, then, are forms of slavish knowledge; but the knowledge belonging to mastery is the knowledge of how to make use of slaves. For being a master does not consist in acquiring slaves, but in using slaves. This branch of knowledge, however, has nothing great or dignified about it; for whatever the slave must know how to do, the master must know how to direct him to do. That is why, for those with the means not to be troubled with it themselves, an overseer takes on this honor, while they themselves engage in politics or philosophy. The art of acquiring slaves is different from both of these — the just kind, that is, which is a form of warfare or of hunting. Let this, then, be the way we have distinguished the matter concerning slave and master.
17| [1256a] Let us now consider, as a whole, property and the art of acquiring wealth, following the method we have laid down, since the slave, too, was a part of property. First, then, one might raise the question whether the art of acquiring wealth is the same as household management, or a part of it, or subordinate to it; and if subordinate, whether in the way that the art of shuttle-making is subordinate to the art of weaving, or in the way that the art of bronze-working is subordinate to statue-making (for they do not serve in the same way: the one supplies tools, the other the matter — and by matter I mean the material substrate out of which some work is completed, for example wool for the weaver, bronze for the statue-maker). That household management is not the same as the art of acquiring wealth is clear (for the one has the task of procuring, the other of using — for what other art will there be for using the things in the household besides household management?). Whether household management includes wealth-getting as one of its parts, or whether wealth-getting counts instead as a separate kind, remains an open question; for if it belongs to the art of acquiring wealth to consider from where money and property will come, and property comprises many parts, and so does wealth, then first there is the question whether farming is a part of household management or a distinct kind, and likewise, in general, the care and acquisition of provisions.
18| But there are, in fact, many kinds of provisions, and that is why there are also many ways of life, both among animals and among human beings; for it is not possible to live without provisions, so that differences in provisions have made the ways of life of animals different. For among wild animals some are herd-animals and some solitary, whichever way is advantageous to them for getting food, since some of them are flesh-eating, some fruit-eating, and some omnivorous; so that nature has marked out their ways of life with a view to their ease and their preference in these matters. And since the same thing is not by nature pleasant to each, but different things to different creatures, the ways of life even among the flesh-eaters themselves, and among the fruit-eaters themselves, differ from one another. And likewise among human beings too; for their ways of life differ greatly. The most idle are the pastoral peoples (for their food, coming from tame animals, is obtained without toil, while they are at leisure; but since it is necessary for their herds to move about because of the need for pasture, they too are forced to move along with them, cultivating what amounts to a herd of living crops). Some get their living by hunting instead, and different groups by different kinds of hunting — some, for instance, from raiding, others from fishing, all those who live near lakes, marshes, rivers, or a sea of that kind, and others from birds or wild game.
19| But the largest class of human beings lives from the land and from cultivated crops. The ways of life, then, are about this many in number, at least so far as they involve labor that grows of itself and provide their food not through exchange and retail trade — [1256b] pastoral, raiding, fishing, hunting, farming. And there are those who live agreeably by mixing some of these together, filling out whichever way of life happens to fall short of being self-sufficient — some, for instance, combine the pastoral together with raiding, others farming with hunting; and likewise with the rest, they pass their lives in whatever manner necessity forces upon them jointly. Such property, then, appears to be given by nature herself to all, both at the very first coming-into-being, and again once they have reached maturity. For even at the original coming-into-being, some animals bring forth along with their offspring enough food to last until the offspring can provide for itself — as many, for instance, as produce grubs or lay eggs; and as many as bear live young have food for their offspring within themselves for a certain time, namely the substance called milk. So it is clear, in the same way, that once they have come into being we must suppose that plants exist for the sake of animals, and the other animals for the sake of human beings — the tame ones both for use and for food, and of the wild ones, if not all, then at least most, for the sake of food and other assistance, so that clothing and other tools may be produced from them.
20| If, then, nature makes nothing incomplete and nothing in vain, it is necessary that nature has made all these things for the sake of human beings. This is why the craft of war, too, will in some sense be a natural mode of acquisition — hunting counts as one branch of it — a craft to be applied both to wild beasts and to those human beings who are naturally suited for rule yet refuse it, since a war of that sort is just by nature. One kind of acquisition, then, in accordance with nature, is a part of household management, in that it is necessary either to have on hand, or to provide so as to have on hand, a store of those goods which are necessary for life and useful for the community of the city or the household — goods whose accumulation constitutes wealth. And true wealth, it seems, is made up of these. For the self-sufficiency of this kind of possession, with a view to a good life, is not unlimited, as Solon says, writing: 'no limit to wealth is set up as manifest for men' (Solon, fr. 13.71). For it is limited, just as with the other crafts too: no instrument of any craft is unlimited, either in number or in size, and wealth is a quantity of instruments for household management and for political rule. That there is, then, a kind of acquisition in accordance with nature for household managers and statesmen, and for what reason, is clear. But there is another kind of acquisition, which people call by that name especially — and it is right to call it that — the art of getting wealth, in virtue of which there seems to be no limit to wealth and possession:
21| [1257a] which many people consider to be one and the same as the kind just discussed, because of their close resemblance; but it is neither the same as the one described nor far removed from it. One of them is by nature, the other is not by nature, but comes about rather through a certain experience and skill. Let us take our starting point about it from here. Of every possession there are two uses; both belong to the thing in its own right, but not in its own right in the same way — rather, one is proper to the thing, the other is not proper to it: for example, of a sandal, there is wearing it and there is exchanging it. Both are uses of the sandal: for the person who exchanges a sandal with someone who needs a sandal, for money or for food, uses the sandal as a sandal, but not according to its proper use — for it did not come to be for the sake of exchange. The same holds for the other possessions as well. For there is a kind of exchange applicable to all of them, arising at first out of what is natural, from the fact that some people have more than enough and others less than enough of what suffices (from which it is also clear that retail trade is not by nature a part of the art of getting wealth: for as much as was sufficient for them, it was necessary to make the exchange). In the first community, then (this is the household), it is clear that exchange has no function in it, but only once the community already consists of more members.
22| For some shared everything in common, while others, being separated, shared many other things again, different ones, exchanges of which they had to make according to their needs — just as many barbarian peoples still do, by way of exchange. For they trade the useful things themselves for one another, and nothing further, giving and taking wine, say, for grain, and each of the other such things. Now this kind of exchange is neither against nature, nor is it any species of the art of getting wealth (for it existed to fill up a natural self-sufficiency); yet it was out of this that the other kind arose, in due course. For as assistance from abroad became more foreign — by importing what they lacked and exporting what they had in excess — the use of currency was of necessity devised. For not everything among the things necessary by nature is easily carried about; and so, for the purposes of exchange, people agreed among themselves to give and take something which, being itself one of the useful things, had a use that was easy to handle for the purposes of life — for example, iron and silver, or anything else of that kind — at first defined simply by size and weight, but finally also by having a stamp put on it, so as to free people from having to measure it; for the stamp was set on as a mark of the quantity.
23| [1257b] Once currency, then, had already been devised out of this necessary exchange, the other kind of the art of getting wealth arose, retail trade — at first perhaps coming about in a simple way, then, through experience, becoming more skilled — from what source and how an exchange might produce the greatest profit. This is why the art of getting wealth is thought to be concerned above all with currency, and its function is thought to be the ability to see from what source an abundance will come, since it is held to be productive of wealth and money. And indeed people often set down wealth as an abundance of currency, because the art of getting wealth and retail trade are concerned with this. But at other times, currency seems again to be nonsense, and entirely a matter of convention, nothing by nature — since, if those who use it change it, it is worth nothing and useful for none of the necessities, and a man rich in currency will often be at a loss for necessary food. Yet it is strange that wealth should be of such a kind that a man in abundance of it may perish of hunger — like that Midas of the story, who, because of the insatiability of his wish, found everything set before him turned to gold. This is why people look for something else, wealth and the art of getting wealth being distinct, and they are right to look for it. For the art of getting wealth and wealth in accordance with nature are different things, and this latter belongs to household management, while the other, retail trade, is productive of wealth not in every way but through the exchange of money.
24| And it is thought to be concerned with currency, for currency is the element and limit of exchange. And this wealth, the wealth from this kind of art of getting wealth, is indeed unlimited. For just as the medical art is unlimited in its pursuit of health, and each of the crafts is unlimited in the pursuit of its end (since it is that end above all that they wish to produce), while they are not unlimited in what serves the end (for the end is a limit for all of them), so too with this art of getting wealth there is no limit of the end, and the end is wealth of this sort and the possession of money. But of the art of getting wealth that belongs to household management there is a limit: for this is not the function of household management. This is why it appears, on the one hand, that there must necessarily be a limit to all wealth; yet in what actually happens we see the contrary occurring: for all those who get wealth increase their currency without limit. The cause of this is the close relation between the two. For the use of the same thing overlaps between the two kinds of the art of getting wealth: the use belongs to the same possession, but not in the same respect — rather, for the one there is a different end, for the other, increase. This is why some people think that this is the function of household management, and they persist in supposing that they must either preserve or increase their store of currency without limit.
25| The cause of this disposition is being in earnest about living, but not about living well:
26| [1258a] since, then, that desire is without limit, they also desire without limit the things productive of it. And as many as do set their aim upon living well too seek what conduces to bodily enjoyments, so that, since this too is seen to reside in possession, their whole occupation is with the getting of wealth, and it is because of this that the other kind of the art of getting wealth has come about. For since enjoyment lies in excess, people seek what is productive of the excess of that enjoyment; and if they cannot provide it through the art of getting wealth, they attempt to do so by some other means, using each of their capacities not in accordance with nature. For it is not the function of courage to produce money, but boldness; nor is it the function of the general's or the doctor's art, but of the one, victory, of the other, health. But some people make all of these into arts of getting wealth, as though this were the end, and as though everything must answer to that end. Concerning, then, the art of getting wealth that is not necessary — what it is, and for what reason we are in need of it — this has been said; and concerning the necessary kind, that it is different from it, and that the household kind, concerned with sustenance, is by nature, not unlimited like the other but having a boundary. And it is also clear what was raised as a puzzle from the start, whether the art of getting wealth belongs to the household manager and the statesman or not, but rather this must be available to them (for just as the political art does not make human beings, but takes them from nature and makes use of them, so too nature must supply sustenance — earth, or sea, or something else) — and from these materials it is fitting for the household manager to arrange things as they need to be arranged.
27| For it is not the weaver's craft to make the wool, but to use it, and to know which sort is useful and suitable, and which is poor and unsuitable. And indeed one might raise a puzzle as to why the art of acquisition is a part of household management, while medicine is not a part of it — and yet the members of the household need to be healthy, just as they need to live or need any other of the necessities. Since it is in one way the business of the household manager and the ruler to look to health, and in another way not, but rather the business of the doctor, so too concerning property it is in one way the business of the household manager, and in another way not, but rather the business of a subordinate skill; but above all, as has been said before, this must belong by nature. For it is the work of nature to supply nourishment to what has been generated; for to everything, the nourishment is what is left over from that out of which it comes to be. Hence the art of acquiring wealth from fruits and from animals is according to nature for all. Since this art is twofold, as we said, one kind being that of the retail trader and the other that of the household manager, and the latter being necessary and praised, while the art of exchange is justly blamed
28| [1258b] (for it is not according to nature but at one another's expense), it is most reasonable that lending at interest is hated, because the gain comes from currency itself and not from the purpose for which currency was brought into being. For currency came into being for the sake of exchange, but interest makes more of it (whence it has taken its name; for offspring resemble their parents, and interest is currency born from currency): so that this kind of acquisition is of all kinds most contrary to nature. Since we have adequately distinguished matters concerning knowledge of these things, we must go through matters concerning their use. All such subjects have a free theoretical treatment but a necessary practical experience. The useful parts of the art of acquisition are: being experienced about property, which kinds are most profitable and where and how — for instance, what sort of possession of horses is best, or of cattle, or of sheep, and likewise of the other animals (for one must be experienced as to which of these are most profitable relative to one another, and which kinds thrive in which places, since different animals flourish in different regions); then concerning agriculture, both unplanted land and planted land; and beekeeping; and the other animals, whether aquatic or winged, from which it is possible to derive assistance.
29| These, then, are the parts, and the primary ones, of the art of acquisition most proper to a household. Of the art of exchange, the greatest is commerce (and of this there are three parts: shipowning, the carrying of freight, and being present to sell; and these differ from one another in that some are safer, while others yield a greater return); second is lending at interest; third is wage-earning (and of this, one kind belongs to the vulgar crafts, the other to unskilled labor useful only through bodily strength). There is also a third kind of acquisition intermediate between this one and the first (for it shares partly in the kind that is according to nature and partly in the kind of exchange), namely all that comes from the earth and from what grows from the earth — unfruitful but useful things, such as logging and all mining. This last has already come to embrace many kinds, for there are many species of things mined from the earth. Of occupations, the most skilled are those in which chance plays the smallest part; the most vulgar are those in which bodies are most maimed; the most servile are those in which there is the greatest use of the body; and the most ignoble are those which require the least excellence. Concerning each of these matters something has now been said in general, but going into detail is useful for the actual practice of these occupations, though it would be tiresome to dwell on it. Since some writers have already treated these subjects — for example, Charetides of Paros
30| [1259a] and Apollodorus of Lemnos, on agriculture, both unplanted and planted, and likewise others on other subjects — let anyone who cares about these matters study them from these sources. But in addition, the scattered accounts by which certain people have chanced to succeed in making money ought to be collected. Every one of these has value for people who prize the business of acquisition, like the anecdote told about Thales of Miletus. For this is a piece of shrewdness about acquiring wealth, but it is attributed to him because of his wisdom, though it happens to be a device of general application. For when people reproached him for his poverty, on the ground that philosophy was useless, they say that he foresaw, from his knowledge of astronomy, that there would be a large olive crop, and while it was still winter, having a little money available, he paid deposits on all the olive presses in Miletus and Chios, hiring them cheaply since no one was bidding against him; and when the season arrived and many people suddenly and all at once sought them out, he hired them out on whatever terms he wished, and by collecting a great deal of money he demonstrated that it is easy for philosophers to become rich if they wish, but that this is not what they are serious about. Thales, then, is said to have given this kind of demonstration of his wisdom; but as we have said, this sort of device is of general application in the art of acquisition, whenever someone is able to secure a monopoly for himself.
31| Hence some cities too resort to this expedient when they are short of funds: they create a monopoly of goods for sale. In Sicily, someone, having a sum of money deposited with him, bought up all the iron from the iron works, and afterward, when the merchants came from the trading posts, he alone was selling, without raising the price by much; yet even so, on an outlay of fifty talents he made a profit of one hundred. When Dionysius learned of this, he ordered the man to remove his money but not to remain any longer in Syracuse, on the ground that he was discovering means of profit disadvantageous to his own affairs; yet this scheme is the very same as that of Thales, for both contrived to secure a monopoly for themselves. It is useful for statesmen too to be acquainted with these matters. For many cities need financial resources and expedients of this sort, just as a household does, indeed even more so; and this is why some statesmen busy themselves with nothing else but this. Since there were three parts of household management — one being mastery over slaves, concerning which we have spoken before, one being paternal rule, and the third marital rule (for the household manager rules both wife and children, both as free persons, but not by the same manner of rule, but rules the wife in a political manner and the children in a kingly manner
32| [1259b] for the male is by nature more suited to rule than the female, except where this is constituted contrary to nature, and the older and complete is more suited to rule than the younger and incomplete) — now in most political offices, ruler and ruled alternate (for nature wishes them to be equal and to differ in nothing), yet nevertheless, when one party rules and the other is ruled, there is a demand that there be a difference in outward bearing, in speech, and in honors, just as Amasis also said in his story about the footbath; and the male always stands to the female in this same way. But the rule over children is kingly rule; for the parent rules on the basis of both affection and seniority, which is a form of kingly rule. Hence Homer did well to address Zeus, saying "father of men and gods" (Hom. Il. 1.544), as king of all these. For a king must by nature be superior, yet be the same in kind as his subjects, which is the very relation the older bears to the younger, and the parent to the child. It is clear, then, that the concern of household management is greater with regard to human beings than with regard to the acquisition of inanimate things, and greater with regard to the excellence of these persons than with regard to the excellence of property, which we call wealth, and greater with regard to free persons than with regard to slaves.
33| First, then, one might raise a puzzle about slaves: whether there is some excellence belonging to a slave beyond the instrumental and ministerial ones, some more valuable than these — such as temperance, courage, justice, and the other states of that kind — or whether there is none beyond bodily services (for there is a difficulty either way: if there is such an excellence, how will slaves differ from free persons? but if there is not, this is strange, since they are human beings and share in reason). Much the same question arises concerning wife and child: whether these too have excellences, and whether a woman must be temperate, courageous, and just, and whether a child can be undisciplined or temperate, or not. This must be examined in general with regard to what is naturally ruled and what naturally rules: whether the excellence is the same or different. For if both must share in nobility of character, why should one of them simply have to rule and the other simply be ruled? Nor can they differ by degree of more and less; for being ruled and ruling differ in kind, whereas more and less do not differ in kind at all. But if one must possess it and the other must not, that is strange. For if the ruler is not to be temperate and just, how will he rule well?
34| And again, if the ruled party has no share of virtue, how will he be ruled well? [1260a] For being licentious and cowardly, he will do none of the things that are fitting. It is clear, then, that both must share in virtue, but that there are differences in this virtue (just as there are among the things ruled by nature). And this is at once suggested by what concerns the soul: for in the soul there is by nature a ruling element and a ruled element, of which we say the virtue is different — that of the element having reason, and that of the element without reason. It is clear, then, that the same holds in the other cases too, so that by nature there are more numerous kinds of ruling and ruled things. For the free person rules the slave in one way, the male the female in another way, and the man the child in another; and in all of them the parts of the soul are present, but they are present differently. For the slave has no deliberative element at all, the female has it but without authority, and the child has it but incompletely. Hence the ruler must have complete intellectual virtue (for the function belongs, without qualification, to the master craftsman, and reason is the master craftsman), while each of the others needs only as much as falls to them. So we must suppose the same necessity holds concerning the ethical virtues as well: all must share in them, but not in the same way, but only so much as is proportionate to each one's own function.
35| Hence it is clear that there is an ethical virtue belonging to all those mentioned, and that the temperance of a woman and of a man are not the same, nor their courage and justice, as Socrates thought, but rather the one is the courage of ruling and the other the courage of serving, and it holds likewise for the other virtues. This is clearer still if one examines the matter part by part: for whoever speaks only in universal terms fools himself in claiming that virtue amounts to nothing more than the soul's being in good condition, or acting correctly, or something along those lines; those who instead enumerate the virtues one at a time, as Gorgias does, express the matter far better than those who frame it through such sweeping definitions. Hence, just as the poet has said of woman, we must think it holds of all: "silence brings a woman adornment" (Sophocles, Ajax 293) — but this no longer holds of a man. Since the child is incomplete, it is clear that his virtue too is not relative to himself, but relative to his end and to the one who guides him; and likewise the slave's virtue is relative to his master. Now we laid it down that the slave is useful for the necessities of life, so it is clear that he needs only a small amount of virtue, and just so much as will keep him from falling short in his tasks through licentiousness or cowardice. One might raise the difficulty whether, if what has just been said is true, craftsmen too will need to have virtue:
36| for they too often fall short in their tasks through licentiousness. Or does this case differ very greatly? For the slave shares in his master's life, whereas the craftsman is more remote from him, and has a claim to virtue only to the extent that he has a claim to slavery:
37| [1260b] for the vulgar craftsman has a kind of slavery that is limited to a fixed task, and the slave belongs among those who are slaves by nature, but no shoemaker does, nor any other craftsman. It is clear, then, that the master must be the cause of this sort of virtue in the slave, not by possessing the craft that teaches slavish tasks, but by possessing mastery over them. Hence those who deprive slaves of reason and say that only commands should be used with them speak wrongly: slaves need admonishment even more than children do. But let this settle these matters in this way. As for husband and wife, and children and father, and the virtue proper to each of them, and their association with one another — what is done well in it and what is not done well, and how what is good should be pursued and what is bad avoided — these things must be taken up in the discussion of constitutions. For since every household is part of a city, and these persons are parts of a household, and since the virtue of the part must be judged in light of the virtue belonging to the whole, both the children and the women must therefore be educated with the constitution kept in view, if indeed it matters at all to the city's being good that its children and its women be good. And it must make a difference: for the women are half of the free population, and it is from the children that the sharers in the constitution come to be. So, since these matters have been settled, and the remaining ones must be discussed elsewhere, let us set aside the present discussion as complete, and make a new beginning, and first examine those who have declared their views about the best constitution.
1| Since we intend to study the political community — which is the best of all for those able to live as far as possible according to their wish — we must also examine the other constitutions: both those which some of the cities said to be well governed actually use, and any others that happen to have been proposed by certain thinkers and are thought to be good, so that what is correct and useful in them may be seen, and further so that our seeking something different beyond them may not seem to be altogether the wish of people wanting to display cleverness, but that we may seem to have undertaken this inquiry because these constitutions now in existence are not good. We must first make the beginning that is naturally the beginning of this inquiry. For necessarily either all the citizens must share in everything, or in nothing, or in some things but not in others. Now that they should share in nothing is clearly impossible (for the constitution is a kind of community, and in the first place the citizens must necessarily share in a place: for the place of a single city is one, and the citizens are sharers in that one city): [1261a] but is it better for the city that is going to be well managed to share in everything it is possible to share in, or better to share in some things but not others?
2| For it is possible for the citizens to share with one another children and wives and property, as in Plato's Republic: for there Socrates says that the children and the wives and the possessions must be common. Is it then better for things to be as they are now, or according to the law written in the Republic? Now the community of wives for all involves many other difficulties as well, and in particular the reason Socrates gives for why it must be legislated in this way does not appear to follow from his arguments. Further, with a view to the end which he says must belong to the city, as it is now stated it is impossible, and yet nowhere has it been determined how it must be distinguished. I mean the claim that the city should be as much as possible entirely one, this being taken as the best thing — for this is the hypothesis Socrates adopts. And yet it is evident that as it proceeds and becomes more and more one, it will not even be a city any longer: for a city is by nature a kind of multitude, and as it becomes more one it will become a household instead of a city, and a human being instead of a household; for we would say the household is more one than the city, and the individual more one than the household. So that even if someone were able to bring this about, it must not be done:
3| for it will destroy the city. And the city is made up not only of a number of human beings, but of human beings differing in kind. For a city does not arise from people who are alike. An alliance and a city are different things: an alliance is useful by its quantity, even if it is the same in kind (for an alliance exists by nature for the sake of assistance), just as a weight would pull down more if there were more of it; but the elements from which a unity is to arise must differ in kind (and it is by this too that a city will differ from a tribe, when the multitude is not scattered in villages but is like the Arcadians). Hence it is reciprocal equality that preserves cities, as has been said before in the Ethics: since even among the free and equal this must hold, for it is not possible for all to rule at the same time, but only for a year, or according to some other arrangement or period of time. And it comes about in this way that all do rule, just as if shoemakers and carpenters were to exchange places, and the same people were not always shoemakers and the same always carpenters. Since it is better this way even in regard to the political community, it is clear that it is better for the same people always to rule, if this is possible; but where it is not possible, because all are equal by nature,
4| [1261b] And at the same time it is also just, whether ruling is a good thing or a bad one, that all should share in it; this at least imitates the practice of equals yielding their turn, since to rule and be ruled are things unequal in themselves — for some rule and others are ruled in turn, as though they had become different people. In the same way, once in office, different people hold different offices. It is clear, then, from this that the city is not by nature meant to be one in the way some people say, and that what is said to be the greatest good in cities is in fact what destroys cities — and yet the good peculiar to each thing is what preserves each thing. There is also another way in which it is clear that seeking to make the city too much a unity is not better. For a household is more self-sufficient than an individual, and a city more self-sufficient than a household, and a city only comes to exist, properly speaking, once the community formed by its multitude becomes self-sufficient. If, then, the more self-sufficient thing is more choiceworthy, then what is less unified is more choiceworthy than what is more unified. But further, even granting that it is best for the community to be as much a unity as possible, this does not appear to be demonstrated by the argument that all should say 'mine' and 'not mine' at the same time — for this is what Socrates thinks is a sign that the city is completely one.
5| For 'all' is a double term. If it means each individually, then perhaps what Socrates wants to bring about would more nearly result (for each person will say the same boy is his own son, and the same woman his own wife, and likewise about property and about each of the various concerns) — but as things actually stand, those who hold wives and children in common will not speak this way; rather, all will speak of them collectively but not each one individually — and property likewise: all will speak of it collectively, but not each individually. That there is some fallacy, then, in saying 'all' is clear (for the words 'all' and 'both,' and 'odd' and 'even,' produce contentious syllogisms in arguments precisely because of this double sense; that is why for all to say the same thing is in one sense fine but not possible, and in another sense implies no unanimity at all). Beyond this, the proposal has yet another harm. What is common to the greatest number of people gets the least care: people attend to their own things above all, and to communal things less, or only to the extent that it falls to each individually — since with regard to everything else, on the assumption that someone else is looking after it, they are more inclined to neglect it, just as in domestic service a large number of servants sometimes gives worse attendance than a smaller number does.
6| Each of the citizens comes to have a thousand sons, and these are not each individual man's sons, but any given child belongs equally to any given father; and so all alike will neglect them. [1262a] Further, in this scheme each man calls 'mine' whichever citizen happens to be doing well or badly, whatever his number happens to be — say, 'mine' or 'so-and-so's' — speaking this way of each one out of the thousand, or however many the city numbers, and even then in doubt, since it is unclear to whom a child happened to be born and, once born, happened to survive. And yet which is really better — for each person to say 'mine' in this way, applying the same word 'mine' to two thousand or ten thousand people, or rather to say 'mine' the way people actually do in cities now? As things now stand, one man calls the same person his son, another calls him his brother, another his cousin, or kin by some other relation, either by blood or by connection through marriage — his own first, or belonging to his own family — and besides these, another calls him clansman or tribesman. It is better to have a cousin who is truly one's own than a son of this communal sort. And yet it is not even possible to escape the fact that some people will suppose certain others to be their own brothers, children, fathers, and mothers; for on the basis of the resemblances that occur between children and their parents, they will necessarily form beliefs about one another. This is indeed said to happen, according to some writers on geographical circuits of the earth: among certain of the upper Libyans, wives are held in common, yet the children born are divided up according to their resemblances.
7| There are also some women, and likewise females of other animals — horses and cattle, for instance — who are strongly disposed by nature to produce offspring resembling the parent, as with the mare called 'the Just One' at Pharsalus. Moreover, it is not easy for those who set up this kind of community to guard against such unpleasant difficulties as assaults, involuntary and even voluntary killings, fights, and abuse — none of which it is pious to have occur toward fathers and mothers and those not distantly related, as it might be toward strangers. Such episodes are bound to occur with greater frequency where kinship goes unrecognized than where it is known; and once they have taken place, when the parties involved are known kin the customary rites of atonement can be performed, whereas for the unknown, no such remedy exists. It is also strange that, having made the sons common, one removes only the sexual intercourse of lovers, without forbidding the being-in-love itself, nor the other intimacies which it is most unseemly of all for a father to have with a son, or a brother with a brother, given that mere being-in-love already is such an intimacy. And it is strange, too, to remove the sexual union for no other reason than that the pleasure is too intense, on the assumption that it makes no difference that the one party is father or son, and the others are brothers to one another.
8| It seems that holding wives and children in common would be more useful for the farmers than for the guardians; [1262b] for there will be less friendship where children and wives are held in common, and it is precisely this disposition — being little inclined to friendship — that those who are ruled need, so as to be obedient and not prone to revolution. But taken as a whole, the necessary result of such a law is the opposite of what the correctly established laws ought to produce, and of the very reason Socrates thinks matters concerning children and wives should be arranged in this way. For we think friendship is the greatest of goods for cities (since this is what would make them least prone to civil strife), and it is precisely the city's being one that Socrates praises above all, which he also holds — and it does seem — to be the work of friendship; just as we know Aristophanes says, in his speeches about love, that lovers, because of their intense affection, desire to grow together and become one out of two. In that case, necessarily, either both parties would be destroyed, or one of them; but in the city, friendship is bound to become watered down by this sort of community, and least of all will a father say 'mine' of a son, or a son of a father. For just as a little sweetness mixed into a great deal of water makes the mixture imperceptible, so too it happens with the mutual sense of belonging that derives from these names — it becomes least necessary of all, in a constitution of this kind, for a father to feel concern as toward sons, or a son as toward a father, or brothers toward one another.
9| For there are two things above all that make human beings care for one another and feel affection: what is one's own, and what is precious to one — and neither of these can belong to people governed under such a scheme. Moreover, as to the practice of transferring the children who are born, some from the farmers and craftsmen to the guardians, and others from the guardians to those groups, this involves a great deal of confusion as to how it is to be managed — and those who hand over and transfer the children must necessarily know which children they are giving to which people. Further, the difficulties mentioned earlier — assaults, illicit desires, killings — are bound to occur even more among these transferred children; for those who are given from the other citizens to the guardians, and in turn those among the guardians given to the other citizens, will no longer address one another as brothers, children, fathers, and mothers, and so will not be guarded by the caution that kinship inspires against doing such things to one another. Let this, then, be our determination concerning the community of children and wives. Next after this it is fitting to examine the question of property — in what manner it ought to be arranged for those who are to live under the best constitution: whether property should be held in common or not held in common. This question might indeed be considered separately from what has been legislated concerning children and wives,
10| [1263a] What I mean about property is this: whether — even if those other things remain separate, in the way things now stand for everyone — it would be better for possessions and their use to be held in common, so that, for example, the plots of land are separate but the produce is brought together for common consumption (which is what some peoples do); or the opposite, that the land itself be held in common and worked in common, while the produce is divided up for private use (some of the barbarians too are said to share property in this way); or that both the plots of land and the produce be held in common. Now if it is other people who work the land, one arrangement — an easier one — would apply; but if the owners labor for themselves, questions of property would create more difficulties. For if the enjoyments and the labors are not made equal but unequal, complaints are bound to arise against those who enjoy or take much while laboring little, on the part of those who take less but labor more. And in general, living together and sharing in anything human is difficult, and especially in things of this sort. This is shown by partnerships of fellow-travelers: nearly all of them fall out over the everyday matters at hand, taking offense at each other over small things.
11| Again, among servants too, it is those we make the most use of for our daily errands that we most often clash with. So the holding of these and other such possessions in common carries difficulties of this kind; but the way things now stand, if it is adorned with good habits and an arrangement of correct laws, would make no small difference. For it will have the good of both: I mean the good that comes from possessions being common and the good that comes from their being private. For they must be common in a certain way, but private taken as a whole. When the tasks of care are divided up, this will not produce complaints against one another; rather, people will make more progress, each attending to his own as to something private; and through virtue, in the matter of use, the things of friends will be common, as the proverb says. Indeed even now this arrangement is sketched out in this way in some cities, showing it is not impossible, and especially in well-governed ones — some parts of it exist already, other parts could come to be: for each person, while holding his own property privately, makes some things useful to his friends, while using other things as common — as, for example, at Sparta they use one another's slaves as, so to speak, their own, and likewise horses and dogs, and if they need provisions on a journey, they use whatever is out in the fields throughout the countryside.
12| It is clear, then, that it is better for possessions to be private, but for their use to be made common; and it is the lawgiver's own particular task to see that people become of this character. Further, as regards pleasure too, it makes an untold difference to regard something as one's own. For it is not for nothing, presumably, that each person has affection for himself; this is natural. [1263b] Self-love is rightly blamed, but this blame does not fall on loving oneself, but on loving oneself more than one ought — just as with the love of money, since everyone, so to speak, loves things of that kind. But further, to give freely and to help friends or guests or companions is a very great pleasure, and this comes about only when possessions are private. None of this happens for those who make the city excessively one; and besides this, they plainly do away with the functions of two virtues — moderation with respect to women (for it is a fine act, on account of moderation, to hold back from a woman who belongs to another), and generosity with respect to possessions: for a man will not be visibly generous, nor will he perform any generous act, since the function of generosity lies in the use of possessions. So such legislation might seem attractive on the surface and appear humane, for the listener gladly accepts it, supposing there will be some wonderful friendship of all with all — especially when someone denounces the evils that now exist in constitutions as arising because property is not held in common, meaning lawsuits with one another over contracts, judgments concerning false witness, and flattery of the rich —
13| but none of these things comes about because of the absence of common holding, but because of wickedness, since we see that those who hold and share property in common quarrel far more than those who own their property separately; but we observe only a few who quarrel as a result of partnerships, comparing them against the many who hold their possessions privately. Further, it is only fair to speak not only of the evils they will be deprived of by holding things in common, but also of the goods; and the life appears to be altogether impossible. The cause of Socrates' error must be thought to be that his premise is not correct. For the household and the city must indeed be one in some sense, but not in every sense. There is a point beyond which the city, advancing further, will cease to be a city at all, and there is a point at which it will still be a city but, coming close to not being one, will be a worse city — just as if someone were to turn harmony into unison, or rhythm into a single beat. Rather, being a multitude, it must be made one and common through education, as has been said before; and it is strange that someone who intends to introduce education, and thinks that through it the city will become excellent, should suppose he can set it right by measures of that kind rather than by habits, philosophy, and laws — just as the lawgiver, in the matter of property at Sparta and Crete, made it common by means of the common messes.
14| [1264a] Nor must this itself be overlooked, that attention should be paid to the long span of time and the many years, in which such an arrangement would not have gone unnoticed if it were good: for pretty much everything has been discovered already, though some of it has not been collected together, and some of it people know of but do not put to use. It would become clearest of all if one could see such a constitution actually being set up in practice: for one will not be able to form the city without dividing and separating it — some parts into common messes, others into brotherhoods and tribes. So nothing else will be legislated except that the guardians not farm the land — which is exactly what the Spartans now attempt to do. Indeed, not even what the character of the whole constitution will be for those who share it in common has Socrates stated, nor is it easy to say. And yet the mass of the city consists almost entirely of the other citizens, about whom nothing has been determined — whether property should be common for the farmers too, or private for each, and further whether wives and children should be private or common as well. For if in the same way everything is common to everyone, how will these differ from those guardians? Or what greater benefit will they gain by submitting to their rule, or what will they have learned that makes them submit to that rule, unless the rulers contrive something clever, as the Cretans do?
15| For the Cretans, having allowed their subjects everything else the same as their slaves, have forbidden them only gymnastic exercises and the possession of weapons. But if, as in other cities, such things will exist among them too, what will be the manner of their partnership? For within a single city there must necessarily be two cities, and these opposed to one another. For he makes the guardians into something like a garrison, while the farmers, craftsmen, and other citizens are something else; and complaints, lawsuits, and all the other evils he says exist in cities will exist among these people too. And yet Socrates says they will need few laws because of their education — laws about city-management, market-management, and other such matters — since he assigns education only to the guardians. Further, he makes the farmers, who pay a rent, owners of their own property; but it is far more likely that they will be difficult and full of pride than the helots, penestae, or slaves that exist among some peoples. But then, whether these arrangements are equally necessary or not, nothing at all has been determined even now. Nor has it been determined what constitution, education, and laws will apply to those who are closely connected with these people — and this is neither easy to find, nor a small matter, since it makes a great difference what sort of people these must be for the partnership of the guardians to be preserved.
16| [1264b] But further, if he is going to make the women common but the property private, who will manage the household as the men manage what is on the farms? And it is absurd, if both the property and the farmers' wives are to be common, to draw the analogy from animals, as if women must pursue the same occupations as men, when animals have no share in household management. It is also risky the way Socrates establishes the rulers. For he always makes the same people rulers, and this becomes a cause of civil strife even among people who possess no worth at all, let alone, presumably, among spirited and warlike men. That it is necessary for him to make the same people rulers is plain: for the gold from the god is not mixed into different souls at different times, but always into the same ones. He says that at their very birth some have gold mixed in, others silver, and bronze and iron into those who are going to be craftsmen and farmers. Moreover, in taking happiness away from the guardians, he says the lawgiver ought to make the whole city happy. But it is impossible for the whole to be happy unless most or all or some of its parts possess happiness.
17| For being happy is not the kind of thing being even is: that can belong to the whole while belonging to neither of its two parts, but being happy cannot. But if the guardians are not happy, who else is? Certainly not the craftsmen and the mass of vulgar workers. So the constitution Socrates has described has these difficulties, and others no fewer than these. And the discussion in the Laws, written later, stands in much the same case, which is why it is better to examine the constitution set out there as well, briefly. For in fact in the Republic Socrates has determined only quite a few points: about the community of women and children, how it should be arranged; about property; and about the ordering of the constitution (for the multitude of inhabitants is divided into two parts, the farmers and the part that does the fighting, and a third arising from these, the part that deliberates and has authority over the city) — but about the farmers and the craftsmen, whether they will have a share in any office or none, and whether these too must possess arms and fight alongside the rest or not, Socrates has determined nothing. Rather, he thinks the women must fight alongside the men and share the same education as the guardians, while for the rest he has filled out the discussion with material brought in from outside, including about the education, of what sort it should be, for the guardians.
18| [1265a] As for the Laws, the greatest part of it consists of laws properly so called, and he has said little about the constitution; and though he wishes to make this constitution more generally applicable to cities, he gradually brings it back around again toward the other constitution. For apart from the community of women and of property, he assigns everything else the same to both constitutions: the same education, a life spent free from the necessary tasks, and likewise concerning common meals — except that in this one he says there must be common meals for the women too, and while the one constitution has a thousand men possessing arms, this one has five thousand. Now all of Socrates' discussions have their share of refinement, cleverness, novelty, and the spirit of inquiry, but perhaps it is hard for all of them to be right as well; since even the number just mentioned must not be overlooked — that so many will need a territory the size of Babylonia or some other boundless expanse, to support five thousand men living in idleness, and around them another crowd many times larger still, of women and attendants. One should indeed lay down premises according to one's wish, but nothing impossible. And it is said that the lawgiver ought to frame his laws looking to two things, the territory and the human beings.
19| It would also be well to add a further point, concerning the neighboring places: first, whether the city must live a political life directed outward (for it is not only necessary for it to use in war such weapons as are useful within its own territory, but also with a view to places beyond it); and if someone does not accept such a life, neither for the individual nor for the city in common, all the same the city must be no less formidable to its enemies, not only when they come into its territory but also when they leave it. And one must also look at the amount of property, whether it might not be better to mark it out in some other, clearer way. For he says it must be so much as to allow living temperately, as if one had said, so as to live well. But this is really too general a formula, since it is possible to live temperately and yet wretchedly; a better boundary is temperately and liberally, for the two will come apart, since to the one will follow luxury, to the other hardship — since these alone are the choiceworthy states with regard to the use of property: one cannot use property gently or courageously, but one can use it temperately and liberally, so that the states concerning it must necessarily be these.
20| It is also absurd, in equalizing the properties, not to regulate the number of citizens as well, but to leave the production of children unbounded, on the assumption that it will be leveled off sufficiently to the same number by the childlessness of some, however many are born, [1265b] because this is thought to happen even now among cities. But this need not hold with the same exactness for cities then as for cities now: now no one is at a loss, because estates are divided among however large a number, but then, since estates are undivided, those left over from the division must necessarily have nothing, whether the number of such men be fewer or more. One would suppose it more necessary that the production of children be bounded by reference to the property, so that no more than a certain number be born, this number being fixed with an eye to chance events, in case some of those born happen to die, and to the childlessness of others. To leave it unregulated, as happens in most cities, must necessarily be a cause of poverty for the citizens, and poverty produces civil strife and wrongdoing. Now Phidon the Corinthian, one of the most ancient lawgivers, thought that the households and the number of citizens ought to remain equal, even though at first everyone had allotments unequal in size; but in these Laws the opposite holds. But how we think it would be better arranged concerning these matters must be said later; and it is also left out in these Laws how the rulers will differ from the ruled.
21| For he says it is necessary that, just as the warp of wool comes from a different stock than the woof, so too the rulers must stand to the ruled. But since he allows the whole property to grow larger, up to five times its original amount, why should this not hold for land as well, up to some limit? One must also examine the division of house-plots, whether it is not in fact inexpedient for household management: for he assigned each person two house-plots, divided and set apart, and it is hard to manage two households. The whole arrangement wishes to be neither democracy nor oligarchy, but a mean between these, which they call a polity, since it is made up of those who bear heavy arms. If then he is constructing this as the most widely applicable constitution for cities among the others, he has perhaps spoken well; but if as the best after the first constitution, he has not spoken well. For one might rather praise the constitution of the Spartans, or perhaps some other constitution more aristocratic still. Now some say that the best constitution must be a blend made up of all the constitutions, and this is why they praise that of the Spartans (for some say it is made up of oligarchy, monarchy, and democracy, calling the kingship a monarchy, the rule of the elders an oligarchy, and saying it is governed democratically by reason of the office of the ephors, because the ephors are drawn from the people)
22| Others say that the ephorate is a tyranny, but that the common messes and the rest of daily life are run democratically. [1266a] Now in the Laws it is said that the best constitution ought to be composed out of democracy and tyranny — regimes that one would either not count as constitutions at all, or would call the worst of all. Those who mix in more elements therefore speak better, for a constitution composed of more elements is better. Further, the constitution described there plainly has nothing monarchical in it, but only oligarchic and democratic elements, and it inclines rather toward oligarchy. This is clear from the arrangement of the offices: filling them by election from among elected candidates is common to both democracy and oligarchy, but requiring the wealthier to attend the assembly and elect officials or perform some other political function, while releasing the rest from this requirement, is oligarchic, and so is the attempt to have most of the officials drawn from the wealthy, and the highest offices from those of the highest property assessments. The election of the council too he makes oligarchic. For all are required to vote, but from the first property class, and then again an equal number from the second; then from the third — except that not all were required to vote from the third or fourth classes, but from the fourth only those of the first and second classes were required to vote. Then from these he says an equal number must be returned from each property class.
23| The result will be that those from the highest property classes will be more numerous and better qualified, since some of the common people will not vote at all, because it is not required of them. That such a constitution ought not to be composed out of democracy and monarchy is clear from this, and from what will be said later, when the inquiry comes round to this constitution. There is also danger in the method of electing officials by having elected men elect further electors. For if some number of people, even a moderate number, are willing to combine, the elections will always go according to their wishes. This, then, is the state of affairs concerning the constitution described in the Laws. There are also some other constitutions, some proposed by private individuals, others by philosophers and statesmen, and all of them stand closer to the constitutions now actually established, and by which cities are actually governed, than either of the two just discussed. No one else has proposed anything so novel as the community of children and wives, or of common messes for the women; instead, they start from more necessary matters. For some think that the arrangement concerning property is the most important thing to get right, since they say that it is over property that all factional conflicts arise. This is why Phaleas of Chalcedon was the first to introduce this proposal: he says that citizens' properties ought to be equal.
24| [1266b] He thought this would not be hard to arrange at once in newly founded cities, but that in cities already settled it would be more laborious — though it could still be leveled most quickly if the rich were to give dowries but not receive them, while the poor were to receive them but not give them. Plato, in writing the Laws, thought it necessary to allow accumulation up to a point, but that no citizen should be permitted to acquire more than five times the minimum holding, as has also been said before. But those who legislate in this way must also not overlook a point that is now being overlooked: that in fixing the amount of property one ought also to fix the number of children, for if the number of children exceeds what the amount of property can support, the law is bound to be broken, and quite apart from this breach, it is a bad thing for many who were rich to become poor, since it is hard for such people not to become agitators for revolution. That equality of property has some power for political community even some of the ancients evidently recognized — Solon, for instance, legislated on it, and among other peoples there is a law forbidding the acquisition of as much land as one wishes; similarly the laws forbid selling one's property, as at Locri there is a law against selling unless one can show that manifest misfortune has befallen one, and further there is a law for preserving the old allotments — this last, once abolished at Leucas too, made their constitution excessively democratic
25| (for it no longer followed that men proceeded to office from the fixed property assessments). But it is possible for equality of property to exist, and yet for this equal amount to be either so great that people live in luxury, or so small that they live in penury. It is clear, then, that it is not enough for the legislator to make properties equal; he must aim at the mean. Further, even if one were to fix a moderate property for everyone, it would be of no use, since it is the desires that need to be leveled rather than the properties, and this cannot be done unless people are adequately educated by the laws. But perhaps Phaleas would say that this is exactly what he himself is proposing, for he thinks that these two things ought to be equal for cities: property and education. But he must say what this education will be, and to say that it should be one and the same for all is of no use, for it is possible for it to be one and the same, yet be of such a kind that people are trained to be grasping, whether for money or honor or both together. Further, factions arise not only because of inequality of property, but also because of inequality of honors, though in the opposite way for each: the many because of inequality in property,
26| [1267a] the refined because of equality in honors — hence the line, "in equal honor is held both the coward and the brave." (Homer, Iliad 9.319) Men do wrong not only on account of necessities, for which he supposes equality of property to be the remedy, so that they will not turn to theft out of cold or hunger, but also so that they may enjoy themselves and not merely desire; for if their desire exceeds what is necessary, they will do wrong in order to cure that desire — and not for this reason alone, but also if they should desire simply to enjoy pleasures unaccompanied by pain. What, then, is the remedy for these three causes? For some, a small property and work; for others, self-control; and as for the third, if some wished to enjoy themselves through their own resources, they would seek no remedy except one drawn from philosophy. For the other pleasures require other people; since it is in fact for excess that people do the greatest wrongs, not for necessities (for example, men do not become tyrants in order to avoid the cold — which is why the greatest honors go to one who kills not a thief but a tyrant). So the remedy proposed by Phaleas's constitution is of use only against petty wrongdoing. Further, he wants to establish most of his arrangements with a view to how citizens will conduct themselves well toward one another, but a city must also look to its neighbors and to all outsiders.
27| The constitution, therefore, must necessarily be organized with a view to military strength, about which he has said nothing. Likewise concerning property: it must be sufficient not only for political uses but also against dangers from outside. This is why it should be neither so great in amount that neighboring and more powerful states will covet it while its possessors are unable to fend off attackers, nor so small that the city cannot sustain a war even against states of equal and similar strength. He, then, has defined nothing on this point, but one must not overlook what amount of property is advantageous. Perhaps the best standard is that it should not profit those stronger to go to war on account of the excess, but should be such an amount as they would go to war for even if they did not possess so much property themselves. For example, when Autophradates was about to besiege Atarneus, Eubulus told him to consider how long it would take to capture the place, and then to calculate the expense of that time, saying that he would be willing to abandon Atarneus at once for less than that; and by saying this he made Autophradates stop and think, and he gave up the siege. It is, then, one advantageous thing for citizens' properties to be equal, with a view to their not forming factions against one another, but it amounts to nothing very great, so to speak.
28| For the refined would resent it, as not being thought worthy of equality, which is why they are so often seen attacking the constitution and starting factions: [1267b] and further, the wickedness of human beings is insatiable — at first two obols is enough, but once this becomes traditional, people always want more, until they arrive at the unlimited. For the nature of appetite is unlimited, and the many live for the filling of it. The starting point for dealing with such people, then, rather than equalizing properties, is to make the decent by nature such that they are unwilling to seek more than their share, and to make the base such that they are unable to — which comes about if they are the weaker party and are not treated unjustly. Nor has he stated the equality of property well either. For he equalizes only in respect of the possession of land, but there is also wealth in slaves and livestock and money, and a large stock of what are called furnishings. So either one must seek equality in all of these, or some moderate arrangement, or leave them all alone. And it is clear from his legislation that he is constructing his city on a small scale, if all the craftsmen are to be public slaves and are not to supply some part of the citizen body. But if those who do the public work must be public slaves, this ought to be the case (as in Epidamnus, and as Diophantus once arranged at Athens) in this manner.
29| Concerning the constitution of Phaleas, then, one might more or less judge from these points whether he happens to have spoken well or not well on any point. Hippodamus, son of Euryphon, of Miletus — who also invented the division of cities into blocks and laid out the Piraeus, and who became, in the rest of his life too, somewhat eccentric out of love of distinction, so that some thought he lived rather too fussily, both in the abundance and expense of his hair and ornament, and also in his clothing, which was cheap but warm, worn not only in winter but also through the summer season, and who wished to be learned about nature as a whole as well — was the first of those who were not themselves engaged in politics to attempt to say something about the best constitution. He constructed his city with a population of ten thousand, divided into three parts: he made one part craftsmen, one farmers, and a third the part that fought in war and possessed arms. He divided the territory too into three parts, one sacred, one public, one private: from the one, they were to perform the customary rites toward the gods, this being the sacred land; from another, those who fought in war were to live, this being the common land; and the farmers' land was private. He thought there were only three kinds of laws as well:
30| for the matters about which lawsuits arise, he held, are three in number: insult, damage, death. He also legislated for one supreme court, to which all cases thought to have been judged badly were to be brought up; this he constructed out of certain elected elders. [1268a] He thought that judgments in the courts should not be reached by a straightforward vote, but that each juror should carry a tablet, on which he was to write the verdict if he condemned outright, leave it blank if he acquitted outright, and if he condemned in part and acquitted in part, mark this distinction on it. For as things now stand, he thought the law was not well made, since it forces jurors to perjure themselves either one way or the other in their verdicts. He also laid down a law concerning those who discover something advantageous to the city, that they should be honored, and that the children of those who die in war should be maintained at public expense — as though this had not yet been legislated elsewhere (though in fact this law exists both at Athens now and in other cities as well); and that all the officials should be elected by the people. He made the people consist of the three parts of the city; and those elected were to have charge of the affairs of the community, of matters concerning foreigners, and of orphans. These, then, are the most numerous and most notable features of Hippodamus's arrangement. But one might raise a difficulty first about the division of the mass of the citizens. For the craftsmen and the farmers and those who bear arms all share in the constitution, though the farmers have no arms and the craftsmen have neither land nor arms, so that they become virtually slaves of those who possess the arms.
31| Now it is impossible for them all to share in every honor (for it is necessary that generals and guardians of the citizens and, one might say, the most authoritative offices be established out of those who possess the arms); but if they do not share in the constitution, how is it possible for them to be well disposed toward it? Yet those who possess the arms ought to be superior to both of the other parts, and this is not easy unless they are numerous; but if this is to be so, what need is there for the others to share in the constitution and to have authority over the establishment of the officials? Further, of what use are the farmers to the city? Craftsmen there must necessarily be, for every city needs craftsmen, and they are able to make their living from their craft just as in other cities; but the farmers, if they were supplying food to those who possess the arms, might reasonably be some part of the city — but as it is they have private land and will farm this privately for themselves. Further, as to the common land, from which those who fight will have their food — if they themselves are to farm it, then the fighting class will not be distinct from the farming class, though this is what the lawgiver intends; but if there are to be others, distinct both from those who farm the private land and from the fighters, this will be a fourth part of the city again, sharing in nothing, but alien to the constitution.
32| But indeed, if one is to make the same people farm both the private land and the common land, then there will be difficulty about the quantity of produce that each man will have to farm for two households, [1268b] and for what reason will they not take their food directly from the same land and the same allotments, both for themselves and to supply the fighters? All this involves a great deal of confusion. Nor is the law about judgment well framed either — that the juror should judge by making distinctions, when the charge is written up simply, and that the juror should become an arbitrator. This is possible in arbitration even when there are several arbitrators, for they confer with one another about the verdict; but it is not possible in the courts — indeed most lawgivers do the opposite of this, taking care that the jurors shall not confer with one another. Then again, how will the verdict fail to be confused, when the juror thinks the defendant owes something, but not as much as the plaintiff claims? One man claims twenty minas, and the juror decides on ten minas (or one juror more, another less), another five, another four, and in this way they will evidently split it up in different amounts; while others will condemn for the whole sum, and others for nothing. What, then, will be the method of counting the votes? Further, nothing forces the man who acquits or condemns outright to perjure himself, if the charge is written up simply, provided he judges justly:
33| for the man who acquits does not judge that the defendant owes nothing, but that he does not owe the twenty minas; but the other, the one who condemns, is already perjuring himself, if he condemns him while not believing he owes the twenty minas. As for the proposal that some honor should be given to those who discover something advantageous to the city, it is not safe to legislate about this, though it is pleasant to hear about only; for it opens the way to false accusations and, it may be, to attempts to change the constitution. But this runs into another problem and a different inquiry: for some are at a loss whether it is harmful or advantageous to cities to change their ancestral laws, if some other law is better. For this reason it is not easy to agree quickly with what has been said, if in fact it is not advantageous to make changes, since it is possible for some people to propose the repeal of laws or of a constitution as a common good. Since we have made mention of this, it is better to draw a few further distinctions about it. For it involves difficulty, as we said, and it might seem better to make changes. At any rate, in the other sciences this has proved beneficial — medicine, for instance, by changing from ancestral practice, and gymnastics, and in general all the crafts and capacities, so that, since one must set down political science too as one of these, it is clear that the same must necessarily hold of it as well. One might say that a sign of this has occurred in the facts themselves:
34| For the ancient laws, they say, are too simple and barbaric. The Greeks used to carry iron weapons, and used to buy their wives from one another, and whatever else survives of ancient customs is altogether simple-minded, [1269a] as for example at Cyme there is a law about homicide cases that if the prosecutor produces a certain number of witnesses from among his own relatives, the defendant is liable for the murder. But in general what everyone seeks is not what is ancestral but what is good. And it is likely that the first human beings, whether they were earthborn or survived some destruction, were like ordinary people and fools, just as is said of the earthborn, so that it would be absurd to abide by their opinions. Besides this, it is better not to leave even the written laws unmoved. For just as with the other crafts, so too with the arrangement of a constitution: it is impossible to write everything out with precision. For laws must be written in universal terms, but actions concern particulars. From these considerations, then, it is clear that some laws must sometimes be changed. But looked at in another way, this would seem to call for great caution. For when the improvement is small, and it is a bad thing to accustom people to dissolve the laws lightly, it is clear that certain errors both of the lawgivers and of the rulers should be left alone; for one will not gain as much by making the change as one will be harmed by being accustomed to disobey the rulers. And the analogy drawn from the crafts is false.
35| For changing a craft is not like changing a law: for law has no power to secure obedience apart from habit, and habit does not come about except over a long stretch of time, so that readily changing from existing laws to other, new laws makes the power of law weak. Further, even if laws should be changed, should all of them be changed, and in every constitution, or not? And should the changing be open to anyone who happens along, or only to certain people? For these questions make a great difference. Hence let us now set this inquiry aside; it belongs to other occasions. Concerning the constitution of the Lacedaemonians and that of the Cretans, and indeed concerning the other constitutions as well, there are two inquiries: one, whether anything in their legislation has been laid down well or not well with a view to the best arrangement; the other, whether anything runs contrary to the underlying assumption and character of the constitution they themselves propose. Now it is agreed that the city that is going to be governed well must have leisure from necessary business; but in what way it is to have this is not easy to grasp. For the Thessalian serf class has repeatedly risen up against the Thessalians, and likewise the helots against the Spartans (for they are constantly, as it were, lying in wait for their misfortunes).
36| But concerning the Cretans nothing of this kind has yet occurred. The reason, perhaps, is that the neighboring cities, [1269b] although they war with one another, are none of them allied with those who revolt, because it is not to their advantage, since they too possess perioikoi of their own; whereas for the Spartans all their neighbors were enemies — the Argives, the Messenians, and the Arcadians. Indeed even in the case of the Thessalians the revolts happened at the outset because they were still at war with their neighbors, the Achaeans, the Perrhaebians, and the Magnesians. It seems, moreover, that if nothing else, at least the business of overseeing such people is troublesome — in what manner one ought to deal with them. For if given license they grow insolent and claim to deserve equal treatment with their masters, while if treated harshly they plot against them and hate them. It is clear, then, that those for whom this happens in respect to their helot-system have not discovered the best way. Further, laxity concerning the women is both harmful to the deliberate purpose of the constitution and to the happiness of the city. For just as man and woman are parts of a household, it is clear that a city too must be reckoned as divided nearly in half, into the mass of men and the mass of women, so that in whatever constitutions the position of the women is badly arranged, half the city must be reckoned as without law. This is exactly what has happened there: for the lawgiver, wishing the whole city to be tough and enduring, is plainly of this mind with respect to the men, but has entirely neglected the matter as regards the women.
37| For they live licentiously, given over to every kind of license, and luxuriously. The result is that in such a constitution wealth is necessarily held in honor, especially if the people happen to be ruled by their women, as is the case with most military and warlike races, except the Celts and any others who have openly honored intercourse between males. For the one who first told the myth seems not without reason to have paired Ares with Aphrodite: for all such people appear to be in thrall either to intercourse with males or to intercourse with women. This is exactly what obtained among the Spartans, and much was managed by the women during the period of their supremacy. And yet what difference does it make whether the women rule, or the rulers are ruled by the women? The result is the same. Now boldness is useful for none of the ordinary business of life, but if for anything, for war; and yet even for this the boldness of the Spartan women was most harmful. This became clear at the time of the Theban invasion: they proved worthless for anything, exactly as in other cities, and produced more turmoil than the enemy did. From the beginning, then, this license of the women seems to have come about among the Spartans reasonably enough.
38| [1270a] For on account of their military campaigns they lived abroad away from home for long stretches of time, warring first the war against the Argives and then again the war against the Arcadians and the Messenians; and once they had leisure, they offered themselves to the lawgiver already prepared by their military life (for that life has many parts of virtue), whereas the women, they say, Lycurgus attempted to bring under the laws, but when they resisted he gave up the attempt again. These, then, are the causes of what came about, so that it is clear this too was an error of his. But we are not examining this — whom one ought to pardon or not pardon — but rather what is correct and what is not. Now the condition of things concerning the women seems, as was said before, not only to produce a certain unseemliness in the constitution taken by itself, but also to contribute something toward the love of money. For after what has just been said, one might find fault with them concerning the inequality of property. For it has come about that some of them possess far too much substance, while others possess extremely little; the result is that the land has come into the hands of a few. This too has been badly regulated through the laws: for while the lawgiver made it not honorable to buy or sell one's existing property, and rightly so, he gave people the freedom to give it away and to bequeath it,
39| and yet the same result necessarily follows either way. And indeed close to two of the five parts of the whole territory belong to the women, both because many become heiresses and because large dowries are given. And yet it would have been better to have regulated that there be no dowry, or a small one, or even a moderate one. But as it stands, one may give an heiress to whomever one wishes, and if a man dies without having made a will, whoever he leaves as his heir gives her to whomever he pleases. Consequently, although the territory is capable of supporting fifteen hundred cavalry and thirty thousand hoplites, the population was not even a thousand. And it has become clear through the facts themselves that the arrangements concerning this matter went badly for them: for the city could not sustain a single blow, but was destroyed through underpopulation. They say that under the earlier kings they used to share citizenship with outsiders, so that underpopulation did not occur then, even though they were at war for a long time, and they say that the Spartans once numbered as many as ten thousand. Nonetheless, whether this is true or not, it is better for a city to be populous through an equalized distribution of property. But the law concerning the begetting of children is also opposed to this correction.
40| [1270b] For the lawgiver, wishing the Spartiates to be as numerous as possible, urges the citizens to have as many children as possible; for they have a law that the man who has fathered three sons is exempt from military service, and the man who has fathered four is exempt from all public burdens. Yet it is obvious that when many children are born, while the land is divided in this fixed way, many must become poor. Moreover, the arrangements concerning the ephorate are also faulty. For this office has authority over the greatest matters for them, yet the ephors are drawn from the whole people, so that often very poor men fall into this office, men who because of their poverty are open to being bought. This has been shown often before, and now again in the affair of the Andrians: for certain men, corrupted by money, as far as lay in their own power destroyed the whole city. And because the office is excessively great and equal to a tyranny, even the kings were compelled to court the favor of the ephors, so that the constitution was harmed in this respect as well: for a democracy resulted out of an aristocracy. This office, then, does hold the constitution together—for the people keep quiet because they share in the greatest office—so that whether this came about through the lawgiver or through chance, it works out advantageously for the state of affairs; for a constitution that is to be preserved must have all the parts of the city wishing it to exist and to continue in the same condition.
41| Now the kings are so disposed because of the honor paid to them, the men of good birth and character because of the council of elders (for this office is a prize of virtue), and the people because of the ephorate (for it is filled from all)—but this office ought to have been elective from all, yet not in the manner it now is (for that manner is altogether childish). Further, the ephors are masters of great judgments, though they are men taken at random, and for this reason it would be better if they judged not by their own private judgment but according to written rules and the laws. The manner of life of the ephors, too, is not in agreement with the intention of the city: for it is itself too relaxed, while for the ephors' own way of life is too relaxed, while for the other citizens it goes too far toward the harsh, so that they are unable to endure it, but secretly escape the law and enjoy bodily pleasures, but secretly escape the law and enjoy bodily pleasures. The arrangements concerning the office of the elders are also not well made for them. For if the elders were reasonable men and adequately educated toward manly goodness, one might perhaps say that this is advantageous to the city; yet the fact that they hold authority over great judgments for life is disputable (for there is, just as of the body, also an old age of the mind).
42| [1271a] Educated in the manner they are, so that even the lawgiver himself distrusts them as not being good men, it is not safe. And in fact those who have shared in this office are shown to accept bribes and to make many public matters a matter of favor. For this reason it would be better if they were not unaccountable; but as it is they are. It might seem that the office of the ephors holds all the offices to account: but this is too great a privilege to give to the ephorate, and we do not say that accountability ought to be rendered in this manner. Further, the method of choosing the elders is, as regards its manner of judgment, childish; and it is not right that a man who thinks himself worthy of the office should himself canvass for it; for the man who is worthy of the office ought to rule whether he wishes it or not. But as it is, the lawgiver evidently does the same thing here as elsewhere in the rest of the constitution: for by making the citizens ambitious for honor, he has made use of this very trait for the election of the elders; for no one would canvass for office who was not ambitious for honor. And yet most of the wrongs men do voluntarily come about, one might almost say, through ambition for honor and through love of money. Concerning kingship, whether it is better for cities to have it or not better, let that be another discussion.
43| But it is certainly better that it should not be as it now is, but that each of the kings should be judged by his own manner of life. That the lawgiver himself does not think it possible to make men good and true is plain: at any rate he distrusts them as not being sufficiently good men; for this reason they used to send out their enemies as fellow-envoys along with the kings, and they considered it a safeguard for the city that the kings should be at odds with one another. Nor has good legislation been made, by the man who first established them, concerning the common messes called the phiditia. For the gathering ought rather to be maintained from common funds, as in Crete; but among the Spartans each man must contribute his own share, and since some of them are very poor and are unable to bear this expense, the result is the opposite of what the lawgiver intended. For he wishes the arrangement of the common messes to be democratic, but as legislated it turns out to be the least democratic thing possible. For it is not easy for the very poor to take part, and yet this ancestral rule is their standard for the constitution: that the man who is unable to pay this contribution should not share in it. And concerning the law about the admirals, other men too have found fault, and rightly so; for it becomes a cause of civil strife: since alongside the kings, who are permanent generals, the office of admiral has become virtually a second kingship.
44| One might also find fault with the lawgiver's underlying assumption in this way, [1271b] the very point that Plato too has found fault with in the Laws: the entire arrangement of the laws is directed toward one part of virtue, namely the virtue of war; for this is useful for gaining mastery. Accordingly they were preserved so long as they were at war, but were destroyed once they had gained empire, because they did not know how to be at leisure, and had practiced no other exercise held more authoritative than that of war. And there is a further error, no less than this one: they believe that the goods that are contested come about through virtue rather than through vice, and in this they are right; but that these goods are better than virtue itself, in this they are not right. The Spartiates are also badly off as regards their common funds. For there is nothing in the common treasury of the city, though they are compelled to wage great wars, and they are poor payers of contributions; for because most of the land belongs to the Spartiates, they do not scrutinize one another's contributions. And the outcome has turned out for the lawgiver the opposite of what is advantageous: for he has made the city poor in money and private individuals fond of money. Concerning the Spartan constitution, then, let this much be said; for these are the points on which one would most find fault. The Cretan constitution is closely akin to this one; in a few respects it is not worse, but for the greater part it is managed less elegantly. And indeed it appears, and is said, that the Laconian constitution has for the most part imitated the Cretan.
45| Most ancient things are less fully articulated than more recent ones. For they say that Lycurgus, when he gave up the guardianship of King Charilaus and went abroad, spent the greater part of his time around Crete because of their kinship; for the Lyctians were colonists of the Laconians, and those who came to the colony found the ordering of laws already existing among the people then dwelling there. For this reason even now the perioikoi make use of them in the same way, on the assumption that Minos was the first to establish the ordering of the laws. The island also seems by nature and by its position to be well suited for rule over the Greeks; for it lies athwart the whole sea, since almost all the Greeks are settled around the sea: for it is a short distance from the Peloponnese on one side, and on the other from the part of Asia around Triopium and Rhodes. For this reason Minos gained control of the sea, and of the islands he subdued some and colonized others, and finally, having made an attack on Sicily, ended his life there near Camicus. The Cretan arrangement corresponds to the Laconian. For the helots farm for the one, and for the Cretans the perioikoi farm,
46| [1272a] Common meals exist among both peoples, and in old times the Spartans called them not "phiditia" but "men's messes," as the Cretans still do, which makes it clear the institution came from there. And so does the arrangement of the constitution. For the ephors have the same power as the officials in Crete called "kosmoi," except that the ephors are five in number and the kosmoi ten. The elders correspond to the elders whom the Cretans call the council, and are equal in number. There used to be a kingship, but the Cretans abolished it, and the kosmoi hold the leadership in war. All share in the assembly, but it has authority over nothing except to ratify by vote what has already been decided by the elders and the kosmoi. Now the arrangement of the common meals is better among the Cretans than among the Spartans. For at Sparta each person contributes the fixed amount per head, and if he does not, the law bars him from sharing in the constitution, as has been said before; but in Crete the arrangement is more communal, for from all the crops and livestock produced publicly, and from the tribute the perioikoi pay, a portion is set apart for the gods and the public services, and a portion for the common meals, so that all are fed from a common fund — women and children and men alike.
47| The lawgiver has given much thought to sparing eating as beneficial, and likewise to the separation of the women, so that they should not bear too many children, for which purpose he instituted relations between the men themselves; whether this was done well or badly will be another occasion to examine. That the arrangements for common meals are better among the Cretans than the Spartans is clear; but the arrangements concerning the kosmoi are even worse than those concerning the ephors. For whatever defect belongs to the office of the ephors belongs also to this one (since the kosmoi too are chosen from whoever happens to be available), but the benefit the ephorate confers on the constitution there is absent here. For there, because the selection is made from the whole citizen body, the people, sharing in the highest office, wish the constitution to endure; but here they do not choose the kosmoi from the whole body but from certain clans, and the elders from among those who have already served as kosmoi — about whom one could say the same things as about the corresponding officials at Sparta: for being unaccountable and holding office for life is a greater privilege than they deserve, and ruling not by written law but by their own judgment is dangerous. And the fact that the people, though excluded from office, remain quiet is no sign that the arrangement is a good one.
48| For the kosmoi have no chance for profit as the ephors do, [1272b] because they dwell far off on an island, away from the men who might corrupt them. Yet the cure they devise for this fault is a peculiar one, belonging to a ruling faction rather than to constitutional rule. For often certain men band together and expel the kosmoi, whether from among their own colleagues in office or from private citizens; and it is also possible for the kosmoi to resign office before their term is up. It would surely be better for all these things to happen according to law than according to the will of individuals, for the will of individuals is not a safe rule. But worst of all is the practice of suspending the office of kosmoi altogether, which the powerful often bring about when they do not wish to submit to justice. This makes it clear that the arrangement has something of a constitution about it, but is not really a constitution — it is rather a rule of a powerful clique. And they are accustomed, by dividing the people and their own friends into factions, to create a state of anarchy, faction, and mutual fighting. Yet what does such a condition differ from a city's simply ceasing, after a certain time, to be a city at all, and the political community dissolving? A city in this condition is in danger, exposed to anyone who wishes and is able to attack it. But, as has been said, it is preserved because of its location, for its remoteness has had the effect of an exclusion of foreigners. That is also why the perioikoi remain loyal to the Cretans, while the helots at Sparta often revolt. For the Cretans have no share in any empire abroad, and it is only recently that a foreign war has crossed over into the island, which has revealed the weakness of the laws there.
49| Let this much be said about this constitution. The Carthaginians too are thought to be governed well, and in many respects better than others, and in some particulars very much like the Spartans. For these three constitutions are in a way close to one another and differ greatly from the rest — the Cretan, the Spartan, and, third among them, that of the Carthaginians. Many of their institutions are well arranged; and a sign of a well-ordered constitution is that the people remain willingly within the framework of the constitution, and that no faction worth mentioning has arisen, nor any tyrant. The Carthaginians have institutions resembling the Spartan constitution: their common meals of the political clubs correspond to the phiditia, and their board of one hundred and four corresponds to the ephors — except that theirs is not worse, for while the ephors are drawn from whoever happens to be available, this office is filled by election on merit. Their kings and council of elders correspond to the kings and elders there; and it is better that the kings should be neither drawn from one particular family nor from just any family, but rather, if there is one family of outstanding merit, that the kings be chosen from it by election rather than by seniority. For men set in authority over great matters, if they are of poor quality, do great harm,
50| [1273a] as they have already done harm to the city of the Spartans. Now most of the criticisms one might bring against the Carthaginian constitution because of its deviations turn out to be common to all the constitutions we have discussed. But of the features that depart from the underlying principle of aristocracy and of polity, some lean more toward democracy, others toward oligarchy. For instance, whether certain matters are brought before the people or not is decided by the kings together with the elders, if they are unanimous — but if not, the people decide even these matters as well. And whatever measures they do bring before the people, the people are not simply allowed to hear the decisions of the officials and confirm them, but have authority to judge the matter themselves, and anyone who wishes may speak against the proposals — a right that does not exist in the other constitutions. On the other hand, the fact that the boards of five, which have authority over many important matters, fill their own vacancies by co-optation, and that these same boards elect the board of one hundred, the highest office, and further that these men hold office for a longer time than the others (for they continue to exercise power both after leaving office and before entering it), is oligarchic; while the fact that they receive no pay and are not chosen by lot should be counted as aristocratic, along with any other similar feature — and so too the practice of having all lawsuits tried by the same boards of officials, and not different suits by different bodies, as happens at Sparta.
51| But the arrangement of the Carthaginian constitution deviates from aristocracy chiefly toward oligarchy, in line with a certain idea that finds general approval: for they think the officials ought to be chosen not only for merit but also for wealth, on the ground that a man in poverty cannot govern well or have the leisure for it. If, then, choosing officials by wealth is oligarchic and choosing them by virtue is aristocratic, this would be a third arrangement, according to which the Carthaginians have also organized the affairs of their constitution — for they elect with an eye to both these things, and especially so for the highest offices, the kings and the generals. But one must regard this deviation from aristocracy as a fault of the lawgiver. For from the very beginning it is one of the most necessary things to look to, that the best men should be able to have the leisure to do nothing unbecoming, not only while in office but also as private citizens. And if one must also have regard to wealth for the sake of leisure, it is a bad thing that the highest offices, the kingship and the generalship, should be purchasable. For this law makes wealth more honored than virtue, and makes the whole city money-loving; and whatever the ruling body supposes to be honorable, the opinion of the other citizens is bound to follow it as well.
52| But wherever virtue is not held in the highest honor, [1273b] that constitution cannot be a stable aristocracy. And it is reasonable that those who buy their offices should get used to making a profit from them, once they hold office after spending money to get it; for it would be absurd if a man who is poor but reasonable were willing to make a profit, while a man of lower character, having spent money, were not willing to. Hence those who are most able to rule best should be the ones who rule. But it would be better, even if the lawgiver did neglect to provide the reasonable men with wealth, at least to take care that those in office have leisure. It would also seem to be a poor arrangement for the same person to hold several offices, which is a practice held in esteem among the Carthaginians; for a single task is best carried out by a single person. The lawgiver must see to it that this happens, and not require the same man to play the flute and make shoes. So where the city is not small, it is more suited to citizen-government, and more democratic, that more people share in the offices; for as we said, each of the same tasks is done more in common this way, and each is carried out better and faster. This is clear in the case of military and naval affairs, for in both of these, one might say, ruling and being ruled run through virtually everyone. Since the constitution is oligarchic, they escape trouble best by always making some part of the people wealthy, sending them out to the cities; for by this means they cure the constitution and make it lasting.
53| But this is a matter of luck, and the lawgiver should make them free from faction. As things now stand, if some misfortune occurs and the mass of the ruled revolts, there is no remedy through the laws to restore calm. Concerning the constitution of the Spartans, then, and the Cretan and the Carthaginian, which are indeed justly held in high esteem, this is how matters stand. Of those who have set forth something about constitutions, some took no part in political actions of any kind whatever, but spent their lives as private individuals throughout; and about these, whatever was worth saying has been said, more or less, about all of them. Others became lawgivers, some for their own cities, some also for certain foreign ones, having themselves engaged in politics; and of these, some became authors of laws only, others of a constitution as well, as for example Lycurgus and Solon, for these established both laws and constitutions. Concerning the Spartan constitution we have spoken; as for Solon, some think he became a serious lawgiver, because he put an end to an oligarchy that was excessively unmixed, put a stop to the enslavement of the people, and established the ancestral democracy, mixing the constitution well: for the council on the Areopagus is oligarchic, the elective offices are aristocratic, and the law courts are democratic.
54| [1274a] But it seems that Solon did not abolish those institutions that existed before, the council and the election of officials, but that he set up the people, by making the courts drawn from all. And for this reason some blame him, on the ground that he undid the other element by making the court supreme over all things, since it was chosen by lot. For once this had gained power, people began, as if courting favor with the people as with a tyrant, to shift the constitution into the democracy of today; and Ephialtes and Pericles curtailed the council on the Areopagus, and Pericles instituted pay for the courts, and in this way each of the popular leaders in turn advanced things, increasing them, into the present democracy. It appears that this did not come about according to Solon's deliberate purpose, but rather from a chance event (for the people, having been responsible for the naval command in the Persian Wars, grew full of self-confidence and took on base popular leaders, though the reasonable men opposed them); since Solon, at any rate, appears to have granted the people only the most necessary power, that of electing officials and holding them to account (for if the people were not sovereign even over this, they would be enslaved and hostile), but he established all the offices from among the notable and the wealthy, from the class of the five-hundred-measure men, the teamed men, and a third class, the so-called knights;
55| and a fourth, the laboring class, who had no share in any office. Lawgivers arose also in Zaleucus for the Epizephyrian Locrians, and Charondas of Catana for his own citizens and for the other Chalcidian cities around Italy and Sicily. Some try also to link them together, saying that Onomacritus was the first to become skilled in lawgiving, and that he trained himself in Crete, though a Locrian and residing there, in the art of divination; that Thales became his companion, that Lycurgus and Zaleucus were pupils of Thales, and that Charondas was a pupil of Zaleucus. But those who say this pay too little attention to the dates. There was also Philolaus of Corinth, who became lawgiver for the Thebans. Philolaus was by birth one of the Bacchiadae, and having become the lover of Diocles, the Olympic victor, when the latter left the city out of hatred for the passion his mother Alcyone had for him, Philolaus went off to Thebes with him; and there they both ended their lives. And even now people point out their tombs, which are visible to each other, but with respect to the land of Corinth, one is visible and the other is not: for the story is told that they arranged their burial this way on purpose, Diocles because of his revulsion at what had happened to him, so that the Corinthian land would not be visible from his grave-mound, and Philolaus so that it would be visible.
56| [1274b] They settled among the Thebans, then, for this reason, and Philolaus became their lawgiver concerning various other matters and concerning the procreation of children, what they call "laws of imposition"; and this is a law peculiar to him, legislated so that the number of the estates would be preserved. Charondas has nothing peculiar to himself except the suits for false witness (for he was the first to introduce the formal indictment for it), but in the precision of his laws he is more finished even than present-day lawgivers. Peculiar to Phaleas is the equalization of properties; to Plato, the community of women, children, and property, and the common messes for women, and further the law about drunkenness, that those who are sober should preside over the drinking party, and the military training so that men become ambidextrous through practice, on the ground that it is wrong for one of the two hands to be useful and the other useless. Draco has laws, but he legislated them for a constitution that already existed; there is nothing peculiar in his laws worth mentioning, except their harshness, on account of the severity of the penalty. Pittacus too became an author of laws, but not of a constitution; a law peculiar to him is that those who are drunk, if they commit some offense, should pay a greater penalty than those who are sober; for since more people act insolently when drunk than when sober, he did not look to leniency, on the ground that drunk men deserve more consideration, but to what is expedient. There was also Androdamas of Rhegium, who became lawgiver for the Chalcidians on the Thracian coast, whose laws concern matters of homicide and heiresses; but no one could mention anything peculiar to him. Let this, then, stand as our examination of constitutions, both those actually in force and those spoken of by certain people.
1| For one who is examining constitutions, both what each is and what sort it is, the first inquiry, more or less, is to see about the city, what the city actually is. For as matters now stand, this point is disputed: some hold that the city itself carried out a given act, whereas others hold that it was not the city that acted, but rather the oligarchy or the tyrant that did so; and we see that the whole business of the statesman and the lawgiver is concerned with the city, and the constitution is a certain arrangement of those who inhabit the city. Since the city belongs among composite things, like anything else that is a whole but is put together out of many parts, it is clear that we must first inquire into the citizen; for the city is a certain multitude of citizens. [1275a] So we must consider whom one ought to call a citizen, and what the citizen is. For the citizen too is often disputed: not everyone agrees that the same person is a citizen; there is, for instance, someone who is a citizen in a democracy but often is not a citizen in an oligarchy. Those, then, who obtain this designation in some other way, for example those made citizens by grant, must be set aside; the citizen is not a citizen by virtue of living somewhere (for resident aliens and slaves also share in residence), nor are those citizens who merely share in legal rights to the extent of being liable to be sued and of being able to sue (for this belongs also to those who share this by treaty, for this too belongs to them);
2| In many places, then, resident aliens do not even share fully in these rights, but must appoint a patron, so that they share in this kind of community only incompletely; but just as we say that children too young to be enrolled, and old men who have been released from their duties, must be called citizens in some sense, though not simply and without qualification, but with an added qualification—the one incomplete, the other past their prime, or something of that sort (it makes no difference which term we use, for what is meant is clear)—so too here. For we are looking for the citizen in the unqualified sense, one who has no such defect requiring correction, since with regard to the disfranchised and to exiles too there are similar puzzles to raise and resolve. But the citizen in the unqualified sense is defined by nothing so well as by sharing in judgment and office. Of offices, some are divided by time, so that some persons are simply not permitted to hold the same office twice, or only after certain fixed intervals; but another office is unlimited, such as that of juror and assemblyman. Now perhaps someone might say that such people are not officeholders at all, and do not share in office on this account; and yet it would be absurd to deprive of office those who have the most authority. But let this make no difference: the argument is about a name, for there is no common name applying to both juror and assemblyman, so what should we call both of them together?
3| Let us then, for the sake of definition, call it an unlimited office. We accordingly posit as citizens those who share in it in this way. The citizen who best fits this description, then, applying to nearly all those called citizens, is of this sort; but we must not fail to notice that among things whose underlying subjects differ in kind, and of which one is first, another second, another next in order, there is either nothing at all common to them qua such things, or only barely something. Now we see that constitutions differ from one another in kind, and that some are posterior, others prior:
4| [1275b] for those that are mistaken and have deviated from the right form must necessarily be posterior to those that are not mistaken (in what sense we call some deviant, will be made clear later). So the citizen too must necessarily be different under each different constitution. This is why the citizen as we have described him is above all a citizen in a democracy; in the other constitutions he may be, but is not necessarily so. For in some there is no popular assembly at all, but they hold what they consider select councils instead of an assembly, and they judge lawsuits by division, as at Sparta, where one ephor judges one class of contract-suits, another another, and the elders judge homicide cases, while perhaps some other office judges some other class; and it is not the same way at Carthage either, for various offices there judge all the lawsuits jointly. But the definition of the citizen admits of correction. For in the other constitutions it is not the holder of an unlimited office who is assemblyman and juror, but the one so defined by his particular office: for it is to these, either all of them or some of them, that the function of deliberating and judging has been assigned, either about all matters or about some. Who the citizen is, then, is clear from this: whoever has the right to share in deliberative or judicial office, him we already call a citizen of that city, and a city, to put it simply, is a multitude of such people sufficient for a self-sufficient life.
5| For practical purposes people define a citizen as one born of two citizen parents, and not of only one of them, father or mother; others carry this requirement further still, demanding it for two, three, or more generations back. But when the definition is made in this quick, political way, some people raise the puzzle: how will that third or fourth generation ancestor be a citizen? Gorgias of Leontini, partly perhaps in genuine perplexity and partly in irony, said that just as mortars are the things made by mortar-makers, so too Larisaeans are the people made by their makers, since there are certain makers of Larisaeans. But the matter is simple. For if these ancestors shared in the constitution according to the definition stated, they were citizens; and indeed the phrase 'born of a citizen father or citizen mother' cannot possibly apply to the very first inhabitants or founders of a city. But a harder puzzle probably lies elsewhere: the case of those who took part in a change of constitution, as happened when Cleisthenes acted at Athens once the tyrants had been driven out—he enrolled into the tribes a great many foreigners and resident alien slaves. The dispute in their case is not who is a citizen, but whether it was done unjustly or justly. And yet one might raise a further puzzle about even this,
6| [1276a] whether one who is a citizen unjustly is not a citizen at all, on the assumption that 'unjust' and 'false' amount to the same thing. But since we see that some people rule unjustly too, people whom we shall say do rule, only not justly, and since the citizen is defined by a certain office (for the one who shares in such-and-such an office is a citizen, as we said), it is clear that we must say these people too are citizens; but the question of whether justly or not justly connects with the dispute mentioned before. Some people are puzzled about when an act belongs to the city and when it does not—for example, when a democracy replaces an oligarchy or a tyranny (in that situation some refuse to honor the contracts, holding that the tyrant contracted them, not the city, and refuse likewise many other such obligations, on the ground that certain constitutions rest on domination rather than on the common good): well, if some people actually do live under a democracy that arose in just this way, by the same reasoning we must say that what this constitution does belongs to this city no less than what was done under the oligarchy or the tyranny. This argument seems to be closely related to the puzzle of how one ought ever to say that a city is the same city, or not the same but a different one.
7| Now the most superficial way of investigating this puzzle concerns the place and the people: for it is possible for the place and the people to be separated, with some inhabiting one place and others another. This puzzle, then, we must treat as the milder one, for since 'city' is said in many ways, there is a certain ease to this kind of inquiry. And likewise, among people inhabiting the same place, when must we consider them to be one city? Surely not by their walls, for it would be possible to throw a single wall around the whole Peloponnese. Babylon too is perhaps such a case, and every city that has the circuit of a nation rather than of a city; indeed they say that when Babylon had been captured, a certain part of the city had not learned of it three days later. But the examination of this puzzle is useful for another occasion (for the size of the city—its proper scale, and whether it is better served by a single people or several—is something the statesman must keep in view); but as to people inhabiting the same place, are we to say that the city remains the same as long as the stock of the inhabitants remains the same, even though some are constantly dying and others being born, just as we are accustomed to call rivers and springs the same, even though the water is constantly flowing in and flowing out—or must we say that in the case of such a cause the people remain the same, while the city is different?
8| [1276b] For if the city is indeed a kind of community, and it is a community of citizens in a constitution, then when the constitution becomes different in kind and different from what it was, it would seem necessary that the city too is not the same, just as we say a chorus is different when it is at one time comic and at another tragic, even though the same people are often members of it; and likewise every other community and composite too is different, if the kind of composition is different—as we say a musical scale composed of the same notes is a different scale, if at one time it is Dorian, at another Phrygian. If this is indeed how the matter stands, it is clear that we must say a city is above all the same by looking to its constitution; and we may call it by a different name or by the same name whether the same people continue to inhabit it or entirely different people do. But whether it is just or not just to dissolve a city's obligations, when it changes to a different constitution, is another discussion. Connected to what has just been said is a further question to examine: are we to take a good man's excellence and a worthy citizen's excellence as one and the same, or as not the same? But if indeed this inquiry is to reach its goal, we must first grasp the virtue of the citizen in outline. For just as the sailor is one of a group of partners, so too we say the citizen is.
9| Among sailors, though their capacities are unlike (one is a rower, another a helmsman, another a look-out, another has some other such title), it is clear that the most exact account of each will be a virtue peculiar to him, and yet likewise some common account will fit them all. For the preservation of the voyage is the work of all of them together; for this is what each of the sailors aims at. Similarly, then, in the case of citizens too, though they are unlike, the preservation of the community is their work, and the community is the constitution; hence the virtue of the citizen must necessarily be relative to the constitution. If, then, there are several forms of constitution, it is clear that it is not possible for there to be one virtue of the good citizen, the complete virtue; but we say that the good man is good in respect of one virtue, the complete one. It is clear, then, that it is possible for someone to be a good citizen without possessing the virtue in respect of which a man is good. But indeed one can also approach this same argument about the best constitution by raising the difficulty in another way. For if it is impossible for a city to consist entirely of good men, yet each man must perform his own function well, and this comes from virtue —
10| — since it is impossible for all the citizens to be alike, [1277a] there could not be a single virtue belonging to citizen and to good man. For the virtue of the good citizen must belong to all (for that is necessary if the city is to be best), but the virtue of the good man is impossible for all, unless it is necessary that all the citizens in the good city be good men. Further, since the city is composed of unlike parts — just as a living creature is composed straightaway of soul and body, and soul of reason and desire, and household of husband and wife, and property of master and slave — in the same way the city too is put together out of all these and, besides these, out of other unlike kinds; hence it is necessary that the virtue of all the citizens is not one, just as it is not one for the leader of a chorus and the one who stands beside him. That it is not, then, simply the same, is clear from these considerations; but will there be, in some case, the same virtue belonging to a good citizen and to a good man? We say that the good ruler is good and practically wise, but the citizen need not be practically wise. And some say the education of a ruler is straightaway different, just as the sons of kings are evidently trained in horsemanship and in war, and Euripides says, 'Not the clever accomplishments for me, but what the city needs' (Euripides,
11| fragment 16), as though there were some special education for a ruler. But if the virtue of a good ruler and of a good man is the same, and the one who is ruled is also a citizen, then the virtue of citizen and of man would not be simply the same, though it might be the virtue of a particular citizen; for it is not the same for a ruler as for a citizen, and it is perhaps for this reason that Jason said he went hungry when he was not a tyrant, meaning that he did not know how to be a private citizen. But indeed the ability to rule and to be ruled is praised, and the virtue of a citizen is thought to consist, in some sense, in being able to rule and to be ruled well. If, then, we posit the virtue of the good man as a virtue of rule, but that of the citizen as both, the two would not be praised equally. Since, then, it is sometimes thought that both are needed, and that the ruler and the ruled ought not to learn the same things, but that the citizen ought to know both and share in both, one might also see this from the following. For there is a despotic rule; by this we mean the rule concerned with the necessary tasks, which the ruler need not know how to perform, but rather how to make use of; the other kind is servile. By the other kind I mean the ability to perform, and to serve in, menial functions. We speak of several kinds of slave, for there are several kinds of work.
12| One part of these is held by the manual laborers; these are, as the very name indicates, those who live from their hands, [1277b] among whom is the vulgar craftsman. Hence among some peoples the artisans of old did not share in office, until the most extreme form of democracy arose. The tasks of the ruled of this sort, then, the good man, the statesman, and the good citizen need not learn, except perhaps for his own use on occasion (for then it no longer happens that one is master and the other slave). But there is a kind of rule by which one rules over those who are alike in birth and free. This is what we call political rule, which the ruler must learn by having first been ruled, just as one becomes a cavalry commander by having served under a cavalry commander, and a general by having served under a general and having served as a company-commander and as a platoon-leader. Hence this too is well said, that one cannot rule well without having been ruled. The virtue of these two is different, but the good citizen must know how, and be able, both to be ruled and to rule, and this is the virtue of a citizen — to know the rule of free men from both sides. And the good man has both as well, even if the form of temperance and justice proper to rule is different. For it is clear that, in the case of one who is ruled but free, the virtue of the good man — justice, say — would not be one thing, but would have forms according to which he will rule and be ruled, just as a man and a woman have different temperance and courage (for a man would seem to be a coward if he were only as courageous as a courageous woman, and a woman would seem talkative if she were only as decorous as a good man —
13| since household management, too, is different for husband and wife, for it is his function to acquire and hers to guard what is acquired). Practical wisdom is the virtue peculiar to a ruler alone. For the others, it seems, must necessarily be common to both the ruled and the rulers, but practical wisdom is not the virtue of the one who is ruled — rather, true opinion is; the one who is ruled is like the maker of flutes, while the ruler is like the flute-player who uses them. So then, whether a good man's excellence and an upright citizen's excellence are one and the same or distinct, and in what respect they coincide and in what respect they diverge, is now evident from what has been said. But concerning the citizen there still remains one of the difficulties. For truly, is a citizen one who is permitted to share in office, or must we count the vulgar craftsmen too as citizens? If, then, we must count as citizens even those who have no share in offices, this virtue of the good citizen cannot belong to every citizen (for such a person is a citizen); but if none of these is a citizen, in what class is each to be placed? For he is neither a resident alien nor a foreigner. Or shall we say that no absurdity results from this argument?
14| [1278a] For neither are slaves any of the things mentioned, nor are freedmen. For this is true, that we must not count as citizens all those without whom there would be no city, since even children are not citizens in the same way as men are, but the latter are citizens without qualification, the former on a certain condition: for they are citizens, but incomplete ones. Now in ancient times, among some peoples, the vulgar craftsman was a slave or a foreigner, which is why most such people are still so now; but the best city will not make a vulgar craftsman a citizen. If, however, this sort too is a citizen, then the virtue of a citizen which we described must not be said to belong to everyone, nor even to every free person, but only to those who are released from the tasks that are necessary. Of those engaged in necessary tasks, those who serve one individual in this way are slaves, while those in common service are vulgar craftsmen and hired laborers. It becomes clear from a brief examination how matters stand with them; for once stated plainly, the point becomes evident. For since there are several kinds of constitution, there must necessarily also be several kinds of citizen, especially of the citizen who is ruled, so that in one constitution it is necessary for the vulgar craftsman and the hired laborer to be citizens, while in others this is impossible — for example, if there is a constitution which they call aristocratic, and in which honors are given according to virtue and according to merit;
15| For it is not possible to practice the pursuits of virtue while living the life of a manual laborer or a hired worker. In oligarchies a hired laborer cannot be a citizen (for shares in the offices go by high property assessments), but a manual worker can be, since many craftsmen become wealthy. At Thebes there was a law that anyone who had not kept away from the marketplace for ten years could not hold office. In many constitutions the law draws in even some foreigners besides: in some democracies the child of a citizen mother is a citizen, and the same holds among many peoples for illegitimate children. Nevertheless, since it is for lack of legitimate citizens that they make such people citizens (they resort to laws of this kind because of a shortage of population), once they have an abundance of people they gradually strip citizenship away first from those born of a slave father or slave mother, then from those descended only through their mothers, and in the end make citizens only of those born of two citizen parents on both sides. It is clear from this, then, that there are several types of citizen, and that the name "citizen" is applied above all to one who shares in the offices of honor, just as Homer too wrote of someone as "an unhonored immigrant" (Homer, Iliad 9.648, 16.59) — for one who does not share in the offices of honor is like a resident alien.
16| But in some places this fact is concealed, for the sake of deceiving those who live alongside such people. As to whether the virtue by which a man is good and the virtue by which he is an excellent citizen should be posited as the same or as different, [1278b] it is clear from what has been said: in the case of one city they are the same, in the case of another they are different, and even then not for every citizen, but only for the statesman — the one who is, or is capable of being, in control, either alone or together with others, of the care of the community's affairs. Now that these points have been settled, we must next examine whether one should posit a single constitution or several, and if several, what they are, how many, and what differentiae they have. A constitution is an arrangement of a city with respect to its offices generally, and above all with respect to the office that has authority over everything. For everywhere the governing body has authority over the city, and the governing body is the constitution. I mean, for example, that in democracies the people has authority, while in oligarchies, on the contrary, the few have it; and we say there is also a constitution different from these. We shall give this same account concerning the rest as well. We must first lay down for what purpose a city is constituted, and how many kinds there are of rule over human beings and of association in life. This has already been said in our earlier discussions, in which household management and mastery over slaves were defined, and it was said that a human being is by nature a political animal.
17| Hence even when people have no need at all of assistance from one another, they desire to live together no less. Nevertheless the common advantage also draws them together, to the extent that each has a share in living well. This above all is the end, both for all in common and for each separately. But people also come together, and hold together the political community, for the sake of life itself, since perhaps there is some portion of the fine present even in mere living by itself, provided the hardships of life do not go to excess. It is clear that most people endure much hardship out of a clinging desire for life, on the assumption that there is some well-being and natural sweetness present in it. Moreover, it is easy to distinguish the recognized kinds of rule, for we have often given definitions about them in our popular discourses as well. For mastery, even though in truth the natural slave and the natural master have the same advantage, nonetheless rules no less for the advantage of the master, and only accidentally for the advantage of the slave — since if the slave is destroyed, mastery cannot be preserved. But rule over children and wife and the whole household, which we call household management, is either for the sake of the ruled or for some good common to both — in its own right for the sake of the ruled, as we see also with the other crafts,
18| [1279a] such as medicine and gymnastic training, though accidentally they might also be for the sake of the practitioners themselves. For nothing prevents the trainer from sometimes being himself one of those being trained, just as the pilot is always one of the sailors. Now the trainer or the pilot looks to the good of those under him, but when he himself becomes one of them, he shares in the benefit only accidentally. For the one becomes a sailor, the other one of those being trained, though he is really the trainer. Hence, too, when political offices are constituted on the basis of equality and likeness among the citizens, people think it right to rule in turn — formerly thinking it right, as is natural, to perform their public service in turn, with each in turn looking after the other's good, just as he himself, when ruling before, looked after that other person's advantage; but now, because of the benefits to be had from public funds and from office, people want to rule continuously, as if it turned out that those holding office, though sickly, were always healthy. For in that case too, perhaps, they would pursue offices in the same way. It is clear, then, that whatever constitutions look to the common advantage are correct, in accordance with what is just without qualification, while those that look only to the advantage of the rulers are all mistaken, and are deviations from the correct constitutions.
19| for they are despotic, whereas the city is a community of free persons. Now that these points have been settled, the next task is to examine the constitutions — how many there are in number and what they are — and first the correct ones among them; for once these have been defined, the deviations will also become clear. Since "constitution" and "governing body" signify the same thing, and the governing body is what has authority over cities, and it is necessary that what has authority be either one person, or few, or many, whenever the one, or the few, or the many rule with a view to the common advantage, these constitutions must be correct, while those that aim at the private advantage of the one, or of the few, or of the multitude, are deviations. For either one must say that those who share in the city are not citizens, or they must share in the advantage. We customarily call that one of the monarchies which looks to the common advantage "kingship," and the rule of the few — more than one but not many — "aristocracy" (either because the best rule, or because it looks to what is best for the city and for those who share in it), and whenever the multitude governs with a view to the common advantage, it is called by the name common to all constitutions, "polity." (And this happens reasonably enough:
20| for it is possible for one person, or a few, to excel in virtue, but for a larger number it is already difficult to be perfected with respect to virtue as a whole, [1279b] though it is possible especially with respect to military virtue, since this arises in a multitude; hence in this constitution the element that fights on the city's behalf has the greatest authority, and those who possess arms share in it.) The deviations from the constitutions named are: tyranny from kingship, oligarchy from aristocracy, democracy from polity. For tyranny is a monarchy directed to the advantage of the monarch; oligarchy is directed to the advantage of the wealthy; democracy is directed to the advantage of those without means; and none of them is directed to what benefits the community. We must say at somewhat greater length what each of these constitutions is. For the subject involves certain difficulties, and it is proper for someone who philosophizes about each field of inquiry, and who does not look only to practice, not to overlook or omit anything, but to make clear the truth about each matter. Tyranny, as has been said, is a monarchy exercising despotic rule over the political community; oligarchy is when those who possess property have authority over the constitution; democracy, on the contrary, is when those who do not possess a great amount of property, but are without means, have authority. The first difficulty concerns this very definition. For if the majority, being wealthy, were to have authority over the city — while democracy is said to exist when the multitude has authority — and likewise, again, if it should happen somewhere that those without means, though fewer than the wealthy, are stronger and have authority over the constitution, while where a small multitude has authority they call it an oligarchy — then the constitutions would not seem to have been well defined by this criterion.
21| But further, even if someone were to combine wealth with fewness and poverty with numbers, and so describe the constitutions this way — oligarchy as that in which the offices are held by the wealthy, who are few in number, democracy as that in which they are held by the poor, who are many in number — this too involves a further difficulty. For what shall we call the constitutions just mentioned, the one in which the wealthy are more numerous and the one in which the poor are fewer, and each of the two groups has authority over its own constitution, if indeed there is no other constitution besides the ones stated? The argument seems, then, to make it clear that being few or many in the governing body is incidental — incidental to oligarchies in the one case and to democracies in the other — because of the fact that the wealthy are few and the poor are many everywhere (which is why the causes just given do not in fact turn out to be causes of the difference); but the point on which democracy and oligarchy differ from each other is poverty and wealth,
22| [1280a] and it is necessary that, wherever people rule because of wealth, whether they are fewer or more, this is oligarchy, and where the poor rule, this is democracy; but it happens, as we said, that the wealthy are few and the poor are many. For few are wealthy, but all share in freedom; and it is on account of these grounds that both parties dispute over the constitution. We must first grasp what boundaries they set for oligarchy and democracy, and what the just is according to the oligarchic view and the democratic view. For all of them lay hold of some sort of justice, but they proceed only up to a point, and they do not state the whole of what is just in the strict sense. For example, it seems that the just is equality, and it is — but not for everyone, only for equals; and it seems that the unequal is just, and indeed it is — but not for everyone, only for unequals. What they leave out is the for whom, and they judge badly. The reason is that the judgment concerns themselves, and most people are on the whole poor judges where their own interests are concerned. So since the just is just for certain people, and is divided in the same way with respect both to the things involved and to those for whom it holds, as has been said earlier in the Ethics, people agree about the equality of the thing but dispute about the for whom — mostly for the reason just stated, because they judge badly in matters that concern themselves, but also because, since each side speaks of a justice that holds up to a point, they think they are stating what is just without qualification.
23| For those who are unequal in some respect, say in wealth, think they are wholly unequal, while those who are equal in some respect, say in freedom, think they are wholly equal. But they do not state the most authoritative point. For if people came together and formed a community for the sake of property, then they share in the city to the same extent that they share in property, so that the argument of the oligarchic party would seem to have force (for they say it is not just for the man who contributed one mina to have an equal share of the hundred minas with the man who gave all the rest, whether we are speaking of the original funds or of what accrues later); but if it is not for the sake of living alone but rather for the sake of living well (for otherwise there would be a city of slaves and of the other animals too — but as it is there is not, because they have no share in happiness nor in living according to choice), and not for the sake of alliance, so as not to be wronged by anyone, nor on account of exchange and mutual use of goods — for otherwise the Etruscans and the Carthaginians, and all who have commercial agreements with one another, would be citizens of a single city as it were: at any rate they have compacts about imports and agreements against wrongdoing and written articles of alliance.
24| [1280b] But there are no offices common to all of them established on this basis; rather, each side has its own separate offices, nor does either side concern itself with what sort of people the other side ought to be, nor with seeing to it that none of those under the agreements is unjust or has any vice, but only with seeing that they do no wrong to one another. But those who care about good order examine virtue and vice in the political sense. From which it is also clear that a city truly deserving the name must take care about virtue, not merely for the sake of talking about it. Otherwise the community becomes an alliance differing from the other alliances, those of allies who live apart, only in location. And law becomes a mere compact, and, as the sophist Lycophron said, a guarantor of one another's just claims, but not the kind of thing that can make the citizens good and just. That this is how it is, is clear. For if someone were to bring the locations together into one, so that the city of the Megarians and that of the Corinthians touched with their walls, even so it would not be a single city — not even if they made intermarriages with one another, though this is among the sorts of sharing peculiar to cities. Likewise, not even if some people lived apart, yet not so far apart as to have no dealings, but had laws among themselves against wronging one another in their exchanges — for instance if one were a carpenter, another a farmer, another a shoemaker, another something else of that kind, and their number were ten thousand — yet they shared in nothing else besides such things as exchange and alliance — even so this would not yet be a city.
25| For what reason, then? It is surely not because the community is not close enough together. For even if they came together while sharing in this way (though each still used his own household as if it were his city) and helped one another as if there were a mutual-defense pact, only against those who wronged them, still, to those who examine the matter precisely, this would not seem to be a city, if indeed they associated in the same manner when they had come together as when they were apart. So it becomes evident that a city is neither a partnership formed around a shared location, nor one instituted merely to prevent mutual injustice and enable exchange. These things must indeed be present if there is to be a city, but even when all of them are present it is not yet thereby a city; rather, a city is the community of households and clans in living well, for the sake of a complete and self-sufficient life. This, however, will not exist unless they inhabit one and the same location and make use of intermarriages. That is why kinship groups arose in cities, and brotherhoods, and religious sacrifices, and the shared pursuits of living together. Such a thing is the work of friendship, for the deliberate choice to live together is friendship. The end of a city, then, is living well, and these other things are for the sake of that end. A city is the community of clans and villages in a complete and self-sufficient life,
26| [1281a] and this, as we say, is living happily and finely. The political community, then, must be posited as existing for the sake of fine actions, not merely for living together. Consequently, whoever contributes most to a partnership of this kind holds a larger stake in the city than people who match or exceed them in freedom and lineage yet fall short in political virtue, or than people who outdo them in wealth while being outdone in virtue. That all who dispute about constitutions are stating some part of what is just, then, is clear from what has been said. But there is a difficulty as to what ought to have authority over the city. Is it the multitude, or the wealthy, or the reasonable, or the single best of all, or a tyrant? But all of these evidently involve difficulty. What then? If the poor, because they are more numerous, divide up the possessions of the wealthy among themselves, is this not unjust? For by god, it was resolved justly, so it seemed, by the authority in charge. Then what are we to call the extreme of injustice? Again, if all are taken together, and the majority divide up the possessions of the minority among themselves, it is clear that they are destroying the city. But surely virtue does not destroy the thing that has it, nor is justice destructive of a city;
27| So it is clear that this law too cannot be just. Further, all the actions a tyrant performs must then be just as well: for he uses force because he is stronger, just as the multitude uses force against the rich. But is it just, then, for the minority to rule, and the rich? If, then, they too do this — plunder and seize the property of the multitude — that is just: and so is the reverse. That all these views are worthless and unjust, then, is evident. But should the decent rule and have authority over everything? Then it necessarily follows that everyone else is without honor, since they are not honored with political offices: for we say that offices are honors, and if the same people always rule, the rest must be without honor. But is it better for the single best man to rule? But this is even more oligarchic still: for those without honor are more numerous. But perhaps someone might say that what has authority ought to be a human being altogether rather than a bad law, since a human being at any rate has the affections that arise in the soul. If, then, the law is oligarchic or democratic, how will it differ with respect to the difficulties raised? For the same consequences as before will follow just the same. Let there be, then, some other discussion of these other points.
28| That the multitude ought to have authority rather than the few best men might seem to be resolved by the following argument, and to present a certain difficulty — perhaps even to hold some truth. For the many, of whom each individually is not a serious man, [1281b] can nonetheless, when they come together, be better than those few — not as individuals but as a whole — just as potluck dinners are better than those furnished at one person's expense. For since there are many of them, each has some portion of virtue and practical wisdom, and when they come together the multitude becomes, as it were, a single human being with many feet, many hands, and many senses — and likewise with regard to character and thought. That is why the many judge better the works of music and those of the poets: for one judges one part, another another, and all of them together judge the whole. But this is how serious men differ from each of the many individually — just as they say that handsome men differ from those who are not handsome, and things done skillfully in a painting differ from real things: by having what was scattered apart brought together into one, since if they were kept separate, one man's eye would be finer than the painted one, and someone else would have some other part finer. Whether, then, this difference between the many and the few serious men can hold true for every people and every multitude is unclear; perhaps, by Zeus, it is clear that for some it is impossible (for the same argument would apply even to beasts too — and indeed how do some men differ from beasts, so to speak?).
29| But nothing prevents what has been said from being true concerning some particular multitude. That is why one might use this to resolve both the difficulty stated earlier and the one connected to it: over what matters the free and the multitude of citizens ought to have authority. Such are those who have neither wealth nor any claim at all to virtue. For it is not safe for them to share in the greatest offices — since both through injustice and through folly they must inevitably do wrong in some cases and err in others; yet it is alarming not to give them a share and not to let them participate — for when many are without honor and poor, that city is bound to be full of enemies. What is left, then, is for them to share in deliberating and judging. That is why Solon, and some of the other lawgivers too, assign them to the electing of officials and to the auditing of officials, but do not allow them to hold office individually. For all of them, coming together, have adequate perception, and mixed with the better sort they benefit the cities — just as impure food mixed with pure makes the whole more useful than the small amount of pure food alone; but each one separately is incomplete when it comes to judging. This arrangement of the constitution, however, has a first difficulty: that it might seem to belong to the same person to judge who has practiced medicine correctly as it does to practice medicine and restore the sick to health from the disease currently present —
30| and that person is the doctor. [1282a] The same holds likewise for the other forms of expertise and crafts. Just as a doctor must give an account of himself before doctors, so too must others do so before those in the same field. But "doctor" refers to the ordinary practitioner, the master physician, and third, the one educated in the art — for there are people of this kind in nearly all the crafts, so to speak; and we assign the judging no less to those who are educated than to those who possess the knowledge. Then, concerning selection too, the case would seem to hold in the same way. For choosing correctly is likewise the task of those who possess the knowledge — for example, a geometer chooses correctly among matters of geometry, and a pilot among matters of piloting. For even if in some tasks and crafts laymen too have some share, they certainly have no greater share than those who possess the knowledge. So on this reasoning, the multitude should not be made authoritative either over the election of officials or over their auditing. But perhaps not all of this is well said, both because of the argument stated a while ago — provided the multitude is not too slavish (for while each individual will be a worse judge than those who possess the knowledge, all of them coming together will be either better or no worse) — and because in some matters it is not the maker alone, nor even the maker best, who would judge; there are things whose results are recognized even by those who do not possess the craft. For example, a house is a thing that can be known not only by the one who built it — the one who uses it will judge it even better (and the user is the household manager); and a pilot judges a rudder better than a carpenter does, and a guest at a feast judges the meal better than the cook does.
31| This difficulty, then, one might perhaps think is resolved adequately in this way; but there is another connected to it. For it seems strange that inferior men should have authority over greater matters than decent men do, and yet the auditing of officials and the election of officials are the greatest matters of all — and in some constitutions, as has been said, these are assigned to the popular assemblies, since the assembly has authority over all such things. And yet men take part in the assembly, deliberate, and sit in judgment starting from small property qualifications and from any age whatever, while those who serve as treasurers, generals, and hold the greatest offices do so starting from large property qualifications. One might resolve this difficulty too in a similar way. For perhaps this too is correct. For it is not the individual juror, nor the individual member of the council, nor the individual member of the assembly who rules, but rather the law-court, the council, and the people; and each of those mentioned is a part of these bodies (I mean the councilor, the assemblyman, and the juror are each a part). So it is just for the multitude to have authority over greater matters: for the people, the council, and the law-court are made up of many. And the total property qualification of all these together is greater than that of those who hold the great offices singly or in small numbers.
32| Let these matters, then, be settled in this way. [1282b] But the first difficulty stated makes nothing so clear as this: that the laws, when rightly laid down, ought to be authoritative, and the ruler — whether one person or several — ought to be authoritative over those matters concerning which the laws are unable to speak with precision, because it is not easy to give a universal ruling about everything. Yet what sort of laws rightly laid down must be, is not yet at all clear; rather, the old difficulty raised remains. For necessarily, just as with constitutions, laws too must be either bad or good, and just or unjust, in a corresponding way. Except this much is clear: that laws must be laid down with reference to the constitution. But if this is so, it is clear that laws framed according to the correct constitutions must be just, and those framed according to the deviant constitutions must be unjust. Since in all the sciences and crafts the end is a good, and the greatest good, most of all, is found in the most authoritative of them all, and this is the political power, and the political good is the just, and this is the common advantage — it is generally held by everyone that the just is something equal, and up to a point people agree with the arguments given in philosophy, in which matters of ethics have been determined (for they say that the just is something for someone, and that equals must have equal shares) — but of what things there is equality, and of what things inequality, must not go unnoticed.
33| This point raises a difficulty and a question for political philosophy. For someone might say that superiority in any good whatsoever ought to be the basis for an unequal distribution of offices, if in all other respects people did not differ at all but happened to be alike; for among those who differ, what is just and what is according to merit are different things. But if this is true, then superiority in color or in size or in any good whatsoever will give those who are superior some greater share of political justice. Or is this falsehood obvious on its face? It is clear from the other sciences and capacities. Among flute players who are equal in their art, one should not give the superior flutes to the better-born (for they will play no better on that account); rather, the one who is superior in the actual work should be given the superiority in the instruments as well. If what is being said is not yet clear, it will become clearer still if we carry it further. Suppose there is someone who is superior in flute-playing but far inferior in noble birth or in beauty; even if each of those—I mean noble birth and beauty—is a greater good than flute-playing, and they exceed him in noble birth and beauty by a greater proportion than he exceeds them in flute-playing, still the flutes ought to be given to the one who is superior in flute-playing.
34| [1283a] For superiority in wealth and superiority in noble birth ought to contribute toward the work in question, and they contribute nothing at all. Further, on this argument every good would be commensurable with every other. For if a certain amount of size is preferable, then size in general would be a rival contender against both wealth and freedom; so that if this man exceeds that man more in size than the other exceeds him in virtue, and virtue in general exceeds size, then all goods would be commensurable. For if so much size is better than so much of something else, it is clear that so much of it would be equal to so much of the other. But since this is impossible, it is clear that in political matters, too, it is reasonable that people do not dispute over office on the basis of every kind of inequality (for if some are slow and others fast, that is no reason why the ones should have more and the others less—this difference gets its honor in athletic contests); rather, the dispute must necessarily be conducted in terms of the things out of which a city is composed. That is why the well-born, the free, and the wealthy reasonably lay competing claim to honor. For there must be free men who bear an assessed property qualification—a city could no more be made up entirely of the poor than entirely of slaves.
35| But if these are required, it is clear that justice and political virtue are required as well, since a city cannot be run without these either; except that without the former conditions it is impossible for a city to exist at all, while without these it is impossible for it to be run well. With a view, then, to the city's mere existence, it would seem that either all or at least some of these have a rightful claim; but with a view to the good life, education and virtue would most justly lay claim, as has been said before as well. And since those who are equal in one respect only ought not to have equality in everything, nor those who are unequal in one respect have inequality in everything, all constitutions of this sort must necessarily be deviations. It has indeed been said before that all lay claim in some sense justly, but not all justly without qualification: the wealthy claim it because they have a greater share of the land, and the land is a common possession, and further because they are for the most part more trustworthy in contracts; the free and the well-born claim it as being close kin to one another (for the better-born are citizens in a fuller sense than the low-born, and noble birth is honored among each people in its own homeland); further, because it is likely that the better are born of the better, for noble birth is the virtue of a lineage. In the same way, we shall say, virtue too justly lays claim, for we say that justice is a virtue exercised in common, one which all the other virtues must necessarily follow.
36| But further, the many also lay claim against the few: for taken together, the many are stronger, wealthier, and better than the few, when the many are set against the few. Suppose, then, that all of these were present in a single city, [1283b] I mean the good, the wealthy, and the well-born, and also some other body that is politically active—will there be a dispute over who ought to rule, or will there not? Under each of the constitutions mentioned, the judgment of who ought to rule is beyond dispute (for they differ from one another in who holds authority: one has it through the wealthy, another through men of worth, and each of the others in its own way); but let us nonetheless consider how the matter is to be settled when these all exist at the same time. If, then, those who possess virtue are altogether few in number, in what way must the division be made? Or should the word "few" be considered in relation to the work—whether they are capable of administering the city, or are so many in number that a city could be made up of them? There is a further difficulty affecting all those who dispute over political honors. For those who claim the right to rule on the basis of wealth would seem to have no just claim at all, and likewise those who claim it on the basis of birth; for it is clear that if, again, some one person is wealthier than everyone, then by the same principle of justice it will follow that this one man ought to rule everyone, and likewise the man who is superior in noble birth ought to rule those who dispute the claim on the ground of freedom.
37| The same thing will presumably happen also with aristocracies, in respect of virtue: for if some one man is better than the other worthy men in the governing body, then by the same principle of justice he ought to have authority. And if, then, the multitude too ought to have authority because they are stronger than the few, then if one man, or more than one but fewer than the many, are stronger than the rest, these ought to have authority rather than the multitude. All this, then, seems to make clear that none of these criteria is correct, by which people claim that they themselves should rule and everyone else be ruled by them. For indeed, against those who claim the right to be in authority over the government on the basis of virtue, and likewise against those who claim it on the basis of wealth, the masses could offer some just argument of their own: for nothing prevents the multitude from sometimes being better than the few and wealthier than they are—not taken one by one, but taken all together. That is why, in response to the difficulty that some raise and put forward, it is possible to answer in this way. For some raise the difficulty whether the lawgiver, wishing to establish the most correct laws, ought to legislate with a view to the advantage of the better people or of the greater number, when the situation just described arises.
38| What is correct must presumably be taken thus: and what is correct in this sense must be taken with a view to the advantage of the city as a whole and to the common good of the citizens. A citizen, in a general sense, is one who shares in ruling and being ruled; [1284a] but he is a different sort of citizen under each different constitution, and with a view to the best constitution he is the one who is able and who chooses to be ruled and to rule with a view to the life that accords with virtue. But if there is some one person so far superior in the excess of his virtue, or more than one but not enough to make up the full complement of a city, such that the virtue of all the rest and their political capacity is not commensurable with theirs—if there are several such—or with his alone, if there is one, such people can no longer be set down as a part of the city; for they will suffer injustice if deemed worthy only of equal shares, being so unequal in virtue and in political capacity; for such a man is likely to be, among human beings, like a god. From this it is clear that legislation, too, must necessarily be concerned with people who are equal both in birth and in capacity, and that there is no law that applies to people of that sort; for they themselves are law. Indeed, anyone who tried to legislate concerning them would be ridiculous. They would probably say what Antisthenes said the lions said when the hares made speeches in assembly and claimed that all should have equality. That is why the cities governed democratically institute ostracism, for a reason of this kind: for these above all are held to pursue equality, so that they used to ostracize those who seemed to be superior in power through wealth, or a great number of friends, or some other political strength, and would banish them from the city for fixed periods of time.
39| It is also told in legend that the Argonauts left Heracles behind for a reason of this kind: the Argo was not willing to carry him along with the rest of the crew, since he so far surpassed them. This is why those who criticize tyranny, and the advice Periander gave to Thrasybulus, should not simply be thought right to find fault (for they say that Periander said nothing to the herald sent about the advice, but that by cutting off the ears of grain that stood out, he leveled the field; so that, although the herald did not know the reason for what was being done, he reported what had happened, and Thrasybulus understood that he must do away with the outstanding men). For this is advantageous not only to tyrants, nor do only tyrants do it, but the same holds for oligarchies and democracies as well: for ostracism has, in a way, the same effect as clipping and banishing those who stand out. And the same thing is done regarding cities and nations by those who hold power, as the Athenians did regarding the Samians, Chians, and Lesbians (for as soon as they had firmly secured their rule, they humbled them contrary to their agreements),
40| [1284b] and the king of the Persians repeatedly cut down the Medes and Babylonians and the others who had grown proud because they had once held power. The problem is general and applies to all constitutions, even the correct ones: for the deviant ones do this looking to their own private advantage, but the same holds true even in those that look to the common good. This is clear also in the other crafts and sciences: for a painter would not allow an animal's foot to exceed due proportion, not even if it were outstandingly beautiful, nor would a shipbuilder allow a stern or any other part of the ship to do so, nor indeed would a chorus trainer allow someone who sings louder and more beautifully than the whole chorus to sing together with it. So there is nothing, on this account, to prevent monarchs from being in accord with their cities, if they do this while their own rule is beneficial to the cities. This is why, with respect to superiorities that are agreed upon, the argument concerning ostracism has a certain political justice to it. It would be better, then, for the lawgiver to constitute the constitution from the start in such a way that it has no need of this kind of remedy; but the second-best course, if it should come to that, is to try to set it right by some such corrective.
41| This, however, is not what happened in the cities: for they did not look to the advantage of their own constitution, but used ostracism in a factional spirit. Now in the deviant constitutions, that it is advantageous to the ruling party and just is clear; and perhaps it is also clear that it is not simply just. But in the case of the best constitution there is considerable difficulty — not regarding superiority in the other goods, such as strength, wealth, and a great number of friends, but if someone should arise who is outstanding in virtue, what is one to do? For surely they would not say that such a man ought to be expelled and banished; but neither, surely, would they rule over such a man: for that would be much like claiming the right to rule over Zeus, by dividing up the offices of rule. What remains, then — and this seems to be the natural course — is that everyone gladly obeys such a man, so that men of this kind become permanent kings in their cities. And perhaps it is well, after the arguments just given, to move on and consider kingship: for we say that this is one of the correct constitutions. We must examine whether it is advantageous, for a city and a territory that is going to be well governed, to be ruled by a king, or whether it is not, but some other constitution is preferable instead, or whether it is advantageous for some and not for others.
42| First, then, we must distinguish whether kingship is a single kind or has several varieties. [1285a] This much, at least, is easy to grasp: that it comprises several kinds, and the manner of rule is not the same in all of them. For the kingship in the Spartan constitution seems to be the kingship most in accordance with law, yet it is not sovereign over everything; rather, when the king goes out beyond the territory he is leader in matters of war, and further, matters relating to the gods have been assigned to the kings. This kingship, then, is a kind of generalship with full and permanent powers: for the king is not sovereign to put anyone to death, except in certain circumstances, as among the ancients on military campaigns, by the law of the strong hand. Homer makes this clear: for Agamemnon put up with being spoken ill of in the assemblies, but once they had gone out on campaign he was sovereign even to put men to death; at any rate he says: 'But whomever I find apart from the battle... it will bring him no safety to flee the dogs and the birds, for death is beside me' (Homer, Iliad 2.391). This, then, is one form of kingship — a generalship for life; and of these kingships, some are hereditary, others elective. Alongside this there is another kind of monarchy, such as are the kingships among some of the barbarians. All of these have a power very close to that of tyrannies, but they are also in accordance with law and hereditary:
43| for because the barbarians are by nature more servile in character than the Greeks, and those of Asia more so than those of Europe, they put up with despotic rule without any resentment. These kingships, then, are tyrannical for this reason, but secure because they are hereditary and in accordance with law. And the guard kept around such kings is a king's guard, not a tyrant's, for the same reason: for citizens keep guard over kings under arms, while foreign mercenaries guard tyrants; for kings rule in accordance with law and over willing subjects, while tyrants rule over unwilling subjects, so that the one kind has its guard supplied by the citizens, the other kind is guarded against the citizens. These, then, are two kinds of monarchy; and there is another, which existed among the ancient Greeks, whom they call aisymnetai. This is, to put it simply, an elective tyranny, differing from the barbarian kind not in failing to be in accordance with law, but only in not being hereditary. Some held this office for life, others for certain fixed periods of time or for certain tasks, as for example the Mytileneans once chose Pittacus against the exiles, whose leaders were Antimenides and the poet Alcaeus. Alcaeus makes clear that they chose Pittacus as tyrant in one of his drinking songs:
44| for he reproaches them because 'they set up Pittacus, of ill birth, as tyrant of their spiritless and ill-starred city, all crowding together and loudly praising him.' [1285b] These offices, then, both are and were tyrannical because they involve despotic rule, but kingly because they are elective and exercised over willing subjects. A fourth kind of kingly monarchy consists of those that arose in the heroic age, exercised over willing subjects and hereditary, in accordance with law. For because the first holders of such power had become benefactors of the multitude, whether through crafts or through war, or by bringing people together or by procuring territory, they became kings over willing subjects, and hereditary for those who succeeded them. They were sovereign over leadership in war and over sacrifices, all those that were not the province of priests, and in addition to these they judged lawsuits. This they did, some without taking an oath, others taking an oath, the oath being the raising up of the scepter. Now those of ancient times ruled continuously over matters within the city, matters at home, and matters beyond the borders; but later, as the kings themselves gave up some of these prerogatives, and the masses took away others, in the other cities the sacrifices alone were left to the kings, while wherever it is worth speaking of a kingship at all, they retained only the leadership in matters of war beyond the borders. These, then, are the kinds of kingship, four in number: one belonging to the heroic age (this was over willing subjects, but on certain fixed terms:
45| For the king was both general and judge, and had authority over matters relating to the gods; second is the barbarian kind of kingship (this is a hereditary rule of a master over slaves, but according to law); third is what they call an aisymnetia (this is an elective tyranny); fourth is the Laconian kind among these (this is, to put it simply, a hereditary generalship for life). These, then, differ from one another in this way; and there is a fifth species of kingship, whenever one person has authority over everything, just as each nation and each city has authority over its common affairs, ordered according to household management. For just as household management is a kind of kingship over a household, so this all-embracing kingship is the management of a city or a nation, one or several. There are, then, more or less two species of kingship about which we must inquire, this one and the Laconian; for most of the others fall between these two, since they have authority over fewer matters than the all-embracing kingship, but over more than the Laconian. So the inquiry concerns, more or less, two questions: one, whether it is advantageous for cities to have a permanent general, and whether he should hold this office by birth or in rotation, or whether it is not advantageous,
46| [1286a] and second, whether it benefits a city for a single person to hold power over all, or whether it does not. Now to examine this kind of generalship belongs more to the study of laws than of constitutions (for this can occur in all constitutions), so let it be set aside for now; but the remaining kind of kingship is a species of constitution, so we must study this and run through the difficulties it involves. The starting point of the inquiry is this: whether it is more advantageous to be ruled by the best man or by the best laws. Those who think it advantageous to be ruled by a king hold that the laws state only the general rule, and do not give orders for particular circumstances as they arise, so that in any craft whatever it is foolish to rule by written rules (and in Egypt physicians are permitted to alter their treatment after the fourth day, but if they do so earlier, they do so at their own risk). It is clear, then, for the same reason, that the constitution that rules by written rules and laws is not the best. But then again, that general account must belong to the rulers as well. What lacks the affective element entirely is better than what has it inherent in its nature: now law does not have this, but every human soul must have it.
47| But perhaps someone might say that instead of this, he will deliberate better about particular cases. That he must, then, necessarily be a lawgiver, and that laws must be laid down, but not with authority where they go astray, is clear, since with regard to everything else the laws must have authority; but for whatever the law is unable to judge, either at all or well, should the one best man rule, or should everyone? For even now people come together and judge, deliberate, and decide, and all these decisions concern particular cases. Now any one person, taken singly, is perhaps worse; but the city is made up of many, and just as a feast to which many contribute is finer than one supplied by a single person, so for this reason a crowd judges many matters better than any single individual. Further, the many are more resistant to corruption—just as a greater quantity of water is harder to foul, so a multitude is less easily corrupted than a few; for when a single individual is overcome by anger or some other such passion, his judgment is necessarily corrupted, whereas among the many it would be hard for all of them to grow angry and go wrong at the same time. Let the multitude in question be free men, doing nothing contrary to the law except where the law is necessarily deficient. If, however, this is not easy to find among many, but suppose there are several who are good, both as men and as citizens, is a single ruler more resistant to corruption, or rather those who are several in number but all good?
48| [1286b] Is it not clear that the several are? But they will form factions, while the one is free of faction. But against this one should perhaps object that they too are serious-minded in soul, just like that one man. If, then, we must call the rule of the several, all of them good men, an aristocracy, and the rule of the one a kingship, aristocracy would be more choiceworthy for cities than kingship, whether the office carries power behind it or not, provided it is possible to find several similar men. And this is perhaps why cities were ruled by kings in earlier times, because it was rare to find men greatly superior in virtue, especially since at that time they inhabited small cities. Further, they used to establish kings on the basis of benefaction, which is the work of good men. But when it came about that many men similar in virtue arose, they no longer tolerated this, but sought something held in common, and established a constitution. But when the rulers, growing worse, enriched themselves from the common funds, it was reasonable that from this source oligarchies arose at some point; for they made wealth a mark of honor. From these, first there were changes into tyrannies, and from tyrannies into democracy; for since they were always contracting power into fewer hands out of shameful greed for gain, they made the multitude stronger, so that the multitude rose up and democracies arose. And since it has also come about that cities are larger, it is perhaps no longer easy for any constitution other than democracy to arise.
49| But if someone were to hold that being ruled by a king is best for cities, how will matters stand with regard to his children? Should the family also rule as kings? But if the offspring turn out to be whatever sort they happen to be, this is harmful. But, it will be said, being in authority, he will not hand it over to his children if they are unfit. But this is no longer easy to believe; for it is difficult, and requires virtue greater than is found in human nature. There is also a difficulty concerning power: should the man who is to be king have some force at his disposal, by which he will be able to compel those unwilling to obey, or how else is it possible for him to administer his rule? For even if he holds authority according to law, doing nothing contrary to the law according to his own will, it is nonetheless necessary for him to have power by which he will safeguard the laws. Now perhaps it is not difficult to determine the matters concerning such a king; for he must have force, but the force must be of such a size as to be stronger than any one person or any group of several, but weaker than the multitude, just as the ancients used to grant bodyguards, whenever they established over the city someone whom they called an aisymnetes or a tyrant; and someone, when Dionysius asked for guards, advised the Syracusans to give him only that many guards.
50| [1287a] Concerning the king whose every act follows only what he himself wishes, our discussion now stands, and we must undertake the inquiry. For the king who is said to rule according to law is not, as we said, a species of constitution (for it is possible for a permanent generalship to exist in all constitutions, as in democracy and aristocracy, and many make one person authoritative over the administration; for such an office exists around Epidamnus, and around Opus too, though to a lesser degree). But concerning what is called all-embracing kingship (this is the kind in which the king rules over everything according to his own will), some think that it is not even according to nature for one person to have authority over all the citizens, where the city is composed of similar people; for among people who are by nature similar, the same justice and the same worth must by nature hold, so that just as it is harmful to bodies for unequal people to have equal nourishment or clothing, so it holds also with regard to honors; and likewise it is harmful for equal people to have unequal honors. This is why it is just for no one to rule rather than be ruled, and likewise to hold office in rotation. And this, already, is law; for order is law.
51| Therefore it is more preferable for the law to rule than for any one of the citizens to rule; and by this same reasoning, even if it is better for certain people to rule, these should be established as guardians of the law and servants to the laws. For it is necessary that there be some offices, but they say it is not just for this one man to be the law, given that all are alike. But indeed, whatever the law does not seem able to determine, a human being would not be able to discern either. But the law, having trained rulers on purpose, sets them over the remaining matters, to judge and administer with the most just judgment. Further, it grants the power to correct whatever, upon trial, seems better than what is established. So the one who bids the law to rule seems to bid god and intellect alone to rule, while the one who bids a human being to rule adds also a beast; for appetite is such a thing, and spirit perverts rulers, even the best of men. Hence law is intellect without desire. And the analogy from the crafts seems to be false — the claim that being treated medically by the book is a poor thing, but that it is preferable to use those who possess the crafts. For doctors do nothing contrary to reason out of friendship, but earn their pay by making the sick healthy;
52| whereas those in political offices are accustomed to do many things out of spite and favor, since even doctors, when they suspect that, once trusted, they will be corrupted for profit by their enemies, would then rather seek treatment from the books. [1287b] But indeed, sick doctors bring in other doctors for themselves, and trainers who are exercising bring in other trainers, on the ground that they are unable to judge the truth because they are judging about their own affairs and are in the grip of feeling. So it is clear that in seeking what is just they are seeking the mean; for the law is the mean. Further, the laws that go by custom are more authoritative, and concerned with more authoritative matters, than the laws that go by writing, so that if a human ruler is safer than written laws, he is still not safer than laws that go by custom. But indeed it is not easy for one man to oversee many things; there will therefore need to be more officers established by him, so that how does this differ from having this arrangement in place right from the start, rather than having the one man establish it in this way? Further — a point already made before — if the upright man is just to rule because he is better, then two good men are better than one; for this is what is meant by "two going together" (Homer, Iliad 10.224), and by Agamemnon's prayer, "ten such counselors as this for me" (Homer, Iliad 2.372). And indeed even now, on some matters, the officers are authoritative to judge, as the juror is, concerning matters which the law is unable to determine, since concerning matters it can determine, no one disputes that the law would rule and judge best.
53| But since some matters can be encompassed by laws and others cannot, these latter are what create the puzzle and the inquiry whether it is preferable for the best law to rule or the best man; for the things people deliberate about in order to legislate are among the things that cannot be so encompassed. They do not, then, dispute this point — that it is not necessary for a human being to be the one who judges concerning such matters — but rather they dispute that it should be not one alone but many. For each officer, having been trained well by the law, judges well, and it might perhaps seem strange if one thought a man judged and acted better with two eyes and two ears, with two feet and two hands, than many judging and acting with many; since even now sole rulers supply themselves with a multitude of eyes, ears, hands, and feet: those who are loyal to their power and to their own persons, these they appoint as co-rulers. Now if they are not friends, they will not act according to the monarch's choice; but if they are friends both to him and to his rule, then a friend is equal and alike, so that if he thinks these men ought to rule, he thinks that men who are equal and alike ought to rule in like manner. These, then, are roughly the things said by those who dispute against kingship. But perhaps this holds in this way for some cases, and not so for others.
54| For there is by nature something despotic, and something else kingly, and something else political, and one thing is just and advantageous for some people, another for others; but there is nothing tyrannical according to nature, nor any of the other constitutions that are deviations, for these come about contrary to nature. [1288a] But from what has been said it is clear that among people who are alike and equal it is neither advantageous nor just for one person to be sovereign over all — neither when there are no laws, but he himself acts as the law, nor when there are laws — nor for a good man to rule good men, nor for a not-good man to rule not-good men, not even if he is superior in virtue, except in a certain way. What this way is must be stated; and it has in fact already been stated in some manner before. First one must distinguish what is fit for kingship, what is fit for aristocracy, and what is fit for constitutional government. A population fit for kingship, then, is one naturally suited to produce a family outstanding in virtue for political leadership; one fit for aristocracy is one naturally suited to produce a population capable of being ruled, as free men, by those who are leaders in virtue, with a view to political rule; and one fit for constitutional government is one in which there is naturally found a warlike population capable of being ruled and of ruling in turn, according to a law that distributes offices to the well-off according to merit. So whenever it happens that either a whole family, or else some one individual among the rest, comes to differ in virtue so much that his excellence exceeds that of all the others, then it is just for this family to be royal and sovereign over all, and for this one man to be king.
55| For as has been said before, this holds not only in accordance with that criterion of justice which those who establish constitutions habitually put forward — those who establish aristocracies, and those who establish oligarchies, and again those who establish democracies (for all of them lay claim on the basis of some superiority, though not the same superiority) — but also in accordance with what was said earlier. For it is not fitting to kill or exile or ostracize such a man, nor to think it right that he should be ruled in turn; for it is not natural for the part to exceed the whole, and this is what has happened in the case of the man who has such an enormous excess. So it remains only to obey such a man, and for him to be sovereign not in turn but absolutely. Concerning kingship, then — what differences it has, and whether it is not advantageous for cities or is advantageous, and for which cities, and how — let this much be determined in this way. Since we maintain there are three correct constitutions, the finest of them is necessarily the one governed by the finest people; and that constitution is the one in which it turns out that a single individual out of all, or an entire family, or a multitude, surpasses the rest in virtue, some fit to be ruled and others to rule, with a view toward the most desirable life — and since it was demonstrated in our earlier discussion that a good man's virtue and the virtue of a citizen of the finest city are necessarily identical, it is evident that a man becomes upright, and that a city might be organized under aristocracy or kingship, along the very same path and through the very same means;
56| [1288b] so that the education and the habits that make a man upright will be roughly the same as those that make him political and kingly. Now that these points have been determined, we must try to speak of the best constitution — in what manner it is naturally suited to come about, and how it is to be established. It is necessary, then, for the one who is going to undertake the appropriate examination of it...
1| In all the crafts and sciences that are not concerned with a part only, but are complete with respect to some one genus, it belongs to a single art to study what is fitting for each genus—for example, what sort of training suits what sort of body, and which is the best training (for the finest and best-equipped body it is necessary that the best training suit), and which single training suits most bodies (for this too is a function of gymnastics); further, if someone desires not the training that reaches the required standard, nor the state of body, nor the knowledge relating to competition, it is no less the business of the trainer and the gymnastic expert to provide this capacity as well. We see the same thing occurring likewise in medicine and shipbuilding and the making of clothing and every other craft. So it is clear that it also belongs to the same science to study the best constitution—what it is, and what sort it would be if it came to be most in accordance with our prayer with nothing external standing in the way—and also which constitution suits which people (for many it is perhaps impossible to attain the best, so that the good lawgiver and the true statesman must not be ignorant of both the constitution that is strongest without qualification and the one that is best given the underlying circumstances), and further a third kind, the constitution that suits a given hypothesis (for one must be able to study a constitution that is given, both how it would arise from the beginning, and, once it has arisen, in what way it might be preserved for the longest time;
2| I mean, for example, if it has happened to some city neither to be governed by the best constitution, and to be unsupplied even with the necessities, nor by the constitution that is possible given its existing circumstances, but by some inferior one)—and beyond all these one must know the constitution that suits all cities best. Hence most of those who pronounce on constitutions, even if they speak well on other points, go wrong on the points of usefulness. For one must study not only the best constitution, but also the one that is possible, and likewise also the one that is easier and more common to all; but as things stand, some seek only the most extreme constitution, one that requires great resources, while others, speaking of some more common constitution instead, do away with the constitutions that actually exist and praise the Laconian or some other one:
3| [1289a] one must instead propose such an arrangement as men will readily be persuaded of and be able to share in, starting from what already exists, on the ground that setting a constitution right is no smaller a task than constructing one from the beginning, just as relearning is no smaller a task than learning from the beginning. Hence, in addition to what has been said, the statesman must be able to come to the aid of existing constitutions as well, as was said before. This is impossible for one who does not know how many species of constitution there are. As things stand, some think there is one democracy and one oligarchy; but this is not true. So one must not be ignorant of the differences among constitutions—how many there are, and in how many ways they are combined. After this it belongs to this same practical wisdom to see both the best laws and those that suit each of the constitutions. For laws must be laid down to suit the constitutions—and everyone does lay them down this way—not the constitutions to suit the laws. For a constitution is the arrangement in cities concerned with the offices, the manner in which they have been distributed, and what the sovereign element of the constitution is, and what the end of each community is; but laws are distinct from the things that make clear the constitution, and by them the rulers must rule and must guard against those who transgress them.
4| So it is clear that grasping both the distinctions among constitutions and the definition of each is necessary for the framing of laws as well; the same body of law cannot possibly serve every oligarchy equally, nor every democracy, given that each of these comes in more than a single form. Now since in our first inquiry concerning constitutions we distinguished three correct constitutions—kingship, aristocracy, and constitutional government (politeia)—and three deviations from these—tyranny from kingship, oligarchy from aristocracy, and democracy from constitutional government—and since aristocracy and kingship have been discussed (for to study the best constitution is the same as to speak of these names, since each of the two wishes to be constituted in accordance with virtue fully resourced), and further since we have already distinguished how aristocracy and kingship differ from one another, and when one must consider a rule a kingship—it remains to go through constitutional government, the one called by the name common to all, and the other constitutions, oligarchy and democracy and tyranny. Now it is also evident, among these deviations, which is worst and which second. For necessarily the deviation from the first and most divine constitution is worst, and kingship must either be a name only, without really existing,
5| [1289b] or exist through the great superiority of the one who is king; so that tyranny, being worst, is furthest removed from being a constitution at all, oligarchy is second (for aristocracy stands far apart from this constitution), and democracy is the most moderate. Indeed someone among the earlier thinkers has already declared this too, though not with a view to the same point as ours. For that man judged that, when all the constitutions were decent—good oligarchy, for instance, and the rest—democracy was the worst, but when they were base, democracy was the best. We, however, say that these are altogether mistaken forms, and that it is not right to say that one oligarchy is better than another, but only that it is less base. But let this sort of judgment be set aside for now; for us the first task is to divide how many differences there are among constitutions, given that there are several species both of democracy and of oligarchy; next, which is the most common and which is the most choiceworthy after the best constitution, and also, if some other constitution happens to be aristocratic and well constituted but does not suit most cities, what it is; next, among the others, which suits which people (for perhaps for some democracy is more necessary than oligarchy, while for others the latter is more necessary than the former); and after this, in what manner one who wishes must establish these constitutions—I mean democracies according to each species, and again oligarchies:
6| finally, when we have made, concerning all these things, as concise a treatment as the subject admits, we must try to go through what destructions and what preservations of constitutions there are, both in common and for each separately, and through what causes these are most naturally apt to come about. Now the cause of there being several constitutions is that every city has several parts in number. For, first, we see that all cities are composed of households; then again, of this multitude some must be well-off, some poor, and some in between, and among both the well-off and the poor, one part is armed and one unarmed. And we see that one part of the common people is agricultural, another engaged in trade, another engaged in menial crafts. And among the notables there are differences both in wealth and in the extent of their property—for example, in the keeping of horses (for this is not easy for those who are not wealthy to do; that is why, in ancient times, in whatever cities their power lay in horses, oligarchies existed among them, since they used horses in their wars against their neighbors, as did the Eretrians and Chalcidians and the Magnesians on the Maeander and many others throughout Asia); and further, besides the differences in wealth, there is a difference by birth and a difference by virtue,
7| [1290a] and whatever other such thing has been said to be a part of a city in our discussion of aristocracy; for there we distinguished from how many necessary parts every city consists. Of these parts, at times all of them take part in the constitution, at times fewer, at times a greater number. So it plainly follows that constitutions must be many, each differing from the others in kind, since the parts themselves differ from one another in kind. For a constitution is the arrangement of the offices, and everyone distributes these either according to the power of those who share in them, or according to some common equality among them—I mean, for example, an equality of the poor, or of the well-off, or some equality common to both. It is necessary, then, that there be as many constitutions as there are arrangements according to the superiorities and according to the differences of the parts. But there seem to be, above all, two, just as with the winds people speak of the north winds and the south winds, and the rest as deviations from these, so too of constitutions there are two, popular rule (demos) and oligarchy. For they set down aristocracy as a species of oligarchy, on the ground that it is a kind of oligarchy, and what is called constitutional government (politeia) as a species of democracy, just as among the winds they set down the west wind as belonging to the north, and the southeast wind as belonging to the south.
8| The same holds for musical harmonies too, as some say: for there as well, people posit two forms, the Dorian and the Phrygian, and they call the other arrangements either Dorian or Phrygian, according to which they resemble. This, then, is generally how people are accustomed to think about constitutions. But it is truer and better to divide as we have divided: there being one, or at most two, constitution that is well constituted, the rest are deviations — some deviating from the well-blended harmony, others from the best constitution — the more taut and more despotic ones being oligarchic, the relaxed and soft ones being popular. But one should not, as some are now accustomed to do, simply define democracy as wherever the multitude is sovereign (for even in oligarchies, and everywhere, the greater part is sovereign), nor oligarchy as wherever a few are sovereign over the constitution. For suppose there were thirteen hundred people in all, and of these a thousand were rich, and they did not give the three hundred poor free men — who are alike in everything else — any share in office: no one would say these people were governed democratically. Likewise, if the poor were few but stronger than the wealthy, who were more numerous, no one would call this an oligarchy either, nor call such a case one where, though the rest were rich, they had no share in the honors.
9| It should rather be said that there is a democracy [1290b] whenever the free are sovereign, and an oligarchy whenever the rich are, but it turns out that the former are many and the latter few; for many are free, but few are rich. Indeed, if offices were distributed by height, as some say happens in Ethiopia, or by beauty, that would be an oligarchy: for the multitude of the beautiful and of the tall is small. And yet it is not sufficient to distinguish these constitutions by these criteria alone either; rather, since there are several parts both of the people and of the oligarchic element, we must further draw the distinction that where the free are few and rule over a greater number who are not free, this is not a democracy — for example at Apollonia on the Ionian coast and likewise at Thera (in both those poleis the offices lay with men distinguished by lineage and with the original settlers who had first taken possession of the colonies — few in number, yet ruling a great many) — nor is it a democracy wherever the rich, because they exceed in number, rule, as for instance in Colophon in former times (for there the majority had acquired substantial property before the war against the Lydians arose); rather, it is a democracy whenever the free and poor, being the majority, are sovereign over the government, and an oligarchy whenever the rich and better-born, being few, are sovereign.
10| That there are several constitutions, then, and for what cause, has been stated. Let us now say why there are more constitutions than those mentioned, and what they are and why, taking as our starting point what was said before. For we agree that every city has not one part but several. Just as, then, if we were setting out to grasp the species of an animal, we would first mark off what every animal must necessarily have (for instance, certain of the organs of perception, and the part that works on and takes in nourishment, such as a mouth and a stomach, and in addition the parts by which each of these creatures moves); and if there were only this many parts, but these admitted differentiae (I mean, for example, several kinds of mouth and of stomach and of the organs of perception, and further of the parts of movement too), then the number of possible combinations of these will of necessity produce several kinds of animals (for it is not possible for the same animal to have more than one differentia of mouth, nor likewise of ears); so that when all the admissible combinations of these are taken, they will produce species of animal, and there will be as many species of animal as there are combinations of the necessary parts — in the very same way this holds for the constitutions we have mentioned. For cities too are composed not of one but of many parts, as has been said many times.
11| One part, then, is the multitude concerned with sustenance, those called farmers; [1291a] a second is the so-called vulgar element (this is the element concerned with the crafts, without which it is impossible for a city to be inhabited — and of these crafts some must exist of necessity, others for luxury or for living well); a third is the market element (by market element I mean that occupied with sales and purchases and trade and retailing); a fourth is the wage-laboring element; a fifth is the class that fights in defense, which is no less necessary than these others if the citizens are not to be enslaved by every invader. For among things impossible would surely be counting as worthy of the name polis something that is by nature servile; a polis, after all, is a self-sufficing thing, whereas what is enslaved lacks that self-sufficiency. That is why what is said about this in the Republic is clever, but not adequate. For Socrates says that a city is composed of four of the most necessary elements, and he names these as the weaver and the farmer and the shoemaker and the builder; then again he adds, on the ground that these are not self-sufficient, the smith and those in charge of the necessary livestock, and further the merchant and the retailer; and all these together make up the full complement of his first city, as though every city were constituted for the sake of the necessities rather than for the sake of the fine, and needed shoemakers and farmers equally.
12| The defensive element, however, he does not assign as a part until, with the territory growing and coming into contact with that of the neighbors, they are brought into war. But surely even among the four, or however many, partners, there must necessarily be someone to assign and to judge what is just. So if one would posit the soul as more truly a part of an animal than the body, then in the case of cities too one must set down as parts, more than those elements bearing on necessary use, the military element and the element that has a share in judicial justice, and in addition to these the deliberative element, which is the function of political intelligence. And whether these functions belong separately to different people or to the same people makes no difference to the argument; for it often happens that the same people serve as hoplites and farm the land. So that if both these and those must be set down as parts of the city, it is clear that the hoplite element at least is a necessary part of the city. A seventh is the element that renders public service by means of its property, which we call the well-off. An eighth is the element that serves in public functions, that is, the element concerned with the offices, since it is impossible for a city to exist without rulers. There must therefore necessarily be some people capable of ruling and performing this public service for the city, either continuously or by turns. What remains is what we have just now distinguished — the deliberative element and the element that judges questions of justice for those in dispute.
13| If, then, these things must happen in cities, and happen finely and justly,
14| [1291b] there must necessarily also be some who share in the virtue proper to political men. Now it seems to many possible for the other capacities to belong to the same people — for instance, that the same people be both those who fight in defense and those who farm and are craftsmen, and further those who deliberate and judge; and indeed all lay claim to virtue too, and think themselves capable of holding most offices; but the same people cannot be both poor and rich. This is why these seem most of all to be the parts of a city — the well-off and the poor. And further, because for the most part the former are few and the latter many, these appear as opposite parts among the parts of the city. Hence people also establish their constitutions according to the preeminence of these groups, and there seem to be two constitutions, democracy and oligarchy. That there are several constitutions, then, and for what causes, has been said before; let us now say that there are also several forms of democracy and of oligarchy. This is clear also from what has been said. For there are several forms both of the people and of those called the notables — for instance, of the people one form is the farmers, another is the element concerned with the crafts, another is the market element occupied with buying and selling, another is the element concerned with the sea, and of this one part is military, one commercial, one ferrying, and one fishing (for in many places each of these is present in great numbers — for instance fishermen at Tarentum and Byzantium, the trireme-crewing element at Athens, the trading element at Aegina and Chios, the ferrying element at Tenedos); and in addition to these there is the laboring element and the element that has so little property that it cannot be at leisure, and further the element that is not free-born on both sides, and any other such kind of multitude there may be.
15| Among the notable people, the marks are wealth, good birth, virtue, education, and things described along the same lines of difference. The first kind of democracy, then, is the one said to rest most on equality. For the law of such a democracy says that equality means the poor have no greater share than the rich, and neither group is sovereign over the other, but both are alike. For if freedom is found most of all in democracy, as some suppose, and equality too, this would be so most of all where all share in the constitution alike, as much as possible. But since the people are the majority, and what is resolved by the majority is sovereign, this is necessarily what democracy is. This, then, is one form of democracy: that offices are filled from property assessments, but these are set low; and it is necessary that whoever acquires the assessed amount has the right to share in office, while whoever loses it does not.
16| [1292a] Another form of democracy is one in which all citizens who are free of legal liability share in office, but the law rules. Another form of democracy is one in which anyone shares in the offices, provided only he is a citizen, but the law rules. Another form of democracy has the other features the same, but the multitude is sovereign, and not the law. This occurs whenever decrees are sovereign rather than the law; and this comes about because of the demagogues. For in states that are democratically governed according to law, no demagogue arises, but the best of the citizens hold the leading positions; but where the laws are not sovereign, there demagogues arise. For the people become a monarch, one composed of many; for the many are sovereign not as individuals but all together. What sort of rule Homer means when he says that a multitude of rulers is not good — whether he means this kind, or the case where there are several rulers each acting as an individual — is unclear. At any rate, such a people, being in effect a monarch, seeks to rule as a monarch, because it is not ruled by law, and becomes despotic; so that flatterers come to be held in honor, and such a people is analogous among the forms of democracy to tyranny among the monarchies. That is why the character is also the same, and both are despotic toward the better sort, and the decrees are like the tyrant's edicts there, and the demagogue and the flatterer are the same and correspond to one another.
17| And each is strongest with his own counterpart: the flatterers with tyrants, the demagogues with peoples of this sort. These men are responsible for making decrees sovereign rather than the laws, by referring everything to the people; for it happens that they become powerful because the people is sovereign over everything, while they are sovereign over the opinion of the people, since the multitude is persuaded by them. Further, those who bring charges against the officeholders say that the people ought to judge, and the people gladly accept the invitation; so that all the offices are undermined. It would seem reasonable for someone to find fault with such a thing and say it is a democracy but not a constitution. For where the laws do not rule, there is no constitution. For the law ought to rule over everything, while the offices rule over particular matters, and this is what one should judge to be a constitution. So that if democracy really is one of the constitutions, it is clear that such an arrangement, in which everything is managed by decrees, is not even a democracy in the strict sense; for no decree can be universal. Let the forms of democracy, then, be marked off in this way. Of oligarchy, one form is that offices are filled from property assessments high enough that the poor, who are more numerous, have no share, but whoever acquires the assessed amount is permitted to share in the constitution;
18| [1292b] another form, when offices are filled from high property assessments and the officeholders themselves choose to fill the vacancies (if they do this from among all such qualified people, this seems to be more aristocratic in character, but if from certain limited persons, it is oligarchic); another form of oligarchy is when son succeeds father in office; and a fourth, when what has just been described holds, and it is not the law that rules but the officeholders. And this last is the counterpart, among oligarchies, of tyranny among monarchies, and of the last-mentioned kind of democracy among democracies; and indeed people call such an oligarchy a dynasty. So many, then, are the forms of oligarchy and democracy. But one must not fail to notice that it often happens that the constitution as laid down by the laws is not popular in character, but through custom and upbringing the state is governed in a popular way; and likewise, conversely, elsewhere the constitution according to the laws is more popular, but through upbringing and customs it is governed more in an oligarchic way. This happens especially after changes of constitution: for people do not move to the new order all at once, but are content at first to gain small advantages over one another, so that the previously existing laws remain in force, while those who brought about the change in constitution hold power.
19| That there are this many forms of democracy and oligarchy is clear from what has been said. For necessarily either all the parts of the people mentioned share in the constitution, or some do and some do not. So whenever the farming class and those possessing a moderate amount of property are sovereign over the constitution, they govern according to laws (for by working they are able to live, but they cannot be at leisure, so that having set the law over them they hold only the necessary assemblies), and the rest are permitted to share once they acquire the property assessment fixed by the laws; hence all who acquire it are permitted to share. For in general, that not all should be permitted to share is oligarchic, while that all should be permitted to have leisure is impossible without revenues. This, then, is one form of democracy for these reasons; another form exists because of the next distinction: for it is also possible for all who are free of legal liability by birth to be permitted to share, but only those able to have leisure actually do so; and that is why in such a democracy the laws rule, because there is no revenue. A third form is that all who are free are permitted to share in the constitution, but do not in fact share, for the reason already stated, so that in this form too the law must of necessity rule.
20| [1293a] The fourth form of democracy is the one that has arisen last in order of time in the cities. For because the cities have become much larger than they originally were, and there is an abundance of revenues, everyone shares in the constitution because of the superiority of numbers, and even the poor take part and govern because they are able to be at leisure, receiving pay. And this multitude has the most leisure of all, for the care of their own affairs does not hinder them at all, whereas it hinders the rich, so that they often do not take part in the assembly or in judging. Hence the multitude of the poor becomes sovereign over the constitution, and not the laws. So many, then, and of such kinds, are the forms of democracy, owing to these necessities; and these are the forms of oligarchy: when a greater number possess property, but a smaller and not very great amount, this is the form of the first oligarchy; for they make it possible for whoever acquires the amount to share, and because those who share in the government are numerous, it is necessary that not men but the law be sovereign (for the further they are removed from monarchy, and the less they have property enough to be at leisure and neglect affairs, but also not so little as to be maintained at the city's expense, the more necessary it is for them to require the law to rule over them, and not themselves).
21| But if those who hold the properties are fewer than in the first case, while the amount of property is greater, this becomes the second form of oligarchy. For being stronger, they think themselves entitled to a greater share, and so they themselves choose, from among the rest, those who are to enter the government; but because they are not yet so strong as to rule without a law, they enact a law to this effect. And if they carry this further, being fewer in number while holding greater properties, the third advance of oligarchy occurs: that they hold the offices among themselves, under a law that requires the sons of the deceased to succeed them. And when they already far surpass others in wealth and in wide circles of associates, such a power comes close to being a monarchy, and men become sovereign rather than the law: and this is the fourth form of oligarchy, the counterpart to the last form of democracy. Further, there are two constitutions besides democracy and oligarchy, of which everyone speaks of the one, and it has been named as one of the four forms of constitution (they speak of four: monarchy, oligarchy, democracy, and fourth the one called aristocracy); but there is a fifth, which is called by the name common to all of them (for they call it "constitution"), but because it does not occur often, it is overlooked by those who try to enumerate the forms of constitutions, and they employ only the four (as Plato does) in discussing constitutions.
22| [1293b] It is right, then, to call "aristocracy" the constitution we discussed in our earlier arguments (for it is only the constitution composed of those who are best without qualification, in respect of virtue, and not by some assumption relative to a particular standard of good men, that it is just to call aristocracy; for only in it is the same man both a good man and a good citizen without qualification, whereas in the others men are good relative to their own particular constitution). Nevertheless there are some constitutions which stand apart from those governed as oligarchies, and are called aristocracies, and also stand apart from what is called "constitution." For wherever they choose the officials not only by wealth but also by merit, this constitution differs from both of the others and is called aristocratic. For even in constitutions that make no common provision for virtue, there are nonetheless some who are well regarded and thought to be respectable. So wherever the constitution has regard to wealth and virtue and the people, as at Carthage, this is aristocratic; and so are those which have regard to only two of these, as the Spartan constitution does, to virtue and to the people, and there is a mixture of these two, democracy and virtue. These, then, are two forms of aristocracy alongside the first, the best constitution, and a third consists of those constitutions of the so-called "constitution" that lean more toward oligarchy.
23| It remains for us to speak both about the constitution called by this name and about tyranny. We have placed things in this order not because this form, nor the aristocracies just mentioned, are not deviations, but because, in truth, all of them fall short of the most correct constitution; and further, they are counted along with these, and these are deviations from them, just as we said at the outset. It is reasonable to make mention of tyranny last, because of all constitutions it is least a constitution at all, and our inquiry concerns the constitution. The reason, then, why the arrangement has been made in this way has been stated; now we must give an account of the constitution. For its character will be clearer once oligarchy and democracy have been distinguished. For, to put it simply, the constitution is a mixture of oligarchy and democracy. Now it is customary to call those that incline toward democracy "constitutions," and those that incline more toward oligarchy "aristocracies," because education and good birth tend to accompany the wealthier. Further, the wealthy seem to have those things for the sake of which wrongdoers do wrong; hence people also call them "gentlemen" and "notable." Since, then, aristocracy wishes to assign superiority to the best of the citizens, people also say that oligarchies are composed rather of gentlemen.
24| [1294a] It seems to be among the impossibilities for a city to be well-governed by law if it is not ruled by the best men but by base men, and likewise for it to be ruled by the best men if it is not well-governed by law. But good lawfulness does not consist in having laws well laid down while not obeying them. Hence we must suppose that there are two kinds of good lawfulness: one is obedience to the laws that are laid down, the other is that the laws which people obey are themselves well laid down (for it is possible to obey laws that are badly laid down). And this admits of two forms: either obedience to the best laws possible for them, or to the best laws without qualification. It seems that aristocracy consists above all in this: that honors are distributed according to virtue (for the defining mark of aristocracy is virtue, of oligarchy wealth, and of the people freedom); but the practice of whatever seems best to the majority exists in all of them alike; for in oligarchy and in aristocracy and among the people, whatever seems best to the greater part of those who share in the constitution is sovereign. Now in most cities this form is called "constitution"; for the mixture aims only at the well-off and the poor, at wealth and freedom (for among most people the well-off are thought to occupy the place of the gentlemen); but since there are three things that lay claim to equality in the constitution — freedom, wealth, virtue (for the fourth, which they call good birth, follows from the other two;
25| for good birth is ancient wealth together with virtue), it is clear that the mixture of the two, of the well-off and the poor, must be called "constitution," while the mixture of the three must be called "aristocracy" more than any of the others, apart from the true and first aristocracy. That there are, then, other forms of constitution besides monarchy, democracy, and oligarchy has been stated, and what these are, and how the aristocracies and the "constitutions" differ from aristocracy — and it is clear that these are not far apart from one another. In what manner the so-called "constitution" arises alongside democracy and oligarchy, and how it must be established, let us discuss next in order after what has been said. At the same time it will become clear by what marks people define democracy and oligarchy; for we must grasp the division between these, and then, taking as it were a token from each, put them together. There are three standards of composition and mixture. For either we must take both of the provisions that each side legislates, for example concerning the administration of justice (for in oligarchies they impose a fine on the wealthy if they do not serve as judges, but give no pay to the poor, whereas in democracies they give pay to the poor but impose no fine on the wealthy; but common to both, and a mean between them, is to take both of these provisions, which is also why it is political, since it is mixed out of both):
26| [1294b] this, then, is one way of combining them; another is to take the mean between what each side prescribes, for example, concerning attendance at the assembly, some require no property qualification at all, or only a very small one, others a large property qualification, but common to neither is the mean property qualification between the two of these. A third way is composed of two provisions, some from the oligarchic law and some from the democratic. I mean, for example, it seems democratic for the offices to be filled by lot, and oligarchic for them to be filled by election, and democratic that there be no property qualification, oligarchic that there be one: it is aristocratic, then, and political, to take one provision from each of the two, from oligarchy that the offices be filled by election, and from democracy that there be no property qualification. This, then, is the manner of the mixture; and the criterion of a good mixture of democracy and oligarchy is when it is possible to call the same constitution both a democracy and an oligarchy. For it is clear that those who say this are affected in this way because the mixture is good; and the mean is affected in this way too, for each of the extremes appears in it: which is just what happens with the Spartan constitution. For many attempt to say that it is a democracy, because it has many democratic features in its arrangement, for instance, first, concerning the upbringing of children (for the sons of the rich are brought up in the same way as those of the poor, and are educated in a manner that the sons of the poor too could manage), and likewise at the next age, and when they become men, in the same way (for in this way the rich man and the poor man are not distinguishable) — the arrangements for food are the same for all in the common messes, and the rich wear such clothing as any of the poor too could provide.
27| Further, Further, that of the two greatest offices the people elects the one and shares in the other (for they elect the elders, and they share in the ephorate); others call it an oligarchy because it has many oligarchic features, such as that all offices are elective and none allotted, and that a few have authority over death and exile, and many other such things. In a constitution that is well mixed, both elements ought to seem present and neither, and it ought to preserve itself through itself and not from outside, and through itself not because a majority of those who wish to preserve it are outside it (for that could be true even of a bad constitution) but because none of the parts of the city as a whole would even wish for a different constitution. In what way, then, one ought to establish a constitution, and likewise the so-called aristocracies, has now been stated.
28| [1295a] It remains for us to speak about tyranny, not because there is a great deal to say about it, but so that it may receive its share of the inquiry, since we set this too down as one part of the constitutions. Now about kingship we drew distinctions in our first discussions, in which we conducted our inquiry concerning the kind most properly called kingship, asking whether it is disadvantageous or advantageous for cities, and whom one ought to establish, and from where, and how. And we distinguished two forms of tyranny in the course of examining kingship, because their power overlaps in a way with kingship, since both offices rested on law — for among certain of the barbarian peoples men elect monarchs holding total power, and long ago among the early Greeks there arose monarchs of just this kind, called aisymnetai — these forms have certain differences from one another, but they were kingly insofar as they were according to law and ruled willing subjects, and tyrannical insofar as they ruled despotically and according to their own judgment. There is a third form of tyranny, which seems most of all to be tyranny, being the counterpart to total kingship. Such, of necessity, is the monarchy which rules, unaccountable, over all who are equal or better, with a view to its own advantage and not to that of the ruled.
29| That is why it is against their will: for no free person willingly submits to such rule. These, then, are the forms of tyranny, and this many, for the reasons stated. But what is the best constitution and the best life for most cities and most human beings, judging neither by a virtue that is above private individuals, nor by an education that requires nature and the good fortune of resources, nor by a constitution formed according to one's prayers, but a life that most people are able to share in common, and a constitution that most cities can partake of? For even the ones they call aristocracies, about which we have just spoken, in some respects fall too far outside the reach of most cities, and in some respects come close to what is called constitutional government (which is why one must speak of both as a single kind). The judgment about all these matters proceeds from the same elements. For if it has been well said in the Ethics that the happy life is the life in accordance with virtue lived without impediment, and that virtue is a mean, then the middling life must necessarily be best — the mean that it is possible for each person to attain; and these same boundaries must of necessity hold also for the virtue and vice of a city and for its constitution, for the constitution is a certain life of a city.
30| [1295b] In every city there are three parts of the city: those who are very well-off, those who are very badly off, and third, those in between these two. Since, then, it is agreed that the moderate and the middle is best, it is clear that a middling possession of the goods of fortune is also best of all. For it is easiest to obey reason in this condition, whereas to be exceedingly beautiful, or exceedingly strong, or exceedingly well-born, or exceedingly wealthy, or the opposite of these — exceedingly poor, or exceedingly weak, or utterly without honor — makes it hard to follow reason. For the former tend to become insolent and great wrongdoers, the latter become criminals and petty wrongdoers, and among wrongful acts some arise from insolence and others from criminality. Further, these middling people are least inclined to shrink from office or to be overeager for office, both of which are harmful to cities. And besides this, those who are in a position of superiority in the goods of fortune — strength, wealth, friends, and other such things — are neither willing nor able to be ruled (and this belongs to them from home, right from childhood; for because of their soft living they are not even accustomed to being ruled in the schoolroom), while those who are in extreme want of these things are excessively humble. The result is that the one group does not know how to rule but only how to be ruled, and that in the manner of slaves, while the other group knows no rule at all how to be ruled, but only how to rule, and that despotically.
31| A city of slaves and masters comes about, then, not one of free people, the one group full of envy, the other of contempt; and these are furthest removed from friendship and political community, for community is a mark of friendship — people are not even willing to share a road with their enemies. But a city wishes, as far as possible, to be composed of people who are equal and alike, and this belongs most of all to the middle people. Hence this city, composed of the elements we say naturally make up a city, must of necessity be the best governed. And it is these citizens, of all citizens in cities, who are most preserved. For they themselves have no craving for the possessions of other people, unlike the poor, and no one else covets what is theirs, the way the poor covet the property of the rich; and because they are neither plotted against nor plot against others, they pass their lives without danger. This is why Phocylides prayed well: 'Many things are best for the middling; I wish to be of the middle rank in the city.' It is clear, then, that the political community that is best is the one that governs through the middle people, and that those cities are capable of being well governed in which the middle element is numerous and stronger — best of all stronger than both other parts, but failing that, stronger than one of them; for when added to either side it produces a tilt in the balance and prevents the opposite excesses from arising. That is why it is the greatest good fortune for those engaged in politics to possess a moderate and sufficient substance,
32| [1296a] since where some possess a very great deal and others nothing, either an extreme democracy results, or an unmixed oligarchy, or, because of both these excesses, a tyranny; for tyranny arises both out of the most youthfully headstrong democracy and out of oligarchy, but far less out of the middling constitutions and those close to them. We will state the reason for this later, in the discussion of the changes of constitutions. That the middle constitution is best is clear, for it alone is free of faction; for where the element in the middle is large, factions and divisions among the citizens occur least. And large cities are less prone to faction for the same reason, that the middle element is large; whereas in small cities it is easy to divide everyone into two groups, leaving nothing in the middle, and nearly everyone is either poor or well-off. Democracies, moreover, are safer and more long-lasting than oligarchies because of the middle people (for they are more numerous and share more in the honors in democracies than in oligarchies), since whenever, without these, the poor exceed the others in number, misfortune results and they are quickly destroyed. One must take it as a sign of this too, that the best lawgivers have come from the middle citizens: Solon was one of these (as is clear from his poetry), Lycurgus too belonged to their number, since he never held the kingship, and Charondas as well, and nearly all the other lawgivers besides.
33| It is also clear from this why most constitutions are either democratic or oligarchic. For because in these the middle class is often small, whichever side is superior, whether the propertied class or the common people, oversteps the middle and runs the constitution in its own interest, so that the result is either a democracy or an oligarchy. Besides this, because factions arise and there is fighting between the common people and the wealthy, whichever of the two happens to get the better of its opponents does not set up a constitution that is common and fair to both, but takes the dominance of the constitution as the prize of victory, and one side makes a democracy, the other an oligarchy. Further, those Greek states that at various times held hegemony over Greece, each looking to the constitution at home, established democracies in the cities in one case and oligarchies in the other, looking not to the advantage of the cities but to their own; so that for these reasons the middle constitution either never comes about, or does so rarely and among few peoples. For only one man among all those who have ever held such hegemony was persuaded to grant this arrangement, and by now it has become the custom in the cities not even to want equality,
34| [1296b] but either to seek to rule or to submit to being ruled. What the best constitution is, then, and for what reason, is clear from this. As for the other constitutions, since we say there are several kinds of democracy and several kinds of oligarchy, it is not hard to see, once the best has been marked off, which should be ranked first and which second, and so on in order, one being better and another worse. For the one nearest to the best must always be better, and the one that departs further from the middle worse, unless one is judging relative to a given assumption. And by "relative to an assumption" I mean that often, though another constitution is more choiceworthy in itself, nothing prevents a different constitution being more advantageous for some particular people. Which constitution is advantageous for which people, and what sort for what sort of people, is the next thing to go through after what has been said. First we must grasp one point that holds generally for all constitutions alike: the part of the city that wants the constitution to continue must be stronger than the part that does not. Now every city is composed of a quality and a quantity. By quality I mean freedom, wealth, education, good birth; by quantity, superiority in numbers. It is possible for the quality to belong to one part of the city, of the parts that make it up, and the quantity to another part — for instance, that the low-born may be more numerous than the well-born, or the poor than the rich, yet not so much superior in quantity as they are inferior in quality.
35| For this reason these factors must be weighed against each other. Where the multitude of the poor exceeds the stated proportion, there democracy naturally arises, and each kind of democracy according to the particular superiority of that kind of common people: if the multitude of farmers is preeminent, the first kind of democracy; if that of the vulgar craftsmen and wage-laborers, the last kind; and similarly for the other kinds in between these. But where the multitude of the wealthy and notable exceeds more in quality than it falls short in quantity, there oligarchy arises, and in the same way each kind of oligarchy according to the superiority of the oligarchic multitude. The lawgiver must always bring the middle class into the constitution: if he makes oligarchic laws, he must aim at the middle people; if democratic laws, he must draw these same people over to the laws. And where the multitude of the middle class exceeds either both the extremes together or even one of them alone, there it is possible for the constitution to be lasting.
36| [1297a] For there is no danger that the rich and the poor will ever agree together against these people; neither side will ever be willing to be enslaved to the other, and if they look for a constitution more common than this one, they will find none other. For they would not endure ruling in turn, on account of their mutual distrust of one another; and everywhere the most trustworthy arbiter is the one in the middle, and the middle class is that arbiter. And the better the constitution is mixed, the more lasting it is. Many who set out to build aristocratic constitutions still miss the mark, and not merely by handing the wealthy an excessive share — they also play tricks on the populace. For it is inevitable that in time a real evil results from false goods; the greedy encroachments of the rich destroy the constitution more than those of the common people do. There are, in constitutions, five devices by which men contrive pretexts against the common people: concerning the assembly, concerning the offices, concerning the lawcourts, concerning the bearing of arms, concerning training in the gymnasium. Regarding the assembly: that it is open to all to attend, but a fine is imposed on the wealthy if they do not attend, on them alone or a much heavier one; regarding the offices: that those who have the property qualification are not allowed to swear off holding office, while the poor are allowed to; regarding the lawcourts: that there is a fine for the wealthy if they do not serve as jurors, but impunity for the poor, or a heavy fine for the one and a small one for the other, as in the laws of Charondas.
37| In some places it is open to all who have registered to attend the assembly and to serve on juries, but if, having registered, they neither attend the assembly nor serve on juries, heavy fines are imposed on them, so that through fear of the fine they avoid registering, and through not registering they do not serve on juries or attend the assembly. In the same way they also legislate about the possession of arms and about training. The poor are allowed not to possess arms, but for the wealthy there is a penalty if they do not possess them; and if they do not train, there is no penalty for the poor, but there is a penalty for the wealthy, so that the poor take part because of the penalty, while the wealthy do not take part because they have nothing to fear. These, then, are the oligarchic devices of legislation; and in democracies they contrive counter-devices against these. They provide pay for the poor when they attend the assembly and serve on juries, but impose no fine on the wealthy. So it is clear that if one wishes to mix the two fairly, one must bring together the practices found on each side, and provide pay for the one and a fine for the other; for in this way all would share in the constitution together, whereas on the other way the constitution belongs to one side alone.
38| [1297b] The constitution should be composed only of those who bear arms; but as to the amount of the property qualification, it is not possible to say, simply and in the abstract, how much it should be, but one must consider what is the highest amount one can fix such that those who share in the constitution are more numerous than those who do not, and set the qualification at that. For the poor, even when they have no share in the offices, are willing to keep quiet, provided no one treats them with insolence or takes away any of their property. But this is not easy; for it does not always happen that those who share in governing behave decently. And in time of war the poor are also accustomed to hang back, unless they receive provisions, since they are without means; but if someone supplies provisions, they are willing to fight. In some places the constitution consists not only of those actually serving as hoplites but also of those who have served as hoplites in the past; among the Malians the constitution was made up of these, but the offices were chosen from among those on active campaign. And the first constitution among the Greeks after the kingships arose from those who fought in war — originally from the cavalry (for the strength and superiority in war lay with the cavalry, since without proper formation the hoplite force is useless, and the experience and tactics for such things did not exist among the ancients, so that the strength lay with the cavalry); but as the cities grew and those who fought with heavy arms grew stronger, more people came to share in the constitution;
39| This is why what we now call constitutions, people in earlier times called democracies. And the ancient constitutions were reasonably oligarchic and kingly. For because of the small size of their populations, they had no great middle class, so that the people, being few in number and poorly organized, put up with being ruled. We have already said, then, for what cause there are several constitutions, and why there are others besides those commonly named (for democracy is not one in number, and likewise for the others), and further what the differences are and for what cause they arise, and besides these, which constitution is best, speaking for the most part, and of the others which sort fits which sort of people. But let us now speak again, both in common and separately about each, of what comes next, taking the starting point appropriate to them. There are, in fact, three parts of all constitutions, about which the serious lawgiver must consider what is advantageous for each: if these are well arranged, the constitution must necessarily be well arranged, and constitutions differ from one another in that each of these differs. Of these three, one is the deliberative element concerning common affairs,
40| [1298a] second is the element concerning the offices, that is, which offices there should be and over what matters they should have authority, and what the manner of choosing them should be, and third is the judicial element. The deliberative element has authority over war and peace, alliance and dissolution of alliance, and over laws, and over death, exile, and confiscation of property, and over the selection of officials and their audits. And it is necessary either that all these decisions be assigned to all the citizens, or to some over all of them (for instance to some single office or to several, or different matters to different offices), or that some of them be assigned to all and others to some. Now for all citizens to have authority over all matters is characteristic of a democracy, for it is this sort of equality the people seek. There are several manners of "all": one is by turns and not all together in a body (as is the case in the constitution of Telecles of Miletus; and in other constitutions too, the combined offices meet in deliberation, but everyone proceeds to the offices by turns from the tribes and the smallest divisions of all, until it has gone through all of them), and to come together only for the enactment of laws and for matters concerning the constitution, and to hear what is announced by the officials;
41| another manner is for all to assemble together in a body, but to meet only for elections to office, for the enactment of laws, for war and peace, and for audits, while other matters are deliberated by the officials appointed over each, who are chosen from all citizens or by lot; and another manner is for the citizens to assemble concerning the offices and audits, and to deliberate about war and alliance, while other matters are administered by officials who are elected, so far as this is possible — and such are the offices that necessarily must be held by those who understand the relevant matters; a fourth manner is for all to deliberate about everything by coming together, while the offices decide nothing but only make a preliminary judgment — which is the manner in which the final form of democracy now is administered, which we say is analogous to a dynastic oligarchy and to a tyrannical monarchy. All these manners, then, are democratic, whereas for some to deliberate about everything is oligarchic. And this too has several differences. For when the deliberators are chosen from moderate property assessments and are numerous because of the moderateness of the assessment, and they do not tamper with what the law forbids but follow it, and it is possible for anyone acquiring the assessment to share in it, this sort of thing is oligarchy but constitutional, because of its moderation;
42| but when not all share in deliberation but only certain selected persons,
43| [1298b] while they rule according to law as before, this is oligarchic. And when those who have authority over deliberation choose themselves, and when son succeeds father, and they have authority over the laws, this arrangement must necessarily be oligarchic. But when some deliberate about some matters and others about others — for instance all deliberate about war and peace and audits, while officials, and these elected, not chosen by lot, rule over the rest — this constitution is an aristocracy. And if some officials are elected and others chosen by lot, whether by lot simply or from a preliminary selection, or elected and chosen by lot together, some of these features belong to an aristocratic constitution, others to a polity itself. The deliberative element, then, has been divided in relation to the constitutions in this manner, and each constitution is administered according to the distinction stated. It is advantageous for the democracy that seems most fully a democracy today (I mean the sort in which the people has authority even over the laws) for the sake of deliberating better, to do the same thing that is done concerning the lawcourts in oligarchies (for there they impose a fine on those they wish to serve as judges, so that they will judge; while the democratic states give pay to the poor) — to do this also concerning the assemblies (for they will deliberate better if all deliberate in common, the people together with the notables, and these together with the multitude); and it is also advantageous for those who deliberate to be elected, or chosen by lot in equal numbers from the divisions; and it is advantageous, if the democratic element greatly outnumbers the men of political standing, either not to give pay to all but only to as many as are proportionate to the number of the notables, or to eliminate the excess by lot;
44| while in oligarchies it is advantageous either to co-opt some from the multitude, or to establish an office — such as exists in some constitutions, whose members are called "pre-councillors" and "law-guardians" — and to transact business only about matters these have deliberated on beforehand (for in this way the people will share in deliberation, yet will not be able to overturn anything concerning the constitution); further, either the people should vote for the same measures as proposed, or nothing contrary to what is introduced, or all should be given a share in giving advice, but only the officials should actually deliberate. And one should do the opposite of what happens in constitutional governments. For when the multitude votes against a measure, it should be made authoritative, but when it votes for it, not authoritative, but the matter should be referred back again to the officials. For in constitutional governments they do the reverse: the few, when they vote against a measure, are authoritative, but when they vote for it, they are not, and the matter is always referred back to the greater number.
45| [1299a] Concerning the deliberative element, then, and what has authority in the constitution, let it be distinguished in this manner. Next after these comes the division concerning the offices. For this part of the constitution too has many differences: how many offices there are, and over what matters they have authority, and concerning time, how long each office lasts (for some make the offices six-monthly, others for a shorter period, others yearly, others for a longer time), and whether the offices should be permanent or long-lasting or neither, but the same men holding office repeatedly, or the same man not twice but only once; further, concerning the establishment of the offices, from whom they should be drawn, and by whom, and how. On all these points one must be able to distinguish how many manners are possible, and then to fit which manners suit which constitutions. But it is not even easy to determine this — which posts should be called offices; for the political community needs many superintendents, and so we must not count as officials all who are elected or chosen by lot — for instance, priests first of all (for this must be set down as something different from the political offices); and further, chorus-producers and heralds are also elected, and ambassadors.
46| Among the offices, some are political — either concerned with all the citizens with a view to some single action, as a general is concerned with those on campaign, or concerned with a part, as the controller of women or the controller of children; others are offices of household management (for cities often choose corn-measurers); and others are subordinate offices, to which, if the city has the means, it assigns slaves. But, speaking most strictly, one should call "offices" those bodies to which is granted the power to deliberate about certain matters, to judge, and to command — and especially this last, for commanding belongs more to rule than the rest do. These differences make no difference, so to speak, for practical purposes (for no dispute has yet arisen among those who quarrel over the name), but they do involve a further line of theoretical inquiry. Which offices, and how many, are necessary if there is to be a city at all, and which are not necessary but are useful for a serious constitution — this is a question one might raise more with regard to every constitution, and especially with regard to small cities. For in large cities it is possible, and indeed right, for one office to be assigned to one function (since many people can go into the offices, because the citizens are many, so that some offices stand vacant for long intervals and others are held only once each; and in every case a function is better attended to when the care of it is single rather than divided among many concerns).
47| [1299b] But in small cities it is necessary to gather many offices into few hands, since owing to scarcity of population it is not easy for many people to hold office — for who will there be to succeed them in turn? Small cities sometimes need the same offices and laws as large ones do; except that large cities need the same offices often, while for small cities this arises only after a long interval. This is why nothing prevents assigning many responsibilities to one office at once (for they will not obstruct one another), and, to meet the scarcity of population, the offices must be made like a combination spit-and-lampstand. If, then, we can say how many offices must necessarily exist in every city, and how many are not necessary but ought nonetheless to exist, one who knows this will more readily see which offices it is fitting to combine into a single office. It is also fitting not to overlook this: which matters require many local officials, each responsible for his own district, and which require one authoritative office over the whole — for instance, with regard to good order, whether there should be one market-controller for the marketplace and a different official for each other place, or the same one everywhere; and whether the division should be made by subject matter or by the persons governed — I mean, for instance, one official over good order generally, or a separate one for children and another for women. And also with regard to the constitutions: whether the kind of office differs by constitution or not at all — for instance, in democracy, oligarchy, aristocracy, and monarchy, whether the authoritative offices are the same, only not drawn from equal or similar people but from different people under different constitutions (for instance, in aristocracies from the educated, in oligarchies from the wealthy, in democracies from the free), or whether certain offices exist precisely because of these differences among the constitutions themselves — and whether there are cases where the same offices suit and cases where different ones suit (for in some places it is fitting for the same offices to be large, in others small).
48| All the same, there are also certain offices peculiar to particular constitutions, for instance that of the preliminary councillors; for this office is not democratic. A council, by contrast, is a popular institution: there needs to be some such body whose task is to deliberate in advance on behalf of the people, so that the people can be free of that business — but if its members are few in number, this body is oligarchic, and the preliminary councillors must necessarily be few, so that the office is oligarchic. But wherever both these offices exist together, the preliminary councillors are set up over and against the councillors: for the councillor is a democratic figure, the preliminary councillor an oligarchic one. The power of the council is also dissolved in those democracies where the people itself, gathering in assembly, transacts all business in person.
49| [1300a] This tends to happen whenever there is an ample supply of pay for those who attend the assembly: for, being at leisure, they gather together often and decide everything themselves. The controller of children and the controller of women, and any other official with authority over such a charge, is an aristocratic office, not a democratic one — for how could one prevent the wives of the poor from going out of doors? — nor an oligarchic one either, for the wives of oligarchs live in luxury. But let this much be said on these matters for now; we must try to go through the arrangements of the offices from the beginning. The differences fall under three heads, and once these are combined, every possible mode will necessarily have been captured. Of the three, one is: who are the ones who appoint the officers; second: from among whom; and the remaining one: in what manner. Under each of these three there are three further differences. For either all the citizens make the appointment, or only some do; and either from all the citizens, or from some determinate group (for instance, by property assessment, or by birth, or by virtue, or by some other such qualification, as at Megara, from those who had returned together and fought together against the people). And these appointments are made either by election or by lot — and again these can be combined in pairs, I mean: some offices filled by some citizens, others by all; and some from all, others from a determinate group; and some by election, others by lot.
50| Of each of these differences there will be four further modes. For either all appoint from all by election, or all appoint from all by lot — and this either from the whole body at once, or in rotation, as by tribes and demes and phratries, until it has passed through the whole citizen body, or always from the whole body at once — or else partly in one way and partly in the other. Again, if it is only some who make the appointment, this is either from all by election, or from all by lot, or from some by election, or from some by lot, or partly in one way and partly in the other — I mean, some offices filled from all by election, others by lot, and some from a determinate group by election, others by lot. So there come to be twelve modes, apart from the two combined ones. Of these, three arrangements are democratic: that all should be appointed from all, either by election, or by lot, or by both together (some offices by lot, others by election); that not all should appoint at once, but from all or from some, by lot or by election or by both, or that some offices should be filled from all and others from some, both ways (by "both" I mean some by lot, others by election), is a polity's arrangement; and that some offices should be filled from all, either by election, or by lot, or by both (some by lot, others by election), is oligarchic.
51| And it is still more oligarchic when both these features — filling from some, by both means — apply together. That some offices are filled from all and others from some is a polity's arrangement in an aristocratic style, [1300b] whether by election or by lot for the different offices; while that some offices are filled from some by election is oligarchic, and likewise that some are filled from some by lot (and if this last does not occur, the case is similar), and that some are filled from some by both means. That some are filled from all, and that the rest are all filled from some by election, is aristocratic. The modes concerning the offices, then, are this many in number, and they are divided among the constitutions in this way. Which mode is advantageous for which constitution, and how the arrangements ought to be made, will become clear together with an account of the powers of the offices and what they are. By the power of an office I mean, for instance, authority over revenues, or authority over guarding the city; for generalship is another kind of power again, as is authority over contracts made in the marketplace. It remains, of the three functions, to speak of the judicial one. We must take up its modes as well on the same basis. The difference among law-courts falls under three heads: from whom the judges are drawn, what matters they judge, and how they are appointed. By "from whom" I mean whether they are drawn from all the citizens or from some; by "what matters," how many kinds of law-courts there are; by "how," whether the judges are appointed by lot or by election. Let us first, then, distinguish how many kinds of law-courts there are.
52| These are eight in number: one for auditing officials, another for cases where someone wrongs the community, another for matters bearing on the constitution, a fourth for disputes between officials and private citizens over penalties, a fifth for private contracts of some size, and besides these the court for homicide and the court for cases involving foreigners (of homicide there are kinds: whether tried before the same judges or before different ones, cases of premeditated killing and cases of involuntary killing, and cases where the fact is agreed but the justice of it is disputed, and a fourth kind, cases brought against men who have already been exiled for homicide when they return, such as the court at the Phreattys is said to be at Athens; but such cases are few over the whole of time even in large cities; and of the court for foreigners, one kind is for suits of foreigners against foreigners, another for suits of foreigners against citizens), and further, besides all of these, one for small contracts, of a drachma, five drachmas, or a little more. For judgment must be given about these too, but they do not call for a large body of jurors. But let these be set aside, along with the courts for homicide and for foreigners, and let us speak about the political ones, since it is from these, when they are not well arranged, that factional divisions arise, and the upheavals of constitutions.
53| Now necessarily either all the citizens judge all the matters that have been distinguished, chosen by election or by lot, or all judge all of them, some by lot and some by election, or for some of the same matters some judges are chosen by lot and others by election. [1301a] These, then, are four ways in number; and there are as many others taken part by part. For again the judges may be drawn from some to judge all matters by election, or from some to judge all matters by lot, or some matters by lot and some by election, or some courts may be composed, for the same matters, of members chosen partly by lot and partly by election. These, then, as has been said, are the ways that correspond in reverse to those already named; and further there are the same ways combined, I mean, for example, some drawn from all the citizens, some from some of them, some from both together (as if in the same court some members were drawn from all and others from some), and either by lot or by election or by both. As many ways, then, as it is possible for the courts to be composed, have been stated; of these, the first are popular, namely those drawn from all to judge all matters; the second are oligarchic, those drawn from some to judge all matters; the third are aristocratic and constitutional, those drawn partly from all and partly from some.
1| Now concerning the other matters we set out to examine, we have spoken about nearly all of them; but from what causes constitutions change, and how many such causes there are and of what kind, and what are the destructive factors proper to each constitution, and from which constitutions into which they most often shift, and further what preserving factors there are, both in common and for each constitution separately, and further through what means each constitution would best be preserved, must be examined next in order after what has been said. We must first assume as a starting point that many constitutions have come into being with everyone agreeing about what is just, namely proportionate equality, but going wrong about it, as has also been said before. For democracy arose from the belief that those who are equal in some one respect are equal absolutely (for because they are all alike free, they suppose themselves to be absolutely equal), while oligarchy arose from the belief that those who are unequal in some one respect are wholly unequal (for being unequal in property, they suppose themselves to be absolutely unequal). Then the democrats, on the ground that they are equal, claim to share equally in everything; the oligarchs, on the ground that they are unequal, seek to have more, since to have more is to be unequal. All these constitutions, then, have some element of justice, but taken absolutely they are mistaken. And for this reason, whenever the two sides do not share in the constitution according to the conception each happens to hold, they engage in factional strife.
2| Now those who differ in virtue would have the most just claim to engage in factional strife, though they do this least of all; [1301b] for it is most reasonable that these alone should be absolutely unequal. There are also some who, being superior in birth, do not think themselves entitled to equality on account of this inequality; for men are held to be well-born when they possess the virtue and wealth of their ancestors. These, then, are, so to speak, the starting points and sources of factional strife, from which it arises; hence changes also come about in two ways: sometimes they are directed against the constitution itself, with a view to changing it from what is established into another, for instance from democracy to oligarchy or from oligarchy to democracy, or from these into constitutional government and aristocracy, or the latter from the former; but sometimes they are not directed against the established constitution, and those making the change choose to keep the same arrangement but want to have it under their own control, as in the case of oligarchy or monarchy; and further there is strife over more or less, as when an oligarchy already existing is pushed toward being more oligarchic or less, or a democracy already existing toward being more democratic or less, and similarly with the remaining constitutions, whether to tighten or relax them; and further there is strife directed at moving some part of the constitution, for instance to establish some office or to abolish it, as they say Lysander attempted at Lacedaemon to abolish the kingship, and King Pausanias tried to abolish the ephorate; and at Epidamnus the constitution was changed in part (for in place of the tribal chiefs they set up a council, but it remains compulsory for those officials who are members of the governing body to go to the popular assembly whenever some office is being voted on, and the single archon in this constitution was an oligarchic feature).
3| For everywhere factional strife arises on account of inequality, in cases where those who are unequal do not have what is proportionate to them (for a lifelong kingship is an inequality, if it exists among equals): in general, it is in seeking equality that people engage in factional strife. But equality is of two kinds: one is equality in number, the other is equality according to worth. By equality in number I mean that which is the same and equal in multitude or magnitude; by equality according to worth I mean that which is according to ratio, as for example three exceeds two, and two exceeds one, by an equal amount reckoned in number, but four exceeds two, and two exceeds one, by an equal amount reckoned in ratio; for two is an equal part of four, and one is an equal part of two, since both are halves. Though they agree that what is just absolutely is what is according to worth, they differ, as was said before, in that some, if they are equal in some respect, think themselves equal absolutely, while others, if they are unequal in some respect, claim everything for themselves as being absolutely unequal. Hence it is above all two constitutions that arise, democracy and oligarchy; for good birth and virtue are found among few, but these numerical qualities among more:
4| [1302a] for men of good birth and good men are nowhere as many as a hundred, but the wealthy are numerous in many places. But to be arranged absolutely and everywhere according to either kind of equality is a poor thing. This is clear from what results: none of the constitutions of this sort is lasting. The reason is that it is impossible, once there has been an initial and original error, not to arrive in the end at some evil. Hence numerical equality should be used in some matters, and equality according to worth in others. All the same, democracy is safer and less prone to factional strife than oligarchy. For in oligarchies two kinds of strife arise, that among the oligarchs themselves and also that against the people, whereas in democracies there is strife only against the oligarchy, and none worth mentioning arises within the people against itself; and further, the constitution composed of the middle classes is closer to democracy than to the rule of the few, and this is the safest of such constitutions. Since we are examining from what causes factional strife and changes concerning constitutions arise, we must first grasp in general their starting points and causes. These are, roughly speaking, three in number, which must be distinguished first in outline on their own.
5| For we must grasp how people are disposed when they engage in faction, and for the sake of what, and third, what are the starting points of political disturbances and of factional conflicts with one another. As for the cause, taken generally, of their being disposed in some way toward change, we should posit above all the one we have already stated. For those who desire equality engage in faction if they think they have less though they are equal to those who have more, while those who desire inequality and superiority engage in faction if they suppose that, being unequal, they do not have more but equal or less (and of these it is possible to reach out for them justly, and also unjustly): for being fewer, they engage in faction so as to be equal, and being equal, so as to be greater. So it has been stated how people are disposed when they engage in faction. As for what they engage in faction about, it is profit and honor, and their opposites. For fleeing dishonor and loss, either on their own behalf or on behalf of their friends, they engage in faction within cities. The causes and starting points of these movements, from which people are disposed in the manner stated and toward the things mentioned, happen to be in one way seven in number, in another way more. Two of these are the same as the ones stated, but not in the same way: for people are provoked against one another through profit and through honor, not in order to acquire these for themselves, as was said before,
6| [1302b] but because they see others gaining more than their share, some justly and some unjustly, of these things: further through insolence, through fear, through superiority, through contempt, through disproportionate growth; and further, in another way, through electioneering, through neglect, through smallness, through dissimilarity. Of these, what power insolence and profit have, and how they are causes, is fairly evident: for when those in office act insolently and take more than their share, people engage in faction both against one another and against the constitutions that give them their authority; and this taking more than their share happens sometimes from private property, sometimes from common property. Honor too is clear, both what power it has and how it is a cause of faction: for people engage in faction both when they themselves are dishonored and when they see others being honored; and this happens unjustly when people are honored or dishonored contrary to their worth, and justly when it is according to their worth. Through superiority, when someone is greater in power (whether one person or more) than accords with the city and the power of the constitution: for from such situations there tends to arise a monarchy or a dynasty; hence in some places people are accustomed to ostracize, as at Argos and at Athens.
7| And yet it would be better to see from the start to it that no one is so far superior, than to let it happen and cure it afterward. Through fear, both those who have done wrong engage in faction, fearing they will pay the penalty, and those who are about to be wronged, wishing to act first before being wronged, as at Rhodes the notable men banded together against the people because of the lawsuits being brought against them. Through contempt too people engage in faction and attack, for instance in oligarchies, whenever those excluded from the constitution grow more numerous (since they take themselves for the stronger party), and in democracies the well-off, disdaining the disorder and absence of rule, as also at Thebes, once the democracy had been ruined by bad governance following the fight at Oenophyta, and the Megarian constitution likewise fell when its people were beaten owing to disorder and lawlessness; and, before Gelon seized tyranny, at Syracuse; and at Rhodes, the people before their own revolt. Changes of constitutions also occur through disproportionate growth. For just as a body is composed of parts and must grow proportionately if its due measure is to remain, and otherwise it is ruined, when the foot is four cubits and the rest of the body two spans, and sometimes it might even change into the shape of another animal, if it grows not only in quantity but also in quality disproportionately, so too a city is composed of parts,
8| [1303a] of which often some part grows unnoticed, for example the multitude of the poor in democracies and in constitutional governments. And this sometimes happens also through chance events, as at Tarentum, when many of the notable men were defeated and destroyed by the Iapygians a little after the Persian Wars, a democracy arose out of a constitutional government; and at Argos, when those of the seventh tribe were destroyed by Cleomenes the Laconian, they were forced to admit some of the perioikoi; and at Athens, when they were unfortunate by land, the notable men became fewer because during the Laconian war the army was drafted from the roll. This happens also in democracies, though less: for when the wealthy become more numerous, or estates grow larger, democracies change into oligarchies and dynasties. Constitutions also change even without faction, both through electioneering, as at Heraea (for this is why they made offices filled by lot instead of by election, because they kept electing the men who campaigned for votes), and through neglect, when they allow men not friendly to the constitution to pass into the sovereign offices, as at Oreus the oligarchy of the rulers was dissolved when Heracleodorus, one of the rulers, established a constitutional government and a democracy in place of the oligarchy. Further, change occurs through the small increment. By the small increment I mean that often a great alteration of the laws happens unnoticed, when people overlook the small thing, as at Ambracia the property qualification was small, and in the end men ruled from no qualification at all, on the ground that the small qualification differed little or not at all from none.
9| It is also conducive to faction when the population is not of one stock, until it grows together as one; for just as a city does not come to be out of any chance multitude, so neither does it come to be in any chance time; hence all who have so far admitted fellow settlers or new settlers have for the most part fallen into faction. For example the Achaeans settled Sybaris together with the Troezenians, then, becoming more numerous, the Achaeans expelled the Troezenians, from which the curse fell on the Sybarites; and at Thurii the Sybarites fell into faction with those who had settled with them (for claiming to have more of the land as their own, since it was theirs, they were expelled); and at Byzantium the new settlers, caught plotting, were expelled through fighting; and the Antissaeans, having admitted the exiles from Chios, expelled them through fighting; and the Zanclaeans, having received the Samians, were themselves expelled; and the Apolloniates on the Euxine Sea, having brought in new settlers, fell into faction; and the Syracusans, after the period of the tyrants,
10| [1303b] having made the foreigners and the mercenaries citizens, fell into faction and came to fighting; and the Amphipolitans, having admitted settlers from Chalcis, were for the most part expelled by these very settlers. In oligarchies the many engage in faction on the ground that they are being wronged, because they do not share equally though they are equal, as has been said before; in democracies the notable men engage in faction because they do share equally though they are not equal. Cities sometimes also fall into faction because of their location, when the territory is not naturally suited to being a single city, as at Clazomenae those at Chytrum against those on the island, and the Colophonians and the Notians; and at Athens the inhabitants are not alike, but those who dwell in the Piraeus are more democratic than those of the city proper. For just as in wars the crossing of ditches, even very small ones, breaks up battle lines, so too every difference seems to produce division. The greatest division is perhaps virtue and vice, then wealth and poverty, and so on, one difference more than another, of which the one mentioned is one. Now factions arise not over small things, but out of small things; but people engage in faction over great things. Small factions are especially powerful when they occur among those in the sovereign positions, as happened also at Syracuse in ancient times.
11| For the constitution was changed when two young men who were among those in office fell into faction over a love affair. For while one of them was away from home, the other won over his beloved; and he in turn, angered at this, persuaded the other's wife to come to him; from which, each drawing in those of their party, they set the whole governing body at odds. This is why, when such things begin, one must be on guard, and dissolve the factions of the leading and powerful men; since the mistake happens at the outset, and people call the outset half of the entire business, a slight error there carries the same weight, proportionally, as the errors found in the remaining parts. And in general, the factions of notable men make the whole city share in their fate as well, as happened at Hestiaea after the Persian Wars, when two brothers quarreled over the division of their father's estate: the poorer one, on the ground that the other was not declaring the property, nor the treasure their father had found, won over the popular party, while the other, who had a large estate, won over the wealthy. And at Delphi, a dispute arising out of a marriage contract became the beginning of all the factions that came afterward:
12| [1304a] For one man, having observed some omen when he came for his bride, went away without taking her, and the bride's relatives, as though they had been insulted, threw some of the sacred funds into his sacrifice, and then killed him as a temple-robber. And around Mytilene, factional strife broke out over a matter of heiresses and became the source of many troubles, among them the war fought against the Athenians in which Paches captured their city. Timophanes, a wealthy citizen, had left behind two daughters, and Dexander, passed over and denied them for his own sons, launched the faction and incited the Athenians against the city, since he served as its proxenos. And among the Phocians, a faction that arose over an heiress, concerning Mnaseas the father of Mnason and Euthycrates the father of Onomarchus, became the beginning of the Sacred War for the Phocians. And the constitution changed at Epidamnus too as a result of a marriage dispute: someone had betrothed a daughter, and when the father of the man to whom she had been betrothed fined him, this man, having become one of the officials, joined with those outside the constitution, on the ground that he had been wronged. Constitutions also change into oligarchy and into democracy and into a mixed constitution as a result of some office or part of the city gaining reputation or growing in power — for example the Council of the Areopagus, having gained reputation in the Persian Wars, was thought to have made the constitution more tightly governed; and again the naval crowd, having become responsible for the victory at Salamis and, through this, for the leadership that came from naval power, made the democracy stronger; and at Argos the notables, having gained reputation in the battle against the Spartans at Mantinea, attempted to put down the democracy; and at Syracuse, the people, having been responsible for victory in the war against the Athenians, shifted the government from a mixed constitution to popular rule; and at Chalcis, the people, joining with the notables to kill the tyrant Phoxus, immediately seized control of the constitution; and at Ambracia likewise the people, having joined those who attacked and expelled the tyrant Periander, brought the constitution round to themselves.
13| And in general one must not fail to notice this: that those who have become responsible for some power — whether private individuals, or offices, or tribes, or in general any part or any body of people whatsoever — set faction in motion. For either those who envy them their honors begin the faction, or these men themselves, because of their superiority, are unwilling to remain on equal terms. Constitutions are also set in motion when the parts of the city that seem to be opposed to one another become equal to each other —
14| [1304b] for example the rich and the people, with nothing in between, or only a very small middle: for if either of the two parts greatly exceeds the other, the remaining part is unwilling to run a risk against what is obviously the stronger side. This is also why those who are outstanding in virtue do not, so to speak, cause faction: for they are few set against many. Speaking generally, then, the origins and causes of factions and of changes of constitution, across all constitutions, have this character. Constitutions are set in motion sometimes by force and sometimes by deceit — by force, either compelling from the very start or later on. And deceit is itself of two kinds. Sometimes men, having deceived people at the outset, change the constitution with their willing consent, and then afterward hold power by force against their will — as in the case of the Four Hundred, who deceived the people by claiming that the King would supply money for the war against the Spartans, and, having lied, tried to hold onto the constitution. And sometimes men persuade people at the outset and then again later, with their renewed and willing consent, rule over them. In general, then, across all constitutions, the changes turn out to happen from the causes stated. One must examine, in each particular kind of constitution, what results by dividing things up along these lines.
15| Democracies, then, change most of all because of the licentiousness of the demagogues. For partly by bringing false charges against those who have property, one by one, they draw them together into a single body (for a common fear brings together even the bitterest enemies), and partly by inciting the mass of people against them as a whole. And one could see this happening in this way in many places. For indeed at Cos the democracy changed when base demagogues arose (for the notables banded together); and at Rhodes too: the demagogues were supplying pay for public service, and were preventing the money owed to the trierarchs from being paid back, and these men, because of the lawsuits brought against them, were forced to band together and put down the democracy. And the democracy at Heraclea was also put down, immediately after the colonization, because of the demagogues: for the notables, being wronged by them, were driven into exile, and then the exiles, having gathered together and come back, put down the democracy. And the democracy at Megara was put down in much the same way: for the demagogues, in order to have property to confiscate, drove out many of the notables, until they had made the exiles numerous, and these, on returning, defeated the people in battle and established the oligarchy. And the same thing happened at Cyme also,
16| [1305a] under the democracy which Thrasymachus put down. And one could see, on examining pretty much all the other cases too, that the changes have this same character. For sometimes, in order to curry favor, men wrong the notables and drive them to band together, either by redistributing their properties or by taxing their revenues through public services, and sometimes by slandering them, so as to have their possessions to confiscate. And among the ancients, whenever the same man became both demagogue and general, they used to change into tyranny: for pretty much most of the ancient tyrants arose out of demagogues. The reason this used to happen then but does not now is that then the demagogues came from among those who held military command (for they were not yet skilled at speaking), whereas now, since rhetoric has been developed, those who are able to speak play the demagogue, but through inexperience in military matters they do not make an attempt at power, except where something of this sort has happened in some small way. Tyrannies used to arise more often formerly than now also because great offices were entrusted to certain men, as at Miletus arising out of the prytany (for the prytanis had authority over many great matters). And further, because the cities were not large at that time, but the people lived out in the fields, occupied with their work, the popular leaders, whenever they became skilled in war, made an attempt at tyranny.
17| And all of them did this because they were trusted by the people, and this trust rested on their hostility toward the rich — for example, at Athens, Pisistratus, by forming a faction against the men of the plain; and Theagenes at Megara, by slaughtering the cattle of the wealthy, which he seized when he caught them grazing along the river; and Dionysius, by accusing Daphnaeus and the rich, was thought worthy of the tyranny, being trusted, because of this enmity, as a friend of the people. Constitutions also change from the ancestral form of democracy into the newest kind: for wherever the offices are elective but not based on property assessments, and the people elect them, those who are eager for office, by playing the demagogue, bring things to the point where the people become sovereign even over the laws. A remedy for this not happening, or happening less, is for the tribes to put forward the officeholders rather than the whole people. The changes of democracies, then, come about almost entirely through these causes. Oligarchies change chiefly in two ways, the most conspicuous ones: one, if they wrong the mass of the people — for then anyone at all becomes an adequate popular leader, especially when it happens that the leader arises out of the oligarchy itself, as at Naxos, Lygdamis, who later even became tyrant of the Naxians.
18| [1305b] The starting point of faction arising from another quarter also has its varieties. For sometimes dissolution comes from the wealthy themselves — not those who hold office, but the rest of the wealthy class — when those who share the honors are very few in number, as has happened at Massalia, at Istrus, at Heraclea, and in other cities: those not sharing in office kept stirring up trouble, until first the elder brothers were admitted to a share, and later the younger again in turn (since in some places a father and his son never hold office together, while in others it is the older and younger brother who do not both rule at once). And in the one case the oligarchy became more constitutional, but at Istrus it ended up in a democracy, while at Heraclea it went from a smaller body to six hundred. The oligarchy changed also at Cnidus, when the notable men fell into faction among themselves because few shared in office and, as has been said, if a father held office his son could not, nor, if there were several brothers, could any but the eldest: for the common people, seizing the opportunity of their faction and taking a leader from among the notables, attacked and prevailed, since a faction-ridden body is weak. And at Erythrae too, under the oligarchy of the Basilidae in ancient times, although those in the government took good care of things, still the people, resenting being ruled by so few, changed the constitution.
19| Oligarchies are also set in motion from within themselves, through the rivalry of men who play the demagogue (and demagoguery is of two kinds: one occurs among the few themselves — for a demagogue can arise even where the men are very few, as at Athens under the Thirty, where the group around Charicles gained power by playing demagogue to the Thirty, and in the same way, among the Four Hundred, the group around Phrynichus; the other kind occurs when those who belong to the oligarchy play demagogue to the mass of the people, as at Larisa the guardians of the citizenship played demagogue to the crowd because it was the crowd that elected them, and this happens in all oligarchies where the offices are not filled by election from among those who hold the offices themselves, but where the offices come from large property assessments or from political clubs, while the electors are the hoplites or the people at large — which is what used to happen at Abydus — and wherever the lawcourts are not drawn from the governing body: for by playing demagogue in view of the trials men change the constitution, which is in fact what happened at Heraclea on the Pontus — and further, when some men try to narrow the oligarchy down into fewer hands: for those who are seeking equal treatment are forced to bring in the people as an ally). Changes in oligarchy also occur when men squander their private fortunes living dissolutely: for such men too look for revolution, and either set themselves up as tyrants or contrive one for someone else
20| [1306a] (as Hipparinus did for Dionysius at Syracuse; and at Amphipolis a man named Cleotimus brought in the Chalcidian settlers, and when they arrived he set them at odds with the wealthy; and at Aegina the man who carried through the business with Chares attempted to change the constitution for this same reason). Sometimes, then, they attempt some overturn outright, and sometimes they steal from the public funds, and out of this faction arises against them, either among themselves or between them and those who fight against their stealing — which is what happened at Apollonia on the Pontus. But an oligarchy that is of one mind is not easily corrupted from within itself. A sign of this is the constitution at Pharsalus: for those men, though few, are masters of many because they treat one another well. Oligarchies are also dissolved when they generate a second oligarchy within the oligarchy. This occurs when, though the whole governing body is small, the greatest offices are not shared by all of the few, which is what once happened at Elis: for since the constitution lay in the hands of a few elders, these became exceedingly few because the ninety of them held office for life, and the method of their election was dynastic and similar to that of the elders at Lacedaemon. A change of oligarchies also occurs both in war and in peace: in war, because of mistrust toward the people, the oligarchs are forced to employ mercenary soldiers (for the man to whom they entrust command often becomes a tyrant, as Timophanes did at Corinth;
21| and if command is entrusted to several men, these procure a ruling power for themselves; sometimes, fearing this, they give the mass of the people a share in the constitution, because they are forced to make use of the people). In peace, on the other hand, because of their mistrust of one another, they entrust the guard to soldiers and to a mediating officer, who sometimes becomes master of both parties, which is what happened at Larisa under the rule of the Aleuadae around Simus, and at Abydus under the political clubs, one of which was that of Iphiades. Factions also arise from some of the men within the oligarchy pushing others out and from men being brought into factional strife over marriages or lawsuits — as, for example, the cases already mentioned arose from a marriage-cause (and Diagoras dissolved the oligarchy of the knights at Eretria because he had been wronged in a matter of marriage), while the faction at Heraclea arose from a court judgment, and so did the one at Thebes, when men in each city inflicted punishment, justly in itself but done in a factional spirit, on a charge of adultery — at Heraclea against Eurytion,
22| [1306b] at Thebes against Archias (for their enemies pressed the matter with such rivalry that the men were bound in the pillory in the marketplace). And many oligarchies have also been dissolved because they were excessively despotic, when some of those within the constitution grew resentful, as happened with the oligarchy at Cnidus and the one at Chios. Changes also occur by mere accident, both in what is called a constitutional government and in those oligarchies in which men deliberate, sit in judgment, and hold the other offices on the basis of a property assessment. For often the assessment first fixed was suited to the circumstances of the time, so that in an oligarchy a few shared in it, and in a constitutional government the middle class did; but when prosperity comes about through peace or some other stroke of good fortune, the very same properties come to be worth many times the assessed value, so that everyone shares in everything — sometimes this happens gradually, by a change that comes on little by little and unnoticed, and sometimes more quickly. Oligarchies, then, change and fall into faction for causes of this kind (and in general both democracies and oligarchies sometimes shift not into the opposite constitutions but into other constitutions of the same kind — for example, from lawful democracies and oligarchies into those where the majority or the few rule absolutely, and from these back into the lawful forms).
23| In aristocracies, factions arise partly because few share in the honors, which has been said to set oligarchies in motion too, since an aristocracy is in a way also an oligarchy (for in both, few men rule, though not few for the same reason) — indeed it is for this reason that an aristocracy is thought to be an oligarchy as well. This is especially bound to happen when there is some considerable number of men who think highly of themselves as being equal in excellence, as at Lacedaemon the men called the Partheniae (for they came from the Equals), whom the authorities detected plotting and sent off as founders of Tarentum; or when certain men who are great and inferior to none in excellence are dishonored by others held in greater honor, as Lysander was by the kings; or when some man of manly spirit does not share in the honors, as Cinadon, who organized the attack on the Spartiates in the reign of Agesilaus; further, when some are excessively poor and others wealthy (and this happens especially in times of war: this too occurred at Lacedaemon at the time of the Messenian war, as is clear also from the poem of Tyrtaeus called Eunomia):
24| [1307a] Some, oppressed by the war, thought it right to redistribute the land. Again, revolutions occur if someone is powerful and capable of becoming even more powerful, so as to make himself sole ruler — as at Sparta it is thought Pausanias, who was general in the Persian War, tried to do, and Hanno at Carthage. Polities and aristocracies are dissolved above all through the departure from justice within the constitution itself. For the starting point is the failure to blend well, in a polity, democracy and oligarchy, and in an aristocracy these two along with virtue, but above all the two — I mean the common people and the oligarchy. For these are what polities try to mix, and so do most of the constitutions called aristocracies. For it is in this that aristocracies differ from the constitutions properly called polities, and this is why some of them are less and others more stable: those that lean more toward oligarchy people call aristocracies, and those that lean toward the multitude they call polities. That is why the latter sort are safer than the former: the greater number is stronger, and people are more content when they have equality, whereas those in prosperity, if the constitution gives them the advantage, seek to commit outrage and to grasp for more.
25| And in general, whichever way the constitution leans, it shifts in that direction as each side increases its own share — for example a polity shifts toward democracy, an aristocracy toward oligarchy; or else toward the opposite, for example an aristocracy toward democracy (for the poorer citizens, being treated unjustly, drag it round to the opposite extreme), while polities shift toward oligarchy (for the only stable thing is equality according to merit and each keeping what is his own). What has been described happened at Thurii. Because the offices required a higher property qualification, the constitution changed toward a lower one and more offices; but because the notables had jointly acquired the whole territory in violation of the law (for the constitution was more oligarchic, so that they were able to grasp more), the common people, having been trained in the war, became stronger than the garrison troops, until those who held more than their share gave up the land. Further, because all aristocratic constitutions are more oligarchic in character, the notables grasp more, as also at Sparta the properties come into the hands of a few; and the notables are more able to do whatever they wish, and to intermarry with whomever they wish — which is why the city of the Locrians was destroyed by its marriage-connection with Dionysius, a thing that would not have happened under a democracy, nor under an aristocracy well blended.
26| [1307b] Aristocracies change most of all unnoticed, because they are dissolved little by little — which was said earlier as a general point holding for all constitutions, that the small is also a cause of changes. For whenever people give up something belonging to the constitution, after that they more readily move something else a little greater, until they have moved the whole framework. This happened also in the constitution of Thurii. There was a law that one should hold the generalship only once in five years; but some of the younger men, having become skilled in war and held in high regard by the mass of the garrison troops, despised those in charge of affairs and, thinking they would easily gain control, tried first to abolish this law, so that the same men might hold the generalship continuously, seeing that the people would eagerly elect them. The officials appointed to guard against this, the so-called counselors, at first set out to oppose it but were won over, supposing that once they let this law be moved they would allow the rest of the constitution to remain; but afterward, wishing to prevent further changes when others were being moved, they could no longer accomplish anything, and the whole ordering of the constitution changed into the domination of those who had attempted the innovation. All constitutions are dissolved sometimes from within themselves, sometimes from outside, whenever there is an opposing constitution either nearby, or far off but possessing power.
27| This is what happened in the case of the Athenians and the Spartans: the Athenians everywhere put down oligarchies, and the Spartans put down democracies. The sources from which changes and factional conflicts in constitutions arise have now been stated, more or less. It remains to speak about preservation, both in general and with respect to each constitution separately. First, then, it is clear that if we know the causes through which constitutions are destroyed, we also know the causes through which they are preserved; for opposites produce opposites, and destruction is the opposite of preservation. In well-blended constitutions, then, if anything else must be watched for, it is above all to guard against the smallest violation of law: for lawlessness creeps in unnoticed, just as a small expense, recurring often, destroys estates. The expense goes unnoticed because it does not occur all at once; the mind is misled by these small amounts, just as in the sophistical argument that if each thing is small, then all are small — this is true in one sense and false in another: for the whole and the total are not small, but are composed of small parts. This, then, is one safeguard to take with a view to the starting point; next, one must not trust arguments contrived as sophistries to win over the multitude,
28| [1308a] for they are refuted by the facts (what sort of sophistries about constitutions we mean has been said earlier). Further, one should observe that some constitutions endure — not only aristocracies but also oligarchies — not because the constitutions themselves are secure, but because those who come into office deal well both with those outside the constitution and with those within the ruling body: with those who do not share in it, by not treating them unjustly and by bringing their leading men into the constitution, and by not wronging the ambitious among them in matters of honor nor the many in matters of profit; and among themselves, and with those who do share in it, by treating one another in a democratic spirit. For what the champions of the people seek for the multitude, namely equality, is, among those who are alike, not only just but also advantageous. That is why, if there are more people within the ruling body, many of the democratic-style laws are advantageous — for example, that offices last six months, so that all who are alike may share in them; for those who are alike are, in a sense, already like a common people (which is why demagogues often arise even among them, as has been said before) — and further, oligarchies and aristocracies fall less often into the domination of a few, since it is not equally easy to do wrong holding office for a short time as for a long time; for it is on account of this that tyrannies arise within oligarchies and democracies:
29| for in each of the two, either the greatest men set themselves up as tyrants — in the one case the demagogues, in the other the powerful few — or those who hold the greatest offices do so, whenever they hold office for a long time. Constitutions are preserved not only by being far removed from those who would destroy them, but sometimes also by being close to them; for being afraid, people hold on to the constitution more firmly. Hence those who care for the constitution must contrive fears, so that people may keep watch and not let go of their guard over the constitution as if it were a night watch, and must make what is far off seem close at hand. Further, one must try to guard, even through the laws, against the rivalries and factional disputes of the notables, and to take in hand those who stand outside the rivalry before they too have been drawn into it — for to recognize an evil at its beginning is not a task for just anyone but for a statesman. As for the change from oligarchy or polity that arises through the property qualifications, when this happens because the qualifications remain the same while money becomes more plentiful, it is advantageous to examine the total assessed value of the community as it stands against the past — in cities where the census is taken yearly, at that interval,
30| [1308b] But in the larger cities, every three or five years, if the property assessed is a multiple or a fraction of what it was when the property qualifications for the constitution were originally set, there should be a law both to raise and to lower the qualifications: if it has increased, raising them in proportion to the increase, and if it has fallen, lowering them and making the qualification smaller. For in oligarchies and constitutional governments, when this is not done, the result is that in the one case an oligarchy becomes a dynasty, and in the other a constitutional government becomes a democracy, and out of oligarchy a constitutional government or a democracy. It is a rule common to democracy, oligarchy, monarchy, and every constitution alike that no one should be allowed to grow too far beyond due measure, but rather that one should try to give small honors over a long time rather than great ones quickly (for men are corrupted by sudden greatness, and not every man can bear good fortune); or if this is not done, at least not to take away all at once what was given all at once, but by gradual withdrawal. And above all one should try so to regulate matters by the laws that no one arises who is greatly superior in power, whether through friends or through wealth; failing that, one should arrange for such men's advancement to take them abroad. And since men also revolutionize because of their private ways of life, some office should be established to keep watch over those whose way of living is disadvantageous to the constitution — in a democracy, disadvantageous to the democracy, in an oligarchy, to the oligarchy, and likewise for each of the other constitutions in turn.
31| And for the same reasons one must guard, in turn, against whichever part of the city is prospering: the remedy for this is always to put action and office into the hands of the opposing parts (I mean that the respectable are opposed to the mass, and the poor to the wealthy), and to try either to mix together the mass of the poor and that of the wealthy, or to increase the middle group (for this dissolves the factional strife that comes from inequality). But the greatest thing in every constitution is that the laws and the rest of the administration should be so arranged that it is not possible for the offices to be a source of profit. This above all must be watched in oligarchies. For the many are not so aggrieved at being kept from ruling — indeed they are glad if someone lets them attend to their private affairs — but if they think the rulers are stealing the common funds, then both things gall them at once: exclusion from honors and exclusion from profits. There is in fact only one way in which democracy and aristocracy can exist together at the same time, if someone should contrive it.
32| [1309a] For it would then be possible for both the notable men and the mass of the people to have what they want. For that everyone should be allowed to rule is democratic, while that the notable should hold the offices is aristocratic; and this will happen when it is not possible to profit from the offices. For the poor will not want to rule, since there is nothing to be gained by it, but will prefer to attend to their own affairs, while the wealthy will be able to rule because they need nothing from the public funds; so that the result will be that the poor grow wealthier through spending their time on their own work, while the notable are not ruled by whoever happens along. So then, to prevent the public funds from being stolen, the handing over of the money should take place with all the citizens present, and copies of the accounts should be deposited by phratries, companies, and tribes; and to make ruling free of profit there should be honors established by law for those who serve with distinction. In democracies one must spare the wealthy, not only by not making their properties subject to redistribution, but not even their income, which in some constitutions happens without being noticed; and it is better, even when they are willing, to prevent them from performing the costly but useless public services, such as furnishing choruses, torch-races, and other such things.
33| In oligarchy, on the other hand, one must take great care of the poor, and assign to them the offices from which there is profit to be had, and if any of the wealthy commits outrage against them, the penalties should be greater than if it were against one of their own; and inheritances should pass not by gift but by lineage, and no one should inherit more than a single estate. For in this way properties would be more nearly equalized, and more of the poor would be established in prosperity. It is also advantageous, both in democracy and in oligarchy, to assign to those who share less in the constitution either equality or precedence in other respects — in a democracy to the wealthy, in an oligarchy to the poor — except for the offices that have authority over the constitution; these should be entrusted only, or mostly, to those from within the constitution. Those who are to hold the sovereign offices must have three qualities: first, friendship toward the established constitution; next, the greatest capacity for the functions of the office; and third, virtue and justice — that is, the kind of justice that corresponds to each particular constitution (for if the just is not the same under all constitutions, then there must also be differences in justice). There is a difficulty when all these qualities do not happen to be found in the same person: how should the choice be made?
34| [1309b] For example, if one man is skilled as a general but base and no friend to the constitution, while another is just and a friend but less skilled — how should the choice be made? It seems one should look to two things: of which quality do all men have more, and of which less. Hence in generalship one should look more to experience than to virtue, since fewer men share in the ability to command than share in decency; but in a guardianship or a treasury office, the opposite, since these require more virtue than most men possess, while the knowledge required is common to all. One might raise a difficulty: if a man has both capacity and friendship toward the constitution, what further need is there of virtue? For these two qualities alone will make him do what is advantageous. But perhaps it is because men who possess these two qualities can still be lacking in self-control, so that just as they fail to serve their own interests even though they know and love themselves, nothing prevents some from being the same way toward the common good. In general, whatever things we say in the laws are advantageous for constitutions, all of these preserve constitutions, and the greatest single factor, often mentioned, is this: to see to it that the mass of people who want the constitution to continue is stronger than the mass who do not want it. But beyond all these things, one must not overlook — as the constitutions that have deviated from the right kind now do overlook — the mean.
35| For many of the things that are thought to be democratic in fact dissolve democracies, and many of the things thought oligarchic dissolve oligarchies. Those who think this one thing is the sole virtue drag it to excess, not realizing that it is like a nose which, though it has deviated from the most beautiful straightness toward the hooked or the snub, is still beautiful and pleasing to look at; yet if one stretches it still further toward the extreme, first it will lose the due proportion of that part, and in the end, through the excess and deficiency of its opposite features, it will not even look like a nose at all. The same holds for the other parts of the body, and the same thing happens with the other constitutions as well. For it is possible for oligarchy and democracy to be in a sufficiently good condition even though each has departed from the best arrangement; but if one stretches either of them further, first it will make the constitution worse, and in the end it will not even be a constitution at all. So the lawgiver and the statesman must not fail to recognize which of the democratic measures preserve and which destroy a democracy, and which of the oligarchic measures preserve and which destroy an oligarchy. For neither of them can exist and endure without the wealthy and the mass of the people; but whenever an equalization of property comes about, the constitution that results from it must necessarily be a different one,
36| [1310a] And so, by ruining things with laws that go to excess, they ruin the constitutions. And people go wrong both in democracies and in oligarchies: in democracies the popular leaders do, wherever the multitude is sovereign over the laws. For they always make the city into two, by fighting the well-off, whereas they ought always to seem to speak on behalf of the well-off. And in oligarchies the oligarchs ought to seem to speak on behalf of the people, and oligarchs ought to swear oaths opposite to the ones they swear now. For now, in some places, they swear, 'I will be ill-disposed to the people and will plot whatever harm I can'; but they ought instead to hold and to pretend the opposite, declaring in their oaths that they will not wrong the people. But the greatest of all the things mentioned for making constitutions endure — the very thing everyone now neglects — is education directed to the constitution. For there is no benefit in the most beneficial laws, even ones agreed on by everyone who takes part in politics, if people are not habituated and educated in the constitution — democratically, if the laws are democratic, oligarchically, if they are oligarchic. For if there can be lack of self-control in a single person, there can also be lack of self-control in a city. But being educated with a view to the constitution is not this: doing the things that please those who hold oligarchic power or those who want democracy, but rather the things by which some will be able to run an oligarchy and others a democracy.
37| But as things now stand, in oligarchies the sons of the rulers live in luxury, while the sons of the poor become trained and toughened by hard work, so that they are both more willing and more able to bring about revolution. And in democracies — in the ones that seem most of all to be democratic — the opposite of what is advantageous has come to be established, and the cause of this is that they define freedom badly. For there are two things by which democracy seems to be defined: the sovereignty of the greater number, and freedom. For what is just seems to be what is equal, and what is equal is whatever seems so to the multitude, and this is to be sovereign; and what is free and equal is whatever a person wishes to do. The result is that in democracies of this sort each person lives as he wishes, and 'toward whatever he desires,' as Euripides says. But this is a poor thing: for one should not think that living with a view to the constitution is slavery, but rather preservation. So much, then, stated simply, for the sources from which constitutions change and are destroyed, and the means by which they are preserved and endure. It remains to go over monarchy as well — the sources from which it is destroyed, and the means by which it is naturally preserved.
38| [1310b] What happens with respect to kingships and tyrannies is roughly parallel to what has been said about constitutions. For kingship corresponds to aristocracy, while tyranny is compounded out of the last, most extreme form of oligarchy and of democracy — which is why it is the most harmful to those who are ruled, since, being compounded of two evils, it has the deviations and errors that come from both constitutions. The origin of each of these two forms of monarchy is, from the start, out of opposites. For kingship came into being to help the respectable against the people, and a king is established from among the respectable on the basis of superiority in virtue, or in the actions that spring from virtue, or on the basis of the superiority of that kind of lineage; whereas the tyrant comes from the people and the multitude, against the notable men, so that the people may suffer no injustice from them. This is clear from the facts. For nearly all tyrants, one might say, have arisen from popular leaders, having gained the people's trust by slandering the notable men. Some tyrannies were established in this way, once the cities had already grown large; others, before this, arose from kings who departed from ancestral custom and reached for a more despotic kind of rule; others arose from men elected to the sovereign offices (for in ancient times the people used to make the public magistracies and the sacred embassies long-lasting offices); and others arose out of oligarchies, when the oligarchs chose some one man as sovereign over the highest offices.
39| For in all these ways it was possible to bring the thing about easily, if only they wished, because power already lay at hand — for some, the power of kingly rule, for others the power that came with their office. For example, Pheidon around Argos and other tyrants set themselves up while kingship already existed; those around Ionia, and Phalaris, did so starting from their offices; Panaetius did so at Leontini, and Cypselus at Corinth, and Peisistratus at Athens, and Dionysius at Syracuse, and others in the same way out of leadership of the people. As we said, then, kingship is ranked alongside aristocracy. For it rests on worth — either on personal virtue, or on lineage, or on good services rendered, or on these together with power. For all who had done good service to cities or nations, or were capable of doing so, came to receive this honor — some by preventing enslavement in war, as Codrus did, others by liberating their people, as Cyrus did, or by founding or by acquiring territory, as the kings of the Lacedaemonians did, and of the Macedonians, and of the Molossians. Now the king wishes to be a guardian —
40| [1311a] so that those who possess property may suffer no injustice, and the people may suffer no outrage at all. But tyranny, as has often been said, looks to nothing held in common, except for the sake of its own advantage. And the aim of the tyrant is the pleasant, while the aim of the king is the fine. This is why, among the forms of gain, wealth is more the tyrant's, while gain in honor belongs more to the king; and the king's guard is drawn from the citizens, while the tyrant's is made up of foreigners. That tyranny has the evils both of democracy and of oligarchy is clear. From oligarchy it has treating wealth as its end (for only in this way is it possible for it to keep up both its guard and its luxury), and trusting the multitude in nothing (which is why tyrants also strip them of their weapons), and mistreating the common crowd, and driving them out of the city, and scattering them into separate settlements — both of these last being common to oligarchy and tyranny alike. From democracy it has making war on the notable men, and destroying them, secretly and openly, and driving them into exile as rivals in skill and as obstacles to its rule. For it is from these very things that plots also come about, some wanting to rule themselves, others not wanting to be enslaved.
41| This is also the source of Periander's piece of advice to Thrasybulus — the lopping off of the ears of grain that stand out above the rest — meaning that one must always do away with the citizens who stand out above the rest. So, as has pretty much been said, one must think of the same starting points as holding both for the changes that constitutions undergo and for those that monarchies undergo. For it is through injustice, through fear, and through contempt that many of the ruled attack monarchies; and of injustice, most of all through outrage, but sometimes also through being deprived of their own property. The ends aimed at are also the same, just as in that other case, both for tyrannies and for kingships: for monarchs possess a greatness of wealth and honor, which everyone desires. Of the attacks made on them, some are directed against the person of the rulers, others against their rule. Those made through outrage are directed against the person. And since outrage takes many forms, each of its forms becomes a cause of anger; and of those who become angry, most, one might say, attack for the sake of revenge, not for the sake of gaining superiority. For example, the attack of the sons of Peisistratus came about because they had insulted the sister of Harmodius and abused Harmodius himself (for Harmodius acted on account of his sister, and Aristogeiton on account of Harmodius); and men also plotted against Periander, the tyrant in Ambracia, because, while drinking together,
42| [1311b] with his boy, to ask him whether he was already pregnant by him. And Philip's assassination was carried out by Pausanias because Philip let him be outraged by the men around Attalus, and the murder of Amyntas the Little was carried out by Derdas because Amyntas had mocked his youth, and the eunuch's attack on Evagoras of Cyprus: for because Evagoras had taken away his wife, he killed his son, feeling himself outraged. Many attacks have also occurred because of shame brought on the body of some of the monarchs. Such was Crataeas's attack on Archelaus: he had always felt his relationship with him a burden, so that an even smaller pretext would have sufficed—but the actual occasion was that Archelaus, though he had agreed to give him one of his daughters, gave neither; instead, being pressed by war against Sirras and Arrhabaeus, he gave the elder to the king of Elimea, and the younger to his own son Amyntas, thinking in this way Amyntas would least be at odds with him and with the son of Cleopatra. But the beginning of the estrangement lay in Archelaus's taking the sexual favor as a burden. Hellanocrates of Larissa also joined the conspiracy for the same reason: since Archelaus, though he had made use of his youth, did not restore him home as he had promised, Hellanocrates thought the relationship that had occurred had been for outrage and not for erotic desire.
43| Python and Heraclides of Aenus destroyed Cotys avenging their father, and Adamas revolted from Cotys because he had been castrated by him as a boy, feeling himself outraged. Many also, angered because their bodies had been maltreated by blows, either destroyed their rulers or attempted to, feeling themselves outraged—this happens also among those holding offices and royal powers. So in Mytilene, Megacles, together with his friends, attacked and killed the Penthilidae when they were going about striking people with clubs; and later Smerdes destroyed Penthilus after receiving blows and being dragged away from his wife. And of the attack on Archelaus, Decamnichus became the leader, being the first to incite those who made the attack: the cause of his anger was that Archelaus had handed him over to be whipped by Euripides the poet—Euripides had grown angry when Decamnichus said something about the bad smell of his mouth. And many others, for such causes, were either killed or plotted against. Similarly also through fear: for this too was one of the causes, just as it is in constitutional governments as well as in monarchies—for example, Artapanes killed Xerxes fearing the accusation concerning Darius, because he had hanged him without Xerxes's order, but thinking Xerxes would forgive him as one who had forgotten because of feasting. And there are attacks through contempt,
44| [1312a] as when someone saw Sardanapalus carding wool among the women (if what the storytellers say of him is true; and if not true of him, it could well be true of someone else), and Dion attacked Dionysius the younger because he held him in contempt, seeing both the citizens in that condition and Dionysius himself perpetually drunk. And some of a ruler's friends attack him through contempt: because they are trusted, they hold him in contempt, thinking they will not be found out. And those who think they are able to seize the rule also attack, in a way, through contempt: since they think they can, and contempt of the danger comes from their power, they make the attempt easily, as generals do against monarchs—for example, Cyrus against Astyages, holding both his life and his power in contempt, because Astyages's power had grown slack while he himself lived in luxury, and Seuthes the Thracian against Amadocus, being his general. And some attack for more than one of these reasons, both from contempt and for gain, as Mithridates did against Ariobarzanes. But it is above all for this last reason that men attempt such things who are bold by nature and hold a military honor under the monarchs: for courage joined with power is boldness, and it is because of both together, thinking they will easily prevail, that they make their attacks. Attacks made through love of honor are of a different kind of cause from those already mentioned.
45| For it is not the case, as with some who attack tyrants because they see great gains and great honors available to them, that each of those who attack through love of honor likewise chooses to run the risk for that reason; rather, those men act for the cause stated, but these others act as they would toward any other extraordinary deed by which men become famous and known to others—so too they make attempts on monarchs, wishing to acquire not a monarchy but glory. Still, those who set out for this reason are very few in number: for one must be prepared to have no concern at all for one's own safety, unless the deed is likely to succeed. Such men must follow the example set by Dion's own reasoning, though it is not easy for many to attain it: for he made his expedition against Dionysius with few men, saying that he was disposed as follows—that however far he might be able to advance, that much participation in the deed was enough for him, so that if it should happen that he died immediately upon setting foot on the land, that death would be a fine one for him. A tyranny is destroyed in one way, as each of the other constitutions also is, from outside,
46| [1312b] if some opposing and stronger constitution exists (for that they will wish this is evident because of the opposition of their aims: whatever people wish, they all do when they are able); and the constitutions opposed to tyranny are these—the people is opposed to tyranny as, in Hesiod's phrase, potter to potter (for the final form of democracy is itself a tyranny), while kingship and aristocracy are opposed to it because of the opposition of the constitution (which is why the Lacedaemonians and the Syracusans, in the period when they were governed well, put down the greatest number of tyrannies); but a tyranny is destroyed from within itself in one way, when those who share in it fall into factional strife, as happened to the circle of Gelon, and now to that of Dionysius—the fall of Gelon's line coming about when Thrasybulus, the brother of Hiero, played the demagogue with Gelon's son and drove him toward pleasures, so that he himself might rule, while the relatives banded together not so that the tyranny should be entirely overthrown but so that Thrasybulus should be, and those who had banded together, seizing their opportunity, cast out the whole family; but Dionysius was destroyed when Dion, who was his kinsman by marriage, made an expedition against him, winning the people to his side, and after casting Dionysius out was himself destroyed. There being two causes above all through which men attack tyrannies, hatred and contempt, the one of these, hatred, always attaches to tyrants, while from being held in contempt many of their overthrows arise.
47| A sign of this: of those who have acquired tyrannies, most have also kept their rule safe, while those who inherit them almost all lose them at once, one might say. For living for enjoyment, they become easy targets of contempt and hand many opportunities to those who attack them. One must also count anger as a part of hatred: for in a certain way it becomes the cause of the same actions. And often it is even more effective for action than hatred: for men attack more intensely through anger, because the passion does not employ calculation (and this above all tends to accompany fits of temper because of outrage—the cause through which both the tyranny of the Pisistratids was overthrown, and many others as well)—but hatred is the stronger cause: for anger is accompanied by pain, so that it is not easy to calculate, whereas enmity is without pain. To speak summarily, one must set down as many causes of tyranny as we have stated for unmixed and extreme oligarchy and for the most extreme democracy: for these constitutions actually turn out to be divided-up tyrannies. Kingship, on the other hand, is least destroyed from outside causes, which is why it is also long-lived; but most of its destructions come about from within itself. It is destroyed in two ways,
48| [1313a] one when those who share in the kingship fall into factional strife, and in another way when those who administer it try to do so in a more tyrannical manner, claiming to be masters of more things and beyond the law. Kingships no longer come into being now; rather, if monarchies do come into being, they are tyrannies more than kingships, because kingship is a rule exercised over willing subjects and has authority over greater matters, while there are now many who are alike, and no one so outstanding as to match the greatness and dignity of the office. Hence for this reason men do not submit to it willingly; but if someone rules through deception or force, this is now held to be tyranny. In hereditary kingships, one must set down, besides the causes already stated, as a further cause of their destruction, that many kings become objects of contempt, and that, not possessing tyrannical power but only royal honor, they commit outrages: for the overthrow then becomes easy, since the moment the subjects are unwilling he will no longer be king, whereas a tyrant remains a tyrant even against the will of his subjects. Monarchies, then, are destroyed through these and other such causes. They are preserved, evidently, to put it simply, by the opposite causes, but to speak of each case in particular: kingships are preserved by being led toward greater moderation. For the fewer the matters over which kings are masters, the longer their whole rule must necessarily last:
49| For they themselves become less despotic and more equal in character, and are less envied by those they rule. This is why the kingship among the Molossians lasted a long time, and that of the Spartans, because from the start the rule was divided into two parts, and again because Theopompus moderated it, in other respects and in particular by establishing the office of the ephors alongside it: for by taking away from its power he increased the kingship in duration, so that in a way he made it not smaller but greater. Indeed this is what they say he answered to his wife, when she said it was no shame to him that he would hand down to his sons a kingship smaller than the one he had received from his father: "Not so," he said, "for I hand down one that will last longer." Tyrannies, on the other hand, are preserved by two wholly opposite methods. One of these is the traditional one, and it is the one by which most tyrants administer their rule. Most of these devices, it is said, were established by Periander of Corinth, and many similar ones can also be found from the Persian empire. There are the measures long since mentioned as conducing, as far as possible, to the preservation of a tyranny: to lop off those who stand out and to do away with men of high spirit, and to allow neither common messes nor political clubs nor education nor anything else of that sort,
50| [1313b] but to guard against everything from which the two things that usually arise are high spirit and mutual trust; and to permit neither leisure gatherings nor other assemblies that make for leisure, and to do everything by which people will be as unacquainted with one another as possible (for acquaintance produces greater trust among people toward one another); and to require that those residing in the city always be visible and spend their time about the gates (for in this way they would least escape notice as to what they are doing, and by being always accustomed to servility in small things they would grow accustomed to having a low spirit); and all the other measures of this sort that are Persian and barbarian devices of tyranny (for they all have the same effect); and to try not to let anything escape notice that any of the ruled happens to say or do, but to have spies, as at Syracuse there were the so-called female informers, and the eavesdroppers whom Hiero used to send out wherever there was some gathering or assembly (for people speak more freely less often when they fear such people, and even if they do speak freely, they are less likely to escape notice); and to set people against one another and bring them into conflict, friends against friends, the people against the notables, and the wealthy against one another. And it is a tyrannical device to make the ruled poor, so that no guard may be maintained and so that, being occupied with their daily livelihood, they may have no leisure to plot. An example of this is the pyramids in Egypt, and the votive offerings of the Cypselids, and the building of the temple of Olympian Zeus by the Pisistratids, and the works of Polycrates around Samos: for all these have the same effect, keeping the ruled occupied and poor.
51| And there is the levying of taxes, as at Syracuse (for under Dionysius it happened that within five years people had contributed their entire property in taxes). The tyrant is also a warmonger, so that his subjects may be kept occupied and remain continually in need of a leader. And whereas kingship is preserved through friends, it is a tyrannical trait to distrust one's friends most of all, on the ground that, while all wish to overthrow him, these are the ones most able to do so. And the things that occur under the last kind of democracy are all tyrannical: the rule of women in households, so that they may report against their husbands, and a loosening of control over slaves, traceable to one identical cause: neither slaves nor women conspire against tyrants, and since both fare well under such regimes, they are bound to feel goodwill toward tyrannies and toward that kind of democracy alike; for the common people too wish to be sole ruler. This is why the flatterer is honored among both, among the people the demagogue (for the demagogue is a flatterer of the people), and among tyrants those who consort with them in a servile manner, which is the work of flattery.
52| [1314a] And indeed for this reason tyranny is fond of base men: for tyrants delight in being flattered, and no one with a free spirit would do this, but decent men show affection without flattering. And base men are useful for base purposes: for as the proverb says, nail drives out nail. And it is a tyrannical trait to take no delight in anyone dignified or free (for the tyrant claims that he alone is entitled to be such, and whoever rivals his dignity and acts the free man takes away his pre-eminence and the despotic character of his tyranny: they hate such people, therefore, as subverters of their rule); and it is tyrannical to make use of foreigners rather than citizens as fellow diners and companions for the day, on the ground that citizens are hostile but foreigners make no rival claim. These practices and others of the sort are tyrannical and preservative of the rule, but they lack nothing in depravity. And, so to speak, all of them are comprehended under three heads. For tyranny aims at three things: first, that the ruled should be small-minded (for no one of small spirit would plot against anyone); second, that they should distrust one another (for a tyranny is never overthrown until some come to trust one another; this is also why tyrants make war on decent men as harmful to their rule, not only because such men do not think it fitting to be ruled despotically, but also because they are trustworthy both to themselves and to others, and do not inform against either themselves or others);
53| and third, an incapacity for action (for no one attempts what is impossible, so that no one overthrows a tyranny either, if the power for it is lacking). These, then, are the three heads to which the designs of tyrants may be traced back; for one could refer all tyrannical measures to these underlying aims: some to the end that the ruled may not trust one another, others that they may not have power, and others that they may be small-minded. Such, then, is the one method by which preservation comes about for tyrannies. The other has a concern that runs almost opposite to what has been said. One may grasp it from the corruption of kingships. For just as one manner in which kingship is corrupted is by making the rule more tyrannical, so the preservation of tyranny lies in making it more kingly, guarding only the one thing, its power, so that it may rule not only over the willing but also over the unwilling. For if a tyrant lets go of this, he lets go also of his tyranny. But while this must remain as a fixed presupposition, as it were, the rest he must do, or at least seem to do, playing the part of a king well. First of all, by seeming to care for the common interests,
54| [1314b] not spending on gifts of the kind at which the masses become angry, when they see money taken from them while they work and toil for it grudgingly, but given lavishly to mistresses and foreigners and craftsmen; and by rendering an account of what he takes in and spends, as some tyrants have already done (for by administering in this way one might be thought a steward rather than a tyrant; and there is no need to fear ever running short of money while master of the city); indeed for tyrants who go abroad from their own country this is actually more advantageous than to leave it collected in a hoard: for those left guarding the city would be less likely to attack the government, and to tyrants who go abroad the guards left among the citizens are more to be feared than those who accompany them: for the latter go abroad with him, while the former stay behind. Next, he must be seen collecting taxes and public services for the sake of good management, and so that, should he ever need to use them for occasions of war, he may; and in general he must present himself as a guardian and steward, as it were, of common funds rather than of his own; and he must appear not harsh but dignified, and moreover of such a character that those who meet him feel not fear but rather reverence toward him. Yet this is not easy to achieve for one who is not readily held in contempt; hence, even if he takes no care for the other virtues, he must at least care for military excellence, and cultivate a reputation of that kind about himself.
55| Further, he himself must not be seen committing outrage against any of his subjects, whether boy or girl, nor must anyone else about him; and likewise the women of his household must behave the same way toward the other women, since many tyrannies have been destroyed through outrages committed by women. As for bodily pleasures, he must do the opposite of what some tyrants nowadays do (for they not only indulge in this from early morning and continuously for many days, but also want to be seen by others doing it, so that people will admire them as fortunate and blessed men); rather, he must above all be moderate in such things, or, failing that, at least avoid being seen by others doing them (for the sober man is neither easy to attack nor easy to despise, but the drunk man is, and the wakeful man is not, but the sleeping man is). He must do the opposite of nearly everything said long ago (for he must build up and adorn the city as though he were a guardian and not a tyrant). Further, he must always be seen to be exceptionally devoted to the gods (for people fear suffering something contrary to law less from rulers of this kind, if they think the ruler is god-fearing and mindful of the gods, and they plot against him less, believing that the gods too are his allies),
56| [1315a] but he must appear such without foolishness. And he must honor those who prove good at some particular thing to such a degree that the citizens would never think they could be honored more even if they were self-governing, and he must bestow such honors himself, but assign punishments through other officials and courts. A common safeguard for every monarchy is to make no one man great, but if anyone must be made great, to make several such men (for they will keep watch over one another); and if it is ever necessary to make some individual great, at least not one bold in character (for such a character is most inclined to attack in every kind of action); and if it seems necessary to strip someone of power, this should be done gradually and not by removing all his authority at once. He must further abstain from every kind of outrage, and above all from two kinds — bodily punishment and outrage against the young. This precaution must be taken most of all with the honor-loving; for while the money-loving take it hard when their property is slighted, the honor-loving and the decent among men take it hard when they are dishonored. Therefore the ruler must either not deal with such men at all, or must be seen inflicting punishments in a fatherly way and not out of contempt, and his dealings with the young must appear to arise from erotic motives and not from the exercise of power; and in general he must buy off apparent dishonors with greater honors.
57| Of those who make attempts on a ruler's life, the most to be feared, and requiring the greatest vigilance, are those who do not choose to preserve their own lives after destroying him. Therefore one must be especially on guard against those who believe themselves outraged, or those close to them, to have been outraged; for men who make an attempt out of spirit are reckless of themselves, just as Heraclitus also said, declaring it hard to fight against spirit, since it buys its satisfaction at the cost of the soul. Since cities consist of two parts, the poor and the well-off, it is best for the ruler to suppose that both classes are preserved by his rule, and that neither is wronged by the other in any way; but whichever class turns out to be stronger, he must make that one especially his own, so that, if this advantage is secured, he need not free the slaves or disarm the citizens; for one of the two parts added to his own power is sufficient to make him stronger than those who attack him. It is superfluous to go through each such point individually; the aim is clear,
58| [1315b] namely that he must appear to his subjects not as a tyrannical figure but as a household manager and a king, not as one who seizes what belongs to others but as a guardian, and he must pursue moderation in his way of life, not excess; further, he must associate familiarly with the notable men and win over the masses through popular leadership. From this it necessarily follows not only that his rule will be finer and more enviable, since he rules over better men and not men who have been humbled, and since he will not go on being hated and feared, but also that his rule will last longer; and further, that he himself will be disposed in character either nobly toward virtue, or at least half-decent, and not wicked but half-wicked. And yet of all constitutions oligarchy and tyranny are the shortest-lived. The tyranny at Sicyon lasted the longest of all — that of the sons of Orthagoras and of Orthagoras himself; it endured a hundred years. The cause of this was that they treated their subjects with moderation and were in many respects subservient to the laws, and Cleisthenes, because he proved a capable warrior, was not easy to despise, and for the most part they won over the people through their attentive care. At any rate it is said that Cleisthenes crowned the man who judged against him in a contest as the winner; and some say that the statue seated in the marketplace is an image of the man who so judged. They also say that Pisistratus once submitted to being summoned to trial before the Areopagus.
59| Second is the tyranny at Corinth, that of the Cypselids; for this too lasted seventy-three years and six months. Cypselus was tyrant for thirty years, Periander for forty-four, and Psammitichus son of Gordias for three years. The causes of its duration are the same as in the previous case: Cypselus was a popular leader and throughout his rule went about without a bodyguard, while Periander, though he became tyrannical, was nonetheless a capable warrior. Third is that of the Pisistratids at Athens. But it was not continuous, for Pisistratus was twice driven into exile during his tyranny; of the thirty-three years involved, he himself held tyrannical power for seventeen, his sons for eighteen, the combined total thus amounting to thirty-five years. Of the remaining tyrannies, there is that of Hiero and Gelon at Syracuse. This too did not last many years, but altogether eighteen years in total; for Gelon, after being tyrant for seven years, died in the eighth, Hiero ruled for ten, and Thrasybulus was driven out in his eleventh month. Most tyrannies have been altogether short-lived. As for what concerns constitutions and monarchies, the causes from which they are destroyed and again preserved, this has now been said about nearly all of them.
60| [1316a] In the Republic, Socrates discusses the changes constitutions undergo, but he does not discuss them well. For in the case of the best and first constitution, he does not give an account peculiar to it of its change. He says the cause is that nothing remains stable, but everything changes within a certain cycle, and that the origin of these changes lies in those numbers of which the base ratio of four to three, coupled with the number five, yields two harmonies — meaning, when the number of this diagram becomes solid — as though nature at some point produces men who are inferior and stronger than their education can master. Now perhaps this claim itself is not badly made (for it is possible that there are some men whom it is impossible to educate and turn into virtuous men), but why should this particular kind of change be peculiar to the best constitution he describes, any more than to all the others and to everything that comes into being generally? And, by means of the time period through which he says all things change, do things which did not begin together also change together? For instance, if a thing came into being the day before the turning point, does it then change at the same time as the rest? Besides this, for what reason does it change from this constitution into the Laconian one? For all constitutions more often change into their opposite than into a neighboring one. And the same argument applies to the other changes as well.
61| For out of the Laconian constitution, he says, it changes into oligarchy, and out of this into democracy, and into tyranny out of democracy. And yet they also change in the reverse direction, for example from popular rule into oligarchy, and more often than into monarchy. Further, concerning tyranny he says neither whether there will be a change nor whether there will not, nor, if there will be, through what cause and into what sort of constitution; and the reason for this is that he would not easily have been able to say, for it is indeterminate, since according to him the change ought to be into the first and best constitution, for in that way it would become continuous and form a cycle. But in fact tyranny changes even into tyranny, as the tyranny of Sicyon changed from that of Myron into that of Cleisthenes; and into oligarchy, as at Chalcis the tyranny of Antileon; and into democracy, as that of the family of Gelo at Syracuse; and into aristocracy, as that of Charillus at Lacedaemon, and at Carthage. And it changes into tyranny out of oligarchy, as in Sicily most of the ancient tyrannies did — at Leontini into the tyranny of Panaetius, and at Gela into that of Cleander, and at Rhegium into that of Anaxilaus, and likewise in many other cities. It is also absurd to suppose that it changes into oligarchy for this reason, that those who hold office are lovers of money and money-makers,
62| [1316b] but not because those who far exceed others in property think it unjust for those who possess nothing to share equally in the city with those who possess something. And in many oligarchies it is not permitted to make money, but there are laws that forbid it, whereas at Carthage, which is governed democratically, men do make money, and it has not yet changed. It is also absurd to say that the oligarchic city is two cities, one of the rich and one of the poor. For how has this city been affected any differently than the Laconian, or than any other whatever, in which not all possess equal property, or not all alike are good men? And though no one has become poorer than before, they change none the less from oligarchy into popular rule, if the propertyless become more numerous, and from popular rule into oligarchy, if the well-off class proves stronger than the multitude and some are careless while others pay attention. And though there are many causes through which the changes occur, he mentions only one, that men become poor through dissolute living and being ground down by loan-interest, as though at the beginning all, or most, were rich. But this is false. Rather, whenever some of the leaders lose their properties, they stir up revolution, but whenever it is others who lose them, nothing terrible happens, and even then they change none the more into popular rule than into some other constitution. Further, even if men do not share in honors, and even if they are wronged or treated with insolence, they form factions and change constitutions, even without having squandered their property, because it is possible for them to do whatever they wish — of which he says the cause is excessive freedom. And since there are several oligarchies and several democracies, Socrates speaks of the changes as though each were a single thing.
1| How many, then, and what are the differences with respect to the deliberative body, and the body sovereign over the constitution, and the arrangement of the offices, and the courts, and which sort is combined with which sort of constitution; and further, concerning the destruction and preservation of constitutions, out of what conditions each arises and through what causes — this has been stated before. But since it turns out that there are several forms both of democracy and likewise of the other constitutions as well, it will be no worse, while considering whatever remains concerning them, at the same time also to assign to each the manner proper and advantageous to it. Further, one must also examine the combinations of all the elements that have been mentioned; [1317a] for these, when paired together, make the constitutions overlap, so that there come to be oligarchic aristocracies and constitutional governments of a more democratic kind. I mean the combinations that one ought to examine but that have not yet been examined — for instance, when the deliberative body and the matter of electing officials are arranged oligarchically while the matter of the courts is arranged aristocratically; or when these together with the deliberative body are arranged oligarchically but the matter of electing officials aristocratically; or when in some other way not all the elements proper to the constitution have been put together to match. Which democracy, then, suits which city, and likewise which of the oligarchies suits which sort of multitude, and which of the remaining constitutions is advantageous for which peoples, has been stated before.
2| Nevertheless, since it is necessary to make clear not only which of these constitutions is best for cities, but also how one ought to establish both these and the others, let us go through the matter briefly. And let us speak first about democracy, for at the same time the opposite constitution will also become clear — this being what some people call oligarchy. For this inquiry one must take up all the popular features and those that are held to accompany democracies; for it turns out that the forms of democracy come to be out of the combination of these, and that there are several democracies and not one, and that they differ from one another. For there are two causes on account of which there are several democracies. First is the one stated before, that the popular masses differ — for there comes to be an agricultural multitude, and again a vulgar-craftsman and hired-labor multitude; and when the first of these is joined to the second, and again the third to both together, the democracy differs not only by becoming better or worse but also by not being the same democracy at all. The second is the cause we are now speaking of. For the features that accompany democracies and are held to be proper to this constitution, when combined, produce democracies that differ from one another; in one city fewer of them will hold, in another more will follow, and in another all of them together.
3| It is useful to know each of these, both for establishing whichever of them one happens to want, and for making corrections. For those who set up constitutions seek to gather together all the features proper to the type toward their underlying assumption, but they err in doing this, as has been said before in the discussion of the destruction and preservation of constitutions. Let us now state the defining claims, the characters, and the things people aim at. Now the underlying assumption of the democratic constitution is freedom — for this is what people are accustomed to say, that only in this constitution do men share in freedom,
4| [1317b] for they say that every democracy aims at this. Of freedom, one part is to be ruled and to rule in turn. And indeed the popular conception of justice is to have equality according to number and not according to worth; and if this is what is just, the multitude must necessarily be sovereign, and whatever seems good to the majority must be the end and must be the just, since they say each of the citizens ought to have an equal share. Hence it turns out in democracies that the poor are more sovereign than the well-off, for they are more numerous, and what seems good to the majority is sovereign. This, then, is one mark of freedom, which all popular partisans lay down as the defining boundary of the constitution; and another is to live as one wishes. For this, they say, is the function of freedom, since not living as one wishes is the mark of one who is a slave. This, then, is the second defining mark of democracy; and from it has come the notion of not being ruled — preferably by no one at all, but failing that, ruled in turn — and this too contributes, in this way, to freedom based on equality. Given these assumptions, and this being the starting point, the following are popular features: that all officials be chosen from among all; that all rule over each and each rule in turn over all; that the offices be filled by lot, either all of them or as many as do not require experience and skill; that no office be held on the basis of any property qualification, or only the smallest one; that the same man not hold any office twice, or hold it rarely, or hold few offices, except those connected with war; that the offices be of short duration, either all of them or as many as admit of it; that all sit in judgment, chosen from among all, and concerning all matters, or concerning most and the greatest and the most authoritative matters — such as the auditing of accounts, and the constitution, and private contracts; that the assembly be sovereign over all matters, or the greatest, and no office sovereign over anything, or over as few things as possible, or that a council be sovereign over the greatest matters (of the offices, a council is the most popular, wherever there is not an abundance of pay for all;
5| For here too they take away the power even of this office; for the people, having a plentiful supply of pay, draw all judicial decisions to themselves, as has been said before in the treatise prior to this one. Next comes the paying of wages, ideally to everyone — assembly, courts, offices — but if not that, then to the offices, the courts, the council, and the sovereign assemblies, or to those offices whose holders must dine together. Further, since oligarchy is defined by birth, wealth, and education, the democratic traits seem to be the opposites of these: low birth, poverty, vulgar occupation. Further, it is characteristic that none of the offices is permanent,
6| [1318a] but if some office is left over from an old change of constitution, at least its power is stripped away, and appointment by lot replaces appointment by election. These, then, are the features common to democracies. And it results from the justice that is agreed to be democratic (this is: that all have equality according to number) that what seems to be democracy in the fullest sense, and the people-rule most properly so called, comes about. For it is equal that the poor should rule no more than the wealthy, nor that the wealthy alone should be sovereign, but that all should be sovereign equally according to number; for in this way they would think both equality and freedom belong to the constitution. But the question that comes next is disputed: how are they to have this equality — must the property assessments of the five hundred be divided up among a thousand men, so that the thousand have equal power to the five hundred, or should equality in this respect not be set up that way, but rather divided so, and then, taking an equal number from the five hundred and from the thousand, should these be made sovereign over the elections and the courts? Is this constitution, then, the most just according to democratic justice, or rather the one that goes by the majority of persons? For the democrats say that whatever seems good to the greater number is just, while the oligarchs say whatever seems good to the greater property is just;
7| for they say that judgment ought to be made according to the amount of property. But both views involve inequality and injustice. For if what is just is whatever the few decide, that is tyranny (for if one man has more than all the other wealthy men, then by oligarchic justice it is just for him alone to rule); but if what is just is whatever the greater number by count decide, then wrong is done, since the wealthy minority will have their goods seized from them — a point made earlier. What equality, then, would both sides agree to? We must examine this from the definitions of justice that both parties give. For they say that whatever seems good to the greater number of citizens ought to be sovereign. Let this stand, then — yet not without qualification, but rather: since a city happens to consist of two parts, the rich and the poor, let whatever seems good to both, or to the greater number, be sovereign; but if the two parts are opposed, let whatever the greater number decide be sovereign, and also whichever side's property assessment is greater. For example, if there are ten rich men and twenty poor, and it seems good to six of the rich and to fifteen of the poorer, and four of the rich have joined the poor while five of the poor have joined the rich — then, whichever side's property assessment, when both groups are added together for each side, is the greater, that side's decision is sovereign.
8| But if the two sides come out equal, this must be reckoned a common difficulty, just as now happens when the assembly or the court is split in two: [1318b] either the matter must be decided by lot, or some other such device must be used. But concerning equality and justice, even if it is very hard to discover the truth about them, still it is easier to attain than to persuade those who are able to get more than their share; for it is always the weaker who seek equality and justice, while those in power give no thought to it at all. Now there being four kinds of democracy, the best in order is the first, as was said in the discussions before these; and this is also the oldest of them all. I call it first in the sense in which one might classify populations. For the best population is the farming population, so that it is possible to form a democracy also wherever the multitude lives by farming or by herding. For because they do not have much property, they lack leisure, so that they do not often attend the assembly; and because they have what is necessary, they spend their time at their work and do not desire what belongs to others, but find working more pleasant than engaging in politics and ruling, wherever the offices do not bring great profits. For most people are more eager for gain than for honor. Here is a sign of it: they endured the tyrannies of old, and they endure oligarchies, provided no one prevents them from working or takes anything away from them;
9| for quickly some of them grow rich, and others are not in want. Further, being sovereign over electing officials and holding them to account fills up whatever desire for honor they have, since among some peoples, even if they do not share in the election of officials, but rather certain persons elected in turn from among all serve, as at Mantinea, while the people are sovereign over deliberation, this is enough for the many; and one must consider this too a certain form of democracy, as it once was at Mantinea. That is why it is also advantageous — and tends to occur — for the democracy spoken of before, that all should elect the officials, hold them to account, and serve as jurors, but that the greatest offices should be filled by election and from property assessments, the greater offices from greater assessments, or else that none of them should be filled by property assessment at all, but rather by those who are capable. Those who govern this way must of necessity govern well, for the offices will always be held by the best men, since the people are willing and do not begrudge it to the respectable; and to the respectable and notable this arrangement is enough, for they will not be ruled by others who are worse than themselves, and they will rule justly, because others are sovereign over the audits of their conduct. For being kept in check, and not being permitted to do everything one might decide, is advantageous;
10| for the license to do whatever one wishes cannot guard against the base element present in every human being. [1319a] So it necessarily results that what is most beneficial in constitutions comes about: the respectable rule without error, while the multitude is deprived of nothing. That this, then, is the best of the democracies is clear, and for what reason — because of the particular character the people have. And for constructing a farming population as the people, some of the laws laid down among many peoples in ancient times are altogether useful — for instance, the law that it should not be permitted at all to possess more land than a certain measure, or land beyond a certain distance from the town and the city (indeed it was anciently established by law in many cities that not even the original allotments should be permitted to be sold; and there is also what they call the law of Oxylus, which has some such force, that one should not lend on the security of some part of the land belonging to each person); and today the practice ought to be corrected also by the law of the Aphytaeans, for it is useful with a view to what we are saying: for those people, though numerous and possessing little land, nevertheless all farm; for they do not assess whole holdings, but divide them into portions so small that even the poor can exceed the assessments. After the farming population, the best people for democracy is one where there are herdsmen who live from livestock;
11| for it has much in common with farming, and these people especially are trained in habits useful for warlike actions, being fit in body and able to camp out in the open. All the other multitudes, from which the remaining democracies are composed, are much inferior to these; for their way of life is base, and there is no work involving virtue in what the multitude of vulgar craftsmen, marketplace people, and hired laborers handle; and further, because every such class hangs around the marketplace and the town, they attend the assembly easily, so to speak; whereas those who farm, because they are scattered throughout the countryside, neither come together nor equally need this kind of gathering. And wherever it happens that the position of the land is such that the countryside is far removed from the city, it is easy to make even a good democracy and constitution; for the multitude is compelled to make its settlements out in the fields, so that, even if there is a marketplace mob, one must not hold assemblies in democracies without the multitude from the countryside. How, then, one ought to construct the best and first democracy has been stated; and it is also clear how to construct the others. For one must proceed by deviating in due sequence, always separating off the worse population.
12| [1319b] As for the last kind of democracy, because everyone shares in it, not every city can bear it, nor is it easy for it to endure unless it is well put together in its laws and customs (what tends to corrupt this constitution and the others as well has for the most part already been stated earlier). To establish this kind of democracy and make the people strong, the men in charge are accustomed to admit as many people as possible and to make citizens not only of the legitimately born but also of bastards and of those descended from a citizen on either side, I mean, for example, from a father or a mother; for all this sort of person is more at home with a people of this kind. Now demagogues are accustomed to arrange things this way, but one should admit people only up to the point where the mass of them outweighs the notables and the middle class, and should not go further than that; for by overstepping this they make the constitution more disorderly, and provoke the notables further into resenting the democracy, which is exactly what happened to cause the civil strife at Cyrene: a small evil is overlooked, but when it becomes great it is more conspicuous. Further, devices of this kind are also useful for a democracy of this sort — those which Cleisthenes used at Athens when he wanted to strengthen the democracy, and which those who established the democracy at Cyrene used as well.
13| For more tribes and phratries than before must be created, private religious rites must be gathered together into a few common ones, and everything must be contrived so that everyone is mixed together with everyone else as much as possible, and the previous associations broken apart. Further, all the devices characteristic of tyranny seem to be popular ones too: I mean, for example, license for slaves (which could be advantageous up to a point) and for women and children, and turning a blind eye to living as one pleases; for a great deal will come to support a constitution of this kind, since the majority find it more pleasant to live in a disorderly way than in a temperate one. But the task of the lawgiver, and of those who wish to establish some such constitution, is not simply to set it up — that is not the greatest task, nor the only one — but rather to see that it is preserved; for it is not difficult to hold out for one, two, or three days governing in any manner whatever. Hence one must, drawing on what has been examined earlier — what preserves and what destroys constitutions — try to build up security from these, being on guard against what destroys, and laying down such laws, both unwritten and written,
14| [1320a] as will above all embrace what preserves constitutions, and one must not think that whatever makes the city as democratic or as oligarchic as possible is what is truly democratic or oligarchic, but rather whatever will make it last the longest time. But the demagogues of today, currying favor with the people, confiscate a great deal of property through the courts. Hence those who care for the constitution must work against this, making a law that nothing belonging to the condemned should become public property and be carried into the common fund, but should instead be made sacred to a god; for wrongdoers will be no less cautious — they will be penalized just the same — while the crowd will be less inclined to vote against those on trial, since it stands to gain nothing. Further, one should always keep the public lawsuits that come up as few as possible, restraining those who bring reckless indictments with heavy penalties; for it is not the ordinary people but the notables whom prosecutors are accustomed to bring in this way, and in this constitution too all the citizens should above all be well disposed to it, or failing that, should at least not regard those in authority as enemies. Since the last kind of democracy has a large population, and it is hard for people to attend the assembly without pay, and this, where there happen to be no public revenues, is hostile to the notables (for the money must then necessarily come from a property tax and from confiscations and from corrupt courts, which have already overturned many democracies) — so, where there happen to be no public revenues, one should hold few assemblies, and and courts made up of many jurors but sitting for few days (this both keeps the rich from fearing the expense, even where the well-off receive no jury pay while the poor do, and also makes for much better judgment in the cases;
15| for the well-off are unwilling to be away from their private affairs for many days, but are willing for a short time) — but where there are revenues, one should not do what the demagogues do now (for they hand out the surplus: people take it, and immediately need the same again; such help to the poor is a leaking jar). Rather, the man who is truly a friend of the people must see to it that the multitude is not excessively poor, since this is the cause of democracy turning corrupt. One must therefore contrive some way for prosperity to become lasting. And since this is advantageous to the well-off too, the funds arising from the revenues should be gathered together and distributed to the poor in a lump sum, best of all if one can gather as much as suffices for the purchase of a small plot of land, or failing that, enough for a start in trade or farming,
16| [1320b] and, if it is not possible for everyone, then it should be distributed in turn by tribes or by some other division, while during that time the well-off should contribute the pay for the necessary meetings, being released from pointless public services. It is in some such way that the Carthaginians, by governing themselves this way, have kept the people friendly to them; for by continually sending some of the people out to the surrounding territories, they make them prosperous. It is also the mark of refined and sensible notables to take the poor in hand and, by giving them a start, turn them toward work. It is also good to imitate the practices of the Tarentines. For by making their possessions common for the poor to use, they render the multitude well disposed toward them; further, they made all the offices double, some elective and some assigned by lot, the ones by lot so that the people might have a share in them, the elective ones so that the city might be better governed. And it is possible to do this within one and the same office as well, by dividing it and making some of its holders chosen by lot and others elected. How, then, one should construct democracies has now been stated. From this it is fairly clear how one should construct oligarchies as well; for each oligarchy must be put together out of the opposite elements, reasoning by analogy against the opposite kind of democracy — the best-tempered and first of the oligarchies, the one closest to what is called a constitutional government, being the one in which the property qualifications must be divided, some lower and some higher, lower for those who are to share in the necessary offices, higher for those who are to share in the more authoritative ones;
17| and anyone who acquires the property qualification should be allowed to take part in the constitution, the size of the popular element admitted through the qualification being such that those who share in it will be stronger than those who do not; and one must always draw one's partners in the constitution from the better sort of the people. Similarly, the next oligarchy in order should be constructed by tightening the qualification a little further. But the oligarchy opposed to the last kind of democracy, the most dynastic and most tyrannical of the oligarchies, needs the more guarding the worse it is. For just as bodies in good condition for health, and ships well fitted out for sailing, can absorb more mistakes on the part of their crews without being destroyed by them, while sickly bodies, and slack ships that have gotten poor crews, cannot bear even small mistakes, so too the worst constitutions need the most guarding.
18| [1321a] Now what preserves democracies, generally speaking, is a large population (for this is opposed to the justice that goes by merit); but for oligarchy, plainly the opposite holds — it must find its preservation in good order. Since there are four sections of the multitude in particular — the farming class, the mechanical/artisan class, the market/trading class, and the labor class — and four forces useful for war — cavalry, heavy infantry, light-armed troops, and naval forces — wherever it happens that the territory is suited to horses, there the conditions are naturally favorable for making the oligarchy strong (for the safety of the inhabitants depends on this force, and the raising of horses belongs to those who possess large properties); but where the territory suits heavy infantry, the oligarchy next in rank is favored (for the heavy-infantry class belongs more to the well-off than to the poor), while the light-armed and naval force is democratic through and through. As things stand now, then, wherever there is a large multitude of this sort, when factions split apart the oligarchs often come off worse in the contest; but a remedy for this must be taken from military commanders, who combine with the cavalry force a suitable body of heavy infantry drawn from the light-armed. It is by this means that the common people get the better of the well-off in factional conflicts: being light-armed, they contend easily against cavalry and heavy infantry. So to organize this force out of the people's own ranks is simply to organize it against the rulers themselves; instead, the age-classes should be kept distinct — some being older, some younger — and while their sons are still young they should be taught the light and unarmored exercises, while those picked out from among the boys should themselves be practitioners of these functions.
19| As for admitting the multitude to a share in the constitution, this should happen either, as said before, by those who acquire the property-assessment, or as with the Thebans, by those who abstain for a certain time from mechanical trades, or as at Massalia, by making a judgment of who is worthy among those already in the constitution and those outside it. Further, the most authoritative offices, which those within the constitution must hold, should have public services (liturgies) attached to them, so that the common people willingly do without a share in them and feel no grudge against the officeholders, on the ground that they are paying a heavy price for holding office. It is fitting for officeholders, on entering office, to perform magnificent sacrifices and to build some public work, so that the people, sharing in the feasts and seeing the city being adorned, partly with dedicated offerings and partly with buildings, are glad to see the constitution enduring; and it will also turn out that the notable men have monuments of their expenditure. But as things stand now, those in oligarchies do not do this — quite the opposite: they seek the revenues no less than the honor. That is why it is fair to say these are small democracies.
20| [1321b] How democracies and oligarchies should be set up, then, let this be the manner in which it has been determined. Following on what has been said is the need to have properly divided the matters concerning offices — how many there should be, what kinds, and over what — as has also been said before. For without the necessary offices it is impossible for a city to exist, while without those directed to good order and adornment it is impossible for it to be well governed. Further, it is necessary that in small cities there be fewer offices, in large ones more, as has in fact been said before; which offices are fitting to combine and which to keep separate must not go unnoticed. The first care among the necessary matters is that concerning the marketplace, over which there must be some office that oversees contracts and good order; for it is nearly necessary for all cities that some things be bought and some sold to meet people's mutual necessary needs, and this is the most immediate means toward self-sufficiency, for the sake of which people seem to have come together into a single constitution. A second care, adjacent and close to this, is that of public and private matters concerning the town — that there be good order, and the preservation and repair of collapsing buildings and roads, and of boundaries between neighbors, so that they have no grounds for complaint against one another, and whatever other matters of care are similar in kind to these.
21| Most people call this sort of office the city-management office (astynomia), and it has several parts in number, over which different cities in the more populous ones appoint different officials — for example wall-builders, superintendents of springs, and guardians of harbors. There is another office, necessary and closely similar to this: it concerns the same matters, but out in the countryside and the areas outside the town; some call these officials rural superintendents, others forest wardens. These, then, are three departments of care in this area; another office is that to which the public revenues are referred, from which, once guarded, funds are apportioned to each branch of administration — these officials are called receivers and treasurers. Another office is that with which private contracts and the verdicts from the courts must be registered; and with these same officials the indictments for lawsuits and their introductions must also take place. In some places this too is divided among several officials, while elsewhere one authority has charge over all these matters: they are called sacred recorders, overseers, recorders, and other names close to these. Next after this, closely connected to it but perhaps the most necessary and most difficult of the offices, is the one concerned with carrying out sentences against the condemned and those posted according to the public notices,
22| [1322a] and with the custody of persons. This office is difficult because it involves a great deal of hatred, so that where there is not much to be gained from it, people neither endure holding it nor, once they have taken it, are willing to act according to the laws; yet it is necessary, because it is of no use for judgments to be rendered about what is just if these do not reach their completion — so that if people cannot associate with one another when contracts are not carried out, likewise they cannot when actions are not carried out. For this reason it is better that this office not be a single one, but that different people be drawn from different courts, and that an attempt likewise be made to divide up the matter of the posting of the recorded notices; further, that some enforcement be carried out by other officials as well, and particularly that the newer cases be handled by the newer officials rather than by the ones already in office, and that when one set of currently serving officials has passed condemnation, the enforcement be carried out by a different set — for example, that the city-managers enforce the verdicts of the market-officials, and that others enforce the verdicts of these in turn. For the less hatred there is attached to those carrying out the enforcement, the more the actions will reach completion; whereas for the same people to be both those who condemn and those who enforce brings a double hatred, and for the same people to be in charge of everything makes them enemies to everyone. In many places, indeed, the guarding office has also been kept separate from the enforcing office, as at Athens the office of the so-called Eleven.
23| For this reason it is better to keep this office too separate, and to seek the same clever device concerning it as well. For it is no less necessary than the one just mentioned, and yet it turns out that decent men avoid this office most of all, while it is not safe to put worthless men in charge of it; for they themselves need guarding more than others rather than being able to guard others. That is why there should not be a single office permanently assigned to this task, nor the same one continuously, but wherever there is some organized body of young men — cadets or garrison-troops — different men in turn from among these, and from among the officials as well, should be made to take up this care by rotation. These offices, then, being the most necessary, should be set down first; after them come those no less necessary, but arranged in a grander form, for they require much experience and much trust. Such would be those concerned with the guarding of the city, and all those assigned to the needs of war. And it is necessary, both in peace and in war alike, that there be officials in charge of guarding the gates and walls, of the review of the citizens, and of their organization into ranks. In some places, then, there are several offices over all these matters, in others fewer — for example, in small cities, one office over everything.
24| Such officials are called generals and polemarchs. [1322b] Further, if there are cavalry, light troops, archers, or a navy, an office is sometimes set up over each of these as well, called naval commands, cavalry commands, and infantry commands, and under these, divided by unit, trireme commands, company commands, tribal commands, and whatever subdivisions of these there are. The whole of this is one particular form, the oversight of military affairs. This, then, is how matters stand concerning this office. But since some offices, if not all, handle a great deal of public property, there must necessarily be another office to receive the accounts and hold them to audit, itself handling nothing else. Some call these officials auditors, others accountants, others examiners, others advocates. Beyond all these offices there is the one that is most sovereign over all; for the same office often has charge of both the final decision and the introduction of business, or else presides over the multitude, wherever the people are sovereign—for there must be some body that convenes the sovereign power, and that body must itself be sovereign over the constitution. In some places it is called the board of presidents, because its members deliberate beforehand, but where there is a larger body, it is called the council instead. The political offices, then, are roughly this many in kind. There is another form of oversight, that concerning the gods—priests, for instance, and overseers of matters connected with the sacred places, charged with preserving existing buildings, restoring those that are falling down, and everything else that is ordained with regard to the gods.
25| It happens that this oversight is in some places a single office, as in small cities, and in others many offices, kept separate from the priesthood—for example, officials in charge of sacrifices, temple guards, and treasurers of sacred funds. Next to this is the office set apart for all the sacrifices that are held in common, as many as the law does not assign to the priests but that receive their honor from the common hearth; some call these officials archons, others kings, others prytaneis. The necessary offices, then, to sum them up, concern these matters: religious affairs, military affairs, revenues and expenditures, the marketplace, the city itself, harbors, and the countryside, and further, the law courts, the recording of contracts, the execution and guarding of judgments, the auditing and examination and calling to account of officials, and finally those offices concerned with deliberation over public business. Peculiar to cities with more leisure and greater prosperity, and further ones that give thought to good order, are the supervision of women, the guardianship of the laws, the supervision of children, and the superintendence of the gymnasia,
26| [1323a] and in addition to these, oversight of athletic and Dionysiac contests, and any other spectacles of this kind that happen to occur. Some of these offices are plainly not popular in character, such as the supervision of women and the supervision of children; for the poor are necessarily compelled to use their wives and children as servants, for lack of slaves. There are three offices by reference to which certain constitutions choose their sovereign officials: guardians of the law, presidents, and council. The guardians of the law belong to an aristocratic constitution, the presidents to an oligarchic one, and the council to a democratic one. Concerning the offices, then, this covers, in outline, virtually all of them.
1| Concerning the best constitution, anyone who intends to conduct the proper inquiry into it must first determine what the most choiceworthy way of life is. For if this is unclear, the best constitution must necessarily be unclear as well; those who govern themselves best, given the circumstances available to them, ought to fare best, unless something extraordinary happens. Hence we must first come to an agreement about what way of life is, so to speak, most choiceworthy for everyone, and after that, whether the same way of life is choiceworthy in common and in private, or a different one. Assuming, then, that enough has already been said, even among the arguments in our popular writings, about the best life, let us make use of that material now as well. For truly, with respect to at least one division, no one would dispute that, there being three classes of goods—external goods, goods of the body, and goods of the soul—all of these must belong to the blessed. For no one would call a man blessed who has no part in courage, temperance, justice, or practical wisdom, but who is afraid of the flies flitting past him, who abstains from nothing, however extreme, if he has a desire to eat or drink, who destroys his dearest friends for the sake of a quarter-obol, and who, likewise in matters of thought, is as senseless and deceived as a small child or a madman. But while these statements, once spoken, would win agreement from virtually everyone, people differ over the matter of quantity and degree of superiority. For they think it is enough to have virtue in any amount whatever, while of wealth, property, power, reputation, and everything of that kind, they seek an unlimited excess. We shall say to them that it is easy to gain conviction about these matters from the facts themselves as well, seeing that men acquire and preserve the external goods not by means of the virtues but the virtues by means of the external goods,
2| [1323b] and that living happily—whether it consists for human beings in enjoyment, in virtue, or in both—belongs more to those who are adorned to an outstanding degree in character and thought but are moderate in their possession of external goods, than to those who possess more of these than is useful but fall short in the former. This is easy to see if one examines it by reasoning as well. External goods have a limit, like any instrument (for everything useful is useful for some end), and an excess of them must either harm those who have it or at least be of no benefit to them; but each of the goods of the soul, the more it exceeds, the more useful it is—if indeed one must apply to these goods too not only the term fine but also the term useful. And in general it is plain, we shall say, that the best condition of any two things stands to one another in the same ratio of superiority as the things themselves, of which we say these are the conditions. So that if the soul, both absolutely and in relation to us, is more honorable than property and the body, its best condition must necessarily correspond proportionally to theirs. Further, these external things are by nature choiceworthy for the sake of the soul, and all who think rightly ought to choose them for that reason, not the soul for the sake of them.
3| That happiness falls to each person in the same measure as virtue and practical wisdom and action in accordance with these, let this stand as agreed between us, calling on the god as witness, who is happy and blessed, not because of any external good, but through himself and by being of a certain nature. For this reason good fortune must necessarily be something different from happiness (for chance and fortune are the cause of the goods external to the soul, but no one is just or temperate as a result of chance or because of chance). And a further point, following from the same reasoning, needs to be maintained: that the city that is best is also happy and acts well. But it is impossible to act well for those who do not do fine actions, and no action is fine, whether of a man or of a city, apart from virtue and practical wisdom. Courage, justice, and practical wisdom in a city have the same power and form as those by sharing in which each individual human being is called just, practically wise, and temperate. But let this much stand as a preface to our discussion; for it is not possible to leave these matters untouched, nor is it feasible to pursue all the arguments proper to them, since that is the work of another kind of leisured inquiry.
4| For now let this much be laid down: that the best life, both separately for each individual and in common for cities, [1324a] is the life accompanied by virtue furnished to the point of allowing a share in the actions that accord with virtue. As for those who dispute this, we must set them aside for the present method of inquiry and examine them later, in case someone does not happen to be persuaded by what has been said. It remains to say whether happiness must be called the same thing for a single individual human being and for a city, or not the same. This too is plain: for everyone would agree it is the same. For all those who locate living well in wealth, in the case of a single person, also call the whole city blessed if it is wealthy; and those who most honor the tyrannical life would also say that the city that rules over the most people is happiest; and if someone accepts the individual on account of virtue, he will likewise say that the more excellent city is the happier one. But these are already two questions requiring examination: one, which life is more choiceworthy, the one lived through political partnership and sharing in a city, or rather the life of a foreigner, released from political community; and further, what constitution should be laid down, and what disposition of a city is best, whether sharing in a city is choiceworthy for everyone or not for some but for most. Since this last is the work of political thought and theoretical inquiry, and not the question of what is choiceworthy for each individual, and it is this inquiry we have now chosen, the former question would be a side matter, but this one the proper work of this method.
5| That the best constitution is necessarily this arrangement, in accordance with which anyone whatsoever would act best and live blessedly, is plain. But even among those who agree that the life accompanied by virtue is most choiceworthy, dispute arises over whether the political and practical life is choiceworthy, or rather the life released from all external things — a contemplative life of some sort, which some say alone is the life of the philosopher. For it is these two lives, roughly, that the men most ambitious for virtue appear to choose, both those of former times and those now — I mean two: the political life and the philosophic life. And it makes no small difference which way the truth lies; for the person of sound mind must necessarily arrange himself, and each individual as well as the constitution in common, toward the better goal. Some suppose that ruling over one's neighbors despotically, when it occurs, involves some of the greatest injustice, while ruling politically involves no injustice but is an impediment to one's own well-being. Others hold, as it were, the opposite view: that only the practical and political life is the life of a man, since for each of the virtues there are no actions belonging to private individuals any more than to those who conduct public affairs and engage in politics.
6| [1324b] Some, then, hold this view, while others say that only the despotic and tyrannical manner of constitution is happy. And among some peoples this is even the definition of their constitution and their laws — that they should be masters over their neighbors. Hence, although most legal provisions lie scattered about, so to speak, among most peoples without order, still, wherever the laws do look to some one thing, they all aim at domination — just as at Sparta and in Crete both education and the bulk of the laws are organized, virtually, with a view to wars. Further, among all the nations capable of getting the advantage, this sort of power is honored — for example among the Scythians, Persians, Thracians, and Celts. Indeed among some there are actual laws that goad men on toward this kind of virtue: at Carthage, they say, men receive an ornament of rings for every campaign they have served in. There was once also a law around Macedonia that a man who had not killed an enemy must wear a halter around him; and among the Scythians, at a certain festival, a man who had not killed an enemy was not permitted to drink from the cup that was passed around. And among the Iberians, a warlike people, they plant around a man's grave as many small spits as the number of enemies he has destroyed.
7| And there are many other such customs among various peoples, some fixed by law, others by custom. Yet it would seem exceedingly strange, perhaps, to those willing to examine the matter, if this is the work of the statesman — to be able to contemplate how he might rule and be master over his neighbors, whether they wish it or not. For how could this be a political or legislative matter, when it is not even lawful? And it is not lawful to rule not only justly but also unjustly — though it is possible to get the mastery even unjustly. But indeed we do not see this in the other sciences either: it is not the work of the doctor or the pilot either to persuade or to force, the one his patients, the other his sailors. Yet most people seem to think that the despotic art is political rule, and what each does not claim to be just or advantageous for themselves, they are not ashamed to practice against others. For among themselves they seek to be ruled justly, but toward others they care nothing for justice. It is strange, unless by nature one thing is fit to be mastered and another is not — so that if this is indeed the case, one ought not to try to be master over everyone, but only over those fit to be mastered, just as one ought not to hunt human beings for a feast or a sacrifice, but only what is proper to hunt for such a purpose.
8| And what is fit to be hunted is whatever wild animal is fit to be eaten. But surely a single city could also be happy taken by itself, if it is well governed — that is, if it is possible for a city to be settled somewhere by itself, [1325a] making use of excellent laws, where the arrangement of its constitution is directed neither toward war nor toward getting the mastery over enemies; for let nothing of that sort be present at all. It is plain, then, that all the concerns directed toward war are to be counted noble, yet not as the highest end of everything, but rather as being for the sake of that end. It belongs to the good lawgiver to study a city, and a race of human beings, and every other community, to see how they will share in the good life and in whatever happiness is available to them. Some of the provisions laid down will, however, differ, and it is also the business of the legislative art to see, if there happen to be neighboring peoples, what practices should be trained for in relation to which peoples, or how one ought to make use of the customs proper to each. But this question could well receive its proper examination later — to what end the best constitution ought to be directed. As for those who agree that the life accompanied by virtue is most choiceworthy but disagree about the use of it, we must speak to both parties together (for some reject political offices, holding that the life of the free man is something different from the political life and most choiceworthy of all, while others hold this political life to be best;
9| for, they say, it is impossible for one who does nothing to act well, and doing well and happiness are the same thing) — that both parties speak partly rightly and partly not rightly. The former are right in saying that the life of the free man is better than the despotic life; for this is true, since there is nothing dignified in making use of a slave as a slave, since giving orders about necessary things has no share in anything noble. But to suppose that every form of rule is mastery is not correct; for the rule over free persons is no less distinct from the rule over slaves than what is by nature free is distinct from what is by nature a slave. This has been adequately determined about them in our earlier discussions. And to praise inactivity more highly than action is not true; for happiness is an activity, and further, the actions of just and temperate people have as their end many noble things. And yet, once these points have been distinguished, someone might perhaps suppose that being master of everything is best of all; for in that way one would be master of the most and noblest actions. So that the man capable of ruling ought not to yield the place to his neighbor, but rather take it from him, and neither father should count for anything with sons, nor sons with father, nor in general friend with friend, nor should he give this any thought at all —
10| For what is best is most choiceworthy, and doing well is best. This is perhaps true, [1325b] provided that the most choiceworthy of things is available to those who rob and use force; but perhaps it cannot be available, and this is a false assumption they make. For actions can no longer be fine ones for a man toward those who do not differ from him to the degree that a man differs from a woman, or a father from his children, or a master from his slaves; so that one who transgresses in this way could never afterward set right so great a wrong as he has already committed by departing from virtue in the first place. For among equals the fine and the just consist in taking turns, since this is equal and alike; but the unequal applied to equals and the unlike applied to like people is against nature, and nothing against nature is fine. Hence if there is someone else superior in virtue and in the capacity for action to the best men, it is fine to follow him and just to obey him. But there must be not only virtue but also the capacity by which he will be able to act. But if this is well said, and happiness is to be taken as doing well, then the life of action would be best both for the city as a whole and for each individual. But the man of action need not be oriented toward others, as some suppose, nor are only those thoughts practical which come about through action for the sake of results, but much more so the thoughts and speculations that are complete in themselves and pursued for their own sake;
11| for doing well is an end, so that it too is a kind of action. Indeed, we speak of acting most properly, even among external actions, of those who direct such actions with their intelligence as master-craftsmen. Nor is it necessary that cities established by and for themselves and choosing to live in this way should be without action; for it is possible for this too to happen part by part, since there are many partnerships with one another among the parts of a city. The same holds likewise for any single human being: for hardly would god and the whole universe be in a good condition, since they have no external actions beyond those proper to themselves. It is clear, then, that the same life must be best both for each individual man and in common for cities and for men together. Since what has now been said about these matters serves as a preface, and we have examined the other constitutions earlier, it is the starting point for what remains to say first what the assumptions ought to be regarding the city that is to be constructed according to one's wish. For it is not possible for the best constitution to come into being without a proportionate supply of resources. Hence one must lay down in advance many things as if making a wish, yet none of them should be impossible; I mean, for example, matters concerning the number of citizens and the territory.
12| For just as for the other craftsmen too, such as the weaver and the shipbuilder, [1326a] the material must be available in a condition suitable for the work (for the better prepared this happens to be, the finer the product of the craft must necessarily be), so too for the statesman and the lawgiver the material proper to them must be available in a suitable condition. Now the first item of the statesman's resources is the multitude of human beings — how many, and of what sort, they must be by nature — and likewise regarding the territory, how large it must be and of what sort. Most people think that the happy city must be great; but even if this is true, they do not know what sort of city is great and what sort small. For they judge greatness by the number of inhabitants, whereas one ought rather to look not to the number but to the capacity. For a city too has a certain function, so that the one most able to accomplish this must be considered the greatest — just as one might say that Hippocrates was greater as a doctor, not as a man, than someone who surpassed him in bodily size. Even so, if one must judge by looking at number, this should not be done with respect to whatever number happens to occur (for it is presumably necessary for cities to have a large number of slaves and resident aliens and foreigners as well), but rather with respect to those who are part of the city and among the components proper to it that a city is composed of;
13| for a preponderance of these in number is a sign of a great city, whereas one out of which many manual laborers emerge but few hoplites cannot possibly be great; for a great city and a populous one are not the same thing. And this too is evident from the facts: it is difficult, perhaps impossible, for an excessively populous city to be well governed; at any rate, of the cities that seem to be governed well, we see none that is left unrestricted with regard to number. This is clear also through the persuasiveness of argument. For law is a kind of order, and good lawfulness must necessarily be good order, and an excessively large number cannot share in order; for this is a work of divine power, which holds together the whole universe as well. Hence a city in which the greatness stated is combined with the aforesaid limit must necessarily be the finest; since fineness tends indeed to come about in multitude and greatness, yet there is a measure of a city's size too, as there is for all other things — animals, plants, instruments; for none of these will have its own capacity either if it is too small or if it exceeds in size, but at one time it will be entirely deprived of its nature, at another it will be in a poor condition — for instance a boat a span long will not be a boat at all, nor one of two stades, but on reaching a certain size,
14| [1326b] at one time it will make sailing poor because of smallness, at another because of excess. Likewise a city too made of too few is not self-sufficient (whereas a city is by nature self-sufficient), while one made of too many is self-sufficient with respect to necessities, as a nation is, but is not a city; for a constitution is not easy to bring about in it: for who will be general of an excessively overwhelming multitude, or who a herald unless he has the voice of Stentor? Hence the first city must necessarily be composed of the number of people that is the first number self-sufficient for living well according to political partnership; but it is possible too for a city exceeding this in number to be greater, though this, as we said, is not unlimited. What the limit of excess is, is easy to see from the facts. For the actions of a city belong partly to those who rule and partly to those who are ruled, and the work of the ruler is command and judgment; and for judging matters of justice and for distributing offices according to merit, it is necessary for the citizens to know one another, what sort of people they are, since where this does not happen to be the case, matters concerning offices and judgments are necessarily conducted poorly.
15| For in both matters it is not just to act offhand, which plainly happens in cases of excessive populousness. Moreover it becomes easy for foreigners and resident aliens to share in the constitution; for it is not difficult to escape notice on account of the excess of the multitude. It is clear, then, that this is the best limit for a city: the greatest excess of multitude that is easily surveyable with a view to self-sufficiency of life. Let the matter of a city's size be determined in this way. The matter of the territory stands similarly. As for what sort it should be, it is clear that everyone would praise the most self-sufficient territory (and such must necessarily be one that produces everything, for to have everything available and to need nothing is self-sufficient); and in quantity and size, such as to enable the inhabitants to live at leisure in a manner both free and moderate. Whether we state this limit well or not must be examined later more precisely, when we come to make mention generally of property and of abundance in wealth, and how and in what manner one should relate to its use; for there are many disputes about this inquiry, on account of those who draw the manner of life to either excess, some toward stinginess, others toward luxury.
16| It is not hard to say what kind of territory is wanted (though on some points we must take the word of those experienced in military strategy): it should be hard for enemies to invade but easy for the citizens themselves to march out of. [1327a] Further, just as we said the mass of the population should be easy to take in at a glance, so too should the territory be; and for a territory, being easy to take in at a glance means being easy to send help across. As for the site of the city, if we are to design it to our wish, it ought to be well placed both with respect to the sea and with respect to the country. That, then, is one criterion we have stated (for it must be a common center for sending relief to all the outlying places); the remaining consideration concerns the transport of the crops produced, and also of timber for building and of whatever other product the territory happens to yield, so that it can be brought in easily. As to the city's association with the sea, whether it is beneficial or harmful to well-governed cities, people dispute a great deal: some say that the presence of foreigners raised under other laws is inconvenient for good order, and so is the swelling of population, since it comes about through using the sea to send out and take in a multitude of merchants, and this works against being governed well. Now that, if these consequences do not follow, it is better for both safety and for a ready supply of necessities that the city and its territory should have a share in the sea, is not in doubt.
17| For indeed, in order to bear wars more easily, those who are to be kept safe need to be able to send help by both routes, by land and by sea, and also, for the sake of harming attackers, if it is not possible on both, they will at least have it available on one of the two, by having a share in both. And whatever goods a people does not happen to have among themselves, it is a matter of necessity to receive these, and to send out abroad whatever surplus of their own produce there is; for the city ought to be engaged in trade for its own sake, not for that of others. Those who make themselves a market open to everyone do this for the sake of revenue; and a city that ought not to have a share in that kind of gain-seeking need not possess a trading-station of that sort either. Since we now in fact see many territories and cities possessing docks and harbors naturally well placed with respect to the city, so situated that they neither share the same site as the town nor lie too far off, but are kept under control by walls and other such defenses, it is clear that if some good comes about through association with them, this good will accrue to the city, while if something harmful results, it is easy to guard against it by the laws stating and marking out clearly who ought not, and who ought, to mix with one another. As for naval power, that it is best to have it up to a certain size is not in doubt
18| [1327b] (for a city ought to be an object of fear not only to itself but also to some of its neighbors, and to be able to bring help, both by land and by sea): but as to the exact quantity and size of this power, that must be examined with a view to the city's way of life. For if it is to live a life of leadership and political preeminence, it is necessary that this power too be available in due proportion to its undertakings. But the swelling of population that arises around the naval crowd need not occur in cities, since these men need be no part of the city at all. For the fighting force on shipboard is drawn from the free population, from those who also serve on land, and it is this element that has authority over and controls seamanship; and where there is an abundance of dependent inhabitants of the surrounding country and of those who farm the land, there will necessarily be no lack of sailors either. We see this actually the case with some cities even now, for instance the city of the Heracleots: for they man many triremes, though they possess a city smaller in size than others that are more moderate. On the subject of the territory, harbors, and sea belonging to cities, and on naval power, let this be settled in this way; and as to the population of citizens, what limit there ought to be we stated earlier, and what natural character they ought to have, let us now state.
19| One might grasp this fairly well by looking to the cities held in high repute among the Greeks and to the whole inhabited world, in the way it is divided among the nations. The nations in cold regions, and those around Europe, are full of spirit but rather deficient in thought and skill; hence they continue on the whole free, but lacking in political organization and unable to rule their neighbors. Those in Asia have souls that are full of thought and skill, but lack spirit; hence they continue to be ruled and to be enslaved. But the race of the Greeks, occupying the middle position geographically, shares in both, being both spirited and full of thought; hence it continues to be free, to be governed in the best manner, and to be capable of ruling all others, were it to attain a single constitution. And the Greek nations show the same difference among themselves: some have a nature that is one-sided, while others are well blended in respect of both these capacities. It is clear, then, that those who are to be easily led by the lawgiver toward virtue must be both full of thought and spirited by nature. For what some say ought to characterize guardians, namely being friendly toward those they know and fierce toward strangers, this friendliness is produced by spirit;
20| for spirit is that power of the soul by which we love. [1328a] Here is a sign: spirit is roused more against those who are close to us and our friends than against strangers, when it thinks itself slighted. Hence Archilochus, complaining suitably against friends, addresses his own spirit: for it is by friends indeed that you are being strangled. And ruling and freedom too belong to all beings through this same power; for spirit is a ruling and unconquerable thing. But it is not right to say that guardians should be harsh toward strangers; for one ought not to be that way toward anyone, and men of great soul are not fierce by nature, except toward wrongdoers. And this they feel still more strongly toward those close to them, as has been said before, if they think themselves wronged. And this happens reasonably: for those from whom people suppose a benefit is owed them, in addition to the injury they think themselves also robbed of this benefit besides; hence the saying, "for wars between brothers are harsh," and "those who have loved to excess, these also hate to excess." On the citizen body, then, how many there ought to be and what natural character they ought to have, and further on the territory, how large and of what sort it ought to be, we have given a fairly full account (for one should not seek the same degree of precision through arguments as through what is grasped by perception).
21| Since, just as with other things composed according to nature, the parts of the whole composition are not simply those things without which the whole could not exist, it is clear that we should not count as parts of a city everything necessarily present in cities, nor of any other partnership out of which some single kind of thing arises (for there must be something one and common shared by the partners, whether they take an equal or an unequal share of it) — for instance, whether it is food, or a quantity of land, or something else of that sort. But when one thing exists for the sake of another, and the other is that for whose sake it exists, there is nothing common between them at all except that the one produces and the other receives; I mean, for example, as between any tool and the work being produced, and the craftsmen who use it: for between a house and the builder there is nothing that comes to be in common, but the builders' craft exists for the sake of the house. Hence cities need property, yet property is no part of the city; and many parts of property are living beings. But the city is a partnership of similar persons, for the sake of the best life that is possible. Since happiness is the best thing, and this is an actuality and complete exercise of virtue, and it happens to be the case that some can share in it while others can only slightly or not at all, it is clear that this is the cause of there coming to be different kinds and varieties of city and several constitutions;
22| [1328b] For it is in different ways and through different means that each group pursues this, and so they make both their ways of life and their constitutions different. We must also examine how many things there are without which a city could not exist. For the things we say are parts of a city would be among these, and so they must necessarily be present. We must then take up the number of the functions, since from these the answer will become clear. First, then, there must be food; next, crafts (for living needs many tools); third, arms (for those who share in the community must necessarily have arms among themselves too, both for the sake of rule, on account of those who disobey, and against those from outside who attempt to do wrong); further, a certain supply of wealth, so that they may have enough both for their own needs and for those of war; fifth, and first in importance, care for the divine, which they call the priesthood; sixth in number, and the most necessary of all, a judgment about what is advantageous and about what is just as between one another. These, then, are the functions that every city needs, so to speak (for a city is a multitude not of just any sort but one self-sufficient for life, as we say, and if it happens to be lacking any of these, it is impossible for this community to be self-sufficient without qualification):
23| A city, then, must necessarily be composed in accordance with these functions. There must therefore be a multitude of farmers, who will provide the food, and craftsmen, and the fighting element, and the wealthy element, and priests, and judges of what is necessary and advantageous. Now that these have been distinguished, it remains to consider whether all must share in all of these (for it is possible for the same people all to be farmers and craftsmen and deliberators and judges), or whether different people must be assumed for each of the functions mentioned, or whether some of these are necessarily private to some and some common. But it is not the same in every constitution. For, as we said, it is possible either for all to share in all, or for not all to share in all but for some to share in some. And it is precisely this that makes constitutions different from one another: for in democracies all share in all, while in oligarchies it is the opposite. Since we happen to be inquiring about the best constitution, and this is the one under which the city would be happiest, and it has been said earlier that happiness cannot exist apart from virtue, it is clear from this that in the city that is governed most finely and that possesses men who are just without qualification, and not merely just relative to the hypothesis of the constitution, the citizens must live neither a life of manual labor nor a life of trade (for such a life is ignoble and opposed to virtue), nor indeed must those who are to be citizens be farmers
24| [1329a] (for leisure is needed both for the generation of virtue and for political actions). And since the warlike element and the element that deliberates about what is advantageous and judges about what is just are both present and appear to be most of all the parts of the city, the question is whether these too are to be set down as different, or whether both are to be assigned to the same people. And this too is clear, that in one way they belong to the same people, and in another way to different people. Since each of these two tasks culminates at a different stage of life, and one calls for prudence while the other calls for strength, they belong to different people in that respect; yet since men strong enough to force their will, or to block others by force, cannot go on forever accepting rule from someone else, in that respect the two roles fall to the same people. For those who are masters of the arms are also masters of whether the constitution stands or does not stand. It remains, then, to assign this constitution to the same people in both roles, but not at the same time — rather, just as power naturally belongs to the younger and practical wisdom to the older, it seems to be advantageous and just that the two be apportioned in this way between them; for this division has what is proportionate to worth. But indeed possessions too must belong to these people. For it is necessary that there be wealth for the citizens, and these are the citizens.
25| For the manual laboring class has no share in the city, nor does any other class that is not a craftsman of virtue. This is clear from the hypothesis: for being happy must necessarily exist together with virtue, and a city must be called happy not by looking at some part of it but by looking at all the citizens. And it is clear too that the possessions must belong to these people, if indeed the farmers must necessarily be slaves, or non-Greeks living round about. It remains, from those enumerated, the class of priests. And their arrangement too is clear. For neither a farmer nor a manual laborer must be appointed priest (for it is fitting for the gods to be honored by the citizens); and since the political element has been divided into two parts, namely the element of arms and the deliberative element, and it is fitting both to render service to the gods and to give rest, in connection with them, to those who are worn out by age, it would be to these that the priesthoods connected with them should be assigned. What things, then, a city cannot exist without, and how many the parts of a city are, has been stated (for it is necessary that farmers and craftsmen and every kind of hired labor exist for cities, while the parts of the city are the element of arms and the deliberative element), and each of these has indeed been kept separate, the one permanently, the other in turn.
26| It seems that this has been recognized by those who philosophize about constitutions neither now nor recently — [1329b] namely, that the city must be divided apart by classes, and that the fighting element must be different from the farming element. For in Egypt it is still this way even now, and so it is in the region around Crete: the arrangement around Egypt came about, as they say, through Sesostris legislating in this way, that around Crete through Minos. The arrangement of common meals seems to be ancient as well — the Cretan version arising around the reign of Minos, while the Italian version is much older than these. For the learned among those who dwell there say that a certain Italus became king of Oenotria, from whom, changing their name, they were called Italians instead of Oenotrians, and this coast of Europe took the name Italy, as much of it as happens to lie within the Scylletic and Lametic gulfs; these are half a day's journey apart from one another. They say that this Italus made the Oenotrians, who were nomads, into farmers, and established for them, among other laws, the common meals as well, for the first time; on which account even now some of his descendants still make use of the common meals and of some of his laws. Those toward Tyrrhenia were inhabited by the Opicans, both formerly and now called by the additional name Ausonians, while those toward Iapygia and the Ionian sea were inhabited by the Chonians, in the region called Syrtis;
27| and the Chonians too were Oenotrian by race. The arrangement of the common meals, then, arose first from this source, but the division of the political multitude by class came from Egypt; for the reign of Sesostris exceeds by far in time the reign of Minos. We must suppose, then, that pretty much everything else too has been discovered many times over the long course of time, or rather infinitely many times. For it is reasonable that need itself should teach the necessary things, while once these are already available it is reasonable that the things pertaining to refinement and abundance should receive their growth; so that one must think matters concerning constitutions have come about in the same way. That all this goes back a long way is signaled by the Egyptian case: this people is reckoned the oldest of all, and they have possessed laws and civic order continuously. Hence one must make sufficient use of what has already been discovered, and try to seek out what has been left aside. That the territory must belong to those who possess arms and who share in the constitution has been stated earlier, and why those who farm it must be different people, and how large and of what kind the territory must be; but concerning the distribution of the land and of the farmers, who and of what sort they must be, we must speak first, since we say that property must not be common, as some have said,
28| [1330a] but by use become common in a friendly way, and none of the citizens should lack food. As for common messes, it is generally agreed that it is useful for them to exist in well-organized cities; for what reason we too agree, we will say later. All the citizens must share in these, but it is not easy for the poor to contribute the assessed amount out of their private means and also manage the rest of their household. Further, expenditures for the gods are the common concern of the whole city. It is necessary, then, that the territory be divided into two parts, one common and one belonging to private individuals, and that each of these in turn be divided in two: of the common land, one part is for the services performed for the gods, the other for the expense of the common messes; of the private land, one part is toward the frontier, the other toward the city, so that, two allotments being assigned to each person, all share in both regions. For this arrangement accords with equality and with justice, and makes people more united in mind with regard to wars against neighboring peoples. For where this is not the arrangement, some take too little account of hostility toward their border-neighbors, while others take too much account of it, beyond what is fine.
29| For this reason, among some peoples there is a law that those who live near the border-neighbors should not take part in deliberation about wars against them, on the ground that because of their private interest they would not be able to deliberate well. The territory, then, must necessarily be divided in this way, for the reasons stated. As for those who will do the farming, it would be best, if we may pray for what we wish, that they be slaves — but not all of one stock, nor spirited (for in this way they would be useful for the work and safe as regards not attempting revolution); second best, foreign dependents of a nature similar to those described. Of these, some should be private, belonging to those who own the estates, and others should be common, working the common land. In what manner slaves should be used, and why it is better that freedom be set before all slaves as a prize, we will say later. That the city ought to be common to the mainland, the sea, and the whole territory alike, as far as circumstances allow, has been said before; and one should pray to hit upon a site for it that is elevated, having regard to four things. First, as necessary for health (for sites that have their slope toward the east, and toward the winds that blow from the sunrise, are healthier; second, those facing north,
30| for these are milder in winter). [1330b] As for the rest, it is well for the site to have regard to political and military activities. For military purposes, it must be easy for the citizens themselves to march out from, but hard for enemies to approach and hard to surround; and it should, if possible, have on its own an abundance of waters and springs; failing this, a solution has been found by constructing reservoirs for rainwater, large and plentiful, so that the inhabitants are never left short when shut off from the countryside by war. Since one must take care for the health of the inhabitants, and this consists in the place being well situated in itself and well facing such conditions, and second in using healthy waters, and giving this careful, not casual, attention — for the things we use most, and most often, for the body contribute most to health, and the power of waters and of air has just this kind of nature. For this reason, in cities that are well governed, a distinction must be made, if the waters are not all alike or plentiful, between water for drinking and water for other uses. As for fortified sites, what is advantageous is not the same for all constitutions alike: for example, a citadel suits oligarchy and monarchy, level ground suits democracy, and neither suits aristocracy, but rather several strong positions.
31| The arrangement of private dwellings is thought to be more pleasant and more serviceable for other activities if it is laid out in straight lines, in the modern manner, the manner of Hippodamus; but for security in war the opposite is better, as it was arranged in ancient times, for that kind of layout is hard for foreigners to enter and hard for attackers to find their way through. For this reason one should share in both arrangements — for it is possible, if one lays out the city as farmers lay out what some call clusters in vine-growing — and not make the whole city laid out in straight lines, but only by sections and districts; for in this way it will be well disposed both for safety and for adornment. As for walls, those who say that cities that lay claim to virtue ought not to have them hold much too old-fashioned a view, especially seeing that the cities that prided themselves in that way have in fact been refuted by events. Against those who are similar and not much superior in numbers, it is not fine to try to save oneself through the strength of walls; but since it can also happen that the superiority of the attackers becomes greater than the human excellence found in a few, if one is to be saved and not suffer badly nor be treated with outrage, the safest fortification of walls must be thought the most warlike,
32| [1331a] especially now that precision has been achieved in missiles and siege-engines for besieging. To think it right not to throw walls around cities is like seeking out territory easy to invade and stripping away its mountainous regions, and likewise like not throwing walls around private dwellings on the ground that the inhabitants will become unmanly. But this too must not be overlooked: that those who have thrown walls around their city can use their cities in both ways, both as having walls and as not having them, while those who do not possess them cannot. If this is so, then not only must walls be thrown up, but care must also be taken of them, so that they are fitting both for adornment suited to the city and for the needs of war, both the traditional ones and those now newly discovered. For just as it is a matter of concern to attackers by what means they will gain the advantage, so too, while some means have been found, others must be sought out and thought through by those on the defense as well; for attackers do not even attempt to attack those who are well prepared in the first place. Since the mass of the citizens must be distributed among common messes, and the walls must be divided by guard-posts and towers at strategic points, it is clear that this calls for arranging some of the common messes to be located in these guard-posts.
33| These matters, then, one might arrange in this manner. As for the dwellings assigned to the gods and the common messes of the most authoritative offices, it is fitting that they have a suitable location, and the same one, except for those sacred places that the law sets apart, or some oracle received from Pytho. Such a place would be one that has a visibility sufficient for the excellence of its position, and is more strongly fortified with regard to the neighboring parts of the city. Below this place it is fitting that there be a marketplace of the kind they have in Thessaly, which they call the free marketplace; this is one that must be kept clear of all goods for sale, and neither a vulgar craftsman nor a farmer nor anyone else of that sort should venture in unless summoned by the officials. The place would be pleasant if the gymnasia of the older men also have their arrangement there; for it is fitting that this ordering too be divided according to age-groups, with some of the officials spending their time among the younger men, while the older men spend theirs among the officials; for the presence of the officials before their eyes most produces true reverence and the fear proper to free men.
34| [1331b] The market for goods must be a different one from this, and separate, having a place easy to gather at both for what is sent up from the sea and for everything from the countryside. And since the mass of the city is divided into priests and officials, it is fitting that the common meals of the priests too should have their arrangement around the sacred buildings. As for those offices which exercise oversight over contracts, the filing of suits, summonses, and the rest of that kind of administration, and further over market-regulation and what is called city-regulation, these need to be established near a market and some common meeting-place; and such is the place around the necessary market — for we assign the upper one to leisure, but this one to necessary business. And the arrangement described must be imitated also in the country districts: for there too, for the officials whom some call wood-wardens and others field-wardens, there must necessarily be guard-posts and common meals for the sake of guarding, and further there must be shrines distributed throughout the country, some to gods and some to heroes. But to spend time now being precise and talking about such matters is idle work.
35| For it is not hard to conceive such things, but rather to do them: talking about them is the business of a wish, but their coming about is the business of luck. Hence, as regards such matters, let the fuller treatment be dropped for now. But about the constitution itself — out of what elements and of what kind the city that is going to be blessed and to be governed well must be composed — this must now be stated. And since there are two things in which the good state of everything comes about, and of these two one lies in the goal and end of actions being set down correctly, the other in finding the actions that lead to that end (for these can either be discordant with each other or in accord: sometimes the goal is set down well, but in the doing men fail to hit it, and sometimes they succeed in everything that leads toward the end, but they set the end itself badly, and sometimes they fail in both, as in medicine: for sometimes people judge badly what sort of thing a healthy body ought to be, and also fail to hit upon the things productive of the standard they have set themselves; and in the arts and sciences both of these must be mastered, the end and the actions that lead to the end) — it is clear, then, that all men aim at living well and at happiness, but that of these some happen to have the means and others not, owing to some luck or nature (for living well requires some equipment as well,
36| [1332a] less of it for those better disposed, more for those worse off), while others go about seeking happiness incorrectly right from the start, even though the means are available. Since the task before us is to see the best constitution, and this is the one according to which a city would be governed best, and a city would be governed best according to which it is most possible for it to be happy, it is clear that we must not let it escape us what happiness is. We say — and we have determined this in the Ethics, if that discussion is of any use — that it is the complete activity and exercise of virtue, and this not conditionally but without qualification. By 'conditionally' I mean the necessary things, and by 'without qualification' the fine; for example, in the case of just actions, just retributions and punishments proceed from virtue, but they are necessary, and they have their fineness in a necessary way (for it is more choiceworthy that neither the man nor the city should need any such thing), whereas the actions directed at honors and abundance are, without qualification, the finest actions. For the one kind is the removal of some evil, while actions of this other kind are the opposite: they are constructions and generations of goods. The excellent man would make good use even of poverty and disease and the other pieces of bad luck;
37| but blessedness lies in their opposites (for this too has been determined according to the ethical discussions, that the excellent man is one for whom, on account of virtue, the things good without qualification are good; and it is clear that the use he makes of them must be excellent and fine in an unqualified sense). This is why people suppose that the causes of happiness are the external goods, as if one were to attribute a brilliant and fine performance on the lyre to the instrument rather than to the skill. It is necessary, then, on the basis of what has been said, that some things be already present and others be provided by the lawgiver. Hence we pray to hit upon, in the constitution of the city, those things of which luck is in control (for we posit that it is in control of them); but that the city be excellent is no longer the work of luck but of knowledge and choice. And in fact a city is excellent by virtue of the citizens who share in the constitution being excellent; and in our case all the citizens share in the constitution. This, then, is what must be examined: how a man comes to be excellent. For even if it is possible for all to be excellent collectively without each citizen being so individually, the latter — each being excellent individually — is more choiceworthy; for that all are excellent follows from each being so. But in fact men become good and excellent through three things.
38| These three are nature, habit, and reason. For one must first be born, for example, a human being and not one of the other animals; then one's body and soul must also be of a certain quality. But in some cases there is no benefit in being born so: [1332b] for habits bring about change; for some traits go either way by nature, and through habits move toward the worse or the better. Now the other animals live mostly by nature, though a few also to a small extent by habits, but man lives also by reason: for he alone has reason. So these must be in harmony with one another. For men do many things contrary to their habituations and their nature because of reason, if they are persuaded that it is better to be otherwise. As for what qualities by nature those who are going to be readily manageable by the lawgiver must have, we have determined this earlier; what remains is now the work of education. For some things men learn by being habituated, others by hearing. And since every political community is composed of rulers and ruled, this must be examined: whether the rulers and the ruled must be different people, or the same throughout life; for it is clear that education too will have to follow this division. Now if some were as different from the rest as we suppose the gods and heroes to be different from men, having at once a great superiority first in body, then in soul, so that the superiority of the rulers over the ruled were beyond dispute and evident, it is clear that it would always be better for the same people to rule and the others to be ruled, once and for all.
39| But since it is not easy to obtain this, nor is it the case, as Scylax says it is among the Indians, that the kings are so far superior to the ruled, it is clear that for many reasons all must necessarily share alike in ruling in turn and being ruled. For equality is the same thing for those who are alike, and it is hard for a constitution established contrary to justice to endure. For all those throughout the countryside who wish for revolution have the ruled on their side, and for those in the governing body to be so numerous as to be stronger than all these together is one of the impossibilities. But that the rulers must differ from the ruled is beyond dispute. How this is to be, then, and how they will share in ruling, the lawgiver must examine. This has been spoken of before. For nature has given the division by making the very same kind of thing, one part younger, one part older, of whom it is fitting for the one to be ruled and the other to rule; and no one is aggrieved at being ruled on the basis of age, nor thinks himself superior, especially since he will himself receive this same contribution back once he arrives at the age required. In one way, then, it must be said that the same people rule and are ruled, and in another way that they are different people.
40| [1333a] So education too must in a way be the same, and in a way different. For they say the one who is to rule well must first be ruled. (Rule, as was said in our first discussions, is of two kinds: one for the sake of the ruler, the other for the sake of the ruled. Of these we say one is despotic, the other is rule over free people. Some of the things commanded differ not in their tasks but in their purpose. That is why many tasks that seem to be menial it is fine even for free young people to perform as service: for actions do not differ so much in themselves with respect to what is fine and not fine as in their end and their purpose.) Since we say that the virtue of the citizen and the ruler is the same as that of the best man, and that the same person must first become ruled and later become a ruler, this would be the task the lawgiver must attend to: how men become good, and through what practices, and what the end of the best life is. The soul is divided into two parts, of which one has reason in its own right, while the other does not have it in its own right but is capable of obeying reason:
41| of which we say the virtues are those in accordance with which a man is in some way called good. As to which of these two the end lies in more, for those who divide as we do it is not unclear how one should speak. For the worse is always for the sake of the better, and this is equally evident both in matters of craft and in matters of nature: and the better is that which has reason. This too has been divided in two, in the way we are accustomed to dividing it: for one kind of reason is practical, the other theoretical. So it is necessary that this part too has been divided in the same way, evidently. And we shall say that actions stand in the same proportion, and that the actions of that which is by nature better must be more choiceworthy for those able to attain either all of them or the two: for what is always most choiceworthy for each is whatever it is possible for him to attain of the highest. The whole of life, too, is divided into business and leisure, and into war and peace, and of practicable things, some are directed to what is necessary and useful, others to what is fine. Concerning these, the same choice must hold both for the parts of the soul and for their actions: war for the sake of peace, business for the sake of leisure, and the necessary and useful for the sake of the fine.
42| Toward all these things, then, the statesman must legislate with his eye fixed, both on the parts of the soul and on their actions, but more on the better things and the ends. And the same way holds concerning ways of life and the choice of activities: one must be able to engage in business and to wage war, [1333b] but more to keep peace and be at leisure, and to do the necessary and useful things, but the fine things must be done more. So it is with a view to these aims that both children, while still children, must be educated, and the other ages too, all that need education. But those of the Greeks now thought to have the best constitutions, and those of the lawgivers who established these constitutions, appear to have organized the affairs of their constitutions neither with a view to the best end nor with a view to all the virtues in their laws and education, but have vulgarly inclined toward those things thought to be useful and more conducive to gain. In a similar way to these, some of the later writers too have declared the same opinion: for in praising the constitution of the Lacedaemonians, they admire the aim of their lawgiver, because he legislated everything with a view to mastery and to war. These views are easily refuted in argument, and have now been refuted by the facts. For just as most people admire ruling over many, because a great abundance of good fortunes results from it, so too Thibron evidently admired the lawgiver of the Spartans, and so does each of the other writers about their constitution, because through having been trained for dangers they ruled over many:
43| and yet it is clear that, since the Spartans no longer possess rule now, they are not happy, nor was their lawgiver good. This is ridiculous - if, while remaining within his laws, and with nothing hindering their use of the laws, they have lost living well. Nor do they conceive rightly about the kind of rule which the lawgiver ought evidently to hold in honor: for rule over free people is finer than despotic rule, and accompanied more by virtue. Further, a city must not be considered happy, nor its lawgiver praised, for this reason - that he trained it to conquer with a view to ruling its neighbors: for this involves great harm. For it is clear that any citizen able to do so must try to pursue this as well, so that he may be able to rule his own city - which is exactly what the Spartans charge King Pausanias with, even though he held so great an honor. None of such arguments and laws, then, is statesmanlike or beneficial or true. For the same things are best both privately and in common, and the lawgiver must instill these in the souls of men: and training in warfare must be practiced not for the sake of this - that they may enslave those who do not deserve it - but first, so that they themselves may not be enslaved to others, and next, so that they may seek leadership for the benefit of the ruled,
44| [1334a] and not for mastery over everyone; and third, so as to be masters over those who deserve to be slaves. That the lawgiver ought to be more concerned to arrange both his legislation about warfare and the rest of his legislation for the sake of leisure and of peace, the facts bear witness to the arguments. For most cities of this kind are preserved while at war, but perish once they have acquired empire: for they lose their temper, like iron, when they keep the peace. The lawgiver is responsible, for not having educated them to be able to be at leisure. Since the same end appears to hold both in common and privately for men, and the same standard must necessarily hold for the best man and for the best constitution, it is clear that the virtues directed to leisure must be present: for the end, as has often been said, is peace as against war, leisure as against business. Useful for leisure and for the passing of life are those virtues whose function lies in leisure, and also those whose function lies in business. For many of the necessities must be present so that one may be able to have leisure: that is why the city must be temperate and courageous and enduring: for according to the proverb, there is no leisure for slaves, and those unable to face danger courageously are slaves to whoever attacks them.
45| Courage and endurance, then, are needed for business, philosophy for leisure, temperance and justice in both periods, and more so when people are at peace and at leisure: for war compels people to be just and temperate, while the enjoyment of good fortune and being at leisure amid peace tend rather to make them insolent. Much justice and much temperance are needed, then, by those thought to fare best and to enjoy all the things counted blessed - for instance, if there are any such, as the poets say, in the Isles of the Blessed: for these will need philosophy and temperance and justice the most, the more they are at leisure amid an abundance of such goods. That the city that is going to be happy and excellent must share in these virtues, then, is clear. For if it is shameful to be unable to use good things, it is still more shameful to be unable to use them in leisure - to appear good while occupied in business and at war, but slavish when at peace and at leisure. That is why virtue must not be practiced the way the Lacedaemonian city practices it. For they do not differ from others in this respect,
46| [1334b] by not thinking the same things are the greatest goods as the many do, but because these come to be more through some virtue: since these are greater goods, and their enjoyment is greater than that of the virtues, and this because it is for its own sake, is clear from what has been said; but how and through what means this will come about, this we must now consider. We happen to have distinguished earlier that there is need of nature, habit, and reason. Of these, what sort the nature must be has been determined earlier; what remains to consider is whether people should be trained by reason first or by habits. For these must be in harmony with each other, the best harmony; for it is possible for reason to have missed the best assumption, and to have been led astray likewise through habits. This much then is clear first of all, just as in other cases, that generation proceeds from a starting point, and the end proceeds from some starting point to another end, and reason and intellect are for us the end of nature, so that it is with a view to these that we must prepare the generation and the training of habits; next, just as soul and body are two things, so too we see two parts of the soul, the one without reason and the one having reason, and their states are two in number, of which one is desire and the other is intellect; and just as the body is prior in generation to the soul, so too the part without reason is prior to the part having reason.
47| This too is clear: for spirit and wish, and further appetite, belong to children as soon as they are born, but calculation and intellect naturally come to be present as they advance in age. So attending to the body must necessarily precede attending to the soul, and attending to desire comes next; desire, though, is tended for intellect's sake, while the body is tended for the soul's sake. If then the lawgiver must from the start see to it that the bodies of those reared become as good as possible, first he must take care about the union of man and wife — when, and being of what sort of persons, people should form marital intercourse with one another. In legislating about this partnership he must have regard both to the couple themselves and to their span of life, so that they may come down together in their ages to the same season, and their capacities not be out of tune, with the man still able to beget while the woman is not, or the woman still able while the man is not (for these things produce factions and differences between them); further, he must have regard also to the succession of children — for children must neither fall too far behind their fathers in age (for the gratitude of children toward fathers who are too old brings no benefit, nor does the help of fathers toward children)
48| [1335a] nor be too close together in age (for this involves much difficulty; for such persons have less of the respect due, as it were, to age-mates, and closeness in age is a ground for reproach in household management); further — and this is the point from which we set out on this digression — how the bodies of those begotten may turn out according to the lawgiver's wish. Now nearly all these things result from one kind of care. For since the end of begetting has been fixed, speaking for the most part, at the number of seventy years for men, and fifty for women, the beginning of the union in point of age should come down to within these periods. Now the pairing of the young is poor for the production of children; for in all animals the offspring of the young are incomplete, and more often female, and small in form, so that the same must necessarily hold also in the case of human beings. Here is evidence: in as many cities as it is customary to pair young men and young women, the bodies of the offspring are incomplete and small. Further, in childbirth the young suffer more and more of them perish; hence some say that the oracle was given to the Troezenians for this very reason — that many were perishing because the younger women were being married off, and not with reference to the gathering of crops.
49| Further, it is advantageous also for temperance that marriages be made when the women are older; for young women who have had intercourse are thought to be more prone to licentiousness. And the bodies of males also seem to be harmed in their growth if they have intercourse while the seed is still growing; for this too has a fixed period, beyond which it does not continue to increase much, or only a little. Hence it is fitting for women to be joined in marriage around the age of eighteen, and men at thirty-seven or a little before; for at that time, when their bodies are at their prime, the union will take place, and the couple will come down together in due season toward the cessation of child-bearing; further, the succession of children will occur for those who are beginning their prime — if the generation happens straightaway in due proportion — while for the parents it will occur when their age has already declined, toward the number of seventy years. Concerning, then, when the union should be made, this has been said; but as for the season of the year, one should use the times that most people use, having rightly determined even now that this cohabitation should take place in winter. And people themselves must already, with a view to child-bearing, take note of what is said by physicians and by natural scientists;
50| for physicians speak adequately about the right times of the body, [1335b] and natural scientists about the winds, praising the north winds more than the south. As for what sort of bodily condition would be of most benefit to those being begotten, this must be spoken of more precisely in the treatise on the rearing of children, but it is enough to state it in outline even now. For neither the condition of athletes is useful for a citizen's good condition, nor for health and child-bearing, nor is the condition that is overly cared-for and overly toil-worn, but rather the condition in between these. One should have a condition that has been worked, but worked by labors that are not violent, nor directed at one thing only, as the condition of athletes is, but directed toward the actions of free persons. And this should hold alike for men and for women. Pregnant women too must take care of their bodies, not being idle nor using a scanty diet. This the lawgiver can easily bring about by ordering them to make a daily walk, for the service of the gods to whom the honor concerning birth has been allotted. As for the mind, however, it is fitting for pregnant women to pass their time more at ease, the opposite of the body; for what is begotten clearly draws on the mother as plants draw on the earth. Concerning the exposure and rearing of children, let there be a law that nothing deformed shall be reared; but on account of the number of children, if the order of customs prevents any of those born from being exposed, then
51| the amount of child-bearing must be limited; and if any couples have children beyond this limit, before sensation and life have come to be in the child abortion must be procured; for it is the presence or absence of sensation and life that will mark what is pious and what is not. Since the beginning of the age at which man and woman should begin their union has been determined, let it also be determined how long a time it is fitting to perform this service toward child-bearing. For the offspring of those too old, like those of the too young, come to be incomplete both in body and in mind, and the offspring of those grown old are weak; hence the limit should be set according to the prime of the mind. This, in most cases, is the same as some of the poets have said, who measure age by periods of seven years, around the time of fifty years. So that those who exceed this age by four or five years should be released from begetting children openly; but for the remaining time they should be seen to have intercourse evidently for the sake of health or some other such reason. As for intercourse with another woman or another man, let it be simply not noble to be seen touching such a person in any way whatsoever, once one is married and called husband; but if during the time of child-bearing anyone is seen doing such a thing,
52| [1336a] let him be punished with a loss of privilege appropriate to the offense. Once the children are born, we must think that the nourishment given makes a great difference to the strength of their bodies, whatever kind it is. It is evident, both from observing the other animals and from observing the peoples who take care to train their young to a warlike condition, that a diet abundant in milk is most suited to their bodies, and one with less wine because of the diseases it causes. Further, it is beneficial to allow them as much movement as children of that age can manage. And to prevent their limbs from being twisted through softness, some peoples even now use certain mechanical devices which keep the bodies of such infants straight. It is also beneficial to accustom them from early childhood to cold, for this is most useful both for health and for the business of war. That is why among many of the barbarian peoples there is a custom, in some cases of dipping newborns in a cold river, in others of wrapping them in only a light covering, as the Celts do. For in everything that admits of habituation, it is better to habituate children from the very start, but to habituate them by gradual approach; and the constitution of children, because of their natural heat, is well suited by nature for training against cold. So concerning the earliest period it is beneficial to take this kind of care, and care resembling it.
53| As for the age next following this, up to five years, during which it is not yet good to lead them toward any learning nor toward compulsory exertions, so that their growth is not hindered, they must nonetheless get enough movement to escape bodily inactivity; and this must be provided both through other activities and through play. The kinds of play must be neither illiberal nor laborious nor lax. And as for the stories and tales such children ought to hear, this must be a care for the officials called superintendents of children. For all such things must pave the way toward the pursuits that come later; that is why the greater part of children's play should be imitations of the serious occupations that come afterward. Those who forbid, by law, children's stretching fits and crying are wrong to do so; for these are beneficial toward growth, since they become in a way a kind of exercise for the bodies — the holding of the breath produces strength in those who exert themselves, and this is what happens also to infants when they strain and cry. The superintendents of children must also oversee how these children pass their time, and in particular see to it that they are as little as possible in the company of slaves. For this age,
54| [1336b] up to seven years, must necessarily have its rearing at home. It stands to reason, then, that even at this age they should be kept free of illiberal things heard and seen. Speaking generally, the lawgiver must banish obscene speech from the city altogether, as he would banish anything else (for from the easy speaking of any shameful thing comes closeness also to the doing of it) — and above all he must banish it from among the young, so that they neither say nor hear anything of that kind. And if anyone is found saying or doing any of the forbidden things, one who is free but not yet reckoned old enough for a reclining place at the common meals is to be punished with loss of privileges and with blows, while one older than this age is to be punished with the illiberal penalties fitting for slavish conduct. And since we banish the saying of such things, it is clear that we must also banish the viewing of indecent pictures or performances. The officials, then, must take care that there be no statue or painting that is an imitation of such actions, except in the case of certain gods to whom the law itself assigns even mockery as their due honor. And in connection with these the law permits those who have already reached the age fitting for it to offer worship to the gods both on their own behalf and on behalf of their children and wives; but the young must not be allowed to be spectators of lampoons or of comedy, before they reach the age at which they will already share in reclining at table and in strong drink, since by then their education will have made them wholly unaffected by the harm that comes from such things.
55| For the present, then, we have made this discussion only in passing; later, giving it closer attention, we must determine more precisely whether it ought not to be permitted at all, or ought to be permitted, working through the difficulties, and if so how. For the present occasion we have mentioned it only as necessary. Perhaps Theodorus the tragic actor was not speaking badly when he said something of this sort: he never allowed anyone, not even one of the inferior actors, to make his entrance before him, on the ground that audiences grow attached to the voices they hear first. The same thing holds in our dealings with other people and with things generally: we are fonder of whatever comes first. That is why everything base must be made strange to the young, and above all whatever involves depravity or ill will. When the five years have passed, the next two, up to seven, must already be spent as onlookers at the studies they will later have to learn. There are two ages by which education must necessarily be divided: the period from seven to puberty, and again the period after puberty up to twenty-one years. Those who divide the ages of life by periods of seven years generally speak not badly, [1337a] but the division must follow the divisions marked out by nature; for every craft and every form of education wishes to fill up what nature leaves deficient. First, then, we must consider whether some order ought to be established concerning children; next, whether it is beneficial to make the care of them a common matter or to leave it to private management, as happens now in most cities; and third, of what kind this care ought to be.
1| That the lawgiver ought above all to concern himself with the education of the young, no one would dispute; indeed, in cities where this does not happen, the constitutions are harmed by it. For education must be suited to each particular constitution, since the character proper to each constitution is what habitually both preserves that constitution and establishes it in the first place — the democratic character preserving democracy, for instance, and the oligarchic character oligarchy — and a better character is always the cause of a better constitution. Further, in every capacity and craft there are things that must be learned beforehand and habits that must be formed beforehand for the work belonging to each, so that plainly the same holds also for the actions of virtue. And since the end is one and the same for the city as a whole, it is clear that the education, too, must necessarily be one and the same for all, and that the care of it must be a common matter and not a private one, in the way that each person now privately cares for his own children, teaching them privately whatever learning he thinks fit. But of matters that are common, the training too must be made common. At the same time, we must not think that any citizen belongs to himself; rather, all belong to the city, for each is a part of the city, and the care given to each part is naturally directed toward the care of the whole.
2| On this point one might praise the Spartans, for they take the greatest pains over their children, and do so in common. That there must, then, be legislation concerning education, and that this education must be made common, is clear. But what this education is to be, and how one ought to be educated, must not be left unexamined. For at present there is dispute about the tasks involved. Not everyone assumes that the young should learn the same things, whether with a view to virtue or with a view to the best life; nor is it clear whether their education ought to be directed more toward the intellect or toward the character of the soul. From the education we actually see practiced, the inquiry becomes confused, and it is by no means clear whether training ought to be in what is useful for life, or in what tends toward virtue, or in what is out of the ordinary — for all these views have found some judges to support them.
3| [1337b] and about the things that pertain to virtue, nothing is agreed on (for people do not all straightaway honor the same virtue, so it is reasonable that they also differ about training in it). That the necessary things among the useful subjects must be taught is not unclear; but that not all should be taught is evident once the works of a free person and the works of an unfree person are distinguished, and it is evident that one should take part in only those useful things that will not make the one taking part in them vulgar. One must consider a task vulgar, and likewise a craft or a course of learning, if it renders the body, the soul, or the intellect of free people useless for the uses and actions of virtue. That is why we call vulgar those crafts that put the body into a worse condition, and also wage labor, for these leave the mind no leisure and drag it down. And even in the liberal branches of knowledge, taking part in some of them up to a point is not unfree, but to attend to them with excessive precision is liable to the harms just mentioned. It also makes a great difference for what purpose one does or learns a thing: what one does for one's own sake, or for friends, or for the sake of virtue is not unfree, but a person doing this very same thing for the sake of others would often be thought to be acting in a servile and slavish way.
4| Now the subjects of instruction currently established, as was said before, straddle both sides. There are, roughly, four things people are accustomed to teach: letters, gymnastic training, music, and, fourth, some add drawing; letters and drawing as useful for life and having many uses, gymnastic training as contributing to courage. About music, though, one might already be puzzled. Nowadays most people engage with it simply for pleasure's sake; the men who first included it in education, however, did so because nature herself, as has often been noted, seeks not merely to work correctly but also to be capable of leisure well spent. For this is the one principle underlying everything, and let us speak of it again. If both are needed, but being at leisure is more choiceworthy than being occupied, and is an end, we must inquire what one ought to do while at leisure. For surely not to play; for then play would necessarily be the end of life for us. But if that is impossible, and play should rather be used in the midst of occupations (for the one who is toiling needs rest, and play exists for the sake of rest, while being occupied comes with toil and strain), for this reason play must be introduced, watching the right occasion for its use, applying it as a kind of medicine.
5| For a motion of this sort is a relaxation of the soul, and because of the pleasure it brings, a rest. [1338a] But being at leisure seems to have in itself pleasure and happiness and blessed living. This, however, does not belong to those who are occupied but to those at leisure; for the one occupied is occupied for the sake of some end, on the ground that he does not yet possess it, whereas happiness is an end, which all people think exists not with pain but with pleasure. This pleasure, however, they no longer take to be the same one, but each person judges it by his own standard and his own state of character, while the best person takes it to be the best pleasure, the one arising from the finest things. So it is clear that one must also learn certain things and be educated with a view to the leisure spent in the passing of life, and that these branches of education and these subjects of learning exist for their own sake, while those directed at being occupied exist as necessary and for the sake of other things. That is why the men of old set music down as part of education, not as necessary (for it has nothing of that character) nor as useful (as letters are useful for making money, for household management, for learning, and for many political actions—and drawing too seems useful for judging the works of craftsmen better), nor again as gymnastic training is useful for health and strength (for we see neither of these coming about from music):
6| what remains, then, is that it is useful for the passing of time in leisure, which is indeed the very purpose toward which people evidently direct it. For they place it within that activity which they take to be the leisured pursuit of free people. That is why Homer composed it in this way: "but such a one as this it is fitting to call to a rich feast," and having spoken first in this way of certain others who invite a singer, he says, "one who will delight them all." And elsewhere too Odysseus says that this is the best way of passing time, when, with the people making merry, "the banqueters throughout the halls listen to a singer, seated in rows," Hom. Od. 9.5-6. So it is evident that there exists a kind of schooling in which one's sons ought to be trained—not as something merely useful, nor as something required, but as something noble and fitting for a free person. Whether it is one in number or several, and what these are and how, must be said later. For now this much has become clear to us on the way: that we have some testimony even from the ancients, drawn from the subjects of instruction already established, for music makes this plain. Further, that children must be educated in some of the useful subjects not only because of their usefulness—for instance, learning letters—but also because many other branches of learning come to be possible through them; and likewise drawing, not so that they may not go wrong in their private purchases, but so that they may be undeceived about the buying and selling of goods,
7| [1338b] but rather because it makes one able to observe beauty in bodies. But to look everywhere for what is useful is least fitting for people of great soul and free people. Since it is clear that children must be educated by habits before by reason, and in the body before the mind, it is plain from this that they must be handed over to gymnastic training and to physical trainers; for of these, the one produces a certain condition of the body, the other its performances. Now among the cities that seem most to take care of children, some produce an athletic condition, damaging the shapes and the growth of the bodies, while the Spartans, though they did not make this particular error, do render their children beast-like through hard labors, on the view that this is most conducive to courage. And yet, as has often been said, one must not shape one's care looking to one thing, or looking chiefly to this. Even granting that this is the goal, they do not find the way to it, either; for we do not observe courage following the most savage animals, either among the other animals or among the nations of men, but rather in the gentler and lion-like characters. There are many nations ready for killing and for eating human flesh, such as the Achaeans and Heniochi around the Black Sea, and others among the mainland peoples, some to the same degree as these, others more so; these are given to brigandage, but have no share in courage.
8| Further, we know that the Spartans themselves, as long as they alone applied themselves diligently to hard exercises, surpassed others, but now they fall short of others both in gymnastic contests and in war; for they did not excel by training their young in this manner as such, but only by training them against those who did not train. So it is the fine, not the beast-like, that must take the leading role; for neither a wolf nor any other wild beast would face any fine danger, but rather a good man would. Those who let their children go too far in these exercises, and who leave them untrained in the necessary things, in truth make them vulgar, rendering them useful for one function alone of political life, and even for this worse, as the argument shows, than others are. And one must judge not from their earlier achievements but from the present ones; for now they have rivals in education, whereas before they did not. That gymnastic training must be used, then, and how it must be used, is generally agreed (for up to puberty lighter exercises must be applied, keeping children away from forced feeding and compulsory hard labors, so that nothing may impede their growth;
9| [1339a] For it is no small sign that they can bring this about: among Olympic victors one might find two or three of the same men who have won as boys and as men, because in the course of the necessary training their strength is stripped from them by the exertion of the exercises while they are still young. But when three years have passed from puberty, spent along with the other subjects of learning, then it is fitting for the age that comes next to take up hard exercise and forced feeding together. For one ought not to work hard at the same time with thought and with the body, since each of the two kinds of exertion is naturally suited to produce the opposite effect, the exertion of the body impeding the thought and the exertion of the thought impeding the body. Concerning music, we have raised some difficulties about it in argument earlier as well, but it is well now too to take these up again and carry them further, so that it may serve as a kind of prelude to whatever arguments one might state in giving an account of it. For it is not easy to distinguish what power it has, nor for the sake of what one ought to share in it — whether for the sake of play and rest, as with sleep and drunkenness (for these in their own right are not among the serious things, but are pleasant, and give rest from anxious care, as Euripides says; and that is why people class music with these and use it in the same way as all of them, sleep and drunkenness and music
10| and they also put dancing among these) — or whether one ought rather to hold that music tends toward virtue in some way, on the ground that it is able, just as gymnastic training produces a body of a certain quality, to make the character of a certain quality too, by habituating one to be able to feel delight rightly; or whether it contributes something toward the passing of leisure time and toward practical wisdom (for this too must be set down as a third possibility alongside the ones mentioned). That the young ought not to be educated for the sake of play is not unclear (for people at play do not learn, since learning is accompanied by pain); nor again is it fitting to assign the passing of leisure time to children and to ages of that sort, for to nothing incomplete does an end properly belong. But perhaps it might seem that the earnest effort of children is for the sake of play once they have become men and been brought to completion. But if this is the case, for the sake of what would they need to learn it themselves, rather than, like the kings of the Persians and the Medes, sharing in the pleasure and the learning through others doing it? For it is necessary that those who have made this very thing their work and craft produce it better than those who attend to it only for as long as is needed for learning. But if they must labor at such things themselves, then they would also need to prepare the business of relishes for themselves
11| but that is absurd. And the same difficulty holds even as to whether it can make characters better: for why would they need to learn these things themselves, [1339b] rather than, by listening to others, being able to feel delight rightly and to judge, as the Laconians do? For those men, though they do not learn it, are nevertheless able, so it is said, to judge rightly which melodies are good and which are not good. The same argument holds too if music is to be used for well-being and for a free man's passing of leisure: why would they need to learn it themselves, rather than enjoying it while others make use of it? One may look to the conception we hold about the gods: for Zeus himself does not sing and play the lyre for the poets; indeed we call such people vulgar, and we say that doing this is not the part of a man unless he is drunk or playing. But perhaps these points must be examined later; the first inquiry is whether music should be placed in education or not, and which of the three things raised as difficulties it can do — whether education, or play, or the passing of leisure time. Reasonably it is assigned to all of them, and it appears to have a share in each. For play is for the sake of rest, and rest must be pleasant (for it is a kind of remedy for the pain that comes through toil), and the passing of leisure time must admittedly possess not only the fine but also pleasure (for living happily consists of both of these)
12| but music we all say is among the most pleasant things, whether by itself or accompanied by melody (at any rate Musaeus too says that to sing is 'sweetest for mortals'; and that is why they reasonably bring it into gatherings and ways of passing leisure, as able to give delight); so that from this too one might suppose that the younger ought to be educated in it. For as many of the pleasant things as are harmless are fitting not only for the end but also for rest. And since it turns out that men rarely attain the end, but often rest and make use of play, not so much for its own further sake as for the pleasure it brings, it would be useful to give rest by means of the pleasures that come from it. But it has come about for men that they make their plays into an end: for perhaps the end too has a certain pleasure, though not just any pleasure, and in seeking this pleasure people take that other one as though it were this, because of a certain resemblance it bears to the end of actions. For the end is not chosen for the sake of anything future, and pleasures of this sort too are not for the sake of anything future, but for the sake of things that have already happened, such as toils and pain. For this reason, then, one might reasonably suppose this to be the cause for which people seek that happiness should come about through these pleasures
13| but as to sharing in music, it seems that this is not on account of this alone, but also because it is useful with a view to rest. But nonetheless one must inquire whether this is perhaps merely an incidental fact
14| [1340a] and its nature is more honorable than the use just mentioned, and one ought to share in it not only for the common pleasure derived from it, of which all have a perception (for music has a certain natural pleasure, and that is why the use of it is welcome to every age and every character), but one ought to see whether it also somehow tends toward character and toward the soul. This would be clear if we come to be of a certain quality in our characters through it. And that we do come to be of a certain quality is evident through many other things, and not least through the melodies of Olympus: for these admittedly make souls possessed by divine frenzy, and such possession is an affection of the character that concerns the soul. Moreover, in listening to representations everyone comes to feel the corresponding feeling, even apart from the rhythms and melodies themselves. And since it turns out that music is among the pleasant things, and virtue has to do with feeling delight rightly and with loving and hating rightly, clearly one must learn and habituate oneself to nothing so much as judging rightly and feeling delight in decent characters and fine actions. Now there exist, most of all in rhythms and melodies, likenesses very close to the true natures of anger and gentleness, and further of courage and temperance and of all the states opposite to these and the other traits of character (and this is clear from what happens
15| for we change in our soul when we listen to such things); and habituation to feeling pain and delight in things that are alike is close to having the same disposition toward the truth itself (for example, if someone takes delight in viewing the image of something for no other reason than its form itself, it is necessary that the sight of that very thing whose image he views should also be pleasant to him). Now it happens that among the objects of the other senses there is no likeness at all to characters — for instance in things touched or tasted — but in the things seen there is, faintly (for there are shapes of this sort, but only to a small degree, and not everyone shares in perceiving it of this kind; and further these are not likenesses of characters, but rather the shapes and colors that come about are signs of characters, and these are marks that appear in the midst of the affections; nonetheless, insofar as there is a difference even in the viewing of these, the young must not look at the works of Pauson, but at those of Polygnotus, or of any other painter or sculptor who is expressive of character) — but in melodies themselves there are imitations of characters (and this is evident: for straightaway the nature of the harmonic modes is different, so that those who hear them are affected differently and do not have the same disposition toward each of them, but toward some are affected in a more mournful and constrained way,
16| [1340b] compared with the harmony called the Mixolydian; toward gentler states of mind, compared with the relaxed harmonies; and toward a measured, settled state most of all, as the Dorian alone among the harmonies seems to produce, while the Phrygian produces enthusiasm. On this those who have thought philosophically about this branch of education speak well, for they take their evidence for their accounts from the facts themselves. The same holds for rhythms too (some have a more settled character, others a more mobile one, and of these, some have movements that are more vulgar, others more befitting a free person). From these considerations, then, it is clear that music has the power to produce a certain quality of character in the soul, and if it can do this, then plainly the young must be brought to it and educated in it. The teaching of music suits this age well: for the young, on account of their age, do not willingly put up with anything unsweetened, and music is by nature one of the sweetened things. And there seems to be some kinship between us and harmonies and rhythms; that is why many of the wise say, some that the soul is a harmony, others that it has a harmony.
17| Whether they ought to learn by singing and performing themselves, or not — a question raised as a difficulty earlier — must now be addressed. It is not unclear that it makes a great difference to the forming of a certain character whether one takes part in the performances oneself; for it is one of the impossible or difficult things for those who have not taken part in the performances to become serious judges of them. At the same time children need some occupation, and one may well think Archytas's rattle a good invention — the one people give to small children so that, using it, they break nothing about the house; for the young cannot keep still. This rattle, then, suits infants among children, while education is the rattle for the older young. It is clear from considerations of this sort, then, that music must be taught in such a way that the pupils also take part in the performances themselves; and it is not hard to determine what is fitting and what is not fitting for the various ages, and to answer those who say that concern with it is vulgar. For, first, since one must take part in the performances for the sake of judging, for this reason the young, while young, should make use of the performances, but once they have grown older they should be released from the performances themselves, and be capable of judging what is fine and of taking correct pleasure in it, through the learning that took place in their youth.
18| As for the reproach some level, that music makes people vulgar, it is not hard to answer once we have examined up to what point those being educated for political virtue must take part in the performances themselves, [1341a] and which melodies and which rhythms they must take part in, and further on what instruments the learning ought to be carried out — for this too is likely to make a difference. For it is in these questions that the answer to the reproach lies; nothing prevents certain modes of practicing music from producing the effect described. It is clear, then, that the learning of it must neither impede the pursuits that come later, nor make the body vulgar and useless for military and political training — useless for immediate uses, and useless later on as well. This would result in the case of learning if pupils did not labor hard at the elements directed toward professional competitions, nor at the astonishing and extravagant feats of performance which have now made their way into the competitions and from the competitions into education, but instead pursued even the non-competitive kinds only up to the point where they are capable of taking pleasure in fine melodies and rhythms, and not only in what is common to music, as some of the other animals share in as well, and even a mass of slaves and children share in. It is clear from this, too, what instruments must be used. For neither flutes should be brought into education, nor any other instrument requiring professional skill, such as the kithara or anything else of that kind, but only such as will make good listeners of them, either for musical education or for the rest of education.
19| Further, the flute is not an instrument expressing character but rather one that excites frenzy, so that it should be used for those occasions on which the spectacle is capable of producing catharsis rather than learning. And let us add that it happens to work against education in another way too, in that flute-playing prevents the use of speech. That is why our predecessors rightly disapproved its use among the young and the free, though they had made use of it themselves at first. For once they had grown more leisured through their prosperity and more high-minded in regard to virtue, and moreover, both before and after the Persian Wars, had grown proud on the strength of their achievements, they laid hold of every kind of learning without discrimination, but eagerly seeking it out. That is why they brought flute-playing too among their subjects of learning. Indeed at Sparta a certain chorus-sponsor himself played the flute for his chorus, and around Athens the practice became so widespread that pretty much the majority of free men took part in it — a fact evident from the votive plaque Thrasippus set up after funding Ecphantides' chorus. Later it was disapproved of on the basis of experience itself, once people were better able to judge what tends toward virtue and what does not; and likewise many of the ancient instruments were disapproved of too, such as the pektis and the barbitos and instruments contributing to the pleasure of listeners among those who use them — the seven-cornered and triangular instruments, and the sambuca,
20| [1341b] and everything that requires manual skill to play. There is good reason, too, for what the ancients tell in myth about the flutes. They say that Athena, having invented them, threw them away. Now it is not a bad account to say that the goddess did this out of displeasure at the unbecoming distortion of her face; but it is more likely, rather, that the reason is that the training given by flute-playing contributes nothing to the intellect, and it is to Athena that we attribute knowledge and craft. Since, then, we disapprove both of the instruments and of the professional training with regard to performance (and by professional we mean the kind directed toward competitions — for in that kind the performer does not practice for the sake of his own virtue but for the pleasure of the listeners, and a vulgar pleasure at that; that is why we judge the work to belong not to free men but to something more fit for hired laborers, and indeed the performers come to be vulgar, for the goal at which they aim is a base one: the spectator, being vulgar, tends to debase the music, so that the very craftsmen who practice with him in mind are shaped in a certain way by him, and so are their bodies, because of the movements involved) — since this is so, we must give some consideration to harmonies and rhythms, and to the question, with a view to education, whether all harmonies and all rhythms should be used, or whether they must be distinguished, and then, for those laboring toward education, whether we should lay down the same distinction, or whether some third one, different again, is needed.
21| Since, then, we see that music consists in melodic composition and rhythms, and it must not go unnoticed what power each of these two has with a view to education, and whether we should prefer music that is melodically fine or music that is rhythmically fine — considering, then, that both some of the musicians of today and those among the philosophers who happen to be experienced in musical education say many things well about these matters, we shall leave it to those who wish to seek out the detailed precision on each point from them, and for now let us divide the subject in the manner of one laying down general laws, stating only the outlines concerning them. Since we accept the division of melodies that some among the philosophers make, positing some as ethical, some as practical, some as inspiriting, and assign to the harmonies a nature proper to each of these, one to one part, another to another, we say that music should be used not for the sake of one benefit but for the sake of several: both for education and for catharsis (what we mean by catharsis we state now simply, but we shall speak of it again more clearly in our work on poetics), and third for passing the time pleasantly, for relaxation, and for the relief of tension from exertion,
22| [1342a] It is clear, then, that we must use all the harmonic modes, but not all in the same way: for education, the most ethical ones; for listening to others performing, both the practical modes and the ones that induce religious enthusiasm. For the emotion that occurs strongly in some souls is present in all souls, differing only in degree — for instance pity and fear, and also enthusiasm. For some people are liable to be possessed by this kind of motion, and we see them, when they use melodies that violently arouse the soul, settling down again as if they had found healing and catharsis. The same thing, then, must necessarily happen to those prone to pity and to fear and to the emotional in general, and to everyone else in whatever measure each is affected by such feelings — and for all of them some catharsis must come about and a pleasurable relief. In the same way, too, the practical melodies afford people harmless joy. Hence it is these harmonic modes and these melodies that must be assigned to the competitors who practice theatrical music. But since the spectator is of two kinds — the free and educated man, and the vulgar sort made up of manual laborers, hired workers, and others of that kind — competitions and spectacles must be provided for these latter as well, as a means of relaxation.
23| But just as the souls of such men are twisted away from their natural condition, so too there are deviant forms of the harmonic modes, and melodies that are overstrained and discordant in coloring; and what produces pleasure in each case is what is naturally proper to him, and for this reason license must be given to the competitors performing before a spectator of this sort to use this kind of music. For education, as has been said, the ethical melodies and harmonic modes of that kind must be used. Such is the Dorian, as we said before. But we must also accept any other mode that our partners in the pursuit of philosophy and in musical education approve for us. The Socrates of the Republic is not right to leave only the Phrygian alongside the Dorian, and this although he had rejected the flute among the instruments.
24| [1342b] For the Phrygian has the same power among the modes that the flute has among the instruments: both are orgiastic and emotional. Poetry makes this clear. For every Bacchic revel and every motion of that kind belongs above all, among the instruments, to the flute, and among the modes such things find their fitting expression in Phrygian melodies. Poetry makes this clear too: the dithyramb, for example, is by common agreement held to be Phrygian. Those versed in this understanding cite many examples of this, among others that Philoxenus, when he attempted to compose the dithyramb the Mysians in the Dorian mode, was not able to do it, but was carried by nature itself back down again into the Phrygian, the mode proper to it. Concerning the Dorian, everyone agrees that it is the most stable of the modes and has above all a manly character. Further, since we praise the mean between extremes and say it must be pursued, and the Dorian stands in this relation to the other modes, it is clear that the Dorian melodies are the ones the young should be taught rather than the rest. There are two aims: the possible and the fitting; for one must practice what is possible, and what is fitting for each group.
25| These things too are fixed by age: for instance, for those worn out by time it is not easy to sing the high-strung modes, but nature suggests the relaxed ones to people of that age. Hence some of those concerned with music are right to criticize Socrates on this point too: that he rejected the relaxed modes for education, taking them to be intoxicating — not in the sense that belongs to the power of intoxication (for drunkenness rather makes one Bacchic), but as being enfeebling. So that, with a view to the age that is to come, that of older men, one must also take up such modes and such melodies, and further, if there is some mode fitting to the age of children, because it is capable of having both orderliness and educational value at once — the Lydian, for example, appears to have this character most among the modes. It is clear, then, that we must set up these three standards for education: the mean, the possible, and the fitting.
1| [1343a] Household management and statesmanship differ not only to the extent that a household and a city differ (for these are their respective subjects), but also in this: statesmanship is the rule of many rulers, while household management is a monarchy. Now some crafts are divided, so that making a thing and using the thing made do not belong to the same craft, as with the lyre and the pipes; but statesmanship's business is both to set up a city from the beginning and to use one already existing well. So it is clear that household management's business too would be both to acquire a household and to use it. A city, then, is a multitude of households, and of land, and of possessions, sufficient for living well. This is plain: for whenever people are unable to attain this, the community also breaks up. Further, it is for the sake of this that people come together; and that for the sake of which each thing exists and has come to be is in fact its substance. So it is clear that household management is prior in origin to statesmanship. And so is its function: for a household is a part of a city. We must therefore examine household management, and what its function is. The parts of a household are the human being and property. And since the nature of each thing is first studied in its smallest instances, this would hold likewise concerning a household.
2| So according to Hesiod, one would need to have, first of all, a house, a woman, and an ox for ploughing. (Hesiod, Works and Days 405) For the one is first for sustenance, the other for the work of free persons. So one would need to manage well the matters concerning intercourse with one's wife; and this is a matter of contriving what sort of woman she ought to be. Of property, the first concern is that according to nature. According to nature, farming comes first, and second come the pursuits that take from the earth, such as mining and any other of that kind. Farming is foremost, because it is just: for it does not take from human beings, neither willing, as retail trade and wage-earning occupations do, nor unwilling, as the arts of war do. Further, it is also among the things according to nature: for by nature nourishment for all comes from a mother,
3| [1343b] and so for human beings too it comes from the earth. Besides this, farming also contributes greatly to manly courage: for unlike the vulgar crafts, it does not render bodies useless, but capable of living outdoors and of toiling, and further capable of facing danger against enemies; for these alone have their possessions outside their fortifications. Of the concerns regarding human beings, the first concern is that regarding one's wife: for community belongs by nature most of all to the female and the male. For we have laid down elsewhere that nature aims to accomplish many such things, as with each of the animals; but it is impossible for the female without the male, or the male without the female, to bring this about; so their community is constituted of necessity. Now among the other animals this exists without reason, and only to the extent that they partake of nature, and only for the sake of producing offspring; but among the tamer and more intelligent animals it is more fully articulated (for they are seen giving one another more help and goodwill and cooperation), and in the human being most of all, because the female and the male are cooperative with one another not only for existing but also for existing well. And the acquisition of children turns out to belong to nature not only for the sake of service but also for advantage: for whatever help the able render to the unable, they in turn receive back from those able when they themselves become unable, in old age. At the same time nature also fills up, through this cycle, the goal of existing forever, since it cannot do so numerically, but can in respect of form. Thus the nature of each of the two, of the man and of the woman, has been arranged beforehand by the divine for community. For it has been apportioned that their power is not useful for the same things in every respect, but some powers even for opposite things, though converging toward the same end: for it made the one stronger, the other weaker,
4| [1344a] so that the one might be more given to guarding, on account of fear, and the other more given to defending, on account of manly courage; and so that the one might procure what is outside, the other preserve what is within; and with a view to labor, that the one be capable of remaining seated, but weak for outdoor exposures, while the other be worse for stillness but healthy for movements; and concerning children, that begetting be common, but their benefit distinct: for the nourishing of them belongs to the one, the educating to the other. First, then, come the laws concerning one's wife, and the rule of not wronging her: for in this way one would not be wronged oneself either. This is what the common law too suggests, as the Pythagoreans say: that one ought to think it least of all right to wrong her, since she is like a suppliant and one led from the hearth; and a man's injustice consists in liaisons occurring outside the house. Concerning intercourse with her, one should neither need it not at all, nor be unable to abstain from it as though she were absent, but should train oneself so as to be sufficiently disposed both when she is present and when she is not. And Hesiod's saying holds well too: 'Marry a maiden, that you may teach her steady ways.' (Hesiod, Works and Days 699) For dissimilarities of character are least conducive to friendship. And concerning adornment, just as it is not right for people to approach one another with characters put on for show, so it is not right with their bodies either.
5| For intercourse carried on by means of adornment is no different from the dealings of tragic actors with one another in their stage costumes. Of possessions, the first and most necessary is the best and most suited to household management, and this was the human being. Hence one must first provide oneself with worthy slaves. There are two kinds of slaves, the overseer and the laborer. And since we see that upbringings make the young turn out of a certain sort, it is necessary, once one has provided oneself with slaves, also to rear those to whom one is going to assign the tasks proper to free persons. One's dealings with slaves should be such as to allow them neither to grow insolent nor to be aggrieved, and one should give a share of honor to the more free-spirited among them, and an abundance of food to the laborers. And since the drinking of wine makes even free persons insolent, and many peoples abstain from it even among the free, as the Carthaginians do on campaign, it is clear that slaves should be given a share of it either not at all or seldom. There being three things, work, punishment, and food, to have food but be neither punished nor made to work breeds insolence;
6| [1344b] while to have work and punishments but not food is violent and produces incapacity. What remains, then, is to supply work and sufficient food; for it is not possible to rule the unpaid, and for a slave food is his pay. And just as with others generally, when the better do not fare better and there are no prizes for excellence and for badness, they grow worse, so too concerning household slaves. Hence one must give consideration to this, and distribute and remit each thing according to desert—food and clothing and time off and punishments—imitating in word and deed the physicians' power in the matter of medicine, while also taking further note that food, because it is continual, is no medicine. The classes best suited to the various tasks would be neither cowardly nor overly bold: for both kinds do wrong. The excessively cowardly do not hold up under work, and the high-spirited are not easily ruled. There ought also to be a fixed goal set for all: for it is just and advantageous that freedom be laid down as the prize, since they are willing to labor when there is a prize and the time is fixed. One must also, in effect, hold hostages through their having children; and one should not acquire many slaves of the same nationality, just as is done in cities too; and sacrifices and festivities should be held more for the sake of the slaves than of the free, since these have a greater share in that for the sake of which such things were instituted.
7| There are four kinds of skill that the household manager must possess with regard to property. For one must be capable both of acquiring and of guarding it; otherwise there is no benefit in acquiring it, since that amounts to drawing water with a sieve, or the so-called leaky jar. Further, one must also be capable of arranging what one has in good order and of using it; for it is for the sake of these that we need those other two as well. Each of these functions must be kept distinct, and the fruit-bearing possessions should be more numerous than the fruitless, and the various operations should be so distributed that they do not all run risk together. For safekeeping it is advantageous to employ both the Persian and the Laconian methods. The Attic style of management is useful too: for people sell in order to buy, and the setting up of a storeroom has no place in the smaller households. The Persian method consisted in having everything ordered and in the master himself overseeing everything, in line with what Dion said about Dionysius: for no one takes care of others' affairs in the same way as of his own, so that, so far as is possible,
8| [1345a] One must take care of things in person. And the saying of the Persian and the saying of the Libyan would both be well put. For the one, asked what fattens a horse best, said, "The master's eye." And the Libyan, asked what manure is best, said, "The master's footprints." One must therefore oversee some things oneself and leave others to one's wife, since the tasks of household management are divided between the two. And this must be done rarely in small households, but often in those run by a steward. For it is not possible to imitate well someone who does not set a good example, whether in other matters or in stewardship, since it is impossible for those set in charge to be careful when the masters themselves are not careful. And since these things are both fine with a view to virtue and useful with a view to household management, masters must rise before their household servants and go to bed after them; and the house must never be left unguarded, any more than a city; and whatever needs doing must never be let slip, whether by night or by day; and one should get up in the night, for this is useful both for health and for household management and for philosophy. Now in small estates the Attic manner of disposing of the produce is useful; but in large ones, once expenditures reckoned by the year and those reckoned by the month have been divided out, and likewise the use of equipment needed daily and that needed only rarely, these matters must be handed over to those set in charge.
9| In addition to this, an inspection of these must also be made at intervals, so that what is being preserved and what is falling short does not go unnoticed. A house must be built with an eye both to one's possessions and to the health and well-being of those in it. By possessions I mean, for instance, what arrangement suits crops and clothing, and among crops which suits the dry kind and which the moist, and among other possessions which suits living things and which lifeless ones, and slaves and free persons, and women and men, and strangers and citizens. And it should also serve well-being and health, being well-ventilated in summer and well-lit by the sun in winter. Such a house would face north and not be of equal width throughout. It seems that in large households a doorkeeper is also useful — one unfit for other tasks — for the safekeeping of what is carried in and carried out. [1345b] For the convenient use of equipment, the Laconian practice applies: each item must lie in its own place; for in that way, being ready to hand, it will not need to be hunted for.
1| One who intends to manage a household properly must not be inexperienced in the localities where he will be doing business, and must be naturally well-suited by nature, and by choice both hardworking and just; for whichever of these elements is lacking, he will go badly wrong in many respects in the business he handles. There are four kinds of household management, to divide them in outline (for we shall find the others falling under these): royal, satrapal, political, and private. Of these the royal is the greatest and simplest, the political is the most varied and easiest, and the private is the smallest and most varied. It is necessary that they share much in common with one another; but what belongs most distinctively to each through itself is what we must examine. Let us then look first at the royal kind. This is capable of universal scope, but has four species: concerning coinage, concerning exports, concerning imports, concerning expenditures. Of these, I mean by the first, concerning coinage: what kind, and when it should be made dear or cheap; concerning exports and imports: when, and which goods, taken from the satraps as their assessed tribute, it will profit him to dispose of; concerning expenditures: what must be cut and when, and whether coined money should be given for expenses or the goods that money buys. Second, the satrapal kind. Of this there are six species of revenue: from the land, from the special products arising in the country, from trading centers, from tolls, from livestock, from other sources. Of these the first and strongest is that from the land (this is what some call rent, and others call a tithe); second is that arising from special products, in one place gold, in another silver, in another copper, in another whatever else it happens to produce; and third is that from trading centers,
2| [1346a] and fourth is that arising from tolls on land and in the marketplace, and fifth is that from livestock, called both a produce-due and a tithe, and sixth is that from other sources, called both a poll-tax and a tax on handicrafts. Third, the political kind. Of this the strongest revenue is that from the special products produced in the country, then that from trading centers and transit, then that from the regular dues. Fourth and last, the private kind. This is irregular, because it need not be managed with a view to a single aim, and it is the smallest, because both its revenues and its expenditures turn out slight. Of this itself the strongest revenue is that from land, second is that from other claims, third is that from money. Apart from these there is a point shared by all kinds of household management, which one ought to examine and not treat as a side matter, and especially in this last kind: that expenditures must not become greater than revenues. Since, then, we have stated the divisions, after this we must in turn consider whether the satrapy or the city we are dealing with can sustain all the sources we have just distinguished, or the greatest of these; and these are the ones to be used.
3| After this, we must consider which revenues do not exist at all but could be brought into being, or which, being small now, could be made larger, and among the expenditures now being made, which and how many could be cut away without harming the whole. We have, then, stated what concerns household management and its parts. And whatever some men of former times have done to procure funds, or have managed skillfully, and which we judged worth recording, we have gathered together. For we do not suppose this record to be useless; there are times when these examples will fit whatever business a person is himself engaged in. Cypselus of Corinth, having vowed to Zeus that if he became master of the city he would dedicate to him all the property of the Corinthians, ordered them to submit a written declaration of it.
4| [1346b] When they had made the declaration, he took a tenth part from each, and told them to go on working with the rest. And when the year had gone round he did this same thing again, so that it came about that in ten years he had all the property he had consecrated, while the Corinthians had come to possess an equal amount afresh. Lygdamis of Naxos, having driven out certain exiles, when no one was willing to buy their property except at a low price, sold it back to the exiles themselves. And the votive offerings of theirs that lay half-finished in various workshops, he sold to the exiles and to any other willing buyer, on condition that the buyer's name be inscribed on them. The Byzantines, being in need of money, sold off the public sacred precincts — the fruit-bearing ones for a fixed term, the unproductive ones outright and forever; and likewise those belonging to religious societies and to clan groups, and whatever lay within privately held land, since people would pay a high price for these because other property already belonged to them too. To the members of the societies they gave in exchange other, public sites — those around the gymnasium, or the marketplace, or the harbor — and the market stalls where people sold their wares; and they sold the right to fish the sea, and the right to sell salt, and the earnings of those working as conjurers, diviners, drug-sellers, and others of that kind, ordering a third part of what each such person earned to be paid over. They also sold the right to exchange currency to a single bank, and no one else was permitted either to sell currency to another or to buy it from another; otherwise the penalty was confiscation. And though they had a law that no one should be a citizen who was not born of citizen parents on both sides, when they needed money they voted that a man born of only one citizen parent could become a citizen by paying down thirty minas. And when a grain shortage arose and they were short of funds, they brought into port the ships sailing from the Pontus; and when time had passed and the merchants grew indignant, they paid them interest at a tenth, and ordered those who bought any of the grain to pay a tenth over and above the price.
5| [1347a] Some resident foreigners had lent money on the security of properties, though they did not have the right of ownership; the people voted that whoever wished, by paying a third of the loan, could hold the property outright. Hippias the Athenian sold off the parts of upper stories that projected over the public roads, and the steps, and the barriers, and the doors that opened outward: so the owners of the properties bought these back, and in this way a good deal of money was collected. He also declared the currency then current at Athens invalid, and having fixed a rate, ordered people to bring it in to him; and when they had assembled expecting a different design to be struck, he issued back the very same silver. And as many as were going to serve as trierarchs, or tribal commanders, or chorus-sponsors, or spend money on any other such public service, he fixed a moderate assessment and ordered that whoever wished could, by paying this, be enrolled among those who had already performed the service. He also ordered that, on behalf of anyone who died, a quart of barley and a quart of wheat and an obol should be brought to the priestess of Athena on the Acropolis, and that the same should be brought for anyone to whom a child was born. The Athenians living at Potidaea, needing money for the war, arranged for everyone to register their properties — not lumped together under each man's own deme, but item by item, in whatever place each item was, so that the poor could underassess themselves;
6| whoever had no property at all was to assess his own body at two minas. From these assessments, then, each man paid in to the city the sum assessed, in full. Sosipolis of Antissa, when the city needed money and the people were accustomed to celebrate the Dionysia lavishly, spending a great deal throughout the year on preparations including costly sacrificial victims, and this festival being close at hand, persuaded them to vow to Dionysus that they would repay double the next year, and to gather these preparations together and sell them off instead. So no small amount of money was collected for their need. The Lampsacenes, since many triremes were expected against them, and a medimnos of barley-meal cost four drachmas, ordered the market-sellers to sell it at six drachmas, and a chous of oil that cost three drachmas at four drachmas three obols, and likewise for wine and the rest. So the private seller received the original price,
7| [1347b] but the surplus went to the city, and it became well supplied with money. The Heracleots, sending forty ships against the tyrants in the Bosporus, not being well supplied with money, bought up on credit from the merchants all the grain and oil and wine and the rest of the market goods, with a period set within which they intended to pay the price. It suited the merchants well not to sell in small measures but to have their cargoes sold in bulk, and the Heracleots, paying in this other way, did not hand over wages but delivered the market goods aboard their transport ships, and set a treasurer over each of the vessels. When they arrived in enemy territory, the soldiers bought everything from these men. So the money was collected before the generals paid out wages again, with the result that the same money kept being handed over until the men returned home. The Spartans, when the Samians asked them for money toward their restoration, voted that they themselves, their household slaves, and their pack animals should fast for one day, and that each man should give the Samians as much as he would otherwise have spent. The Chalcedonians, since many foreigners staying in their city were owed wages they were unable to pay off, announced that if any citizen or resident foreigner had a claim of seizure against a city or a private individual and wished to press it, he should register it. When many had registered, they seized the ships sailing into the Pontus on some plausible pretext. They set a time by which they said they would render an account concerning these seizures. When a good deal of money had been collected, they paid off the soldiers, and had the seizure-claims adjudicated; to those who had been wrongly plundered the city made restitution out of its revenues. The Cyzicenes, torn by factional strife among themselves, with the popular party prevailing and the rich seized, and owing money to soldiers, voted not to put the men they had seized to death, but to exact money from them and banish them. The Chians, who had a law requiring debts to be registered with the public authority, being in need of money,
8| [1348a] voted that debtors should repay their loans to the city, and that the city should pay the interest to the lenders out of its revenues, until it could also make good the principal. Mausolus, the ruler of Caria, when the King sent to him demanding the tribute, gathered the wealthiest men in the country and told them that the King was demanding the tribute and that he himself was not well supplied with funds. Men who had been briefed by him in advance at once announced how much each would contribute. When these men had done this, the wealthier men, partly out of shame and partly out of fear, announced and paid in far more than these. On another occasion, needing money, he called an assembly of the Mylasians and told them that their city, though a mother-city, was unwalled, and that the King was marching against him. So he ordered the Mylasians each to bring as much money as possible, saying that by what they now contributed they would also preserve the rest of their property. When much had been contributed, he kept the money, but said that the god did not permit him to build the wall at present. Condalus, Mausolus's deputy, whenever anyone traveling through the country with him offered him a sheep or a pig or a calf, would register the giver and the date, and have the animal taken home and reared until he should return;
9| and whenever enough time seemed to have passed, he would reckon up the animal itself together with its offspring and demand payment. And the parts of trees that overhung or fell onto the royal roads he sold off as likewise part of the produce. And whenever any of the soldiers died, he demanded a toll of a drachma per body at the gate; so from this he both collected money and kept the commanders from deceiving him about when a soldier had actually died. And seeing that the Lycians liked to wear their hair long, he claimed that a letter had come from the King ordering hair to be sent for wigs, and that Mausolus had accordingly instructed him to have their hair cut off. He then said that if they wished to pay him a fixed poll-tax instead, he would send for hair from Greece; and they gladly gave what he asked, and a great deal of money was collected from the large number of people. Aristotle of Rhodes, ruler of Phocaea, being short of funds and seeing that the Phocaeans were split into two factions, held secret talks with one of the factions,
10| [1348b] telling them that the other faction was offering him money on condition that he tip affairs in their favor, but that he would rather take it from this faction and hand over the management of the city's affairs to them. On hearing this, those present at once raised as much money as he had specified and gave it to him. He then showed the other faction what he had received from the first, and they in turn said they would give no less. Having taken money from both sides, he reconciled them with one another. Then, observing that the citizens had many lawsuits pending, and great wrongs of long standing against one another arising from the war, he set up a court and announced beforehand that whoever did not bring his case to trial within the time he specified would no longer have any claim over earlier charges. Then indeed, by taking for himself the court-deposit fees of many suits and the appeal fees with their penalties, and by taking money from both sides through intermediaries, he collected no small amount of money. The Clazomenians, in a grain shortage and short of money, voted that private individuals who had oil should lend it to the city at interest — for this crop is abundant in their country. When they had lent it, the city hired ships and sent them to the trading ports from which their grain came, pledging the value of the oil as security.
11| Owing soldiers twenty talents in wages and unable to pay it, they instead paid the commanders four talents a year in interest; but since they were paying down none of the principal, and kept spending money to no purpose, they struck an iron coinage to the value of twenty talents of silver, then gave it to the wealthiest men in the city, each his proportionate share, and took from them an equal amount of silver in return. So the private citizens had money to spend on their daily needs, and the city was freed of its debt. Then, in turn, out of the revenues, they paid those men the interest, and, always setting aside a portion, distributed it to each in installments, taking back the iron coins as it was paid. The Selybrians, needing money, though they had a law forbidding the export of grain in time of famine, and though they had old grain in store, voted that private citizens should hand their grain over to the city at the fixed price,
12| [1349a] leaving each man his food for the year; then they gave the right of export to anyone who wished, fixing a price that seemed good to them. The people of Abydos, since their land had gone out of cultivation because of civil strife, and the resident aliens would advance them nothing because the city was already in debt to them, voted that anyone who wished should lend money to the farmers so that they might work the land, on the understanding that the lenders would be repaid first out of the produce, and the rest of the creditors out of what remained. The Ephesians, being in need of money, passed a law that women should not wear gold, but should instead lend to the city whatever gold they now had. They also had it inscribed on certain of the pillars in the temple the sum of money each was to contribute, and allowed the name of the giver of the money to be inscribed as though she had dedicated it. Dionysius of Syracuse, wishing to raise money, called an assembly and said he had seen Demeter, and that she ordered the women's ornaments to be carried to her temple. He himself, he said, had done this with the ornaments of the women in his own household; he called on the others to do the same, so that no anger might come from the goddess; and he said that whoever did not do so would be guilty of sacrilege. When everyone had brought in what they had, both out of fear of the goddess and out of fear of him, he sacrificed to the goddess and then carried the ornaments off again, as though he had borrowed them from the goddess.
13| As time went on and the women began wearing gold again, he ordered that any woman who wished to wear gold should dedicate a certain sum in the temple. When he was about to build triremes he knew he would need money. So he called an assembly and said that some city was being betrayed to him, for the taking of which he needed money, and he asked the citizens to contribute two staters each; and they contributed. After letting two or three days pass, as though the plan had failed, he praised them and gave back to each man what he had contributed. Having done this, he won back the citizens' trust. Then, when he called for contributions again, they gave, expecting to get the money back as before; but this time he took it and kept it for the shipbuilding. Being short of silver, he struck a coinage of tin, and calling an assembly he strongly recommended the coinage he had struck; and they voted, whether they wished it or not, that each man should treat whatever he had received as silver, not as tin.
14| [1349b] Again, being in need of money, he asked the citizens to contribute to him; but they said they had none. So he brought out his own household furniture and offered it for sale, as if he were doing this out of poverty; and as the Syracusans bought it up, he had a record made of what each man had bought. When they had paid the price, he ordered each man to bring back the piece of furniture he had bought. And since the citizens, because of the war-levies, were not raising livestock, he announced that what he had was sufficient for so great a need, and that therefore anyone who now acquired livestock would be exempt from tax. When many people had quickly acquired large numbers of animals, expecting to hold them tax-free, he waited until he thought the moment was right, then ordered a valuation and imposed the tax. The citizens, angry at having been deceived, began slaughtering their animals and selling them off. When in response to this he fixed how many were to be slaughtered per day, they took to making them sacrificial victims instead; so he forbade the sacrifice of females. Being again in need of money, he ordered a register to be made, for submission to him, of whatever households were orphaned of their heads. When others had made this register, he made use of the property of these estates until each heir came of age. And when he took Rhegium, he called an assembly and said that they might justly be sold into slavery by him, but that if instead they recovered for him the money spent on the war, and paid three minae for each person, he would release them.
15| The people of Rhegium then brought into the open whatever they had previously kept hidden, and those without means, borrowing from the wealthier citizens and from foreigners, raised the money he demanded. But once he had taken this from them, he sold every one of their persons into slavery all the same, and seized every piece of the furniture that had been hidden, now that it was out in the open. He also borrowed money from the citizens on the promise of repayment; and when they demanded it back, he ordered every man to bring to him whatever silver he had, on pain of death if he failed to do so. When the silver had been brought in, he stamped a new device on it and issued the drachma as worth two drachmas, and in this coin he repaid what he had previously owed. Sailing to Etruria with a hundred ships, he took from the temple of Leucothea a great quantity of gold and silver and no small amount of other ornament besides. And knowing that the sailors too had much plunder,
16| [1350a] he issued a proclamation that each man should bring him half of what he had, and keep the other half for himself; and he set death as the penalty for anyone who did not comply. The sailors, supposing that once they had handed over the half they would be allowed to keep the rest, brought it in without fear; but he, having got that much from them, then ordered them to hand over half of what remained as well. The people of Mende used the revenues that came to them from harbor dues and other taxes for the administration of the city, but did not collect the taxes owed on land and houses; instead they kept a record of those who owed them, and whenever they needed money the debtors paid up; so over the intervening time they had profited by having the use of the money interest-free. When at war with the Olynthians and in need of money, since they had slaves, they voted that each man should keep for himself one male and one female slave and sell the rest to the city, so that the city might lend the proceeds out to private citizens. Callistratus, in Macedonia, when the harbor tax was normally sold for about twenty talents, contrived to have it fetch double: for he observed that it was always the wealthier men who bid, because sureties for the twenty talents had to be worth a talent apiece; so he had it proclaimed that anyone who wished might bid, providing sureties for only a third of the sum and to whatever extent each man could persuade others to vouch for him. Timotheus the Athenian, at war with the Olynthians and short of silver, struck a bronze coinage and distributed it to the soldiers.
17| When the soldiers grew angry, he told them that the merchants and tradesmen would accept it in exchange for everything on the same terms. And he told the merchants in advance that whatever bronze coin anyone received, they should use it again to buy up the produce coming in from the countryside and the goods brought in from plunder; and whatever bronze was left over on their hands, they were to bring to him and receive silver for it. When he was at war around Corcyra and in serious financial straits, and the soldiers were demanding their pay and refusing to obey him, threatening to go over to the enemy, he called an assembly and said that he was unable, because of the storms, to get money brought to him, though he had so great a supply of it waiting for him that he would give them, as a gift, the three months' grain-allowance that had previously been promised.
18| [1350b] The soldiers, supposing that Timotheus would never have given away so much money to them unless the money really were on its way to him, kept quiet about their pay until he had settled the matters he wished. When he was besieging Samos, he sold off the crops and produce from the fields to the Samians themselves, so that he had ample money for the soldiers' pay. And when there was a shortage of provisions in the camp because of the crowds arriving, he forbade the sale of ground grain in any quantity less than a medimnus, or of any liquid in any quantity less than a metretes. So the taxiarchs and company commanders bought it up in bulk and distributed it to the soldiers, while those who came into camp brought their own provisions with them; and whenever they were leaving, they sold off whatever was left over. The result was that the soldiers had an ample supply of provisions. Didales the Persian, having soldiers under him, was able to supply their daily needs out of enemy territory, but had no coin to give them; and when payment was demanded of him, after a period during which he had fallen behind, he devised the following scheme. He called an assembly and said that he was not short of money, but that he had it stored in a certain place, and he named the place. Then he broke camp and marched toward it; and when he drew near the place, he went ahead into it and took from the temples there whatever hollow silverware was inside,
19| then, fitting out his mules as though they were carrying money, and letting this be glimpsed, he marched on. The soldiers, seeing this and supposing that everything being carried was silver, took heart, expecting to receive their pay. He then said they must go on to Amisus to have it certified; and the road to Amisus was one of many days and through wintry country. During that time he kept the army supplied, giving them nothing but provisions. The craftsmen in the camp he kept for his own use, along with the peddlers who traded in various goods; no one else was permitted to do any of this work. Chabrias the Athenian, when Tachos king of Egypt was on campaign and in need of money, advised him to tell the priests that, because of the expense, some of the temples and a portion of the priesthood needed to be dismissed.
20| [1351a] The priests, hearing this, and each wanting the temple to be in their own district, gave him money privately. But once he had taken it from all of them, he ordered them to devote to the temple and to himself only a tenth part of the expenditure they had previously been making, and to lend him the rest, until the war against the king should be settled. He ordered that from each household everyone should contribute an amount he fixed, and likewise a per-person levy; and when grain was sold, apart from the price, the seller was to give an obol per artaba, and the buyer likewise. From ships and workshops, and from those engaged in any other business, he ordered a tenth part of their earnings to be paid. When he was about to march out of the country, he ordered that anyone who had unstamped silver or gold should bring it to him; and when most had brought it, he ordered that he himself should make use of it, but arranged for those who had lent it to be registered with the nomarchs, so that they would be repaid out of the tribute revenues. Iphicrates the Athenian, when Cotys was gathering soldiers, procured money for him in the following way. He had it ordered that the people Cotys ruled should be told to sow for him land requiring three medimni of seed; and when this was done, a great quantity of grain was collected.
21| He then brought it down to the trading-posts and sold it, and so became well supplied with money. Cotys the Thracian was trying to borrow money from the Perinthians to gather soldiers, but the Perinthians would not give it to him. So he asked them to provide, at least, some of their citizens as garrison-guards for certain posts, so that he might be free to make use elsewhere of the soldiers currently garrisoning them. They did this quickly, thinking they would thereby become masters of the posts. But Cotys put the men who had been sent under guard, and ordered them to send for the money he had been trying to borrow from the city, so as to ransom themselves with it. Mentor the Rhodian, having seized Hermeias and taken control of his territories, left in place the overseers Hermeias had appointed. But once they had all grown confident, and kept with themselves whatever they had hidden away or set aside in reserve, he seized them and took away everything they had.
22| [1351b] Memnon the Rhodian, having gained control of Lampsacus and needing money, assessed a certain sum of silver on its wealthiest citizens, telling them they would be repaid by the rest of the citizens. But when the other citizens made their contribution, he ordered them to lend this too to him, fixing a time by which he would repay them. Needing money again, he asked them to contribute once more, saying they would be repaid out of the public revenues; and they contributed, since repayment was supposed to come to them quickly. But when the revenue payments came in as well, he said he had need of these too, and would repay everyone later, with interest. From the soldiers serving under him he also withheld six days' rations and pay each year, saying that on those days — which he called the 'exempt' days — they kept no guard duty, made no march, and incurred no expense. Whereas before he had given the soldiers their rations on the second day of the new month, in the first month he skipped three days, and in the next, five; and he continued in this way, extending the delay each time, until he reached the thirtieth day. Charidemus of Oreus, who held certain territories in Aeolis, when Artabazus marched against him, needed money for his soldiers. At first the people contributed to him, but afterward they said they had nothing left.
23| Charidemus, in the town he judged wealthiest, then ordered that if anyone had coin or any other valuable property, they should send it away to another town, and promised to provide an escort — and he was seen doing this himself at the same time. When the people were persuaded, he led them a short way outside the town, and searching what they had with them, took as much as he needed, then led them back into the town again. He also issued a proclamation in the cities under his rule that no one should keep any weapon in his house, on pain of paying the fine he announced — but he was careless about it and made no effort to enforce it. So the people, thinking he had made the proclamation for nothing, each kept in place whatever weapons they happened to own. Then he suddenly had the houses searched, and from whomever he found any weapon, he exacted the fine. A certain Philoxenus, a Macedonian who governed Caria as satrap, needing money, announced that he intended to hold the Dionysia.
24| [1352a] He posted a list appointing the wealthiest of the Carians as chorus-sponsors, and instructed them what they needed to provide. Seeing that they were unhappy about it, he sent men secretly to ask them what they would be willing to pay to be released from the public duty. They said they would give much more than they expected to spend, in order not to be troubled and to keep away from drawing on their own resources. He took what these men gave, then enrolled others in their place, and kept doing this until he had gotten what he wanted from them too, and each in turn had contributed his share. Evaeses the Syrian, satrap of Egypt, on learning that the nomarchs were about to revolt from him, summoned them all to the palace and had them all hanged, but ordered word given to their households that they were under guard. So each household went about pleading on behalf of its own man, and tried to buy back with money those who had been arrested. He came to terms for each one, and having received the agreed payment, handed over to each family its corpse. Cleomenes of Alexandria, satrap of Egypt, when a famine arose that was severe elsewhere but moderate in Egypt, forbade the export of grain. When the nomarchs said they would be unable to pay the tribute if grain could not be exported, he permitted the export but imposed a heavy tax on the grain, so that it worked out for him that even with only a little grain exported he collected a large tax, and the nomarchs themselves were deprived of their pretext.
25| While he was sailing through the nome where the crocodile is a god, one of his own boys was seized by a crocodile. So he summoned the priests and said that, having been wronged first, he would take revenge on the crocodiles, and he ordered them hunted. The priests, so that their god should not be held in contempt, gathered as much gold as they could and gave it to him, and so he stopped. When King Alexander instructed him to found a city by Pharos and to move there the trading-port that had formerly stood at Canobus, he sailed down to Canobus and told the priests and the property-owners there that he had come for the purpose of resettling them. The priests and the inhabitants raised money and gave it to him, so that he would leave the trading-port where it was. Having taken it, he went away for the time being; but later, when his preparations for the building were ready, he sailed down again,
26| [1352b] and demanded money from them once more, this time far exceeding the earlier sum; for it made all the difference to him whether the trading-port belonged to his city or remained there. When they said they would be unable to give it, he resettled them by force. He also once sent a man out to make a purchase, and, learning that the man had gotten good bargains but intended to charge him inflated prices, told the man's associates that he had heard the man had bought the goods at excessive prices, and that he himself would therefore not accept the account — and at the same time he abused the man's stupidity with a show of feigned anger. Hearing this, they said he ought not believe those who spoke against the man until the man himself came and gave an account. When the buyer arrived, they reported to him what Cleomenes had said. Wanting to prove himself honest both to them and to Cleomenes, he reported the true prices at which he had bought the goods. When grain was selling in the country at ten drachmas, he summoned the grain-dealers and asked at what price they were willing to work for him. They said for less than what they sold it to the merchants. He then ordered them to hand their grain over to him at that same price they sold it to others, but himself fixed the price of grain at thirty-two drachmas, and sold it at that rate. And summoning the priests, he told them that the expenditure on the temples throughout the country was highly irregular:
27| He said, then, that it was necessary that some of the temples be abolished, and the number of priests reduced. The priests, both individually and collectively, gave up the sacred funds, believing that he truly meant to do this, and each one wishing that his own temple remain standing and himself remain priest. Antimenes the Rhodian, who was an officer of Alexander's near Babylon, raised money in this way. There being an old law in Babylonia that a tenth be paid on goods brought in, though no one was enforcing it, he watched for the time when all the satraps were expected to arrive, along with soldiers, no small number of envoys, other summoned craftsmen bringing goods, private travelers, and many gifts being carried up to the king, and exacted the tenth according to the law as it stood. Again, in raising money from the slaves attached to the army, he ordered that whoever wished should register his slave at whatever value he chose, and that he would then pay eight drachmas a year for it; but if the slave ran off, he would recover the price at which it had been registered.
28| [1353a] Since many slaves were thus registered, this brought in no small amount of silver. And if a slave did run off, he ordered the satrap of the district in which the army then was either to recover it or to pay its price to the owner. Ophellas of Olynthus, having appointed a superintendent over the Athribite nome, when the nomarchs of that district came to him and said that they themselves wished to pay much more, and asked that he remove the superintendent now in office, asked them whether they would be able to make good on what they promised; and when they said they could, he left the superintendent in his place, but ordered the taxes to be exacted at the sum they themselves had assessed. In this way he seemed neither to dishonor the man he had appointed, nor to impose on the nomarchs greater taxes than they themselves had set, and yet he himself took in many times more money. Pythocles the Athenian advised the Athenians that the city should buy up the lead from Laurium from private dealers at the two-drachma price at which they were selling it, and then, having fixed a price of six drachmas, sell it at that rate themselves. Chabrias, when crews had been enrolled for a hundred and twenty ships, but Tachos needed only sixty, ordered that the men from the sixty ships left behind should either supply two months' rations for those who were sailing, or sail themselves. Those who wished to stay and attend to their own affairs gave what he demanded.
29| Antimenes ordered the satraps to keep the storehouses along the royal roads full, in accordance with the law of the country; and whenever an army or some other body of people passed through without the king, he would send one of his own men to sell off the contents of the storehouses. [1353b] Cleomenes, when the new moon was approaching and the soldiers' grain-ration was due, deliberately sailed downstream away; then, when the month was well advanced, he sailed back up and distributed the ration, and then, when the next month began, he waited again until the new moon. The soldiers, then, kept quiet, since they had only just received their ration; but by shifting one month out of the year in this way, he was continually cutting out a month's pay. Stabelbius the Mysian called the soldiers together to discuss their pay and told them he had no need of the common men, only of their commanders; and that whenever he needed soldiers, he would give money to each commander and send him off to recruit mercenaries, since he would rather give the pay owed to the men to the commanders instead. He therefore ordered each commander to send his own companies out of the country. The commanders, supposing this would mean profit for themselves, sent the soldiers away, just as he had ordered. But after letting a little time pass, he called them together and said that a flute-player without a chorus was no use, and commanders without common soldiers were no use either;
30| and he therefore ordered them to leave the country. Dionysius, making his rounds of the temples, whenever he saw a gold or silver table set out, would order a libation poured to the Good Spirit, and then have it taken away; and whenever any of the statues held out a bowl in offering, he would say, "I accept," and order it removed. He also stripped the golden robes and crowns from the statues, claiming that he himself would give them lighter and more fragrant ones in their place; he then put white robes on them, and crowns of white violets.
1| [paragraph 1] I. — — of Myron's family, having sworn their oath over the sacred objects, chosen by merit. And when the pollution was declared proven, them[selves] were cast out even from their graves, and their line went into permanent exile. Ep[i]menides the Cretan then purified the city. [paragraph 2] II. After this it happened that the notable men and the mass of the people quarreled for a long time [regarding the common people]. For their constitution was, in every other respect too, oligarchic, and in particular the poor were enslaved to the rich — they themselves, their children, and their wives. They were called clients and sixth-part-men; for it was at this rate of payment that they work[ed] the fields of the rich. All the land was in the hands of a few, and if they failed to pay the rents, they themselves and their children were liable to seizure. Loans, for everyone, were secured on the person, right down to the time of Solon; he was the first to become champion of the people. The harshest and bitterest part of the constitution for the many, then, was their enslavement — though they were resentful on other counts as well, since they had a share in practically nothing, one might say.
2| [paragraph 3] III. The order of the ancient const[it]ution, the one before Dr[a]con, was as follows: the officials were appointed by birth and by wealth; and they held office at first for l[ife], and afterward for [ten] years. The greatest and first of the of[fi]ces were king, polemarch, and ar[ch]on. Of these the first was that of the king (for this was ancestral); second, established af[ter]ward, was the polemarchy, because s[om]e of the kings turned out soft in war — hence too they se[nt] for Ion when ne[ed] arose. Last was th[at] of the archon; m[os]t say it came about under Medon, though some say under Acastus. As ev[id]ence they bring forward the fact that the nine archons swear to perform their oaths as th[ou]gh it were still the time of Acastus, on the ground that it was in h[is] reign that the sons of Codrus yielded up the kingship in exchange for the gi[ft]s granted to the archon. Whi[ch]ever of these is true, it would make little difference [t]o the dating; but that this office came last of the three, a further small sign is [th]is: the archon administers n[on]e of the ancestral rites, as the king and the polemarch d[o], but simply the added duties. That is why the office has only recently grown large, bu[i]lt up by these additions. Thesmothetai were ch[os]en many years later, once offici[al]s were already being chosen annually, so that by writing down the ordinances they might keep them on hand for the judgment of disputes;
3| and that is why this office alone of the offices never lasted more than a year. In these points, then, the offices differ from one another in age. The nine archons did not all sit together, but the king had what is now called the Bucoleum, near the Prytaneum (a sign of this: even now the union of the king's wife with Dionysus, and her marriage, take place there); the archon had the Prytaneum; the polemarch had the Epilyceum (formerly called the Polemarcheum, but renamed Epilyceum after Epilycus rebuilt and furnished it during his term as polemar[c]h); the thesmothetai had the Thesmotheteum. Under Solon [al]l of them came together into the Thesmotheteum. They had authority to give final [j]udgment in cases themselves, rather than merely holding a preliminary hearing as is done now. Such, then, was the arrangement regarding the offices. The council of the Areopagus had the function of guarding the laws, and it administered most of the greatest affairs of the city, punishing and fining with full authority all who misbehaved; for the choosing of the archons was by merit and by wealth, and it was from these that the Areopagites were appointed. That is why this office alone has remained for life, even now.
4| [paragraph 4] IV. This, then, was the outline of the first constitution. Not long after this, in the archonship of Aristaichmus, Draco laid down his ordinances; and this arrangement was as follows. Citizenship was granted to those who furnished themselves with arms. They chose the nine archons and the treasurers from those possessing unencumbered property of not less than ten minas, and the other, lesser offices from those who furnished arms; generals and cavalry-commanders had to declare unencumbered property of not less than a hundred minas, and legitimate children over ten years old by a wedded wife; these men had to be gu[ar]anteed by the outgoing prytaneis, the generals, and the cavalry-commanders until their audit, taking sureties from the same property-class as the generals and cavalry-commanders themselves. The council was to consist of four hundred and one members, chosen by lot from among the citizens. Both this and the other offices were filled by lot from among those over thirty years old, and the same man could not hold office twice until everyone else had gone through it; then the lot began again from the start. If any councillor, when the council or the assembly was in session, failed to attend, he paid a fine — the five-hundred-bushel man three drachmas, the horseman two, the yoke-man one. The council of the Areopagus was guardian of the laws and watched over the officials, to see that they governed according to the laws. A wronged party could lay an information befo[re] the council of the Areopagus, stating [the] law under which he was wronged. Loans, as has been said, were secured on the pers[on], and the land was in the hands of a few.
5| [paragraph 5] V. With such an arrangement prevailing in the constitution, and the many enslaved to the few, the people rose up against the notables. Since the conflict was fierce and they sat opposed to one another for a long time, they jointly chose Solon as arbitrator and archon and entrusted the constitution to him, once he had composed the elegy whose opening is: I know it, and within my heart lie griefs, as I watch the oldest land of Ionia being struck down — in which he fights and disputes on both sides, on behalf of both parties, and afterward jointly urges an end to the rivalry then in progress. Solon was, by [b]irth and reputation, among the first men, but by property and station among the middling ones, as is agreed from other evidence and as he himself testifies in these verses, urging the rich not to be grasping: You who have calmed your strong hearts within your breasts, who have driven yourselves to excess amid so many good things, set your great mind on moderate measures; for neither shall we com[pl]y, nor will these things turn out fitting for you. And in general he always fastens the bl[am]e for the conflict on the rich; that is why, at the start of the el[eg]y, he says he fears both love of money and arrogance, as th[ou]gh it were through these that the hostility had arisen.
6| [paragraph 6] VI. Once he had bec[om]e master of affairs, Solon freed the people, both for the pres[en]t and for the fut[ur]e, by forbidding loans secured on the person; and he laid down laws, and made canc[el]lations of debts, both private and public, which they call the sh[ak]ing-off of burdens, since by them people shook the burden off themselves. In this connection s[om]e try to slander him; for it hap[pe]ned that, when Solon was about to enact the shaking-off of burdens, he t[ol]d certain notables of it beforehand, and afterward — as the pop[ul]ar party says — he was outman[oe]uvred by his friends, but as those who wish to speak [il]l of him say, he himself had a share in it. For th[es]e men borrowed money and bought up much la[nd], and not long after, when the cancellation of debts took place, they grew ri[ch]; and from this, they say, arose those who were later thought to be of long-standing wealth. All the same, the account given by the popular party is the more credible one; for it is not likely that a man so moderate and public-spirited in everything else — when it was open to him to sub[ju]gate one side and make himself tyrant of the city — would instead make enemies of both parties alike, and set what was fine and the safety of the city above his own ga[in], and yet befoul himself over things so small and so easily exposed. That he had this power, the diseased state of affairs itself attests, and he himself mentions it often in his poems, and everyone else agrees. This charge, then, must be judged false.
7| [paragraph 7] VII. He established a constitution and enacted other laws, and they stopped using Draco's ordinances, except those concerning homicide. They wrote the laws up on the boards and set them up in the Royal Stoa, and swore to abide by them and to dedicate a golden statue if anyone should transgress any of the laws; and that is why even now they still swear in that way. He bound the laws to remain in force for a hundred years, and arranged the constitution in the following manner. He divided the citizens by property assessment into four classes, just as they had been divided before, into pentacosiomedimni, [horsemen], zeugitai, and thetes. And he assigned the other offices — the nine archons, the treasurers, the sellers [of confiscated property], the Eleven, and the kolakretai — to be held by men from the pentacosiomedimni, the horsemen, and the zeugitai, giving each office in proportion to the size of the assessment. But to those rated in the thetic class he gave a share only in the assembly and the lawcourts. A man had to be rated as a pentacosiomedimnos if he produced from his own land five hundred measures, dry and wet combined; those producing three hundred were rated in the cavalry class, or, as some say, those able to keep a horse. As evidence for this they cite both the name of the class, as being derived from the fact itself, and the dedications made by men of old: for there stands on the Acropolis a statue dedicated by Diphilos, on which this is inscribed:
8| Anthemion, son of Diphilos, dedicated this to the gods, having exchanged the thetic class for the cavalry class. And a horse stands beside him bearing witness, showing that this signifies the cavalry class. Yet it is more plausible that the classes were divided by measures of produce, just as the pentacosiomedimni were. Those producing two hundred measures, dry and wet combined, were rated as zeugitai; the rest were rated as thetes, sharing in no office. That is why even now, when a man about to be chosen by lot for some office is asked what class he is rated in, no one would ever say 'thetic.' [paragraph 8] VIII. He made the offices filled by lot from men previously nominated, whom each of the tribes was to nominate beforehand. For the nine archons, each tribe nominated ten in advance, and the lot was drawn from these; hence the practice still remains for each tribe to put forward ten men, after which the lot is cast among them. A sign that he made the offices filled by lot from the property classes is the law concerning the treasurers, which they [continue] to use even now; for it directs that the treasurers be chosen by lot from the pentacosiomedimni. [Solon], then, legislated in this way concerning the nine archons. For in ancient times the Council on the [Areopagus], summoning [a man] forward and judging on its own authority who was suitable for each of the offices, would [appoint] him for [a year]. There were four tribes, as before, and four tribe-kings. [From] each of [the] [tribe]s there were apportioned three thirds, and twelve naukraries within each. Over the naukraries there was an office established, the naukraroi, appointed to deal with both the contributions levied and the [expenditures] that arose; that is why in Solon's laws, which are no longer in use, it is often
9| [written] in many places 'the naukraroi are to exact payment' and 'to spend from the naukraric [silver].' He made the [Council] [four] hundred strong, a hundred from each tribe, and assigned the Council of the Areopagos to [guard] the laws — for it had existed even before this as overseer of the constitution — and it watched over most of the greatest affairs of the city and corrected wrongdoers, having full authority to [fine] and punish, and it paid the [payments] exacted into the city treasury, without recording the [reason] for which anything was [exacted]; and it judged those who conspired to overthrow the democracy, Solon having [established] a law of [impeachment] concerning [them]. And seeing that the city was often torn by [faction], and that some of the citizens, through indifference, were [content] to let events take their own course, he made a special law aimed at them: that whoever, when the city was torn by faction, did not take up arms with one side or the other, should be disfranchised and have no share in the city. [paragraph 9] IX. Such, then, was the state of affairs [concerning] the offices. Three things are held to be [this] the most democratic features of Solon's constitution: first and greatest, the prohibition of loans secured on the person; next, that it was open to anyone who wished to seek [redress] on behalf of those who were wronged; and third, the thing by which the masses are said to have gained the most strength, the right of appeal to the [lawcourt]. For the people, being [masters] of the vote,
10| become sovereign over the constitution. Further, because the laws were not [written] simply or clearly, but like the law concerning inheritances and heiresses, it was inevitable that [many] disputes should arise, and that the lawcourt should decide both public and private matters. Some indeed think that he deliberately made the laws unclear, so that the [people] should be sovereign over the judgment. But that is not likely; rather it was because he was unable to grasp the best rule in general terms — for it is not [right] to judge his intention from what happens now, but from the character of his constitution as a whole. [paragraph 10] X. In his laws, then, these are held to be the democratic measures he laid down; but before the legislation he carried out the [cancellation] of [debts], and after that the increase in the [standards] of measures and weights and in the currency. For under him the measures were made [larger] than the Pheidonian ones, and the mina, which previously had a [weight] of seventy drachmas, was brought up to a hundred. The old standard [coin] was the didrachm. He also made weights to match the currency, sixty-three minas making the [talent], and the extra [three] minas were distributed over the stater and the other weights.
11| [paragraph 11] XI. Having organized the constitution in the way described, since people kept coming to him about the laws and pestering him, some finding fault, others cross-examining him, and since he wished neither to alter these provisions nor to remain and be hated, he made a journey abroad, for trade and sightseeing at once, to Egypt, [saying] that he would not return for ten years; for he did not think it right to interpret the laws himself while present, but that everyone should simply do what was written. At the same time it also happened that many of the notable men had become estranged from him because of the cancellation of debts, and that both factions had changed their attitude toward him, because the settlement had turned out contrary to what they expected. For the people had thought he would redistribute everything, while the notables thought he would restore things to [much] the [same] order as before, or [alter] them only a little. Solon opposed them both, and though it was open to him, by [joining] with whichever side he wished, to make himself tyrant, he chose instead to be hated by both, having saved his country and legislated the [best] laws he could. [paragraph 12] XII. That things happened in this way is agreed by everyone else, and Solon himself recalls it in his poetry, in these lines: 'To the people I gave as much privilege as is enough, neither taking away their honor nor granting them more; and those who held power and were admired for their wealth, for them too I took care that they should have nothing unseemly. I stood holding a strong shield over both, and I did not allow either side to win unjustly.'
12| Again, declaring his views about the multitude, how it should be treated: 'The people would best follow their leaders if neither given too free a rein nor forced too hard. For excess breeds insolence, whenever great prosperity attends men whose minds are not sound.' And again, elsewhere, he speaks about those who wanted to redistribute the land: 'They came intent on plunder, each of them holding rich hopes, expecting to find great wealth, and thinking that, though I spoke smoothly, I would reveal a harsh purpose. Vain were their thoughts then, and now, angry with me, they all look at me [askance], as at an enemy. They need not: for what I said, I accomplished with the gods' help, and I did not do the [rest] in [vain], nor does it please me to [act] with the violence of a tyrant, nor that in the [rich] soil of my fatherland the base should have an equal share with the good.' [Again] he speaks, too, concerning the [cancellation] of [debts] and of those who had formerly been enslaved but were freed through the shaking-off of burdens —
13| As for the things for which I [gathered] the people together, what of these did I leave off before achieving it? Let the mightiest witness in the judgment of time, the greatest mother of the Olympian gods, black Earth, would best bear me witness before the court of Time bear me out — whose boundary-markers, [fixed] in many places, I once tore up; she who was formerly enslaved, now free. And many I brought back to Athens, their ancestral, god-founded city, men who had been sold abroad, one unjustly, another justly, and others who had fled under the compulsion of need, no longer speaking the Attic tongue, as men who had wandered far and wide; and others who here at home endured shameful slavery, [trembling] before the tempers of their masters — these I made free. These things I did by the power of law, fitting force and justice together, and I carried it through as I had [promised]. And I wrote ordinances alike for the base man and the good, fitting a straight judgment to each case. If another man had taken up the goad as I did, one [evil-counseled] and grasping after possessions, he would not have held the people in check; for had I been willing to do what pleased their [opponents] at the time, and then in turn what the other side proposed to them, this city would have been robbed of many of its men. For this reason I made my stand for defense on every side, turning about like a wolf among many hounds. And again, rebuking both sides for the complaints they later made against each other: if I must openly reproach the people, they would never in their dreams have seen with their own eyes what they now possess. But those who are greater and superior in force would praise me and make me their friend —
14| for if anyone else, he says, had won this office, he would not have held the people in check, nor would he have stopped, before he had stirred up the milk and skimmed off the cream. But I stood as a boundary-marker in the no-man's-land between the two sides. [paragraph 13] XIII. He made his journey abroad, then, for these reasons. And when Solon had gone abroad, while the city was still in turmoil, they lived in peace for four years; but in the fifth year after Solon's archonship they did not appoint an archon, because of the factional [strife], and again in the fifth year, for the same reason, they made anarchy. After this, over the same span of time, Damasias was chosen archon and ruled for two years and two months, until he was driven out of office by force. Then they [decided], because of the factional strife, to choose ten archons,
15| five from the Eupatridae, three from the [farmers], and two from the craftsmen; and these ruled for the year after Damasias. This makes clear that the archonship carried the greatest power, for they can be seen constantly quarreling over this office. And in general they went on suffering in their relations with one another, some having as their basis and pretext the cancellation of debts (for it had come about that they were poor), others being discontented with the constitution because a great change had taken place in it, and some because of [rivalry with one another]. There were three factions: one of the men of the coast, led by Megacles son of Alcmeon, who were thought to aim above all at the middle constitution; another of the men of the plain, who sought oligarchy, led by Lycurgus; and a third, that of the men of the hill country, over which Pisistratus was set, who was thought to be [most democratic]. Attached to these were also those who had been [deprived] of their debts, out of [poverty], and those who were not pure in lineage, out of fear. A sign of this is that after the overthrow [of the tyrants] they held a scrutiny of the rolls, on the ground that many were sharing in the constitution who had no right to it. Each group took its name from the region in which it farmed. [paragraph 14] XIV. Pisistratus, who was thought to be the most democratic man and had won great repute in the war against the Megarians, wounded himself and persuaded the people that he had suffered this at the hands of his political opponents, and so got them, on a motion proposed by Aristion, to grant him a bodyguard for his person. Taking the men called club-bearers, he rose up with them against the people and seized the Acropolis, in the thirty-second year after the enactment of the laws,
16| under the archon Comeas. It is said that when Pisistratus asked for the guard, Solon spoke against it and said that in one respect he was wiser than some, in another [braver] than others: wiser than those who did not perceive that Pisistratus was aiming at [tyranny], braver than those who knew it but kept silent. And when speaking did not [persuade] them, he set his weapons out before his door and said that he himself had come to his country's aid so far as he was able (for he was already a very old man), and called on the others to do the same. Solon, then, [accomplished nothing] at the time by his appeal; but Pisistratus, once he had taken power, administered the city's affairs more as a citizen than as a tyrant. But before his rule had yet taken root, the partisans of Megacles and Lycurgus came to an agreement and drove him out, in the sixth year after his first establishment, under the archon Hegesias. And in the twelfth year after this, Megacles, being hard pressed by the factional strife, again sent word to Pisistratus offering to restore him on condition that he marry his daughter, and brought him back in an old-fashioned and altogether simple way. For having first spread abroad a story that Athena herself was bringing Pisistratus back, he found a tall and beautiful woman — according to Herodotus, from the deme of Paeania, but as some say, a Thracian garland-seller from Collytus, whose name was Phye — and dressing her up in the likeness of the goddess, he brought her into the city together with him; and Pisistratus rode in on a chariot with the woman standing beside him, while the people in the city received them with worship and astonishment.
17| [paragraph 15] XV. Such, then, was the manner of the first return. After this, when he was expelled the second time, about the seventh year after his return (for he did not hold power long; rather, because he was unwilling to have children by Megacles' daughter, and fearing both factions, he withdrew), he first settled a place near the Thermaic Gulf called Rhaecelus, and from there moved on to the region around Pangaeus. From there, having raised money and hired soldiers, he came to Eretria and in the eleventh year made his first attempt to recover his rule by force, with the eager support of many others, but especially of the Thebans and of Lygdamis of Naxos, and also of the knights who held the government in Eretria. And having won the battle at Pallenis and taken the [city], and having disarmed
18| the people, he now held the tyranny firmly; and after taking Naxos he set up Lygdamis as its ruler. He disarmed the people in the following manner. Holding a review of arms at the Theseum, he attempted to hold an assembly, and [spoke] for a little while; and when they said they could not hear him, he told them to come up closer to the gateway of the Acropolis, so that his voice would carry better. And while he kept them occupied with his speech, the men appointed for the purpose took up the [arms] and [locked] them away in the buildings near the Theseum, and came and told Pisistratus. And when he had finished the rest of his speech, he told them also what had happened about the arms — that they should not be amazed or discouraged, but should go away to their private affairs, while he [himself] would [take care] of everything public.
19| [paragraph 16] XVI. The tyranny of Pisistratus, then, was established from the start in this way, and underwent this many changes. Pisistratus administered the city's affairs, as has been said, with moderation, and more as a citizen than as a tyrant; for in other respects he was humane and mild, and forgiving toward wrongdoers, and in particular he lent money in advance to the [poor] for their work, so that they could support themselves by farming. He did this for two reasons: so that they would not spend their time in the city but would be scattered throughout the countryside, and so that, having a modest sufficiency and being occupied with their own affairs, they would neither desire nor have [leisure] to concern themselves with public business. At the same time it also happened that his revenues became greater, since the land was being thoroughly worked; for he exacted a tenth of what was produced. For this reason he also set up local judges in the demes, and he himself often went out into the country to inspect it and to settle disputes among those who were quarreling, so that they would not come down into the
20| ...the city and neglect their farming. They say that during one such outing of his, this happened to Pisistratus, concerning the man farming on [Hymettus], on the plot later called Tax-Exempt. Seeing someone digging and working ground that was [entirely] rock, he was astonished and had his attendant ask what came from the place. The man said, "As many troubles and pains as there are — and of these troubles and pains Pisistratus must have his tenth." The man answered without knowing who he was speaking to, but Pisistratus, pleased at his frankness and his [industriousness], made him exempt from all taxes. The people were [troubled] by him in nothing else during his rule either, but he was always [securing] peace and keeping things quiet. That is why people [kept] repeating [well-worn] sayings, that Pisistratus's tyranny was [the] life under [Cronus] — for that is what his [rule] turned out to be. But the greatest of all the things [said] of him was that he was [democratic] in character and humane. For in other matters too he wished to administer everything according to the [laws]
21| ...granting himself no [advantage] in his rule; and whenever he fell from power he recovered it again easily. For most of both the notable men and the common people wanted him back: he won some over by his company, others by help in their private affairs, and he was naturally good with both kinds. The Athenians also had laws about tyrants that were mild for those times, among them, in particular, the one bearing most directly on the [establishment] of a tyranny. For this was their law: "These are the ordinances and ancestral customs of the Athenians: if anyone rises up [aiming at tyranny] or joins in setting up a tyranny, he and his family are to be without civic rights." [paragraph 17] XVII. Pisistratus, then, grew old in office and died a natural death in the archonship of [Philoneus], having lived thirty-three years from when he first became tyrant, and having remained in power for nineteen of those years, since he spent the rest in exile. That is why those who claim
22| that [Pisistratus] was the beloved of Solon, and that he served as general in the war against the Megarians over Salamis, are plainly talking nonsense — for the dates do not allow it, if one works out each man's lifetime, nor do they fit with the archon under whom Solon died. When Pisistratus died, his sons held the rule, carrying on affairs in the same manner. There were two by his lawful wife, Hippias and Hipparchus, and two by his Argive wife, Iophon and Hegesistratus, who bore the nickname Thessalus. For Pisistratus had married, from Argos, the daughter of an Argive man named Gorgilus, Timonassa, whom Archinus of Ambracia, one of the Cypselids, had previously had as his wife. This was also the source of the friendship with the Argives, and a thousand of them fought on his side in the battle at Pallenis, brought over by Hegesistratus. As for his marrying the Argive woman, some say it was when he was first in exile, others say it was while he was already holding power.
23| [paragraph 18] XVIII. Because of their rank and their age, Hipparchus and Hippias were in control of affairs, but Hippias, being the elder, and naturally a statesman and sensible, presided over the government. Hipparchus was playful, erotic, and devoted to the arts — he was the one who summoned Anacreon and the other poets — while Thessalus was much younger, and reckless and violent in his way of life; from him, it turned out, came all the troubles of their rule. For he fell in love with Harmodius, and failing to win his friendship, he could not contain his anger: in other ways he showed his bitterness pointedly, and finally, when Harmodius's sister was about to carry the ceremonial basket at the Panathenaea, he stopped her, abusing Harmodius as unmanly. This so provoked Harmodius and Aristogeiton that they undertook their deed, with many others sharing in it. Already they were watching for Hippias on the Acropolis during the Panathenaea (for he happened to be [receiving] the procession, while Hipparchus was sending it off), and seeing one of their fellow conspirators in the [plot] speaking amiably with Hippias, and thinking he was informing on them, they wanted to do something before they could be arrested; so they came down and rushed ahead of
24| the [others], and killed Hipparchus, who was arranging the procession, by the Leocorium, ruining the whole plan. Of the two, Harmodius was killed on the spot by the [guards], while Aristogeiton was arrested later and tortured for a long time. Under torture he denounced many men who were both notable by birth and friends of the tyrants. For at first they could find no trace of the plot; and the story that goes around — that Hippias made the marchers lay down their weapons and so exposed those carrying daggers — is not true, since they were not marching armed at that time; the people invented this only later. He denounced the tyrant's friends — the democrats say it was deliberate, so that they would act impiously and at the same time weaken themselves by killing men who were innocent and their own friends; but some say he was not fabricating but was actually informing on his accomplices. In the end, when for all his efforts he could not manage to be put to death, he promised to inform on many others, and persuaded Hippias to give him his right hand as a pledge of good faith; and once he had it, he taunted him for giving his hand to his brother's murderer. This so provoked Hippias that, in his rage, he could not restrain himself, but drew his dagger and killed him.
25| [paragraph 19] XIX. After this the tyranny became much harsher. For because of avenging his brother, and because he had put many to death and driven many into exile, he was distrustful and bitter toward everyone. About four years after Hipparchus's death, since things in the city were going badly, he undertook to fortify Munichia, meaning to move his base there; but while occupied with this he was driven out by Cleomenes, king of the Lacedaemonians, since the oracles were constantly urging it. The exiles, led by the Alcmeonids, were unable to bring about their own return by their own efforts, but kept meeting with failure. In other undertakings too they were thwarted, and when they fortified Lipsydrium in the countryside above Parnes — where some men from the city itself came out to join them — they were besieged and driven out by the tyrants. That is why, afterward, following this disaster, people used to sing in their drinking-songs: "Alas, Lipsydrium, betrayer of friends — what men you destroyed, brave in battle and well-born, who then showed of what fathers they were."
26| Failing in everything else, they contracted to build the temple at Delphi, and from this they gained the funds to secure Spartan help. The Pythia kept urging the Lacedaemonians, whenever they came to consult the oracle, to free Athens, until she drove the Spartiates to it, even though the Pisistratids were bound to them as guests and friends; and no less a part in stirring the Spartans was played by the friendship the Pisistratids had with the Argives. First they sent Anchimolus by sea with an army. But he was defeated and killed, because Cineas the Thessalian came to help with a thousand cavalry; angered at what had happened, they sent out King Cleomenes with a larger force by land, who, once he had defeated the Thessalian cavalry when they tried to stop him from entering Attica, shut Hippias up in the so-called Pelargic wall and besieged him there together with the Athenians. While he was pressing the siege, it happened that the sons of the Pisistratids were caught trying to slip out. Once they were taken, the Pisistratids made an agreement for the safety of their children, carried their own property out within five days, and handed over the Acropolis to the Athenians, in the archonship of Harpactides — having held the tyranny for about seventeen years after their father's death, and altogether, counting also the years their father ruled, forty-nine years in all.
27| [paragraph 20] XX. When the tyranny had been overthrown, the two sides quarreled with each other: Isagoras son of Teisander, who was a friend of the tyrants, and Cleisthenes, who was of the family of the Alcmaeonidae. Cleisthenes, getting the worse of it in the political clubs, brought the common people over to his side, giving back the constitution to the multitude. Isagoras, falling short in power, in turn called on Cleomenes, who was a guest-friend of his, and persuaded him to drive out the pollution, on the ground that the Alcmaeonidae were held to be among the accursed. When Cleisthenes had withdrawn along with a few others, Cleomenes drove out seven hundred Athenian households as accursed. Having accomplished this, he next tried to dissolve the Council, and to put Isagoras and three hundred of his friends in control of the city. But the Council resisted, and when the multitude had gathered together, Cleomenes and Isagoras and their party took refuge on the Acropolis; the people sat down before it and besieged them for two days, and on the third day they let Cleomenes and all who were with him go under truce, but they sent for Cleisthenes and the other exiles to return. Once the people had taken control of affairs, Cleisthenes was their leader and the champion of the people. For it was above all the Alcmaeonidae who were responsible for the expulsion of the tyrants, and for the most part they had spent their time in factional strife. And even before this, Cedon of the Alcmaeonidae had attacked the tyrants, which is why they used to sing of him too in the drinking-songs:
28| 'Pour also for Cedon, cupbearer, and do not forget him, if it is right to pour wine for good men.' [paragraph 21] XXI. It was for these reasons, then, that the people trusted Cleisthenes. And now, standing at the head of the multitude, in the fourth year after the overthrow of the tyrants, in the archonship of Isagoras, first of all he distributed everyone among ten tribes instead of the four, wanting to mix them together so that more people would have a share in the constitution—hence too the saying, current among those who wanted to inquire into people's ancestry, 'not to inquire into tribes.' Next he made the Council five hundred[υ] instead of four hundred, fifty from each tribe (previously there had been a hundred). The reason he did not organize them into twelve tribes was so[ς] that he would not have to divide them according to the previously existing thirds; for out of the four tribes there had been twelve thirds, and this way it would not[συν] turn out that they were mixed together. He also divided the countryside by demes into thirty parts, ten belonging to the region around the city, ten to the coast, and ten to the inland, and naming these thirds, he assigned three by lot to each tribe, so that each tribe would have a share of every district. And he made fellow-demesmen of one another all those living in each of the demes, so that people would not expose the newly enrolled citizens by calling them by their fathers' names, but would instead proclaim them by their demes—which is also why the Athenians call themselves by the names of their demes.
29| He also established demarchs, who had the same responsibilities as the earlier naukraroi, for he made the demes take the place of the naukrariai. He named some of the demes after their localities, others after their founders, since not all of them still corresponded to actual localities. But the clans, the phratries, and the priesthoods he allowed each group to keep according to ancestral custom. For the tribes he made eponymous heroes chosen from a hundred nominated founding-figures, ten of whom the Pythia selected. [paragraph 22] XXII. Once this had been done, the constitution became far more favorable to the people than that of Solon. For it happened that the tyranny had caused Solon's laws to fall out of use because they were not being applied, and Cleisthenes laid down other new[ν] laws with an eye to the multitude, among which was also the law concerning ostracism. First of all, then, in the fifth year after this settlement, in the archonship of Hermocreon, they instituted for the Council of Five Hundred the oath which they still swear even now.
30| Next they chose the generals by tribes, one from each tribe, while the polemarch was commander of the whole army. Then, twelve years after this, having won the battle at Marathon in the archonship of Phaenippus, letting two years pass after the victory, with the people now grown confident, they for the first time made use of the law about ostracism, which had been laid down out of suspicion of men in positions of power, because Peisistratus, who had been a popular leader and a general, had made himself tyrant. And the first of his relatives to be ostracized was Hipparchus son of Charmus, of Collytus, on whose account Cleisthenes had especially laid down the law, wanting to drive him out. For the Athenians allowed the friends of the tyrants, so many of them as had not joined in wrongdoing during the disturbances, to go on living in the city, following the customary mildness of the people; and the leader and champion of these men was Hipparchus. Then straightaway in the following year, in the archonship of Telesinus, they chose the nine archons by lot, tribe by tribe, from among those preliminarily selected by the five hundred demesmen—this being the first time this was done since the tyranny; before this all of them had been elected. And Megacles son of Hippocrates, of Alopece, was ostracized. So then for three years they went on ostracizing the friends of the tyrants, which was the purpose for which the law existed; but after this, in the fourth year, they began to remove anyone else too who seemed to be too great.
31| And the first person to be ostracized who had no connection with the tyranny was Xanthippus son of Ariphron. Then, three years after this, in the archonship of Nicodemus, when the mines at Maroneia were discovered and the city had gained a hundred talents in profit from the works, and some were advising the people to divide up the money among themselves, Themistocles prevented it—not saying what he would use the money for, but instructing them instead to lend it out to the hundred wealthiest Athenians, a hundred talents to each, and then, if the expenditure proved satisfactory, the cost would fall to the city, but if not, they were to recover the money from those who had borrowed it. Having received the money on these terms, he had a hundred triremes built, each of the hundred men building one, and it was with these that they fought the sea-battle against the barbarians at Salamis. And it was in this period that Aristides son of Lysimachus was ostracized. In the fourth year they recalled all those who had been ostracized, in the archonship of Hypsichides, on account of the expedition of Xerxes; and for the future they fixed that those who were ostracized should live beyond Geraestus and Scyllaeum, or else be disfranchised outright.
32| [paragraph 23] XXIII. Up to this point, then, the city had advanced this far, growing little by little along with the democracy. But after the Persian Wars the Council of the Areopagus grew powerful again and administered the city, having taken over the leadership by no formal decree but because it had been responsible for the sea-battle at Salamis. For when the generals were at a total loss over the situation and had proclaimed that each man should save[ζ] himself, the Council raised eight drachmas for each man, distributed them, and put the men aboard the ships. On account of this service, people yielded to its authority, and the Athenians were governed well [and] in this period. For it fell to them, around this time, to train themselves for war, to win a good reputation among the Greeks, and to take the leadership of the sea against the will of the Lacedaemonians. The champions of the people during this period were Aristides son of Lysimachus and Themistocles son of Neocles, the one reputed to practice military affairs, the other clever in political matters and superior in justice to the men of his own time; and so people made use of the one as general, the other as advisor. The rebuilding of the walls, then, they carried out jointly, even though they were at odds with each other; but as for the revolt of the Ionians from their alliance with the Lacedaemonians, it was Aristides who urged it on, having watched the Spartans fall into disrepute on account of Pausanias. It was he, too, who was the one who fixed the tribute for the cities, the first assessment, in the third year after the sea-battle at Salamis, in the archonship of Timosthenes, and he swore the oaths to the
33| [to the Ionians] — so that they would have the same enemy and the same friend [as the Athenians]; and on these terms they also cast the masses of iron into the sea. [paragraph 24] XXIV. After this, once the city had grown confident and a great deal of money had been collected, Aristides advised them to lay hold of the leadership, and to come down from the countryside and live in the city; for there would be sustenance for everyone — some serving as soldiers, some standing guard, some conducting the public business — and in this way they would keep hold of the leadership. Persuaded by this, and having taken up the empire, they treated their allies in a more high-handed way, except for the Chians, the Lesbians, and the Samians; these they kept as guardians of their empire, letting them keep their own constitutions and rule over whatever they happened to rule. They also secured abundant sustenance for the mass of the people, just as Aristides had proposed; for it turned out that more than twenty thousand men were maintained from the tribute, the harbor and market dues, and the allies. There were six thousand jurors, sixteen hundred archers, and besides these twelve hundred cavalry, a Council of five hundred, five hundred guards of the dockyards, and besides these fifty guards stationed in the city itself; the magistrates serving at home numbered up to seven hundred men, and those serving abroad up to seven hundred; and besides these, once they later entered upon the war, there were twenty-five hundred hoplites, twenty guard-ships, and other ships that brought in the tribute, carrying two thousand men chosen by lot; and further, the prytaneum, the orphans, and the guards of the prisoners — for the upkeep of all of these came from the public funds.
34| [paragraph 25] XXV. This, then, is how the sustenance of the people came about. The constitution remained for about seventeen years after the Persian Wars with the Areopagites presiding over it, though it was gradually declining. But as the mass of the people grew, Ephialtes son of Sophonides became leader of the people; he had a reputation for being incorruptible and just toward the constitution, and he attacked the Council. First he did away with many of the Areopagites, bringing prosecutions against them over their conduct in office; then, in the archonship of Conon, he stripped the Council of all the added powers by which it safeguarded the constitution, and gave some of these to the Five Hundred, others to the people, and others to the lawcourts. He accomplished this with Themistocles as his accomplice — a man who was himself one of the Areopagites but was about to be tried for medizing. Wanting to bring the Council down, Themistocles told Ephialtes that the Council was about to seize him, and told the Areopagites that he feared certain men were banding together to overthrow the constitution. He then brought the men chosen from the Council to the place where Ephialtes was staying, so as to show them the men gathering there, and conferred with them earnestly. Ephialtes, when he saw them, was struck with fear and sat down at the altar wearing nothing but his tunic. Everyone was amazed at what had [happened]; and afterward, when the Council of Five Hundred was assembled, both Ephialtes and Themistocles became accusers of the Areopagites, and did the same again before the people, until they had stripped them of their power. And here the text breaks off. Ephialtes too was done away with, murdered not long after by Aristodicus of Tanagra.
35| [paragraph 26] XXVI. In this way, then, the Council of the Areopagites was stripped of its oversight. After this it happened that the constitution grew still more relaxed, on account of those who eagerly played the demagogue. For it happened at this period that the more reasonable citizens had no leader at all; the man standing at their head was Cimon son of Miltiades, who was rather young and had come late to public affairs; and besides this, most of them had been destroyed in war. For since military service in those days was raised by conscription lists, and the generals set over the troops were inexperienced in war but honored on account of their fathers' reputations, it constantly happened that, of those who went out, two or three thousand would be lost, so that the reasonable men were used up, both from the common people and from the wealthy. In everything else, then, they conducted affairs with no less attention to the laws than before, but they did not disturb the selection of the nine archons; however, in the sixth year after the death of Ephialtes, they decided that men from the Zeugitae too should be admitted among those preliminarily selected for the lot for the nine archonships, and the first of that class to hold office was Mnesitheides. All those before this had come from the Knights and the Five-Hundred-Bushel class, and the Zeugitae held only the ordinary offices, except where some provision of the laws was overlooked. In the fifth year after this, in the archonship of Lysicrates, the Thirty Judges were again established, the ones called "the judges by demes"; and in the third year after that, in the archonship of Antidotus, because of the great number of citizens, on Pericles' motion they decided that no one should share in citizenship who was not born of two citizen parents.
36| [paragraph 27] XXVII. After this, when Pericles turned to leading the people, and first won a good reputation when, still young, he brought a prosecution over the accounts of Cimon's generalship, the constitution came to be still more democratic; for he took away some of the powers of the Areopagites, and above all he urged the city toward naval power, and from this it resulted that the common people, growing bolder, drew the whole constitution more into their own hands. In the forty-ninth year after the sea battle at Salamis, in the archonship of Pythodorus, the war against the Peloponnesians broke out; during it the people were shut up within the city and grew accustomed to earning pay on campaigns, and so, partly by choice and partly against it, they took it upon themselves to administer the constitution directly. Pericles was also the first to make the lawcourts paid, competing for popular favor against Cimon's wealth. For Cimon, who had a fortune fit for a tyrant, in the first place performed the public liturgies splendidly, and in the second place supported many of his fellow demesmen; for any Laciad who wished could come to him each day and receive what he needed to get by, and further, all his estates were left unfenced, so that anyone who wished could enjoy the fruit. Against this lavish generosity Pericles, whose private means fell short, was advised by Damonides of Oea — who was thought to be the source of most of Pericles' policies, and was for this reason later ostracized — since he was outmatched in private giving, to give the people their own money back; so he arranged pay for the jurors. Some blame this for a decline, on the ground that ordinary men, rather than reasonable ones, were always more eager to put themselves forward for selection by lot. It was after this that jury-bribing too began, Anytus having been the first to show the way, after his command at Pylos; for, being prosecuted by certain men over the loss of Pylos, he bribed the court and was acquitted.
37| [paragraph 28] XXVIII. So then, as long as Pericles stood at the head of the people, the affairs of the constitution were better; but once Pericles died, they became much worse. For then, for the first time, the people took as their leader a man who did not enjoy a good reputation among reasonable people; whereas in earlier times the reasonable men had always continued to lead the people. For from the beginning, the first to become leader of the people was Solon, and the second was Pisistratus, both men of noble birth and standing; and after the tyranny was overthrown, Cleisthenes, of the family of the Alcmaeonids, was leader, and he had no rival faction leader once the party of Isagoras had been driven out. After this, Xanthippus stood at the head of the people, and Miltiades at the head of the notables; then Themistocles and Aristides. After these, Ephialtes led the people, and Cimon son of Miltiades led the wealthy; then Pericles led the people, and Thucydides — who was Cimon's relative by marriage — led the other party. When Pericles died, Nicias, who later died in Sicily, stood at the head of the distinguished men, and Cleon son of Cleaenetus at the head of the people — the man who seems to have done the most to corrupt the people with his violent impulses, and who was the first to shout on the speaker's platform, to hurl abuse, and to address the assembly with his cloak hitched up, while everyone else spoke in orderly fashion. Then, after these, Theramenes son of Hagnon led the other party, and Cleophon the lyre-maker led the people — the man who was also the first to introduce the two-obol payment; and for some time
38| ...was being distributed, but after this Callicrates of Paeania did away with it, being the first to promise to add another obol to the two obols. Both of these men were later condemned to death; for it is the way of the multitude, even when it has been deceived, to hate afterward those who have led them to do something not right. From Cleophon onward, the leadership of the people passed continuously to those most willing to be bold and to gratify the many, looking only to the immediate moment. The best of those who engaged in politics at Athens after the ancients are thought to have been Nicias, Thucydides, and Theramenes. About Nicias and Thucydides nearly everyone agrees that they were men not only fine and good but also statesmanlike, and that they treated the whole city as a father would, but about Theramenes, because the constitutions in his time turned out to be turbulent, there is dispute in the judgment of him. To those who declare their opinion not carelessly, however, it appears that he did not, as his detractors charge, overthrow every constitution, but rather promoted all of them so long as they broke no law, since he was capable of taking part in politics under any of them — which is the work of a good citizen — while not [conceding] to them when they broke the law, but incurring their hatred instead.
39| [paragraph 29] XXIX. Now as long as things were evenly balanced in the war, they preserved the democracy. But when, after the disaster that occurred in Sicily, the Lacedaemonians' position became stronger because of their alliance with the King, they were compelled, [having disturbed] the democracy, to set up the constitution of the Four Hundred, the speech before the decree being delivered by Melobius, and the motion being written by Pythodorus [of] Ana[phlystus], and the many being persuaded above all by the belief that the King would [more] readily join in the war on their side if they made the constitution the affair of a few. And it was —
40| the decree of Pythodorus, as follows: that the people should choose, in addition to the ten existing Commissioners, another twenty from among those over forty years of age, who, having sworn that they would draft whatever they judged best for the city, should draft proposals concerning its safety; and that it should be permitted also for any other citizen who wished to submit a proposal, so that from all of them the best might be chosen. Cleitophon proposed the rest just as Pythodorus had said, but moved further that those chosen should also search out the ancestral laws that Cleisthenes had established when he set up the democracy, so that, having heard these too, they might deliberate on the best course, on the ground that the constitution of Cleisthenes was not democratic but similar to that of Solon. Those chosen first wrote that it should be compulsory for the presiding officers to put to the vote everything said concerning the safety of the state, next they abolished the indictments for illegal proposals, the impeachments, and the summonses, so that any Athenian who wished might give counsel on the matters proposed; and if anyone, on account of these, either fined, summoned, or brought a man to trial, there should be information laid against him and summary arrest before the generals, and the generals should hand him over to the Eleven to be punished with death. After this they arranged the constitution in the following way: that the revenues coming in should not be spent on anything else but the war, that all the offices should be held without pay for as long as the war lasted, except the nine archons and whoever were serving as presiding officers; these should each receive three obols a day. And that the rest of the constitution should be entrusted entirely to those Athenians most able, in both person and property, to render service, not fewer than five thousand, for as long as the war lasted; and that these should have full authority, including the power to make treaties with whomever they wished; and that ten men over forty years of age should be chosen from each tribe, who, having sworn an oath over full-grown victims, should draw up the list of the Five Thousand.
41| [paragraph 30] XXX. Those who had been chosen, then, drafted these measures. When these had been ratified, the Five Thousand chose from among themselves a hundred men to draw up the constitution. Those chosen drew it up and published the following. That those over thirty years of age should serve as councillors each year without pay; and that from among these should come the generals, the nine archons, the Hieromnemon, the taxiarchs, the hipparchs, the phylarchs, the commanders in the garrisons, the ten treasurers of the sacred moneys of the [goddess] and the other gods, the twenty who shall handle all the other sacred moneys and administer them, the sacrificial officers, and the overseers, ten of each; that all of these should be chosen from a preliminary list, the preliminary candidates being nominated in greater number from those currently serving as councillors, and that all the other offices should be filled by lot and not from the council; and that the Hellenotamiai, whoever should be handling the moneys, should not also sit on the council. That for the future four councils should be formed from the age-group specified, and that whichever portion of these was allotted should serve as council, and that the rest also should be distributed to their respective divisions; and that the Hundred Men should divide both themselves and the rest into four parts as equal as possible, and allot them by lot, and that each should serve as council for a year.
42| They should deliberate however seems to them likely to serve best, both concerning the moneys, so that they may be safe and be spent as needed, and concerning everything else, as best they are able; and if they need to deliberate on some matter with more men, each may call in as an additional member whomever he wishes from the same age-group; and that the council should hold its sessions every five days, unless they need more. The nine archons should draw the council by lot, and five men allotted from the council should judge the show of hands, and from these one should be chosen by lot each day to put questions to the vote. The five so allotted should draw by lot those who wish to appear before the council, giving precedence first to matters of religion, second to heralds, third to embassies, and fourth to everything else; but matters of war, whenever necessary, the generals should bring forward without the lot and have them dealt with. Any councillor who does not come to the council-chamber at the appointed hour should owe a drachma for each day, unless he is absent having obtained leave from the council. [paragraph 31] XXXI. This, then, was the constitution they drew up for the time to come; but for the present occasion, the following: that four hundred should serve as council, according to
43| ancestral custom, forty from each tribe, from a preliminary list chosen by the tribesmen from among those over thirty years of age. These should establish the offices, and draw up the oath that must be sworn, and act concerning the laws, the [audits], and everything else in whatever way they judge advantageous. Whatever laws are enacted concerning matters of state should be used, and it should not be permitted to alter them or to enact others. For the present, the choice of generals should be made from all of the Five Thousand; but the council, once established, should hold a review under arms and choose ten men, and along with these, those chosen should hold office as absolute rulers for the coming year, and should take counsel with the council if they need anything. They should also choose one hipparch and ten phylarchs; for the future the council should make the choice of these offices according to what has been written. Of the other offices, except the council and the generalship, it should not be permitted either to these men or to anyone else to hold the same office more than once. For the future — so that the Four Hundred should be distributed among the four divisions, (text corrupt here) whenever it falls to the citizens to take part in council along with the rest — the Hundred Men should divide them up.
44| [paragraph 32] XXXII. The Hundred, then, who had been chosen by the Five Thousand, drew up this constitution. When these measures had been ratified by the multitude, on the motion of Aristomachus, the council in office under Callias that had been deliberating was dissolved on the fourteenth of the month Thargelion, and the Four Hundred entered office on the ninth from the end of Thargelion. The council chosen by the bean was due to enter office on the fourteenth of Skirophorion. The oligarchy, then, was established in this way, in the archonship of Callias, about a hundred years after the expulsion of the tyrants, the men most responsible being Pisander, Antiphon, and Theramenes, men both of good birth and reputed to excel in intelligence and judgment. When this constitution had come into being, the Five Thousand were chosen only in name, while the Four Hundred, together with the ten men holding absolute power, entered the council-chamber and ruled the city, and, sending envoys to the Lacedaemonians, tried to end the war on the terms each side actually held at the time. But since the Lacedaemonians would not agree unless the Athenians also gave up their command of the sea, they broke off in this way.
45| [paragraph 33] XXXIII. The constitution of the Four Hundred lasted about four months. Of these, Mnasilochus held the office of archon for two months, under the archonship of Theopompus, who held it for the remaining ten months. Having been defeated in the naval battle off Eretria, and with all of Euboea revolting except Oreus, they took this disaster harder than any that had gone before (for they happened to derive more benefit from Euboea than from Attica), and they dissolved the Four Hundred and handed over affairs to the Five Thousand made up of those able to provide their own arms, having voted that no office should carry pay. The men most responsible for the dissolution were Aristocrates and Theramenes, who were displeased with what was being done by the Four Hundred; for these men did everything through themselves, referring nothing back to the Five Thousand. The city seems to have been well governed in these times, with war standing and the constitution resting on those under arms. [paragraph 34] XXXIV. The people, then, took the constitution away from these men quickly. And in the seventh year after the dissolution of the Four Hundred, in the archonship of Callias of Angele, when the naval battle at Arginusae took place, first it happened that the ten generals who had won the battle were all judged by a single vote — some of them not even having taken part in the battle, others having been rescued on someone else's ship — the people having been deceived by those who misled them; then, when the Lacedaemonians wished to withdraw from Decelea and for each side to make peace on the terms then held, some were eager for it, but the majority did not comply,
46| having been deceived by Cleophon, who prevented the peace from coming about by coming into the assembly drunk and wearing a breastplate, saying he would not permit it unless the Lacedaemonians gave up all the cities. Having handled matters badly on that occasion, they recognized their error not long after. For in the following year, in the archonship of Alexias, they suffered defeat in the naval battle at Aegospotami, as a result of which it came about that Lysander, having become master of the city, set up the Thirty in the following manner. Peace having been made for them on the condition that they should live under the ancestral constitution, the men of the popular party tried to preserve the democracy, while of the notables, those who belonged to political clubs, and those of the exiles who had returned after the peace, desired oligarchy, and those who belonged to no club but [otherwise] seemed inferior to none of the citizens sought the ancestral constitution. Among these were Archinus and Anytus and Cleitophon and Phormisius and many others, but Theramenes stood foremost among them. When Lysander threw in his support with the oligarchic party, the people, terrified, were compelled to vote for the oligarchy by show of hands. Dracontides of Aphidna wrote the decree.
47| [paragraph 35] XXXV. The Thirty, then, were established in this manner, in the archonship of Pythodorus. But once they had become masters of the city, they disregarded the other resolutions that had been made about the constitution, but appointed five hundred councillors and the other officials from a preliminary list of a thousand chosen men, and having chosen for themselves ten rulers of the Piraeus and eleven guardians of the prison and three hundred whip-bearing attendants, they held the city in their own hands. At first, then, they were moderate toward the citizens and pretended to be administering the ancestral constitution, and they took down from the [Areopagus] the laws of Ephialtes and Archestratus concerning the Areopagites, and they abolished those of Solon's ordinances that admitted of dispute, and they did away with the authority that lay in the jurors, on the ground that they were correcting the constitution and making it free of dispute; for example, in the matter of giving one's own property to whomever one wished, they made this absolute without qualification, and they removed the difficulties attached to it ("unless he is mad, or aged, or under the influence of a woman"), so that the sycophants should have no opening; and they did the same in other matters as well. At the beginning, then, they did these things, and they put to death the sycophants and those who consorted with the people for favor contrary to what was best and were troublemakers and wicked men — actions at which the city rejoiced, since people supposed they were acting for the sake of what was best. But when they had gained a firmer grip on the city, they held back from none of the citizens, but put to death anyone of substantial property, both to remove fear and because they wished to plunder their estates; and in a short space of time they had put to death no fewer than fifteen hundred.
48| [paragraph 36] XXXVI. With the city thus being carried downward, Theramenes, indignant at what was happening, advised them to stop their excess and to give a share in affairs to the best men. At first they opposed him; but when his words spread among the mass of the people, and the many were favorably disposed toward Theramenes, they became afraid that he might become leader of the people and put an end to their power, and so they drew up a list of three thousand citizens, as though they were going to give them a share in the constitution. Theramenes rebuked them again on this point too — first, because although they wished to give a share to the respectable, they gave it only to three thousand, as though excellence were confined to that number; and second, because they were doing two utterly contrary things, making their rule both violent and weaker than those they ruled. They, however, paid little heed to this, and for a long time kept putting off the enrollment of the three thousand and kept those who had been enrolled to themselves in secret, and whenever they did decide to publish the list, they struck out some of those already registered and wrote in others from outside it in their place.
49| [paragraph 37] XXXVII. Now that winter had already set in, with Thrasybulus and the exiles having seized Phyle, and the force which the Thirty led out against them having withdrawn in bad shape, they resolved to take away the arms of everyone else, and to destroy Theramenes, in the following manner. They introduced into the council two laws which they ordered to be voted on: one of these gave the Thirty full power to put to death any citizen not included in the list of the Three Thousand; the other excluded from the present constitution all who happened to have taken part in demolishing the fort at Eetioneia, or had acted in any way against the Four Hundred, [or] against those who had established the oligarchy — and Theramenes happened to have had a share in both of these; so that when the laws were ratified, the result was that he was excluded from the constitution and the Thirty had full authority to put him to death. Once Theramenes had been put to death, they took away the arms of everyone except the Three Thousand, and in other respects too they advanced greatly in cruelty and wickedness. They sent envoys to Lacedaemon to accuse Theramenes and to ask for help for themselves; and when the Lacedaemonians heard them, they sent out Callibius as governor and about seven hundred soldiers, who went and garrisoned the Acropolis. [paragraph 38] XXXVIII. After this, when those from Phyle had seized Munychia and had defeated in battle those who came to the aid of the Thirty, the men from the city, after withdrawing from the danger, gathered together in the marketplace on the following day and deposed the Thirty, and chose ten citizens with full powers to bring the war to an end. But these men, once they had taken office, did not do the things for which they had been chosen, but sent to Lacedaemon
50| requesting aid and borrowing money. And the men then in power, taking this hard, and fearing they might be deposed from office, and wishing to terrify the rest (which is indeed what happened), seized a man second to none among the citizens and put him to death, and they held their power securely, with Callibius and the Peloponnesians who were present fighting on their side, and besides these some of the cavalrymen; for some of these citizens in particular were eager that the men from Phyle should not return. But when the men holding the Piraeus and Munychia, once the whole people had gone over to their side, began to prevail in the war, then they deposed the first ten who had been chosen and chose another ten thought to be the best men, under whom it came about both that the reconciliation took place and that the people returned, these men cooperating and being eager for it. Foremost among them stood Rhinon of Paeania and Phayllus of Acherdous; for these men, even before Pausanias [too] arrived, were sending back and forth to those in the Piraeus and were zealous for the return. For Pausanias, the king of the Lacedaemonians, brought the peace and the reconciliation to completion, together with the ten mediators who arrived later from Lacedaemon, whom he himself had been eager to have come. And the party of Rhinon were praised for their goodwill toward the people, and though they had taken charge of affairs under the oligarchy, they rendered their accounts under the democracy, and no one brought any charge against them, neither of those who had remained in the city nor of those who had returned from the Piraeus; rather, because of this, Rhinon was straightaway elected general.
51| [paragraph 39] XXXIX. The reconciliation took place in the archonship of Eucleides, on the following terms. Those Athenians who wish, among the ones who stayed in the city, may live at Eleusis, retaining their full citizen rights, being masters of themselves and in control of their own affairs. The sanctuary is to belong to both parties in common, and the Kerykes and the Eumolpidai are to have charge of it according to ancestral custom. Neither are those from Eleusis permitted to go into the city, nor those from the city to go to Eleusis, except at the Mysteries, in either case. They are to contribute from their revenues to the war fund just as the rest of the Athenians do. If any of those departing take a house at Eleusis, they are to win over the owner by persuasion; but if they cannot come to terms with one another—
52| each side is to choose three assessors, and the owner is to receive whatever price these appoint. As for the people of Eleusis, only those are to live there whom these men wish. Registration is to be open to those who wish to move out: for those residing in the city, within [ten] days from when they swear the oaths, and the actual move within twenty; for those abroad, in the same way, once they return home. No one settled at Eleusis is permitted to hold any office in the city until he registers again as residing in the city. Cases of homicide are to be judged according to ancestral practice, if anyone killed or wounded another with his own hand. Concerning what has passed, no one is permitted to bear a grudge against anyone else, except against the Thirty and the Ten and the Eleven and those who had ruled in Piraeus—and not even against these, if they render their accounts. Those who ruled in Piraeus are to render their accounts before men in Piraeus, and those in the city before those who furnish the property assessments. After this, those who wish may move out. The money that either side borrowed for the war is to be repaid separately by each.
53| [paragraph 40] XL. Now that the reconciliation had taken this form, and those who had fought on the side of the Thirty were afraid, and many were planning to move out but kept putting off registration to the last days, as everyone tends to do, Archinus, seeing how many there were and wanting to hold them back, cut short the days remaining for registration, so that many were forced to stay against their will, until they took courage. And this is thought to have been fine statesmanship on the part of Archinus, and so too was his later act of indicting Thrasybulus's decree as unconstitutional, in which Thrasybulus proposed to grant citizenship to all who had come back together from Piraeus, some of whom were plainly slaves. And a third act, when someone—
54| among those who had come back began to bear a grudge, he had this man led before the Council and persuaded them to put him to death without trial, saying that now they would show whether they wished to preserve the democracy and abide by their oaths; for if they let this man go, they would be encouraging the rest as well, but if they put him to death, they would make him an example for everyone. And that is exactly what happened: for once he was put to death, no one ever afterward bore a grudge against anyone. Instead, they seem, both privately and in common, to have handled the misfortunes that had befallen them in the finest and most statesmanlike way of anyone: for they not only wiped out the charges arising from earlier events, but also repaid the Lacedaemonians in common the money that the Thirty had borrowed for the war, even though the agreement required each side—those from the city and those from Piraeus—to repay separately, since they believed this ought to be the first step toward concord. In the other cities, by contrast, those who have won a democratic victory not only fail to contribute further from their own property but actually [redistribute] the land. They also came to a settlement with those who had settled at Eleusis, in the third year after the move out, in the archonship of [Xenainetos].
55| [paragraph 41] XLI. Now these events took place at a [later] time; but at that point the people, having become masters of affairs, established the constitution now in force, in the archonship of Pythodorus, and the people are thought to have taken over the [constitution] justly, because the people themselves brought about the return. This was the eleventh in number of the changes. For the first change was the one made at the very beginning, by Ion and those who settled together with him; for then, for the first time, they were organized into the four tribes and set up the tribe-kings. The second, and the first after [this] one to have the form of a constitution, was the one under Theseus, deviating slightly from monarchy. After this came the one under Draco, in which they also wrote down laws for the first time. The third, after the civil strife, was the one under Solon, from which the beginning of democracy came about. The fourth was the tyranny under Peisistratus. The fifth, after the overthrow of the tyrants, was that of Cleisthenes, more democratic than Solon's. The sixth was the one after—
56| the Persian Wars, when the Council of the Areopagus was in charge. The seventh, coming after this, was the one that Aristeides pointed the way toward and Ephialtes brought to completion, by putting down the Areopagite council; in this period the city, because of the demagogues, made a great many mistakes on account of its rule of the sea. The eighth was the establishment of the Four Hundred, and after this, the ninth, democracy again. The tenth was the tyranny of the Thirty and of the Ten. The eleventh was the one after the return from Phyle and from Piraeus, from which it has continued down to the present day, always adding further to the power of the mass of people. For the people has made itself master of everything, and everything is administered by decrees and by lawcourts, in which the people is the ruling power. Indeed even the judgments of the Council have come before the people. And this they seem to do rightly: for the few are more easily corrupted by gain and by favors than the many are. At first they refused to make the assembly a paid body; but since people were not gathering for the assembly, and the presiding officers were resorting to many contrivances to get the mass of people to come for the ratification of the vote by show of hands, first Agyrrhius provided one obol, then after him Heracleides of Clazomenae, nicknamed 'the King,' provided two obols, and again Agyrrhius provided three obols.
57| [paragraph 42] XLII. The present arrangement of the constitution is as follows. Those share in the constitution who are born of parents both of whom are citizens, and they are enrolled among the members of their deme at eighteen years of age. When they are enrolled, the demesmen vote on them under oath, first whether they seem to have reached the age required by law—and if they do not seem to have reached it, they go back again among the boys—and second, whether the person is free and has been born in accordance with the laws.
58| Then, if they vote that he is not free, he may appeal to the lawcourt, and the demesmen choose five [men] from among themselves as accusers; and if it is judged that he was not rightfully enrolled, the city sells him; but if he wins, the demesmen are compelled to enroll him. After this the Council [examines] those who have been enrolled, and if anyone [seems] to be younger than eighteen years, it fines the demesmen who enrolled him. Once the ephebes have been examined and approved, [the] fathers assemble by tribes and, having sworn an oath, choose three men from the tribesmen over forty years of age, whomever they judge to be best and most suited to have charge of the ephebes; and from these the people elects [by] show of hands one man from each tribe as sophronist (disciplinarian), and a supervisor over all of them chosen from the rest of the Athenians. These men take the ephebes in charge: first they make the rounds of the sanctuaries, then they proceed to Piraeus, and some of them garrison Munichia and others the Acte. The people also [elects] for them two trainers in gymnastics, and instructors who teach them to fight in heavy armor, to shoot the bow, to throw the javelin, and to fire a catapult. It also grants for their [maintenance] one drachma each to the sophronists, and four obols each to the ephebes; and each sophronist, receiving the money of his own tribesmen, buys the provisions for all of them in common (for they mess together by tribes), and looks after everything else as well. And in this way they spend the first year. In the second, after an assembly has been held in the theater, they give a public demonstration to the people—
59| As to their formations — having received a shield and spear from the city — they patrol the countryside and spend their time in the guard-posts. They keep guard for the two years, wearing military cloaks, and are exempt from all [public burdens]; they neither bring a law[suit] nor face one, so that there may be no [pretext] for leaving their post, except concerning an inheritance or an heiress, or if a [priesthood] falls to someone by descent. When the two years have [elapsed], they are now enrolled with the rest. [paragraph 43] XLIII. This, then, is how matters stand concerning the registration of citizens and the ephebes. As for the offices concerned with the ordinary administration, they make all of them appointed by lot, except for the treasurer of military funds, the officials in charge of the festival fund, and the superintendent of the fountains. These they [elect] by show of hands, and those elected hold office from one Panathenaea to the next. They also elect by show of hands all the offices concerned with war. The council is chosen by lot, five hundred in number, fifty from each tribe. Each of the tribes holds the presidency in turn, in whatever order they draw by lot, the first four
60| for thirty-six days each, and the latter six for thirty-five days each; for they reckon [the] year by the moon. Those of them holding the presidency, first of all, dine together in the Tholos, receiving money from [the] city; then they convene both the council and the assembly — the council on every day, except when one is a day of exemption, and the assembly four times in each presidency. And whatever business the council must transact, and what is to be dealt with on each day, and where it is to sit, these men post up in advance. They also post up notice of assemblies: one is the sovereign assembly, at which they must vote by show of hands on whether the officials seem to be ruling well, and must deal with the grain supply and with the guarding of the countryside, and on this day anyone who wishes may lodge impeachments,
61| and the lists of confiscated property are read out, and the claims to inheritances and to heiresses are [read out], so that nothing left without an heir may escape notice. In the sixth presidency, in addition to the matters mentioned, they also put to a vote whether it seems best to hold an ostracism or not, and impeachments of sycophants, of Athenians and of resident [aliens] alike, up to three of each, and cases where someone has made a promise to the people and not carried it out. Another assembly is set aside for petitions of supplication, at which anyone who wishes, having laid down a suppliant's [branch], may address the people about whatever he wishes, whether private or public business. The remaining two assemblies are concerned with other matters, at which the laws direct them to deal with religious business three times, with heralds and embassies three times, and with secular business three times; and sometimes they transact business even without a preliminary vote having been taken. Both heralds and envoys approach the presiding officials first, and those bringing letters deliver them to these same men. [paragraph 44] XLIV. There is one president of the presiding officials, chosen by lot; this man
62| presides over that office for a single night and day; no one may serve in it again, nor may one person keep the post any longer than that. This man keeps the keys of the sanctuaries in which the city's money and records are kept, and the public seal; and it is compulsory for him to remain in the Tholos, and likewise for a third part of the presiding officials, whichever he directs. And whenever the presiding officials convene the council or the assembly, this man chooses by lot nine chairmen, one from each tribe except the one holding the presidency, and again from these one president, and hands over the [agenda] to them; and having received it, they take care of good order, put forward the matters that must be dealt with, judge the votes by show of hands, and administer everything else, and have authority to dismiss [the assembly]; but it is not permitted to hold the presidency more than once in the year, though it is permitted to hold the chairmanship once in each presidency. They also hold the elections of generals, cavalry commanders, and the other offices concerned with war, in the assembly, in whatever manner seems best to the people; these are held by those presiding after the sixth presidency, in the period during which a favorable omen occurs. But a preliminary resolution of the council must be passed concerning these matters as well.
63| [paragraph 45] XLV. The council formerly had authority to fine, to imprison, and to put to death. And when it had led Lysimachus away to the executioner, and he was already sitting there about to be put to death, Eumelides of Alopeke rescued him,
64| declaring that no citizen ought to be put to death without a judgment of a court; and when a trial was held in court, Lysimachus was acquitted and got the nickname "the man from the drum," while the people took away from the council the power to put to death, to imprison, and to fine, and passed a law that if the council condemned anyone of [wrongdoing] or fined him, the thesmothetae should bring the condemnations and fines before the court, and whatever the jurors voted should be authoritative. The council judges most of the officials, and especially those who handle money; but its judgment is not final, but subject to appeal to the court. Private individuals are permitted to impeach any official they wish for not observing the laws; and these too have the right of appeal to the court if the council condemns them. It also scrutinizes the councillors who are to serve in the following year, and the nine archons. Formerly its rejection was final, but now these too have the right of appeal to the court. In these matters, then, the council has no final authority; but it deliberates in advance for the people, and nothing may be put to the people that has not first been deliberated on, nor anything that the presiding officials have not posted up in advance; for on precisely these grounds, the man who carries such a motion is liable to the indictment for proposing an illegal measure.
65| [paragraph 46] XLVI. It also takes care of the triremes already built, and of their gear, and of the shipsheds, and has new triremes or quadriremes built, if the people so vote by show of hands, along with [gear] for them and shipsheds; the people elect shipwrights by show of hands to oversee the ships. And if they do not hand these over completed to the incoming council, they cannot receive their reward; for they receive it under the following council instead. It has the triremes built by choosing ten trireme-builders from among its own members. It also inspects all the public buildings, and if anyone seems to it to be doing wrong, it reports him to the people, and once it has passed condemnation, hands him over to a court. [paragraph 47] XLVII. It also shares in the administration of most of the other offices. For in the first place, the treasurers of Athena are ten in number, and one is chosen by lot from
66| ...the tribe, from the men of the five-hundred-bushel class in accordance with Solon's law [for the law is] still in force, and the man on whom the lot falls may be very poor. They take over the statue of Athena, the Victories [statues], and the rest of the ornaments and the [treasures], in front of the Council. Then the sellers (poletai) are ten in number, one allotted from each tribe. They lease out all the leases, and they sell the mines and the tax-contracts together with the treasurer of the military fund and those chosen for the theoric fund, in front of the [Council], and they ratify the award to whomever the Council votes for by show of hands; and the mines already sold — both the workable ones sold for three years, and the mines already sold, both the workable ones sold for three years — and the conceded ones sold for [so many] years. And they sell the property of those exiled by sentence of the Areopagus and of others, in front of [the] Council, and the nine archons ratify [the sale]. And having registered the taxes sold for the year on whitened tablets, both the buyer and [however much] he bought it for, they hand them over to the Council. They register separately those who must pay in [each] prytany into ten tablets, and separately those who pay three times in the year, making a tablet for [each] payment, and separately those who pay [in] the ninth prytany. They also register the plots of land and the houses that have been [registered as confiscated] and sold in the court; for indeed
67| these men sell these too. Of the houses, [the price must] be paid within [five] years, of the plots of land within ten; they make these payments in the ninth prytany. And the [King] Archon also brings in the leases of the sacred precincts, having registered them on whitened [tablets]. Of these too the lease runs for ten years, and payment is made in the [ninth] prytany; and the greatest amount of money is collected in [that] prytany. So the tablets recording the payments, [now] registered, are brought into the Council, and the public slave keeps them; and whenever a payment of money is due, he hands these very tablets over to the receivers, having taken them down from the racks on which the money must be paid and [must be] cancelled that day, and set the rest aside separately so that nothing may be cancelled [before its time].
68| [paragraph 48] XLVIII. There are ten [receivers] (apodektai), allotted [by tribes]; these take the tablets and cancel the payments made, in front of the [Council] in the council-house, and hand the tablets back again to [the] public slave. And if anyone falls short in a payment, it is recorded there, and he must pay double the amount in default or be [imprisoned], and the Council has authority [to exact] this and to imprison, according to the laws. So on the day before they receive all the payments and apportion them to the magistracies, and on the next day they bring [in] the apportionment, having written it on a board, and read it out in the council-house, and post it [up] before the Council, asking if anyone knows of anyone [doing wrong] regarding the apportionment, magistrate or private citizen, and they put opinions to the vote if anyone seems [to be doing wrong]. The councillors also choose by lot ten auditors from among themselves, to audit —
69| — the accounts of the [magistrates] in each prytany. They also choose by lot one [examiner] (euthynos) [from each] tribe, and two assessors for each examiner, [whose duty it] is to sit... by the statue of the hero for whom each tribe is named. And if anyone wishes, within three [days from] the day on which a man rendered his accounts in court, to lodge either a private or a [public] charge against him, he writes on a whitened [tablet], [both] his own name and that of the defendant and the wrongdoing he charges, and having [added] an assessed penalty as seems fit to him, gives it to the examiner. The examiner, taking this and [reading] it, if he condemns the man, hands over the private charges to the jurors [drawn from the demes] who bring cases for that tribe, and registers the public charges [to] the thesmothetai. The thesmothetai, if they take up [this audit-charge], bring it again into the court, and whatever the jurors [decide, this] is authoritative. [paragraph 49] XLIX. The Council also examines the cavalry horses, and if a man with a fine
70| horse seems to [be keeping] it [badly], it fines him in fodder; and for those unable to keep up with the ranks, or unwilling to remain in service but leading their horses away instead, it applies a branding-wheel to the [jaw], and the man who suffers this is disqualified. It also examines the scouts (prodromoi), [whoever seem] to it fit to serve as scouts, and if it votes against anyone, that man is dismissed. It also examines the mounted javelin-men (hamippoi), and if it votes against anyone, that man ceases to draw pay. The cavalry are enrolled by the enrolling officers, ten men whom the people elect by show of hands; and whomever they enroll they hand over to the cavalry-commanders and the tribal cavalry-officers, who take the roll and bring it into the Council, and opening the tablet on which the cavalrymen's names are recorded under seal, they strike off those of the previously enrolled who swear that they are physically unable to serve as cavalry, and summon those newly enrolled; and if a man swears that he is unable to serve as cavalry either in body or in property, they release him, but the councillors vote by show of hands on the man who does not swear off, whether he is fit to serve as cavalry or not; if they vote for him, they enroll him on the tablet, and if not, they release him. The Council once also used to judge the designs and the robe, but now the court chosen by lot does so; for the Council was thought to be showing favor in its judgments. And together with the treasurer of the military fund it oversees the making of the Victory-statues and the prizes for the Panathenaic games. The Council also examines the disabled; for there is a law which orders that men who possess less than three minas and are so maimed in body that they
71| are unable to do any work be examined by the Council, and be given public maintenance of two obols a day each. And a treasurer is allotted for them. It also jointly administers, one might say, most of the business of the other offices as well. [paragraph 50] L. These, then, are the matters administered by the Council. There are also allotted repairers of the sacred buildings, ten men, who receive thirty minas from the receivers and repair whichever of the sacred buildings most need it; and ten city-commissioners (astynomoi): of these five hold office in Piraeus and five in the city, and they see to it that flute-girls, harp-girls, and lyre-girls are not hired out for more than two drachmas, and if several people are eager to hire the same girl, these officials cast lots among them and hire her out to the winner. They also take care that none of the dung-collectors dumps dung within ten stades of the wall; and they prevent people from building out into the streets, from stretching balconies over the streets, from making drainpipes that discharge into the street, and from opening windows that swing out over the street; and they remove the bodies of those who die in the streets, keeping public slaves for this purpose. [paragraph 51] LI. There are also allotted market-commissioners (agoranomoi), five for Piraeus and five for the city. These are charged by the laws with overseeing all goods offered for sale, so that they will be sold pure and unadulterated. There are also allotted measure-commissioners (metronomoi), five for the city and five for
72| Piraeus; these oversee all measures and weights, so that sellers will use fair ones. There were also grain-guardians (sitophylakes) allotted, [ten] in all, five for Piraeus and five for the city, but now twenty for the city and fifteen for Piraeus. These see to it, first, that the unprocessed grain in the market is sold at a fair price, and next, that the millers sell barley-meal in proportion to the price of barley, and the bread-sellers sell their loaves in proportion to the price of wheat, at the weight these officials fix; for the law orders them to fix it. They also allot ten [overseers] of the trading-port (emporion); these are charged with overseeing the harbor markets, and with compelling the merchants to bring two-thirds of the grain that arrives by sea at the grain-market into the city itself. [paragraph 52] LII. They also appoint the Eleven by lot, to have charge of those in the prison, and of thieves brought in under arrest, and of kidnappers —
73| ...kidnappers and cloak-snatchers: if they [confess], to punish them with death; but if they dispute it, to bring them into [court], and if they are acquitted, to release them, but if not, then to put them to death; and to bring into court the lands and houses that have been registered, and to hand over to the sellers whatever is adjudged to be [public] property, and to bring in the denunciations — for the Eleven bring these in as well. Some of the denunciations are also brought in by the thesmothetai. They also allot by lot five men as introducers, who bring in the monthly suits, two tribes to each man. The monthly suits are these: dowry suits, if a man owing a dowry does not pay it; suits if a man who has borrowed at drachma-interest defrauds the lender; suits if a man wishing to work in the marketplace has borrowed capital from someone; and further, suits for assault and
74| marriage suits, and accusations, taking these over, and had full authority to punish with death those who confessed to the wrongdoing, while keeping under guard in the prison, until judgment, those who disputed it. Some of those condemned they put to death with poison, while others they handed over to the public executioner to kill. They also brought into court the lands or houses that had been registered, and handed over to the sellers whatever was adjudged to be public property, to exact payment. — Here the papyrus text is accompanied by parallel testimony from later lexicographers. Etymologicum Genuinum [from Photius], from which also Symeon and the Etymologicum Magnum 338.31 (= Lexicon Sabbaiticum 19.22 = Lexicon Vindobonense 88), s.v. 'the Eleven': these were magistrates chosen by lot who presided over the prison; they took charge of the wrongdoers being led away to death and punished them, but brought those who disputed the charge into court and carried out whatever was decided about them. They also brought in the lands and houses that were registered, and handed over to the sellers whatever was adjudged to be public property; they also brought in some of the denunciations. (Rhetorical Lexicon.) Bekker's Anecdota, the fifth collection (BA 310.15): 'The Eleven kill those who confess to being thieves, cloak-snatchers, and kidnappers, but bring into court those who deny it.' The same gloss is found in Photius 11 and Suda 1, s.v. 'presidency of the court': not all the magistrates were permitted to bring every kind of suit against everyone, but... to the Eleven were assigned as many suits as concern bringing in pirates, cloak-snatchers, and kidnappers.
75| Photius, p. 49.12 (Porson): 'Concerning the Eleven. Eleven men over forty years of age received this office by lot. They took charge of those in the prison. Thieves, cloak-snatchers, and kidnappers, if they caught them in the act, they punished with death; but if the men disputed the charge, they brought them to trial.' Suda: 'The Eleven: an office at Athens that took charge of those [condemned] in the prison, to whom thieves and kidnappers were led away.' Scholiast on Aristophanes, Wasps 1108 (manuscripts V and R): 'The office of the Eleven punished with death those who confessed to being thieves and kidnappers and cloak-snatchers, but brought those who denied it into court. They also brought in the denunciations.' Scholiast on Lucian, vol. IV p. 170 (Jacobitz): 'The Eleven were magistrates among the Athenians who took charge of those in the prison, and those led away [as] thieves or kidnappers or cloak-snatchers they punished with death; but if they disputed the charge, they brought them into court and did whatever was decided about them. And if anyone else was condemned to death, the Eleven took charge of him.' Bekker's Anecdota, the fifth collection, s.v. 'the Eleven' (BA 250.11): '...of the denunciations, some they brought into court themselves, the Eleven, and the thesmothetai brought others.'
76| Lexicon Sabbaiticum 19.19: '...of the denunciations, some were brought into court by the Eleven, others by the thesmothetai.' Lexicon Patmense p. 16: 'of the denunciations, some the Eleven brought in, others the thesmothetai.' — Suits arising from mutual-loan clubs and from partnerships, suits about slaves and pack animals, trierarchic suits, and banking suits: these men, then, judge these as monthly suits, bringing them [in]; and the receivers deal with the tax-farmers, and against the tax-farmers, having full [authority] up to ten drachmas, but bringing the rest into court as monthly suits. [paragraph 53] LIII. They also allot by lot the Forty, one from each tribe, to whom people bring their other lawsuits. [Formerly] these were thirty, and they went about through the demes and gave judgment there, but after the [oligarchy] of the Thirty they became forty. And for suits up to ten drachmas they have full and final authority to [judge], but suits above that valuation they hand over to the arbitrators. And these, once they have taken the cases over, [if] they cannot reconcile the parties,
77| give their judgment; and if both parties are satisfied with what has been decided and abide by it, the case is finished. But if either of the disputants appeals to the court, they place the testimonies and the challenges and the laws into boxes — separately those of the prosecutor and separately those of the defendant — and having sealed these, and attached the arbitrator's judgment written on a tablet, they hand them over to the [four] men who judge cases for the tribe of the defendant. And these, once they have taken the cases over, bring them into court: cases involving up to a thousand drachmas before a panel of two hundred and one jurors, and cases above a thousand before four hundred and one. And it is not permitted to make use of laws or challenges or testimonies other than those from the arbitrator that were placed in the boxes. The arbitrators are those men who are in their sixtieth year; this is evident from the archons and the eponymous heroes. For there are ten eponymous heroes of the tribes, and forty-two
78| of the age-classes. The ephebes, when they were enrolled, were formerly registered on whitened tablets, and there was inscribed on them both the archon under whom they were enrolled and the eponymous hero who had served as arbitrator the year before; but now they are inscribed on a bronze stele, and the stele stands in front of the council-house beside the eponymous heroes. The Forty take the last of the eponymous heroes and distribute the arbitrations among the men of that age-class, and assign by lot which cases each man will arbitrate, and it is compulsory for each man to carry through to the end whatever arbitrations he is allotted. For the law commands that anyone who does not become an arbitrator when it is the proper age for him be disenfranchised — unless he happens to be holding [some] office in that year, or to be abroad; these alone are exempt. It is also possible to bring a formal charge against the arbitrators, if someone has been wronged by an arbitrator, and if the jurors convict him on it, the laws order that he be disenfranchised; there is a right of appeal in these cases too. They also make use of the eponymous heroes for military levies: when they send out an age-class for service, they post up in advance from which archon and [eponymous] hero to which ones men must serve. [paragraph 54] LIV. They also allot by lot the following offices: five road-builders, whose duty, with public workmen at their disposal, is to keep the roads in repair. And ten auditors, and ten advocates for them, to whom everyone who has
79| held office is required to render account. For these men alone examine the accounts of those liable to audit and bring the audits into court. And if they convict someone of embezzlement, the jurors condemn him for theft, and the amount assessed is repaid tenfold; and if they show that someone has taken bribes and the jurors convict him, they assess a penalty for bribery, and this too is repaid tenfold; but if they convict him of wrongdoing, they assess a penalty for wrongdoing, and this is repaid at its simple value if the man pays before the ninth prytany, but if not, it is doubled. [The remaining words here duplicate the same statement and are corrupt.] They also allot by lot the secretary called 'the one for the prytany,' who has charge of the documents and keeps the decrees that are passed, and countersigns everything else, and sits beside the council. Formerly this office was filled by a show of hands, and they used to [elect] to it the most distinguished and trustworthy men — for indeed this man's name is inscribed on the stelae recording alliances, grants of [proxenia], and grants of citizenship; but now it has become an office filled by lot. They also allot by lot another man in charge of the laws, who sits beside the council, and he too countersigns
80| ...all of them. The people also elect by show of hands a secretary to read [documents] to them and to [the] Council, and he has authority over [nothing] except the reading of them. They also select by lot ten sacrificial officials, called those in charge of extra offerings, [who] perform the oracularly prescribed sacrifices, and, whenever a favorable sign is needed, [do so] together with the seers. They also select by lot another [ten], called the annual officials, who perform certain sacrifices and administer all the four-yearly festivals except [the] Panathenaea. The four-yearly festivals [are] as follows: one to Delos (there is also a seven-yearly festival there), a second the Brauronia, a third the [Heraclea], a fourth the Eleusinia, and a fifth the Panathenaea; and none of them falls [in] the same [year]. Now the Hephaestia has also been added, under the archonship of [Cephisophon]. They also select by lot an archon for Salamis and a demarch for [Piraeus], [who] hold the Dionysia in each place and appoint choregoi. In Salamis the archon's name is also officially recorded. [paragraph 55] LV. These, then, are the officials who are chosen by lot and have authority over everything [just] mentioned. As for the so-called nine archons, the manner in which they were originally appointed has been [already] stated;
81| but now they select by lot six thesmothetae and a secretary for them, and further an archon, a king, and a polemarch, one in turn from [each] tribe. These are first examined [for fitness] in the Council of [Five Hundred], except the secretary, who is examined only in a lawcourt, like the other officials (for all of them, both those chosen by lot and those examined, hold office [only after passing]); but the nine archons are examined [both] in the Council and again in a lawcourt. And formerly a man rejected by the Council did not hold office, but now there is [an] appeal to the lawcourt, and it is this that has final authority over the examination. When they examine a man, they ask first, "Who is your father, and from what deme, and who is your father's father, and who your mother, and who your mother's father, and from what deme?" Then, whether he has an ancestral Apollo and a household Zeus, and where these shrines are; then whether he has family tombs and where; then whether he treats his parents well, pays [his] taxes, and has served in the military campaigns. "Summon," says [the examiner], "the witnesses to these things." When he has produced his witnesses, [the examiner] asks, "Does anyone wish to bring a charge against this man?" And if there is an accuser, he allows the accusation and the defense, and then puts it to a vote by show of hands in the Council, and to a ballot in the lawcourt; but if no one wishes to accuse him, he puts it to the vote at once. And formerly [one] man alone cast the ballot, but now all are required to vote on it, so that if some worthless man has gotten rid of his accusers, it still falls to the jurors to reject him. When a man has been approved in this manner, they go to the stone on which the sacrificial portions lie, the same stone on which the arbitrators, after swearing, declare
82| their verdicts, and the witnesses swear off their testimony; and mounting upon it, they swear to rule justly and according to the laws, and not to take gifts on account of their office, and, if they do take anything, to dedicate a golden statue. From there, having sworn this oath, they go up to the Acropolis and there swear the same oaths again, and after this they enter upon their office.
83| [paragraph 56] LVI. The archon, the king, and the polemarch each take two assessors, whomever [each] wishes, and these are examined in the lawcourt before they may serve as assessors, and they render an account [of their conduct] after they have served. And the archon, as soon as he enters office, first proclaims that whatever anyone possessed before he entered office, that man shall keep and hold securely until the end of his term. Next he appoints choregoi for tragedy, three from all the Athenians, the wealthiest men; formerly he also appointed [five] for comedy, but now the tribes bring these forward [instead]. Then, taking over the choregoi put forward by the tribes for the Dionysia, for men, for boys, and for the comic choruses, and for the Thargelia, for men and for boys (for the Dionysia [one is furnished] by each tribe, for the Thargelia one by [two] tribes jointly, the tribes taking their turn in this), he arranges for these men the exchanges of property and introduces the pleas of exemption, [in case] someone claims to have already performed this liturgy, or [claims] to be exempt because he has performed another liturgy and the period of his exemption has not yet run out, or [claims] that he has not reached the required age; for the man who serves as choregos for the boys must be over [forty] years old. He also appoints choregoi for [the mission to] Delos, and a chief [sacred] envoy for the thirty-oared [ship] that conveys the young men. He also takes care of the processions, [both] that held for Asclepius, when the initiates keep to their houses, and that of the Great Dionysia, together with the superintendents, whom the people formerly elected by show of hands, ten [in number], and
84| who used to spend on the expenses of the procession out of their own funds, but now he chooses [one] man from each tribe by lot and gives a hundred minae for the preparations. He also takes care of [the] procession for the Thargelia and that for Zeus the Savior. He likewise administers the contest at the Dionysia and that at the Thargelia. These, then, are the festivals [he] takes care of. Public and private suits are brought before him, which, after conducting a preliminary hearing, he introduces into the lawcourt: suits for maltreatment of parents (these carry no penalty for the man [willing] to prosecute), suits for maltreatment of orphans (these lie against the [guardians]), suits for maltreatment of an heiress (these lie [both] against the guardians and against those cohabiting with her), suits for maltreatment of an orphan's estate (these too lie against the [guardians]), suits of insanity, if someone charges another with being insane and thereby [wasting his substance], suits for the appointment of arbitrators [to divide] an estate, if someone is unwilling to share [property] held in common, suits for the establishment of a [guardianship], suits for adjudication of a guardianship, suits for the appointment of a guardian over visible property, [suits] for a man to register himself as guardian, [and suits] for adjudication of claims to estates and heiresses. He also takes care of orphans and heiresses and of [any] women who, after the death of their [husband], claim to be pregnant; and he has authority either to penalize wrongdoers himself [or] to bring them before the lawcourt. He also leases out the estates of orphans and of [heiresses], until [the girl] turns fourteen, and receives the [security] deposits for these estates; and if the [guardians] fail to provide the children with maintenance, [he] exacts it from them.
85| [paragraph 57] LVII. The archon, then, takes care of these matters. The king, first of all, takes care of the Mysteries, together with the superintendents whom the people elect by show of hands, two from all the Athenians, one from the Eumolpidae, and one from [the] Kerykes. Next he takes care of the Dionysia at [the] Lenaeum; this consists of [both] a procession and a contest. The procession is conducted jointly by the king and the superintendents, but the king arranges the contest [itself]. He also arranges all the torch-race contests; and, one might almost say, he administers all the ancestral sacrifices. Public suits for impiety are brought before him, as well as any dispute over a priesthood between two claimants. He also adjudicates for the clans and for the priests all the disputes concerning sacred matters. All suits for homicide are likewise brought before him, and it is he who proclaims the exclusion of the accused from the customary rites. There are suits for homicide and for wounding: if a man kills or wounds with premeditation, [the case is tried] in the Areopagus, and likewise cases of poisoning, if a man kills by administering poison, and cases of arson; for these alone the Council of the Areopagus judges. But cases of unintentional homicide, and of [merely] planning a killing, and if a man kills a slave, or...
86| ...for a metic or a foreigner, the case goes to the judges at the Palladion. But if someone admits to killing, yet claims he acted according to the laws — for example, having caught an adulterer, or having killed someone unknowingly in war, or while competing in an athletic contest — for [this man] they judge the case at the Delphinion. And if a man in exile for an offense that admits of pardon is charged with killing or wounding someone [again], for him they judge the case at Phreatto, and he makes his defense from a boat moored offshore. Those chosen by lot judge these cases — [the ephetai] — except for the cases that come before the Areopagus; the king brings the case in, and they judge [in the open], in a sacred precinct and under the sky, and the king, whenever he judges, takes off his crown. The man under the charge is barred from the sacred places for the rest of the time, and by [law] he may not even set foot in the agora; but on that one occasion he goes into the sacred precinct and makes his defense. And when the plaintiff does not know who did it, he brings suit against 'the one who did the deed.' The king and the tribe-kings also judge cases involving inanimate objects and the other animals. [paragraph 58] LVIII. The polemarch offers sacrifices, one to Artemis the Huntress and one to Enyalius, and arranges the funeral games [for] those who have died in war, and performs rites for Harmodius and Aristogeiton. Only private suits are brought before him — those that arise for resident aliens, for those with equal tax status, and for privileged foreigners. He must take the case, divide it into ten parts, assign to each tribe the portion that falls to it by lot, and the men who judge for that tribe must hand it over to the arbitrators. He himself
87| ...whenever something inanimate falls and kills someone — that is, if it is a stone, a piece of wood, iron, or something of that sort — and the court does not know who threw it, but knows and holds the object that did the killing. Editorial note (from the Epitome): 'At the Prytaneion' names a homicide court, for cases where the weapon that killed — a missile or a stone or the like — is known, but the one who wielded it is not. For it was an ancient custom to try inanimate objects too, to decide whether they should be cast out beyond the borders. (Excerpted by the Suda, and from the Etymologicum Genuinum [from Photius], from which Symeon and the Etymologicum Magnum, 362.55, also drew.) Bekker's Anecdota, fifth collection (BA 311.15): 'At the Prytaneion': when a stone, iron, or wood is shown to be the cause, but the one who did it is unknown (Lexicon Patmense 138.75). Compare Pollux 8.120: the court 'at the Prytaneion' judges cases of killers even when they are unknown, and it also judges cases of inanimate objects that have fallen and killed; the tribe-kings presided over this court, whose duty it was to cast the offending object beyond the borders. All of this is hardly drawn from Aristotle himself. He — the polemarch — also brings in suits concerning the charge of [desertion of one's patron] and of [having no registered patron], and suits over inheritances and heiresses, on behalf of resident aliens; and all the other cases that the archon handles for citizens, the polemarch handles for resident aliens.
88| [paragraph 59] LIX. The thesmothetai, first of all, have authority to post in advance which days the courts are to sit, and then to assign the courts to the magistrates; for the magistrates use the courts in whatever way [these men] arrange. Further, they bring impeachments before the people, and they bring in all the depositions-from-office by show of hands and all the formal complaints; and they also bring in indictments for proposing illegal measures, for proposing an unfitting law, indictments concerning the presidency and the chairmanship, and audits of generals. There are also indictments brought before them for which a deposit is required: for illegal claim to citizenship, for corrupt naturalization — if someone escapes a charge of foreign birth by giving bribes — for malicious prosecution, for bribery, for false registration, for false summoning of witnesses, for conspiracy, for evasion of registration, and for adultery. They also bring in the scrutinies for all the magistrates, and the cases of men rejected by their demesmen, and condemnations referred down from the Council. They also bring in private suits: commercial suits, mining suits, and slave suits, when someone speaks abusively of a free man. They also allot to the magistrates the private and the public juries. They ratify the treaties made with other cities, and bring in the suits arising under those treaties, and cases of false witness referred from the Areopagus. All nine archons allot the jurors, and a tenth, the secretary of the thesmothetai, each allotting the jurors of his own tribe.
89| [paragraph 60] LX. This, then, is how matters stand with the nine archons. They also allot ten men as athlothetai, one from each tribe. These men, once scrutinized, hold office for four years, and administer the procession of the Panathenaea, the musical contest, the athletic contest, and the horse race; they have the robe made, and, together with the Council, have the amphorae made, and they distribute the olive oil to the athletes. The oil is collected from the sacred olive trees; the archon exacts it from those who own the properties on which the sacred trees stand, three half-cotylai from each trunk. Formerly the city sold the produce outright; and if [someone] dug up a sacred olive or cut it down, the Council of the Areopagus tried the case, and if it convicted him, they punished him with [death]. But from the time when the man who owns the property instead pays over the oil, the law still stands, but the trial has fallen out of use. And [the oil] belongs to the city as a product of the property, not of the trunks themselves. So the archon, once he has collected what falls due in [his own] term, hands it over to the treasurers, and he cannot go up to the [Areopagus] until he has handed it over to the treasurers. The treasurers keep it on the acropolis for the rest of the time, and at the Panathenaea they measure it out to the athlothetai, and the athlothetai to the winning competitors. For the prizes are: for the winners in music, silver and gold; for the winners in manly beauty, shields; for the winners in the athletic contest and the horse race, olive oil.
90| [paragraph 61] LXI. They also elect by show of hands all the offices concerned with war: ten generals — formerly one from each tribe, now from the whole body — and they assign these by vote: one over the hoplites, who leads the hoplites whenever they go out on campaign; one over the territory, who guards it, and if a war breaks out within the territory, this man wages it; two over the Piraeus, one for Munichia and one for Acte, who take care of the garrison [and] of affairs in the Piraeus; and one over the symmories, who enrolls the trierarchs, arranges exchanges of property for them, and brings in their adjudications; the rest they send out to whatever business is at hand. There is a vote of confirmation on them at each prytany, to decide whether they seem to be governing well; and if they vote someone out of office, he is tried in court, and if he is convicted, they assess what he must suffer or pay, but if he is acquitted, he holds office [again]. They also have authority
91| when they are in command, to bind a man who is disorderly, to have him [proclaimed] by herald, and to impose a fine — though they are not accustomed to impose one. They also elect ten taxiarchs, [one from each tribe]; each of these leads the men of his tribe and appoints company commanders. They also elect two cavalry commanders from the whole body; these lead the cavalry, [dividing] the tribes between the two of them, each taking half, and they have the same authority over the cavalry that the generals have over the hoplites. There is a vote of confirmation on these men too. They also elect one phylarch for each tribe, to lead the cavalry of that tribe, just as the taxiarchs lead the tribes' infantry. They also elect a hipparch for Lemnos, who has charge of the cavalry stationed on Lemnos. And they elect a treasurer for the Paralus, and separately one for [the ship] Ammon.
92| [paragraph 62] The offices filled by lot were, in former times, partly allotted from the whole tribe together with the nine archons, and partly allotted at the Theseum and then divided out among the demes; but since the demes had taken to selling these positions, the city now allots these too from the whole tribe, except for members of the Council and for the guards [ten are added to these], whom they hand over to the demes instead. Pay is provided as follows: first, the people receive a drachma for the ordinary assemblies, and nine drachmas for the sovereign assembly. Next, the courts: three obols. The Council: five obols; and to those serving as prytaneis an obol is added for their maintenance. Next, for their maintenance the nine archons each receive four obols and also keep a herald and a flute-player at the state's expense; next, the archon sent to Salamis receives a drachma a day. The organizers of the games dine in the Prytaneum throughout the month of Hecat[om]baeon, whenever the Panathenaea is held, beginning from the fourth day of the month. The delegates sent to Delos receive a drachma for each day spent [there] on Delos. And whatever officials are sent out to Samos or Scyros or Lemnos or Imbros also receive money for their maintenance. One may hold the offices concerned with war more than once, but none of the others more than once, except that one may serve on the Council twice. [paragraph 63] The magistrates allot the [sessions] by tribes,
93| and the secretary of the thesmothetae allots [for the tenth tribe]. There are [ten] entrances into the courts, [one] for each tribe, and twenty [allotment-machines], two for each tribe, and [a hundred] boxes, ten for each tribe, and other boxes into which the tickets of the jurors who have been allotted are thrown, and [two] water-jars. Staves are set out at each entrance, as many as there are jurors [assigned to it], and tokens are thrown into the water-jar equal in number to the staves; and on the tokens are inscribed the letters of the alphabet starting from the eleventh, [up to the thirtieth], as many as the courts that are due to be filled [that day]. Anyone over [thirty] years of age may serve as a juror, provided he does not owe a debt to the treasury and is not disenfranchised. If anyone sits as a juror who is not entitled to, he is denounced and brought before the court; and if he is convicted, the jurors add to his penalty whatever they think he deserves to suffer or to pay. And if he is assessed a fine in money, he must be imprisoned until he pays off both the original debt for which he was denounced and whatever [additional] penalty the court [imposes] on him. Each juror holds his boxwood ticket, inscribed with his own name, his father's name, and his deme, and one letter of the alphabet up to [kappa]; for the jurors are divided by tribes into ten [groups], roughly equal [in number] under each letter. And when the thesmothetes has allotted by lot which letters must be assigned in addition to each of the courts, the attendant [carries] and places on [each] court the letter that has been allotted to it.
94| [paragraph 64] The [ten] boxes [stand] in front of [the] entrance, [one] for each [tribe]; and on [them] are inscribed [the] letters up to [kappa]. And then, when [the] jurors [throw] [their] tickets into [the box]
95| box on which is inscribed [the same] letter as is on [his] own ticket [and once the attendant has shaken it], the thesmothetes draws [one] ticket from each box; this man is called [the] 'inserter,' and he fixes the tickets [from the box] into the frame on which stands the same letter as was on the box. He is chosen [by lot] so that the same man is not always doing the inserting and so committing fraud. There are [five] frames in each of [the] allotment-machines. [When he has] put in [the] dice, [the] archon allots the tribe [by] allotment-machine. The dice are made of bronze, [black and white]; as many as are needed [to make up] the number of jurors required are put in [white], one for every five tickets, and [the] black ones in the same [proportion]. When he draws out [the] dice, the herald calls out [the names] of those who have been allotted; and [the] inserter is included in [the] count. The man who is called and answers draws [a] token from the water-jar, and holding it out [with the letter facing upward], shows it first to [the] presiding archon; and the archon, [when he has seen it], throws the man's ticket into [the] box [on which is inscribed] the same letter as is on [the] token, so that he enters the court to which he has been allotted [and not whichever one he wishes, nor can anyone gather] into one court whichever jurors he wants. And beside [the] archon are placed [as many boxes as]
96| there are courts [due to be filled that day], each bearing [the] number [belonging to] that court. [paragraph 65] He himself, having shown [his token again] to [the] attendant, goes in, [passing within] the barrier. The attendant gives him a staff of [the] same color as [the] court on which [is inscribed the same letter] as [is on] his token, so that he is bound to enter [the court he has been allotted, and if] he enters [a] different [one], he is exposed by [the] color of his staff. [For each court] has [a] color painted [on the door-post at its] entrance. He who has [taken] the staff walks to [the court] whose color matches his staff [and bears] [the] same letter [as was on his token]. And when [he has entered, he receives a public token] from [the] official presiding over that court. Then, keeping both [the token and the staff], they sit down, having entered [this] court; and to those [not allotted], [the] inserters give back their tickets. The public attendants [from each tribe] hand over [the] boxes, [one] to each court, [in which] are [the] names [of that tribe] for each of the courts. They hand [these] over to those allotted [to the task, so that they may] distribute [the tickets] to [the] jurors court by court in order, so that, calling them by [these], they may pay out [the wage]. [And in this way] no [one] is [ever] crowded out [of his rightful place], nor cheated [of what], in [that] court, [is] owed [him], nor [kept waiting] beyond [his] [proper] turn[, as the law requires].
97| [paragraph 66] When all [the] courts are full, [two] allotment-machines are set up in [the] first of the [courts], and bronze [dice] on which are inscribed [the] colors [of the courts], and [other] dice on which are inscribed [the] names [of the offices]. [Two] of the thesmothetae, chosen [by lot], each separately throw in [the] dice, [one] the [colors] into [the] one allotment-[machine], [the] other [the] names of the [offices] into the [other]. Whichever office is drawn first is announced [by] [the] herald as using [the first] court drawn, [the] second office [the] second [court, and likewise for the rest, so] that no magistracy knows [beforehand which court it will use], but [each uses whatever court it happens to draw. And when] [the] jurors have come and [been distributed to each court], [the] official [presiding] over each court draws [one] [ticket] from each box, so that [there are ten], [one] from each [tribe], and throws [these tickets into another, empty box, and] from [these] he chooses by lot [the] first [five drawn], [one] to preside over [the water-clock], [four] others [over the votes], so that no one may tamper beforehand [with the man over the water] nor with [those over the votes], nor [may any] fraud [occur] in these matters. Those [of the five] who are not [chosen] receive from these [officials the notice] showing how they [are to receive their pay], and where [each of the tribes is to sit] within [that] same court, so that, [once they have judged], each group may withdraw [in small numbers] and take [their pay], and not be crowded [together into] one place, [nor delayed], nor getting in each other's way[, nor any dispute arise over precedence].
98| [paragraph 67] Having done [this, they] call in the cases: when they are judging private suits, [the private] cases, eight in number [from each] of the categories of suits established by law, [are called], and the litigants swear an oath [to speak] to the point at issue; but when they judge [the] public suits, [the public] cases, and they try only [one] [such case] in a day. There are water-clocks [with small outlets], into which [the] water is poured, [by which the time] allowed for speaking [in the case is fixed]. [Ten] choes are given to [the] parties in cases involving more than five thousand [drachmas], and [three] choes for [the second] speech; [seven] choes are given for cases up to five thousand [and two] for [the] second speech; and [five] choes are given [in cases below one thousand drachmas — text breaks off]
99| For suits [worth] less than a thousand drachmas [two choes of water are given], and for special-pleading suits [about disputed property] six choes, and after [that] no [further] speech is permitted to [anyone at all]. The man who has been [allotted] to mind the water stops up the [tube] whenever the [clerk] is about [to read] out a decree, a law, a [deposition], or a [contract]; but whenever the contest is one for which [the whole day has been measured] out, then he does [not] stop it, but [equal] water is given [to] both the [accuser] and the one making his [defense]. It is measured out according to the days of the month [Poseideon] . . . [several lines are lost] . . . they use [it] . . . [several words are lost] . . . the [jurors] . . . [several words are lost] . . . into which each [one] . . . [several words are lost] . . . for they were [in a hurry] . . . [several words are lost] . . . to push [the] people out . . . [several words are lost] . . . they [take] water . . . [several words are lost] . . . there are [two kinds], one belonging to those who [prosecute], the other to those who [stand trial]; and in the [cases] . . . [several words are lost] . . . he set aside [for the counting] of votes—
100| [several words are lost] . . . by the count. The day is divided [with regard to] . . . [several words are lost] . . . of contests to which imprisonment, death, exile, [loss of civic rights], or confiscation of property is attached . . . [several words are lost] . . . what must [either] be [paid] or [suffered]. [paragraph 68] LXVIII. Most of the courts sit [as] . . . [several words are lost] . . . but whenever a public indictment must be brought in before a thousand [jurors], two courts join together [into] the Heliaia . . . [several words are lost] . . . into five hundred and a thousand, or even three [courts, joining]. The ballots are [bronze, each] having a tube in [its] middle, [half] of them pierced through, the other half [left solid and] full. Those who have been allotted [to distribute] the ballots, once the [speeches] have been [finished], hand to each of the [jurors] two ballots, one pierced and one solid, [visible] to the [litigants on both sides], so that no one may take either [two] solid ones or [two] pierced ones. Then the man who has been [allotted] to this [task] takes back the [staffs],
101| in [exchange] for which each juror, on [casting] his vote, receives a bronze [token]—for by [handing] back the staff he receives the token—so that all may [vote]; for no one is [permitted] to receive a token [unless] he casts a vote. There are [two] urns set in the [courtroom], one of [bronze], the other of [wood], [kept apart] so that no one may [slip in] extra ballots [unnoticed]; in these the jurors [cast] their votes—the [bronze] one is the [valid] urn, the [wooden] one is [not]—and the bronze one has a lid [pierced through] so that only a [single] ballot can pass through it, to prevent [the] same man from dropping in two. When the jurors are [about] to cast their votes, the herald first [proclaims], in case the litigants wish to raise a [challenge] against the [depositions]; for it is not [permitted] to raise a challenge once the voting has begun. Then he proclaims [again]: "the pierced ballot belongs to the one who spoke [first], the solid one to the one who spoke [second]." And the juror, [taking] both ballots together from the [lamp-stand], pressing the [tube] of [his] ballot shut and [showing] neither litigant the pierced one nor the solid one, casts the valid one into the [bronze] urn, and the invalid one into the [wooden] urn. [paragraph 69] LXIX. When all have [finished] voting, the attendants take the bronze urn, [the valid one], and [pour] it out onto a counting-board that has as many holes in it as there are votes,
102| so that the votes, both the pierced ones and the solid ones, may be [easy] to count and [plainly visible] to the litigants. Those who have been [allotted] to the ballots count them out on the counting-board, [keeping] the solid ones separate and the pierced ones [separate], and the herald [announces] the number of votes, the pierced ones for the [prosecutor], the solid ones for the [defendant]; whichever side gets the [greater] number wins, and if the votes are [equal], the defendant wins. Then again, if there needs to be an [assessment] of the penalty, they vote a second time in the same way, handing back the token and taking up the staff once more. The assessment allows each side up to half a chous of water. And when judgment has been [given] on the matters prescribed by the laws, the jurors receive their [pay] in the section to which each was allotted.
1| [1.1.1] Rhetoric is the counterpart of dialectic. For both are concerned with matters that are in some way common knowledge to everyone and belong to no separately marked-off science; hence everyone in some way has a share in both, since everyone, to some extent, attempts both to test and uphold an argument, and to defend himself and to accuse. [1.1.2] Now among the many, some do these things at random, others through a habit acquired by practice; and since both ways are possible, clearly it would be possible to do them also by a method. For it is possible to observe the cause on account of which those who succeed by habit and those who succeed by chance both hit the mark, and such an observation everyone would at once agree is the work of a craft. [1.1.3] As things stand, then, those who have composed treatises on the art of speeches have worked out virtually none of this, its proper part (for the proofs are the only part that belongs to the craft, the rest being additions), and they say nothing about enthymemes, which are the very body of persuasion, while they spend most of their effort on matters outside the case at hand. [1.1.4] For slander and pity and anger and such affections of the soul have nothing to do with the fact of the matter, but are directed at the judge; so that if all trials were conducted as they now are in some cities, and especially in the well-governed ones, these writers would have nothing to say. [1.1.5] For everyone agrees that the laws ought to speak this way, and some actually enforce it and forbid speaking outside the case, as in the Areopagus, and rightly so in their view; for the judge ought not to be warped by being led into anger or envy or pity. That would be just as if someone were to make crooked the very ruler he intends to use.
2| [1.1.6] Further, it is plain that the disputant has nothing to do beyond showing that the fact is or is not so, that it has happened or has not happened; but as to whether it is a great matter or a small one, or just or unjust, in all cases where the lawgiver has not defined it, the judge himself surely must decide, and not learn it from the disputants. [1.1.7] It is most fitting, then, that rightly established laws should themselves define everything possible, and leave as little as possible to those who judge, first because it is easier to find one man, or a few, of sound judgment and capable of making laws and of judging, than to find many; next, because legislation comes about after long consideration, while judgments are given on the spur of the moment, so that it is hard for those who judge to render properly what is just and what is advantageous. And the greatest point of all is that the lawgiver's judgment is not about a particular case, but concerns the future and is universal, whereas the member of the assembly and the juror already judge about present and specific matters, toward which affection and hatred and private advantage are often already attached, so that they are no longer able to see the truth adequately, but their own pleasure or pain darkens their judgment. [1.1.8] Concerning everything else, then, as we say, one should make the judge sovereign over as little as possible; but concerning whether a thing has happened or not, will be or will not be, is or is not, this must of necessity be left to the judges, for it is not possible for the lawgiver to foresee these things.
3| [1.1.9] Given that matters stand this way, whoever goes on to define the remaining parts is really treating as belonging to the art what actually falls outside the case — for example, what the introduction or the narrative should contain, and so with each of the other parts; in handling these they pursue nothing beyond shaping the judge into a certain state of mind, while about the proofs proper to the craft they demonstrate nothing, and yet this is precisely the source from which a person might become skilled at enthymemes. [1.1.10] For this reason, though the method is the same for deliberative and forensic speeches, and though the business of deliberation is finer and more properly political than the business of private transactions, they say nothing about the former, but all try to reduce to an art the business of the courts, because it is less useful to speak outside the case in deliberative speeches, and deliberative oratory is less liable to foul play than forensic pleading, because it is more general in its concern. For there the judge decides about his own affairs, so that nothing further is needed except to demonstrate that the matter is as the adviser says; but in forensic cases this is not enough, and it is useful besides to win over the hearer, since the judgment concerns matters belonging to others, so that the judges, looking to their own interest and listening with a view to their own favor, give way to the disputants instead of judging.
4| Hence, as I said before, in many places the law forbids speaking outside the case; and there the judges themselves keep to this adequately. [1.1.11] Since it is plain that the method that belongs to the craft is concerned with the proofs, and proof is a kind of demonstration (for we are most persuaded when we suppose a thing to have been demonstrated), and since rhetorical demonstration is the enthymeme, and this is, so to speak, simply the most sovereign of the proofs, and the enthymeme is a kind of syllogism, and it belongs to dialectic likewise to examine every syllogism, either the whole of it or some part, it is clear that the one most able to observe this — from what elements and how a syllogism comes about — would also be most skilled at enthymemes, once he has grasped in addition what sorts of things the enthymeme concerns and what differences it has from logical syllogisms. For the true and what resembles the true belong to the same faculty to discern, and at the same time human beings are sufficiently disposed by nature toward the truth and for the most part do hit upon the truth; hence to be skilled at conjecturing about accepted opinions belongs to one who is likewise disposed toward the truth. That the other writers, then, treat as art what lies outside the case, and why they have inclined more toward pleading in the courts, is plain.
5| [1.1.12] Rhetoric is useful because the true and the just are by nature stronger than their opposites, so that if judgments are not given as they ought to be, the true and the just must be defeated through their own fault — which deserves blame. Further, even if we possessed the most exact knowledge, it would not be easy, in speaking from that knowledge alone, to persuade some audiences; for a speech based on scientific knowledge is instruction, and this is impossible with such hearers, but it is necessary to base one's proofs and arguments on things generally accepted, as we said also in the Topics concerning discourse with the many. Further, one must be able to persuade of contrary things, just as also in syllogisms — not in order that we may do both (for one ought not to persuade people of base things), but so that it may not escape our notice how the matter stands, and so that, when another person uses arguments unjustly, we ourselves may be able to refute them. Now none of the other crafts draws syllogistic conclusions of contraries; dialectic and rhetoric alone do this, for both apply equally to contraries. Yet the underlying facts are not equally balanced, but the true and the better are always by nature easier to draw into syllogisms and more persuasive, to put it simply. Besides this, it is absurd that a man should be ashamed of not being able to defend himself with his body, but not ashamed of failing to do so with speech, which is more distinctive of a human being than the use of the body. [1.1.13] And if it be objected that one who uses such a power of speech unjustly could do great harm, this objection applies in common to all good things except virtue, and most of all to the most useful things, such as strength, health, wealth, and generalship; for with these a man might do the greatest benefit if he uses them justly, and the greatest harm if he uses them unjustly.
6| [1.1.14] It is clear, then, that rhetoric is not concerned with some one definite genus, but is like dialectic; and that it is useful; and that its function is not to persuade but to discern the persuasive elements available in each case, just as in all the other crafts as well (for it is not medicine's function to make someone healthy, but to advance him as far toward health as is possible — for even those unable to recover health can nonetheless be treated well). Besides this, it is clear that the same craft discerns both the persuasive and the apparently persuasive, just as in dialectic it discerns both the syllogism and the apparent syllogism — for sophistic lies not in the capacity but in the moral purpose; except that here the orator will be an orator either by knowledge or by moral purpose, while there the sophist is a sophist by moral purpose, and the dialectician is a dialectician not by moral purpose but by capacity. Let us now try to speak about the method itself — how and from what materials we shall be able to hit upon what lies before us. So then, defining it again as it were from the start, as to what it is, let us go on to the rest. [1.2.1] Let rhetoric, then, be a capacity for discerning the possible means of persuasion concerning any subject whatever. For this is the function of no other craft: each of the others is instructive and persuasive about its own subject matter — medicine, for instance, about what is healthy and diseased, geometry about the properties that attach to magnitudes, arithmetic about numbers, and likewise the rest of the crafts and sciences. But rhetoric appears able to discern the persuasive, so to speak, concerning any subject given to it; that is why we say it does not have its expertise confined to some one genus of its own.
7| [1.2.2] Of the means of persuasion, some are non-technical and some are technical. By non-technical I mean those not furnished by us but pre-existing — witnesses, evidence extracted under torture, contracts, and the like; by technical I mean those that can be constructed by method and by us, so that of these we must use the one kind and discover the other. [1.2.3] Of the means of persuasion furnished through speech, there are three species: some reside in the character of the speaker, some in disposing the hearer in a certain way, and some in the speech itself, through demonstrating or seeming to demonstrate. [1.2.4] They reside in the character whenever the speech is spoken in such a way as to make the speaker worthy of credence; for we trust decent people more, and more readily — on all matters generally, but completely so on matters where exactness is not possible and opinion is divided. This too, however, must come about through the speech, not through any prior opinion about what sort of person the speaker is; for it is not the case, as some who write on the art claim, that decency on the speaker's part contributes nothing to persuasiveness and so has no place in the art — on the contrary, character is, one might almost say, the most authoritative means of persuasion. [1.2.5] They reside in the hearers whenever the hearers are brought by the speech into some emotion; for we do not give the same judgment when grieving and when rejoicing, or when feeling friendly and when feeling hostile. And it is to this alone, we say, that present-day writers on the art try to devote their effort. [1.2.6] These matters will be set out one by one when we speak about the emotions. As for persuasion through the speech itself, it occurs whenever we demonstrate the true, or what appears true, from whatever is persuasive in each particular case.
8| [1.2.7] Since the means of persuasion come about through these, it is clear that grasping them belongs to one who is able to reason logically and to study character and the virtues, and, thirdly, to study the emotions — what each of the emotions is, what quality it has, and from what causes and how it arises. It follows, then, that rhetoric is, as it were, an offshoot of dialectic and of the study of character, which it is right to call political science. That is also why rhetoric assumes the guise of political science, and why those who lay claim to it do so partly through lack of education, partly through pretension, and partly for other, ordinary human causes; for it is a part of dialectic and resembles it, just as we said at the outset — neither of the two is a science of any definite subject matter, of how things stand, but both are certain capacities for furnishing arguments. [1.2.8] Concerning their capacity, then, and how they stand toward each other, more or less enough has been said. As for persuasion through demonstrating or seeming to demonstrate — just as in dialectic one thing is induction, another syllogism, another apparent syllogism — so too here it is the same way: the example is induction, the enthymeme is syllogism, and the apparent enthymeme is apparent syllogism. I call an enthymeme a rhetorical syllogism, and an example a rhetorical induction. Everyone produces persuasion through demonstration either by citing examples or by enthymemes, and by nothing besides these; so that, since it is in general necessary to demonstrate anything whatever, about anyone whatever, either by reasoning syllogistically or by induction — and this is clear to us from the Analytics — each of these two must be identical, respectively, with each of those.
9| [1.2.9] What the difference is between example and enthymeme is clear from the Topics (for there the treatment of syllogism and induction came earlier): where it is shown, on the basis of many similar cases, that something holds, there it is called induction in that context and example in this one; and where, certain things being so, something else results because of them, alongside them, by their being so, either universally or for the most part, there it is called syllogism in that context and enthymeme in this one. [1.2.10] It is also clear that each species of oratory has its own advantage; for just as has been said in the methodical treatises, the same holds here too: some styles of oratory are given to examples, others to enthymemes, and likewise some orators are given to examples and others to enthymemes. Speeches made through examples are no less persuasive, but those made through enthymemes stir more applause. [1.2.11] The cause of this, and how each is to be used, we shall discuss later; for now let us define these very matters more precisely. Since the persuasive is persuasive to someone, and one thing is immediately persuasive and credible in its own right, while another is persuasive because it appears to be demonstrated by means of such things — and since no craft studies the particular case (medicine, for instance, does not consider what is healthy for Socrates or for Callias, but what is healthy for such-and-such a kind of person, or for people of such-and-such a kind, since this is what falls within the craft, while the particular case is unlimited and not an object of knowledge) — so too rhetoric will not study the particular reputable opinion, as held by Socrates or Hippias, but what holds for people of such-and-such a kind, just as dialectic does as well. For dialectic, too, does not reason from just any premises whatever (for some things appear so even to people who are raving), but reasons from premises that call for argument, while rhetoric reasons from premises that people are already accustomed to deliberate about.
10| [1.2.12] Rhetoric's function has to do with the sort of matters we deliberate about but for which we possess no systematic crafts, and with such hearers as are unable to take in many steps at once or to reason from a distance. And we deliberate about things that appear capable of being otherwise; for concerning things that cannot possibly be, or come to be, or be otherwise than they are, no one deliberates who supposes them to be so — there would be nothing gained by it. [1.2.13] It is possible to reason syllogistically and draw conclusions, in some cases from things already proved by syllogism, in others from things not themselves syllogized but requiring a syllogism because they are not generally accepted opinions. Of these, the former kind is necessarily hard to follow because of its length (for the judge is assumed to be an ordinary person), and the latter kind is unpersuasive because it does not proceed from things agreed upon or from generally accepted opinions. It follows that both the enthymeme and the example must be about things that admit of being otherwise for the most part — the example being induction, the enthymeme being syllogism — and drawn from few premises, and often from fewer premises than the primary syllogism requires; for if any of these premises is already known, there is no need even to state it, since the hearer himself supplies it. For instance, to show that Dorieus has won a contest in which the prize is a crown, it is enough to say that he has won at Olympia; there is no need to add that the Olympic games award a crown, for that is known to everyone.
11| For everyone knows this. [1.2.14] But since few of the things from which rhetorical syllogisms are drawn are necessary (for most of the things about which judgments and deliberations are made admit of being otherwise — for the things people deliberate and inquire about are the things they act on, and everything that is done is of this kind, and, so to speak, none of these things happens of necessity, while things that happen for the most part and admit of being otherwise must be inferred by syllogism from premises of the same kind, and necessary conclusions from necessary premises; this too is clear to us from the Analytics), it is evident that, of the things from which enthymemes are stated, some will be necessary but most will be things that hold for the most part, and enthymemes are drawn from probabilities and from signs, so that each of these two kinds of premise must correspond to each of those two kinds of conclusion.
12| [1.2.15] For a probability is what happens for the most part — not simply, as some define it, but rather what is about things that admit of being otherwise, standing to that in relation to which it is probable as the universal stands to the particular. [1.2.16] Of signs, one kind stands as a particular thing stands to the universal, the other as a universal thing stands to the particular. Of these, the necessary one is called a proof, and the one that is not necessary has no name to mark the difference. [1.2.17] By necessary I mean those signs from which a syllogism can be formed; that is why a sign of this kind is called a proof — for whenever people think it is not possible to refute what has been said, they then think they are bringing forward a proof, as something demonstrated and settled: for tekmar and peras (limit) are the same word in the old language. [1.2.18] Of signs, one kind stands as the particular to the universal, in this way: for example, if someone said it was a sign that wise people are just, since Socrates was wise and just. This, then, is a sign, but it can be refuted, even if what is said is true (for it forms no valid syllogism). The other kind is necessary — for example, if someone said it is a sign that a person is ill, since he has a fever, or that a woman has given birth, since she has milk. This alone, among signs, is a proof; for this alone, if true, cannot be refuted. The kind that stands as the universal to the particular is, for example, if someone said it is a sign that a man has a fever, since he breathes rapidly. This too can be refuted, even if true, since it is possible to pant hard without having a fever. What a probability is, then, and what a sign and a proof are, and how they differ, has been stated now in outline, and is set out more clearly, along with the reason why some of these are not valid syllogisms while others are valid syllogisms, in the Analytics.
13| [1.2.19] It has been stated that a paradigm is a kind of induction, and what kind of matters induction concerns. It stands neither as part to whole, nor as whole to part, nor as whole to whole, but as part to part, like to like — whenever both fall under the same genus, but one is better known than the other, that is a paradigm: for example, that Dionysius, in asking for a bodyguard, was plotting tyranny; for Pisistratus too, earlier, when plotting, asked for a bodyguard, and once he got it, made himself tyrant, and so did Theagenes at Megara; and all the other cases people know of become, all of them, a paradigm for the case of Dionysius, whom they do not yet know for certain to be asking for this reason. All these fall under the same universal, that whoever plots tyranny asks for a bodyguard. It has now been stated, then, from what sources come the proofs that are held to be demonstrative. [1.2.20] The greatest difference among enthymemes, and the one that goes almost entirely unnoticed by everyone, is the very one found also with regard to the dialectical method of syllogisms: for some of them belong to rhetoric in the same way that some belong to the dialectical method of syllogisms, while others belong to other arts and capacities, some already established and some not yet grasped; that is why they escape the notice of listeners, and the more one takes proper hold of them, the further one moves away from rhetoric and dialectic themselves.
14| What is being said will be clearer if stated at greater length. [1.2.21] I mean that dialectical and rhetorical syllogisms are concerned with the things about which we speak of 'topics.' These are the common topics, about matters of justice, about natural science, about politics, and about many things that differ in kind — for example, the topic of the more and the less: from this it is no more possible to construct a syllogism or state an enthymeme about matters of justice than about natural science or about anything whatever, even though these differ in kind. But the special topics are those drawn from the premises particular to each kind and genus — for example, there are premises about natural science from which there is neither an enthymeme nor a syllogism about matters of character, and about matters of character there are other premises from which nothing will follow about natural science; and the same holds alike in every case. Those common topics will not make anyone knowledgeable about any particular subject matter, since they are about no underlying subject; but with these special premises, the better one selects them, the more one will, without noticing it, produce a science different from dialectic and rhetoric — for if one hits upon first principles, it will no longer be dialectic or rhetoric but that science whose principles one has hold of.
15| [1.2.22] Most enthymemes are stated from these special kinds, the particular and proper ones, and fewer from the common topics. Just as in the Topics, then, here too the species of enthymemes must be distinguished, along with the topics from which they are to be drawn. By species I mean the premises proper to each particular genus, and by topics the common ones that apply alike to all. Let us speak first about the species; but first let us take up the genera of rhetoric, so that, having distinguished how many there are, we may take up the elements and premises for each separately. [1.3.1] The species of rhetoric are three in number, for that is also how many kinds of listeners there are for speeches. For a speech is composed of three things: the speaker, the subject he speaks about, and the person he addresses, and the end of the speech is directed at this last — I mean the listener. [1.3.2] The listener must be either a spectator or a judge, and a judge either of things that have happened or of things that are going to happen. The one who judges about future things is the member of the assembly, the one who judges about things that have happened is, for example, the juror, and the one who judges the speaker's ability is the spectator. [1.3.3] So there must necessarily be three genera of rhetorical speeches: deliberative, forensic, and epideictic. Of deliberation, one part is exhortation, the other dissuasion; for those who advise privately and those who address the public always do one or the other of these. Of a lawsuit, one part is accusation, the other defense; for disputants must necessarily do one or the other of these. Of epideictic, one part is praise, the other blame.
16| [1.3.4] The time appropriate to each of these is, for the deliberative speaker, the future (for he advises about things to come, either urging or dissuading); for the litigant, the past (for it is always about things already done that one accuses and the other defends); while for the ceremonial speaker the most proper time is the present (for it is on the basis of existing qualities that everyone praises or blames), though they often also make use of recalling the past and projecting the future. [1.3.5] The end is different for each of these, and since there are three kinds, there are three ends: for the deliberative speaker it is the advantageous and the harmful (for the one who urges advises as toward the better course, and the one who dissuades dissuades from the worse, and takes in the other considerations, whether just or unjust, fine or shameful, as subordinate to this); for litigants it is the just and the unjust, though they too take in the other considerations as subordinate to these; for those who praise and blame it is the fine and the shameful, and they too refer the other considerations to these. [1.3.6] A sign that the end is what has been stated for each is this: on the other points speakers sometimes would not dispute — for example the litigant, that the act did not occur or did no harm — but that he is doing wrong he would never admit, since then there would be no need of a trial. Likewise deliberative speakers often concede the other points, but would not admit that they are advising what is disadvantageous or dissuading from what is beneficial; whereas that it is not unjust to enslave neighboring peoples, even ones doing no wrong, often does not trouble them at all. Similarly those who praise and those who blame do not look to whether a man's actions were advantageous or harmful, but often even count it a mark of praise that, disregarding his own advantage, he did what was fine — for example they praise Achilles because he came to the aid of his comrade Patroclus, knowing that he himself must die when he might have lived. For him such a death was finer, even though living was the more advantageous.
17| [1.3.7] It is clear from what has been said that one must first have premises concerning these matters; for evidences, probabilities, and signs are rhetorical premises. For in general a syllogism is composed of premises, and the enthymeme is a syllogism composed of the premises just mentioned. [1.3.8] Since it is not possible either for impossible things to be done or to have been done, but only possible ones, and since things that have not occurred or will not occur cannot be said to have been done in the one case or to be going to be done in the other, it is necessary for the deliberative speaker, the litigant, and the ceremonial speaker alike to have premises about the possible and the impossible, and about whether a thing has occurred or not, and whether it will occur or not. [1.3.9] Further, since all speakers — those who praise and blame, those who urge and dissuade, those who accuse and those who defend — try to show not only what has been stated but also that the good or the evil, the fine or the shameful, the just or the unjust, is great or small, whether speaking of these in their own right or comparing them to one another, it is clear that they would also need premises about greatness and smallness and about the greater and the less, both in general and with respect to particulars — for example, which is the greater good or the lesser, which the greater wrongdoing or the greater just act; and likewise concerning the others. On what matters, then, it is necessary to take up premises has been stated; after this we must divide the subject and treat each of these separately — the subjects of deliberation, the subjects of ceremonial speeches, and third, the subjects of trials.
18| [1.4.1] First, then, we must grasp on what sorts of goods or evils the deliberative speaker advises, since it is not about everything but only about such things as admit of both happening and not happening. [1.4.2] For whatever necessarily either is or will be, or is necessarily incapable of being or coming to be, about these there is no deliberation. [1.4.3] Nor indeed is there deliberation about everything that is contingent; for among contingent goods there are some that come about by nature and some by chance, capable both of happening and not happening, about which deliberating serves no purpose; but clearly deliberation concerns only those matters that are open to deliberation. Such are the things whose nature it is to be traced back to us, and whose origin of coming-to-be is up to us; for we consider a matter only up to the point where we discover whether it is possible or impossible for us to do it. [1.4.4] To enumerate these precisely one by one and divide them into the kinds about which people are accustomed to transact business, and further to define them as exactly as the truth allows, is not a task to pursue at the present time, because this belongs not to the craft of rhetoric but to one more intelligent and more concerned with truth, and because rhetoric has already been assigned far more subject matter of its own than is proper to it. [1.4.5] For what we have in fact already said is true: that rhetoric is composed out of the science of analytics and the political science that concerns character, and is similar partly to dialectic and partly to sophistical arguments. [1.4.6] But the more anyone tries to construct either dialectic or rhetoric not as capacities but as sciences, the more he will unwittingly destroy their very nature by this transformation, remaking them into sciences of certain underlying subject matters and not merely of arguments.
19| [1.4.7] Nonetheless, so far as it is worthwhile to make distinctions, while still leaving further inquiry to political science, let us set them out even now. For, roughly speaking, the matters about which everyone deliberates and about which deliberative speakers make their speeches turn out to be five in number, the greatest being these: revenues, war and peace, further the defense of the territory, imports and exports, and legislation. [1.4.8] So concerning revenues, the future adviser needs to know what the city's sources of income are and how large they are, so that if any is being overlooked it may be added, and if any is too small it may be increased; and further all the city's expenditures, so that if any is superfluous it may be removed, and if any is too great it may be reduced. For people become richer not only by adding to what they already have but also by cutting expenditures. These matters can be surveyed not only from experience in one's own affairs, but it is also necessary to be well-informed about what has been discovered among other peoples, for the sake of advising on these matters. [1.4.9] Concerning war and peace, he must know the power of the city — how great it already is and how great it may become — and of what kind that existing power is and what kind might be added to it, and further what wars it has fought and how. And it is necessary to know these things not only about one's own city but also about neighboring ones, and about those with whom war is likely, so that peace may be kept with those who are stronger and war may be within one's own control against those who are weaker, and to know the respective forces, whether similar or dissimilar; for it is possible to have the advantage or the disadvantage in this respect too. And in view of this it is necessary to have observed not only one's own wars but those of others as well, and how they have turned out; for like causes naturally produce like results.
20| [1.4.10] Further, concerning the defense of the territory, one must not be ignorant of how it is guarded, but must know both the size and the kind of the garrison and the locations of the guard-posts (which is impossible without experience of the territory), so that if the guard is too small it may be increased, and if any post is superfluous it may be removed, and so that the suitable places may be watched more closely. [1.4.11] Further, concerning food supply, one must know how much expenditure is sufficient for the city and of what kind, both what is produced at home and what must be imported, and what goods they need to export and what to import and from whom, so that treaties and agreements may be made with these peoples; for citizens must be kept free of reproach on two counts — toward those who are stronger and toward those who are useful for these purposes. [1.4.12] For the sake of security it is necessary to be able to survey all these matters, and not least to have some understanding of legislation; for the safety of the city lies in its laws, so that it is necessary to know how many kinds of constitution there are, which kind is advantageous for each city, and by what causes a constitution is naturally corrupted, both causes proper to it and causes opposed to it. By corruption through causes proper to it I mean this: that apart from the best constitution, all the others are corrupted both by being relaxed and by being intensified — for example a democracy not only becomes weaker when relaxed, so that it will end in oligarchy, but also when it is intensified too much;
21| Just as with hookedness and snubness in a nose: they arrive at the mean not only when relaxed toward it, but also when they become extremely hooked or snub, they get into such a state that the nose no longer even seems to be a nose. [1.4.13] For lawmaking it is useful not only to grasp which constitution is advantageous by studying constitutions of the past, but also to know the ones in use among other peoples, which sorts suit which sorts of people. So it is clear that for lawmaking, surveys of the world's peoples are useful (for from these one can take the laws of the various nations), while for political deliberation the histories of those who write about actions are useful. But all of this is the work of political science, not of rhetoric. As for the subjects on which the future counselor must have propositions ready, these are the most important; but from what materials we must speak, both about these and about other things, to urge or dissuade, let us go on to say.
22| [1.5.1] Nearly every individual, privately, and all people, in common, have some target at which they aim in choosing and avoiding things; and this target, to put it in a single phrase, is happiness and its parts. [1.5.2] So for the sake of an example let us take up what happiness is, stated simply, and out of what elements its parts consist. For it is about happiness and the things that contribute toward it, and the things opposed to it, that all urging and dissuading turn: for one must do the things that produce happiness or one of its parts, or that make a greater good replace a lesser one, and one must not do the things that destroy it or impede it or produce its opposites. [1.5.3] Let happiness, then, be doing well combined with virtue, or self-sufficiency of life, or the life that is most pleasant together with security, or a flourishing condition of possessions and of body together with the power to guard and make use of these: for pretty much everyone agrees that happiness is one or more of these things. [1.5.4] If, then, happiness is something of this sort, its parts must necessarily be good birth, abundance of friends, good friends, wealth, good children, many children, a good old age; further, the virtues of the body (for example health, beauty, strength, size, athletic power), reputation, honor, good luck, virtue, or also its parts, practical wisdom, courage, justice, temperance. For in this way a person would be most self-sufficient, if he possessed both the goods within himself and the external goods; for there are no other goods besides these. Now what is within a person consists of the things concerning the soul and the things in the body, while what is external consists of good birth, friends, wealth, and honor; and further we think power and good fortune ought to belong to him as well, for in this way life is most secure. Let us, then, take up in the same manner what each of these is.
23| [1.5.5] Good birth, then, for a nation or a city is being indigenous or ancient, and having as first leaders men of distinction, and having many distinguished descendants of them in the things that are emulated. For an individual, good birth is either from the male line or from the female line, and legitimacy from both, and, as in the case of a city, that the first known ancestors be distinguished either for virtue or for wealth or for some other thing that is honored, and that many distinguished persons have come from the family, both men and women, both young and old. [1.5.6] Good children and many children are not obscure notions. For a community, good children means abundant and good youth, good with respect to virtue of body, for example size, beauty, strength, athletic power; and of soul, temperance and courage are the virtues of the young. For an individual, good children and many children means that one's own children are many and of this quality, both female and male; the virtue of females is, in body, beauty and size, and in soul, temperance and industriousness without meanness of spirit. Similarly, both privately and in common, and for men and for women, one must seek that each of these qualities be present; for wherever the condition of the women is poor, as among the Spartans, people are roughly half as happy as they might be.
24| [1.5.7] The parts of wealth are: abundance of currency and of land, possession of estates outstanding in number and size and beauty, and further possession of furnishings, slaves, and livestock outstanding in number and beauty—all of these being one's own, secure, gentlemanly, and useful. Useful goods are more the fruit-bearing ones, gentlemanly goods those meant for enjoyment (I call fruit-bearing those from which income comes, and enjoyable those from which nothing worthwhile results beyond the use itself). The definition of security is possessing a thing in such a place and in such a manner that the use of it is in one's own power; and the definition of a thing's being one's own or not is whether the power to alienate it is in one's own power—by alienation I mean giving and selling. In general, being wealthy consists more in using than in possessing; for the actuality and the use of such things is wealth.
25| [1.5.8] Good repute is being supposed by everyone to be a person of worth, or having something of the sort that everyone, or the majority, or the good, or the wise desire. [1.5.9] Honor is a sign of a reputation for doing good; and those who have done good are honored justly and most of all, though the one who has the power to do good is also honored. Doing good extends either to safety and whatever causes existence, or to wealth, or to some other of the goods whose acquisition is not easy, either in general or in that place or at that time; for many people gain honor through things that seem small, but the place and the occasion are responsible. Parts of honor are sacrifices, memorials in verse and without verse, privileges, precincts of land, front seats, tombs, statues, public maintenance, the barbarian honors such as prostrations and giving way, and gifts that are prized in each community. For a gift is both a giving of property and a sign of honor; hence both those fond of money and those fond of honor desire them, for gifts hold what both parties need: a gift is a possession, which is what the money-lovers desire, and it carries honor, which is what the honor-lovers want. [1.5.10] The virtue of the body is health, of such a kind that people are free of disease while making use of their bodies; for many are healthy in the way Herodicus is said to have been, whom no one would congratulate on his health, because he abstains from all, or nearly all, human activities. [1.5.11] Beauty differs at each stage of life. In a young man, beauty consists in having a body useful for the exertions of running and of force, while being pleasant to look at for enjoyment; that is why pentathletes are the most beautiful, because they are naturally suited both for force and for speed at once. In a man in his prime, beauty consists in being suited for the exertions of war, while seeming pleasant along with an air of formidableness. In an old man, it consists in being sufficient for the necessary exertions, and free of pain because he has none of the things that old age mars.
26| [1.5.12] Strength is the power to move another as one wishes, and moving another necessarily means either pulling or pushing or lifting or squeezing or crushing, so that the strong person is strong in all of these or in some of them. [1.5.13] The virtue of size is to be so much greater than most people in length and depth and breadth that the excess does not make one's movements slower. [1.5.14] Athletic virtue of the body is composed of size, strength, and speed (for the swift person is also strong); for the one able to hurl his legs in a certain way and move them swiftly and over a great distance is suited for running, the one able to press down and hold his opponent is suited for wrestling, the one able to drive his opponent back with a blow is suited for boxing, the one who has both of the latter abilities is suited for the pancratium, and the one who has all of them is suited for the pentathlon. [1.5.15] A good old age is slowness of aging combined with freedom from pain; for a person is not well-aged if he ages quickly, nor if he ages slowly but painfully. It comes both from the virtues of the body and from good fortune; for someone who is neither free of disease nor strong will not be free of suffering or free of pain, and living a long time would not persist without good fortune either. There is also a certain other capacity for longevity apart from strength and health; for many people live long without the virtues of the body. But precision about these matters is of no use for our present purposes. [1.5.16] Abundance of friends and good friends are not obscure notions, once the friend has been defined: such a friend is one who acts to bring about what he believes to be good for that other person, for that other person's sake. Whoever has many such friends has abundance of friends, and whoever has decent men as such friends has good friends.
27| [1.5.17] Good luck is when the good things of which fortune is the cause come about and are present, either all of them, or most of them, or the greatest of them. Fortune is the cause of some of the things that the crafts are also causes of, and of many things that involve no craft — for example, whatever comes from nature (though it is also possible for these to happen contrary to nature): for craft is the cause of health, but nature is the cause of beauty and stature. In general, goods of this kind that come from fortune are the ones on which envy is directed. Fortune is also the cause of goods that come about contrary to reasonable expectation — for example, if the other brothers are ugly but this one is handsome, or if the others did not see the treasure but he found it, or if the arrow struck the man standing next to him and not him, or if he was the only one who did not come, since he always used to come, while those who came just this once were destroyed: for all things of this kind are thought to be strokes of good luck. [1.5.18] As for virtue, since the topic proper to it is the topic of praise, it must be marked out when we are giving an account of praise. [1.6.1] What the person urging a course, then, must aim at, treating it as something that will be or already is, and what the person dissuading must aim at, is clear: for the things aimed at in dissuading are the opposites of these. And since the aim set before the deliberative speaker is the advantageous (for people do not deliberate about the end, but about the things that lead to the end, and these are the things advantageous with a view to actions, and the advantageous is a good), we would need to grasp the elements concerning the good and the advantageous taken simply.
28| [1.6.2] Let the good, then, be whatever is choiceworthy for its own sake, and that for the sake of which we choose something else, and that which all things aim at, or which all things that have perception or intellect aim at, or would aim at if they acquired intellect, and whatever intellect would assign to each thing, and whatever the intellect that is concerned with each particular thing assigns to it: for this is good for each thing, and that whose presence puts a thing in a good condition and makes it self-sufficient, and self-sufficiency itself, and whatever produces or preserves such things, and that which such things follow upon, and whatever prevents or destroys the opposites of these.
29| [1.6.3] Something follows in two ways — either at the same time or later (for example, understanding follows upon learning later, while living follows upon being healthy at the same time) — and productive things in three ways: some, as being in a healthy condition is productive of health, others, as food is productive of health, and others, as exercise is productive of it, because it generally produces health. [1.6.4] Given these points, it is necessary that acquisitions of good things be good, and losses of bad things be good: for not having the bad follows at once upon the one, while having the good follows later upon the other. [1.6.5] And taking a greater good in exchange for a lesser one, and a lesser evil in exchange for a greater one, are goods: for by the amount that the greater exceeds the lesser, by that same amount there occurs an acquisition in the one case and a loss in the other. [1.6.6] And the virtues must be goods (for those who possess them are put in a good condition by them, and the virtues are productive of goods and are also practical; [1.6.7] but about each virtue, what it is and of what sort, must be discussed separately), and pleasure must be a good: for all animals by nature aim at it; hence pleasant things and fine things must also be goods: for pleasant things are productive of pleasure, while of fine things some are pleasant and others are choiceworthy in their own right. [1.6.8] To state them one by one, the following must be goods. Happiness: for it is choiceworthy in its own right and self-sufficient, and it is for its sake that we choose everything else. [1.6.9] Justice, courage, temperance, greatness of soul, magnificence, and the other states of that kind: for they are virtues of the soul.
30| [1.6.10] And health, beauty, and things of that kind: for they are virtues of the body and productive of many things — health, for example, is productive both of pleasure and of life, which is why it seems to be the best thing, because it is the cause of two of the things most valued by most people, pleasure and life. [1.6.11] Wealth: for it is the virtue of possession and productive of many things. [1.6.12] A friend and friendship: for a friend is choiceworthy in his own right and productive of many things. [1.6.13] Honor and reputation: for they are pleasant and productive of many things, and for the most part it follows upon them that one actually has the qualities for which one is honored. [1.6.14] The power of speaking and of acting: for all things of this kind are productive of goods. [1.6.15] Further, good natural endowment, memory, aptness for learning, quickness of mind, and everything of that kind: for these capacities are productive of goods. And likewise all the sciences and all the crafts. And life: for even if no other good were to follow from it, [1.6.16] it is choiceworthy in its own right. And what is just: for it is something advantageous held in common. [1.6.17] These, then, are pretty much the goods that are agreed upon. [1.6.18] In disputed cases, the syllogisms proceed from the following. That whose opposite is bad is good. [1.6.19] And that whose opposite is advantageous to our enemies is good: for example, if being cowardly is especially advantageous to our enemies, it is clear that courage is especially beneficial to the citizens. [1.6.20] And in general, whatever our enemies wish for, or whatever they take pleasure in, the opposite of this appears beneficial; hence it has been said, "then would Priam rejoice" (Homer, Iliad 1.255). But this is not always so, only for the most part: for nothing prevents the same thing from sometimes being advantageous to opposed parties; hence it is said that misfortunes bring people together, whenever the same thing is harmful to both.
31| [1.6.21] And that of which there is no excess is good, while whatever is greater than it ought to be is bad. [1.6.22] And that for the sake of which much toil or expense has been incurred is good: for it already appears to be a good, and a thing of this kind is taken to be an end, and an end of many things, and the end is a good. Hence these things have been said: "so as to leave a boast for Priam" (Homer, Iliad 2.160), and "it is shameful to remain long" (Homer, Iliad 2.298), and the proverb about the jar breaking at the door. [1.6.23] And that which most people aim at, and what appears to be fought over, is good: for what all aim at was a good, and the many appear as though they were all. [1.6.24] And what is praiseworthy is good: for no one praises what is not good. And what enemies and base people praise is good: for it is as if everyone already agrees, if even those who have suffered badly at its hands agree — for they would agree on account of what is evident, just as those are base whom their friends censure, and those are good whom their enemies do not censure (which is why the Corinthians supposed themselves insulted by Simonides when he wrote that "Ilium does not blame the Corinthians"). [1.6.25] And what some man of practical wisdom, or some good man or woman, preferred — for example, Odysseus as preferred by Athena, and Helen as preferred by Theseus, and Alexander as preferred by the goddesses, and Achilles as preferred by Homer. [1.6.26] And in general, whatever is deliberately chosen: people choose to do the things already mentioned, and things bad for their enemies, and things good for their friends, and things that are possible. [1.6.27] And these are possible in two senses: things that could come about, and things that come about easily; things are easy if they come about either without pain or in a short time, for difficulty is defined by either pain or length of time. And things are possible if they turn out as people wish; and they wish either for nothing bad, or for less bad than good — and this will happen if the bad goes unnoticed, or if the penalty for it is small.
32| [1.6.28] And things that are one's own, and things no one else has, and things out of the ordinary: for in this way there is more honor. And things fitting to them: such are what belongs to them by birth and by power, and things in which they think they are lacking, even if the lack is small — for they are no less inclined to do these things. [1.6.29] And things easily accomplished: for these are both possible and easy; and things are easily accomplished which everyone, or most, or people like them, or people inferior to them, have succeeded in. And things that will please their friends, or that will be hateful to their enemies. And whatever those they admire choose to do. And things for which they are naturally gifted and experienced: for they think they will succeed more easily at these. And things no worthless person would do: for these are more praiseworthy. And things they happen to desire: for these appear not only pleasant but better. [1.6.30] And each person is most inclined toward whatever fits his own love of a thing — for example, the lover of victory, if there will be victory; the lover of honor, if there will be honor; the lover of money, if there will be money; and the others likewise. So on the good and the advantageous, the proofs must be drawn from these considerations. [1.7.1] But since people often agree that both things are advantageous and dispute about which is more so, we should next speak about the greater good and the more advantageous. [1.7.2] Let the exceeding be this much and more, and the exceeded be what is contained within it; and let the greater and the more always be relative to the less, and the great and the small and the much and the little be relative to the magnitude of most things; and let the exceeding be the great, the falling short be the small, and likewise for the much and the little.
33| [1.7.3] Since, then, we call good that which is choiceworthy for its own sake and not for the sake of something else, and that which all things aim at, and that which intellect and practical wisdom would choose, and what is productive or preservative of these, or what such things follow upon — whereas that toward which something aims is its end, and an end is the goal on account of which everything else exists, and a thing counts as good for something when it stands in that relation to it — it follows of necessity that a larger quantity, once the one item or the smaller items are counted in together with it, is a greater good than the one item or the smaller items alone: for it surpasses them, while what is contained within is surpassed.
34| [1.7.4] And if the greatest of one class exceeds the greatest of another, then the classes themselves exceed each other; and whatever classes exceed each other, their greatest members also exceed each other: for example, if the greatest man is greater than the greatest woman, then men in general are greater than women, and if men in general are greater than women, then the greatest man is greater than the greatest woman — for the excesses of the classes correspond proportionally to the excesses of the greatest members within them. [1.7.5] And when this follows from that, but that does not follow from this — whether following at once, in succession, or potentially, for the use of what follows is contained in the use of the other — this is the greater good. Living follows at once upon being healthy, but the reverse does not hold; knowing follows later upon learning; and depriving follows potentially upon temple-robbery, for one who robs a temple would also commit theft. [1.7.6] And things that exceed the same thing by a greater amount are greater: for they must also exceed it by the lesser amount. [1.7.7] And things productive of a greater good are themselves greater: for this was what it was to be productive of the greater. And likewise for that whose productive cause is greater: for if the healthy is more choiceworthy than the pleasant and a greater good, then health too is greater than pleasure. [1.7.8] And what is choiceworthy in its own right is more choiceworthy than what is not choiceworthy in its own right — for example, strength compared with the healthy: for the one is not for the sake of itself, but the other is for the sake of itself, which was just what the good was. [1.7.9] And likewise if one thing is an end and the other is not an end: for the one exists for the sake of something else, the other for its own sake — for example, exercising, compared with being in good bodily condition.
35| [1.7.10] And what needs the other, or others, less is greater: for it is more self-sufficient; and what needs fewer things, or things more easily gotten, needs less. [1.7.11] And whenever this thing cannot exist without that, or cannot come to be without it, while that thing can exist without this — then what does not need the other is more self-sufficient, so that it appears the greater good. [1.7.12] And likewise if one is a principle and the other is not a principle, or if one is a cause and the other is not a cause, for the same reason: for without a cause and a principle it is impossible for a thing to exist or to come to be. And of two principles, what comes from the greater principle is greater, and of two causes, what comes from the greater cause is greater. And conversely, of two principles, the principle of the greater thing is the greater principle, and of two causes, the cause of the greater thing is the greater cause. [1.7.13] It is clear, then, from what has been said, that a thing can appear greater in both ways: for if one thing is a principle and the other is not, it will seem greater, and if one is not a principle and the other is, it will also seem greater — since the end is greater, not the principle, just as Leodamas, prosecuting Callistratus, said that the one who planned a wrong does it more than the one who carried it out, for it would not have been done if he had not planned it; but again, against Chabrias, that the one who carried it out wrongs more than the one who planned it, for it would not have happened if there had not been someone to carry it out — since it is for this very purpose, that they may carry it out, that people plot. [1.7.14] And the rarer is greater than the abundant — for example, gold is greater than iron, even though it is less useful, because possessing it is a greater thing, on account of its being harder to get. (In another way, the abundant is greater than the rare, because its use is greater: for the frequent exceeds the infrequent — which is why it is said, 'water is best.') Pindar, Olympian 1.1
36| [1.7.15] And in general the more difficult is greater than the easier: for it is rarer. But in another way, the easier is greater than the more difficult: for it turns out as we wish. [1.7.16] And that whose contrary is greater is itself greater, and that whose privation is greater. And virtue is greater than the absence of vice, and vice is greater than the absence of virtue: for the one class consists of ends, the other does not. [1.7.17] And things whose works are finer or more shameful are themselves greater, and things whose vices and virtues are greater have greater works as well, since as the causes and principles are, so are the results, and as the results are, so are the causes and principles. [1.7.18] And things whose superiority is more choiceworthy or finer are themselves greater — for example, seeing accurately is more choiceworthy than smelling (for sight is superior to smell), and being more devoted to one's comrades than to money is a finer thing, so that comradeship is finer than love of money as well. And correspondingly, the excesses of better things are better, and of finer things, finer. [1.7.19] And things whose desires are finer or better are themselves greater: for the greater longings are longings for greater things. And for the same reason, the desires for finer or better things are themselves finer and better. [1.7.20] And things whose sciences are finer or more serious have subject matters that are finer and more serious as well:
37| for as the science stands, so does the truth — each science lays down the law about its own subject matter. And for the same reason, the sciences of more serious and finer things are correspondingly more serious and finer. [1.7.21] And whatever the wise judge, or have judged, to be a greater good — whether all of them, or most, or the majority, or the strongest among them — must in fact be so, either absolutely, or to the extent that they judged it in accordance with practical wisdom. This holds in common for the other categories too: for a this, a how-much, and a what-sort-of-thing are as scientific knowledge and practical wisdom would say. But we have spoken of it with respect to goods: for the good has been defined as that which each thing, if it possessed practical wisdom, would choose; so it is clear that the greater good is what practical wisdom declares to be greater.
38| [1.7.22] And what belongs to the better people, either without qualification or insofar as they are better, is a greater good — for example, courage is greater than strength. And what the better person would choose, either without qualification or insofar as he is better, is greater — for example, being wronged rather than doing wrong; for the more just person would choose this. [1.7.23] And the more pleasant thing is greater than the less pleasant; for all things pursue pleasure, and things desire pleasure for its own sake, and it is by reference to these that the good and the end have been marked out; and more pleasant is what is freer from pain and what is pleasant for a longer time. [1.7.24] And the finer thing is greater than the less fine; for the fine is either what is pleasant or what is choiceworthy in its own right. [1.7.25] And whatever things people wish to be responsible for themselves or for their friends rather than not, these are greater goods, and whatever things they wish less to be responsible for, these are greater evils. [1.7.26] And things that last longer are greater than things that last a shorter time, and more secure things than less secure things; for the use of the one class exceeds in time, of the other in what one wishes: for whenever people wish it, the use of the secure thing is more available to them. [1.7.27] And as one item stands in a coordinate series and in similar grammatical cases, so the rest follow along — for example, if acting courageously is finer and more choiceworthy than acting temperately, then courage is more choiceworthy than temperance, and being courageous than being temperate. [1.7.28] And what everyone chooses is greater than what not everyone chooses; and what the majority choose is greater than what the minority choose; for the good was what all things aim at, so that the greater good is what more things aim at. And what one's rivals or enemies choose, or what judges choose, or what those whom the judges themselves judge would choose, is greater; for the one case is as if all were to say so, the other is the case of those with authority and those who know.
39| [1.7.29] And sometimes what everyone shares in is greater, since not sharing in it is a dishonor; but sometimes what no one, or few, share in is greater, since it is rarer. [1.7.30] And things more praiseworthy are greater, for they are finer. And things carrying greater honors are likewise greater, for honor is a kind of worth. And things carrying greater penalties are greater. [1.7.31] And things greater than things admitted or apparent to be great are greater still. And things, when divided into their parts, appear greater than the same things undivided; for the excess appears greater — which is why the poet says that persuading Meleager to rise up spoke of all the evils that come upon men whose city has been taken: the people perish, fire reduces the city to ashes, and strangers carry off the children (Hom. Il. 9.592-594). And likewise the technique of piling things up and building upon them, as Epicharmus does — for the same reason as division works (since composition displays a great excess), and because a beginning appears to be a cause of great things. [1.7.32] And since what is more difficult and rarer is greater, then occasions, ages, places, times, and capacities make things great; for if something is achieved beyond one's power, beyond one's age, beyond what people like oneself can do, or if it is done in such a manner, or in such a place, or at such a time, it will have greatness whether in fine things, in good things, in just things, or in their opposites — which is why the epigram for the Olympic victor runs: 'Before, carrying a rough yoke-pole about my shoulders, I bore fish from Argos to Tegea' (Simonides fr. 163). And Iphicrates used to praise himself by pointing out what he had risen from. [1.7.33] And what is by nature is greater than what is acquired, for it is more difficult — which is why the poet says, 'I am self-taught' (Hom. Od. 22.347).
40| [1.7.34] And the greatest part of a great thing is greater — for example, Pericles, in his funeral oration, said that the youth had been taken away from the city just as if the spring were taken out of the year. [1.7.35] And things useful in a greater need are greater — for example, things useful in old age and in sickness. And of two things, the one nearer the end is greater. And what is good for a particular person is greater than what is good without qualification. And the possible is greater than the impossible, for the one is good for him, the other is not. And things at the end of life are greater, for things nearer the end are ends more truly. [1.7.36] And things that aim at truth are greater than things that aim at reputation; and the mark of what aims at reputation is what a person would not choose if he were going to escape notice — which is why receiving benefit would seem more choiceworthy than doing benefit; for a person will choose to receive benefit even if it escapes notice, but he would not seem willing to choose to do benefit while escaping notice. [1.7.37] And things people wish to be rather than to seem to be are greater, for they aim more at truth — which is why people say justice amounts to little, because seeming just is more choiceworthy than being just, but this is not so with being healthy. [1.7.38] And what is more useful for many purposes is greater — for example, what is useful for living, for living well, for pleasure, and for doing fine actions — which is why wealth and health seem to be the greatest goods, for they include all of these. [1.7.39] And what is freer from pain and accompanied by pleasure is greater, for it is more than one good, since both pleasure and freedom from pain are each a good. And of two things, whichever, added to the same thing, makes the whole greater, is itself the greater. [1.7.40] And things that do not escape notice when present are greater than things that do escape notice, for the former tend more toward truth — which is why being wealthy would appear a greater good than seeming wealthy.
41| [1.7.41] And the object one is fond of is greater, both in cases where it is the only one a person has and in cases where it is one among others — which is why the penalty is not equal if someone blinds a man who has one eye and a man who has two; for the one-eyed man has been deprived of the thing he was fond of. As to the sources from which one ought to draw one's proofs in urging and in dissuading, this has been more or less stated. [1.8.1] But the greatest and most authoritative thing of all, for being able to persuade and to give good counsel, is to have grasped all the constitutions and to have distinguished the character, the laws, and the interests of each. [1.8.2] For everyone is persuaded by what is advantageous, and what is advantageous is what preserves the constitution. Further, the authoritative pronouncement is that of the authority, and the authorities are distinguished according to the constitutions; for as many as the constitutions are, so many are the authorities. [1.8.3] There are four constitutions: democracy, oligarchy, aristocracy, monarchy; so that the authoritative and judging element would be some part of these, or the whole of one of them. [1.8.4] Democracy is a constitution in which the offices are distributed by lot; oligarchy is one in which they are distributed according to property assessments; aristocracy is one in which they are distributed according to education — and by education I mean the education laid down by the law. For those who have remained faithful to the laws rule in an aristocracy; and it is necessary that these appear to be the best, which is why this constitution has taken its name from that fact. Monarchy is, as its name indicates, a constitution in which one person has authority over everyone; of monarchies, the one that follows some fixed order is kingship, the one that is unbounded is tyranny. [1.8.5] Now the end of each constitution must not go unnoticed, for people choose what tends toward the end. The end of democracy is freedom; of oligarchy, wealth; of aristocracy, the things concerned with education and the laws; of tyranny, self-protection. It is clear, then, that we must distinguish the characters, laws, and interests that tend toward the end of each constitution, since it is by referring to this end that people make their choices.
42| [1.8.6] Since proofs come about not only through demonstrative speech but also through character (for we trust a speaker because of what sort of person he appears to be, and this happens when he appears good, or well-disposed toward us, or both), we ought to be in possession of the characters proper to each constitution; for the character of each constitution is necessarily the most persuasive one to use in addressing it. And these will be grasped by the same means as before: for characters are made evident through choice, and choice is referred to the end. [1.8.7] So then, what things one must, in exhorting people, hold out as being about to be or as already being, and from what sources one must take the proofs concerning what is advantageous, and further, through what means and how we shall have a good supply of the characters and customs proper to the several constitutions, has been stated, so far as suited the present occasion; for these matters have been worked out with precision in the Politics. [1.9.1] After this let us speak about virtue and vice, and the fine and the shameful; for these are the targets aimed at by the one who praises and the one who blames. And it will turn out that, in speaking about these things, we shall at the same time be showing the means by which we ourselves will be taken to be persons of a certain character — which was the second kind of proof; for from the same materials we shall be able to make both ourselves and another person trustworthy with respect to virtue. [1.9.2] Since it happens that people often praise, both in earnest and not in earnest, not only a human being or a god but also inanimate things and any chance one of the other animals, we must take up the premises concerning these too in the same way, so let us say something about them as well, for the sake of illustration. [1.9.3] The fine, then, is whatever is choiceworthy in its own right and is also praiseworthy, or whatever, being good, is pleasant because it is good. And if this is what the fine is, then virtue must be fine, since being good it is praiseworthy.
43| [1.9.4] Virtue, as is generally held, is a capacity for providing and preserving good things, and a capacity for doing good in many and great ways — indeed for doing every sort of good in every sphere. [1.9.5] The parts of virtue are justice, courage, temperance, magnificence, greatness of soul, liberality, practical wisdom, wisdom. [1.9.6] The greatest virtues must be those most useful to others, if indeed virtue is a capacity for doing good, and this is why people honor the just and the courageous most of all: courage is useful to others in war, justice both in war and in peace. Then comes liberality; for liberal people give freely and do not compete for money, which other people desire more than anything. [1.9.7] Justice is the virtue through which people have what belongs to them, each as the law assigns; injustice is that through which they have what belongs to others, not as the law assigns. [1.9.8] Courage is that through which people are capable of doing fine deeds amid dangers, as the law commands, and are in service to the law; cowardice is the opposite. [1.9.9] Temperance is the virtue through which people are disposed toward the pleasures of the body as the law commands; licentiousness is the opposite. [1.9.10] Liberality does good with respect to money; illiberality is the opposite. [1.9.11] Greatness of soul is the virtue productive of great acts of benefaction; smallness of soul is the opposite, [1.9.12] and magnificence is the virtue productive of greatness in expenditures; smallness of soul and stinginess are its opposites. [1.9.13] Practical wisdom is a virtue of thought by which people are able to deliberate well about the goods and evils, of the kind already mentioned, that bear on happiness. [1.9.14] So then, about virtue and vice in general, and about their parts, enough has been said for the present occasion; as for the rest, it is not hard to see: for it is clear that the things productive of virtue must be fine, since they tend toward virtue, and so must the things that come from virtue, and such are both the signs of virtue and its works.
44| [1.9.15] Since the signs of virtue, and such things as are the works or affections of a good person, are fine, it follows that whatever are works of courage, or signs of courage, or things done courageously, must be fine, and likewise just acts and things done justly (though not the affections that accompany justice: for in this virtue alone, being treated justly is not always fine — in the case of being penalized, it is more shameful to be penalized justly than unjustly), and the same holds for the other virtues in the same way. [1.9.16] And whatever things have honor as their prize are fine; and whatever things are done for the sake of honor rather than money; and whatever choiceworthy things a person does not do for his own sake, [1.9.17] and things good without qualification — whatever a person has done on behalf of his country while disregarding his own interest — and things good by nature, and things not good for the agent himself: for things of that kind, when they are good for oneself, are done for one's own sake. [1.9.18] And whatever can belong to a person more after death than while living: for what benefits a living person has more the character of being for his own sake. [1.9.19] And whatever deeds are done for the sake of others: for these are less for one's own sake. And whatever good deeds are done toward others rather than toward oneself, and those done toward one's benefactors, for this is just; and acts of benefaction generally, for they are not directed toward oneself. [1.9.20] And the opposites of whatever people are ashamed of: for people are ashamed of shameful things whether they are saying them, doing them, or intending them, just as Sappho showed when, after Alcaeus said, "I want to say something, but shame holds me back" (Alcaeus, fr. 55), she answered: "If you had desire for what is noble or good, and your tongue were not stirring up something base to say, shame would not hold your eyes, but you would speak about what is right" (Sappho, fr. 28).
45| [1.9.21] And whatever things people feel anxious about without fear: for this is what they experience concerning goods that bear on reputation. [1.9.22] And the virtues of those who are by nature more excellent are finer, and so are their works — for example, those of a man rather than those of a woman. [1.9.23] And virtues whose enjoyment falls to others rather than to their possessor are finer: this is why the just, and justice, are fine. [1.9.24] And punishing one's enemies rather than being reconciled with them is fine: for to repay is just, and the just is fine, and not to be defeated is the mark of a courageous man. [1.9.25] And victory and honor are among the fine things: for they are choiceworthy even though they yield no fruit, and they show a superiority of virtue. So are things worth remembering, and the more so the more memorable they are. And things that attend a person after death, and things that honor accompanies, and things that are exceptional, and things that belong to one person alone, are finer: for these are more memorable. [1.9.26] And possessions that bear no fruit are fine: for these are more becoming of a free man. And whatever is peculiar to a given people is fine among them, and whatever is a sign of the things praised among that people — for example, in Sparta it is fine to wear one's hair long, since this is a sign of being free: for it is not easy for a man with long hair to perform any menial task. [1.9.27] And practicing no vulgar craft is fine: for it is the mark of a free man not to live for another's benefit. [1.9.28] One must also take the qualities that lie close to a person's actual qualities as though they were the same, both for praise and for blame — for example, calling the cautious man cold and calculating, or the foolish man good-natured, or the insensitive man gentle, [1.9.29] and each person should always be described in terms of the accompanying qualities taken in their best sense — for example, calling the irritable and hot-tempered man straightforward, and the stubborn man dignified and impressive, and treating those who are in excess as though they possessed the corresponding virtues, for example calling the rash man courageous, and the prodigal man liberal:
46| for this will seem right to most people, and at the same time it involves a fallacy drawn from the cause: for if a man takes risks where there is no necessity, much more would he seem likely to do so where it is fine to do so; and if he is free in giving to people who happen along, he will be so to his friends as well: for it is the excess of virtue to treat everyone well.
47| [1.9.30] One should also consider the audience before whom the praise is given: for as Socrates used to say, it is not hard to praise Athenians among Athenians. One should state what is honored among each people as actually belonging to the subject — for example, among Scythians, or Spartans, or philosophers. And in general one should bring what is honored around to the fine, since it does seem to be closely related to it. [1.9.31] Also whatever accords with what is fitting — for instance, whether the deeds are worthy of the person's ancestors and of what he has previously achieved; for it is a mark of happiness and is fine to add further honor to what one already has. And whether things go beyond what is fitting and toward the better and finer — for example, if in good fortune he is moderate, but in misfortune great-souled, or if as he becomes greater he becomes better and more reasonable. Of this sort is the saying of Iphicrates, "from what to what," and the saying about the Olympic victor, "before, with a rough cloak about his shoulders," and the saying of Simonides, "she who was the daughter and wife and sister of tyrants." [1.9.32] Since praise arises from actions, and it is proper to the serious person to act by choice, one must try to show him acting by choice, and it is useful for him to appear to have done so often; hence one should take even coincidences and strokes of luck as though done by choice, for if many similar instances are brought forward, they will seem a sign of virtue and of choice. [1.9.33] Praise is speech that makes evident the greatness of virtue. So one must display the actions as being of that sort. The encomium concerns the deeds themselves (the surrounding matters serve as proof, for example good birth and upbringing — for it is likely that good people come from good people, and that one so raised will be of that sort); that is why we praise people for what they have done. Deeds are signs of a person's state of character, since we would praise even someone who had not acted, if we believed him to be of that sort.
48| [1.9.34] Calling someone blessed and calling someone happy are the same thing in themselves, but they are not the same as these other things — rather, just as happiness contains virtue, so calling someone happy encompasses these. [1.9.35] Praise and advice have a common form: for the things one would propose in giving advice become encomia when transposed in wording. [1.9.36] Since, then, we possess what one ought to do and what sort of person one ought to be, we must state these as recommendations and transpose and turn them around in wording — for example, that one ought not to be proud of goods that come by luck but of those that come through oneself. Stated this way it functions as a recommendation, but stated this way it becomes praise: "being proud not of goods that belong to him through luck but of those through himself." So whenever you wish to praise, look at what you would recommend, and whenever you wish to recommend, look at what you would praise. [1.9.37] The wording will necessarily be opposite in character when what restrains is transposed into what does not restrain. [1.9.38] One should also make use of many of the devices of amplification — for example, whether he alone, or first, or with few others, or whether he has done what is most notable; for all these things are fine. Also amplification from times and occasions: whether the action was beyond what was fitting for the time. And whether he has succeeded at the same thing often; for that will seem a great thing, and not due to luck but to himself. And if it was because of him that things exhorting and honoring him were invented and established, and if the first encomium ever composed was for him — as for Hippolochus, and for Harmodius and Aristogeiton the statue set up in the marketplace. Likewise too on the opposite side. And if you are not resourceful in praising him on his own merits, compare him with others — which is what Isocrates used to do, because of his lack of practice in forensic pleading. One should compare him with people of reputation, for it is a means of amplification and it is fine if he proves better than serious men.
49| [1.9.39] Amplification naturally falls under praise, for it consists in superiority, and superiority belongs to fine things; hence even if the comparison is not with people of reputation, one should still compare with others, since superiority is thought to indicate virtue. [1.9.40] In general, of the common forms available to all speeches, amplification is most suited to the epideictic (for these speeches take the actions as agreed upon, so what remains is to invest them with greatness and beauty); examples are suited to the deliberative (for we judge future events by divining from things that have already happened); and enthymemes are suited to the forensic (for what has happened, because it is unclear, most admits of a cause and a demonstration). [1.9.41] These, then, are more or less all the sources from which praise and blame are drawn, and the points one must look to in praising and blaming, and the sources from which encomia and reproaches arise. Once one has these, their opposites are evident; for blame is derived from the opposites. [1.10.1] Concerning accusation and defense, it would be next in order to say from how many and what sort of premises one must construct the syllogisms. [1.10.2] One must grasp three things: first, for the sake of what things and how many things people do wrong; second, in what state of mind they themselves are; third, what sort of people they wrong and in what state those people are. [1.10.3] Having defined wrongdoing, then, let us speak next in order. Let wrongdoing be defined as doing harm voluntarily contrary to the law. Law is either particular or common: by particular I mean that written law by which a community is governed; by common I mean all those unwritten laws that seem to be agreed upon among everyone. People act voluntarily in whatever they do knowingly and without being compelled. Now not everything done knowingly is done by choice, but everything done by choice is done knowingly; for no one is ignorant of what he chooses.
50| [1.10.4] The things because of which people choose to do harm and act badly contrary to the law are vice and lack of self-control; for if people have some depravity, one or several, it is in respect to that in which they happen to be depraved that they are also unjust — for example, the ungenerous person in matters of money, the self-indulgent person in bodily pleasures, the soft person in matters of ease, the coward in dangers (for through fear such people abandon those who share the danger with them), the honor-loving person because of honor, the quick-tempered person because of anger, the contentious person because of victory, the bitter person because of revenge, the foolish person because he is deceived about what is just and unjust, the shameless person through contempt for reputation; and likewise each of the others in respect to each of the underlying matters. [1.10.5] But concerning these matters the point is clear, partly from what has been said about the virtues, partly from what will be said about the emotions; what remains is to say for the sake of what, and in what state of mind, people do wrong, and against whom. [1.10.6] First, then, let us distinguish what things people desire and what things they avoid when they set about doing wrong; for clearly the accuser must examine how many and what sort of these belong to his opponent — the things which everyone, in reaching for them, wrongs their neighbors to get — while the defender must examine which and how many of these do not belong to him. [1.10.7] Now everyone does everything either not because of themselves or because of themselves. Of the things not because of themselves, some they do because of luck and some from necessity, and of things from necessity, some by force and some by nature; so that everything people do not because of themselves, they do either from luck or by nature or by force. As for what they do because of themselves, and of which they themselves are the cause, some they do through habit, some through desire — some through rational desire and some through irrational desire.
51| [1.10.8] Wish is desire for the good (for no one wishes for anything except when he thinks it good); the irrational desires are anger and appetite. So that everything people do, they necessarily do through seven causes: through luck, through nature, through force, through habit, through reasoning, through spirited anger, through appetite. [1.10.9] It is superfluous to further divide actions by age, or states of character, or anything else of that kind; for if it happens that the young are prone to anger or to appetite, it is not because of their youth that they do such things, but because of anger and appetite. Nor is it because of wealth and poverty — rather, it happens that the poor desire money because of their need, while the rich desire unnecessary pleasures because of their means; but even these people will act not because of wealth and poverty but because of appetite. Likewise the just and the unjust, and all the others said to act according to their states of character, will act for these same reasons — either through reasoning or through emotion; but some through good characters and emotions, others through the opposite. [1.10.10] It happens, however, that such consequences follow such states of character, and other such consequences follow other such states of character.
52| For it is likely that, immediately, good opinions and appetites concerning pleasant things follow for the temperate person because he is temperate, while the opposite ones concerning these same things follow for the licentious person. [1.10.11] So we should let such distinctions go, and consider instead what kinds of things tend to follow what kinds of people: for if someone is fair or dark, tall or short, none of these traits is fixed to make anything follow from it; but if he is young or old, just or unjust, then it already makes a difference. And in general, whatever among the attending circumstances makes people's characters differ makes a difference — for instance, thinking oneself rich or poor will make some difference, and so will being fortunate or unfortunate. We will discuss these later; for now let us first speak of what remains.
53| [1.10.12] Things come about by chance when their cause is indeterminate, when they do not occur for the sake of anything, and when they happen neither always nor for the most part nor in an orderly way (this is clear from the definition of chance regarding these matters). [1.10.13] Things come about by nature when their cause is in the things themselves and orderly: for they turn out either always or for the most part in the same way. As for what happens contrary to nature, there is no need to be precise about whether it comes about by nature or by some other cause. [1.10.14] Chance too might seem to be a cause of such things. Things come about by force when they occur, through the very agents doing them, contrary to appetite or reasoning. [1.10.15] Things come about by habit when people do them because they have often done them before. [1.10.16] Things come about through reasoning when, out of the goods mentioned, they appear advantageous either as an end or as a means to the end, whenever the act is done because it is advantageous — for even the licentious do some advantageous things, but not because they are advantageous, rather for pleasure. Acts of retribution come about through spirit and anger. [1.10.17] Retribution and punishment differ: punishment is for the sake of the one who suffers it, but retribution is for the sake of the one who inflicts it, so that he may be satisfied.
54| [1.10.18] What anger is will become clear in the discussion of the emotions. Through appetite people do whatever appears pleasant. What is habitual and customary also counts among pleasant things: for many things that are not pleasant by nature come to be done with pleasure once people have grown accustomed to them. So, to put it concisely, everything people do for their own sake is either good or apparently good, or pleasant or apparently pleasant. And since whatever they do for their own sake they do willingly, while whatever is not for their own sake they do unwillingly, everything they do willingly would be either good or apparently good, or pleasant or apparently pleasant. For I count also the removal of evils, or apparent evils, or or the taking of a lesser evil in place of a greater, among goods (for these are in some way choiceworthy), and likewise the removal of painful things, or apparent painful things, or or the taking of lesser pains in place of greater ones, among pleasant things. We must therefore grasp the advantageous and the pleasant — how many kinds there are, and what sort.
55| [1.10.19] Concerning the advantageous, then, we spoke earlier in the discussion of deliberative rhetoric; let us now speak of the pleasant. We should hold that definitions are adequate if they are, for each thing, neither unclear nor overprecise. [1.11.1] Let it be laid down, then, that pleasure is a certain motion of the soul, a sudden and perceptible settling into its underlying nature, and that pain is the opposite. [1.11.2] If pleasure is something of this sort, then clearly whatever produces this disposition is pleasant, and whatever destroys it, or produces the opposite state, is painful. [1.11.3] It is necessary, then, that it be pleasant for the most part to move toward what accords with nature, and especially when things that come about in accordance with a given nature have recovered that nature; and likewise habits are pleasant (for what has become habitual comes to be as if it were already natural: habit is in fact something like nature, since what happens often is close to what happens always, and nature belongs to the always, while habit belongs to the often); [1.11.4] and what is not forced is pleasant (for force is contrary to nature, which is why what is compelled is painful, and it has rightly been said that every compelled thing is by nature distressing) (Euenus, fr. 8) — whereas cares, exertions, and strenuous efforts are painful, since these are compelled and forced unless people have grown accustomed to them; habit, in this way, makes them pleasant. The opposite things are pleasant: which is why idleness, freedom from toil, neglect, play, rest, and sleep are among pleasant things — for none of these involves any compulsion.
56| [1.11.5] And whatever the appetite is set on is entirely pleasant: for appetite is a desire for the pleasant. Of appetites, some are irrational, some accompanied by reason. I call irrational those that people feel without any supposition (these are the ones said to exist by nature, such as those that arise through the body — for instance, the thirst and hunger for nourishment, and for each kind of nourishment a corresponding kind of appetite, and the appetites concerned with tastes, with sexual pleasures, and in general with things touched, and with smell, hearing, and sight). Appetites accompanied by reason are those that people feel as a result of being persuaded: for people desire to see and to acquire many things because they have heard about them and been persuaded. [1.11.6] Since being pleased consists in perceiving some affection, and imagination is a kind of weak perception, some imagination of what he remembers or hopes for will always accompany the person who remembers and the person who hopes; and if this is so, it is clear that pleasures too accompany those who remember and those who hope, inasmuch as perception is also involved. [1.11.7] So it is necessary that all pleasant things be either present, in perception, or past, in memory, or future, in hope: for people perceive present things, remember past things, and hope for future things. [1.11.8] Things remembered are pleasant not only if they were pleasant at the time they were present, but some are pleasant even though they were not pleasant then, if what followed afterward turned out fine and good; hence the saying, "but it is sweet, once safe, to remember hardships" (Euripides, fr. 133), and "a man who has suffered much and accomplished much takes delight even in pains when he remembers them" (Homer, Odyssey 15.400-401).
57| [1.11.9] The reason for this is that it is also pleasant not to have anything bad; and among things hoped for are whatever, if present, would appear to bring great delight or benefit, and to benefit without pain. And in general, whatever things delight when present also, for the most part, delight when hoped for and when remembered. That is why even feeling anger is pleasant, as Homer too composed concerning wrath, that it is "far sweeter than trickling honey" (Homer, Iliad 18.109) — for no one grows angry at someone who appears unable to be made to pay a penalty, and toward those who are far beyond them in power, people either do not grow angry, or grow angry less. [1.11.10] And in most appetites some pleasure follows: for either in remembering how they got something or in hoping that they will get it, people take some pleasure — for instance, those gripped by thirst during fevers take pleasure both in remembering that they drank and in hoping that they will drink. [1.11.11] And those who are in love take pleasure always in talking, writing, and doing something concerning the beloved: for in all such things, by remembering, they think they perceive the beloved, as it were. And this becomes, for everyone, the beginning of love: when they take pleasure not only in the beloved's presence but, remembering, come to love even in the beloved's absence, so that pain is added by the absence; and likewise in mourning and lamentation some pleasure comes over as well: [1.11.12] for the pain lies in the person's not being there, but the pleasure lies in remembering and, in a way, seeing him, and what he did, and what sort of person he was; which is why this too has fittingly been said: "so he spoke, and in all of them he stirred a longing for lamentation" (Homer, Iliad 23.108, Odyssey 4.183).
58| [1.11.13] Also, taking revenge is pleasant. For where failing to get something is painful, getting it is pleasant; and people who are angry are pained beyond measure when they do not get revenge, but they take pleasure when they expect to get it. [1.11.14] Also winning is pleasant, not only for those who love to win but for everyone; for an impression of superiority arises, which everyone desires, whether mildly or intensely. [1.11.15] Since winning is pleasant, it follows that competitive and contentious games must be pleasant too (for winning often occurs in them), and so must dice-games, ball-games, games of chance, and board games. And the same holds for serious contests as well: some become pleasant when one is practiced in them, while others are pleasant right away, such as hunting and every kind of chase; for wherever there is a contest, there is also victory; that is why forensic pleading and disputation are pleasant to those who are accustomed to them and capable at them. [1.11.16] Also honor and good reputation are among the most pleasant things, because each person gets the impression that he is the sort of man the good man is — and all the more when those who say so are people he thinks tell the truth. And such are those near at hand rather than those far off, and one's intimates and fellow-citizens rather than strangers, and people alive now rather than those to come, and the sensible rather than the senseless, and the many rather than the few; for it is more likely that the people just named will tell the truth than their opposites. Since, in the case of people one thoroughly despises, such as children or animals, one cares nothing for their honor or their opinion, for the sake of the opinion itself, but if at all, for some other reason. [1.11.17] Also a friend is among the pleasant things; for loving is pleasant (no one is fond of wine without taking pleasure in wine), and being loved is pleasant too; for here too there arises an impression that one possesses the good, something everyone who perceives it desires; and being loved is being cherished for one's own sake.
59| [1.11.18] Also being admired is pleasant, for the same reason as being honored. And being flattered, and the flatterer, are pleasant; for the flatterer appears to be an admirer and appears to be a friend. [1.11.19] Also doing the same things often is pleasant; for what is habitual was found to be pleasant. [1.11.20] Also change is pleasant; for changing accords with nature: doing the same thing continuously produces an excess of the established state, which is why it has been said, "change in all things is sweet" (Euripides, Orestes 234). That is why things that come only after an interval are pleasant, both people and affairs; for there is change from the present state, and at the same time what comes only after an interval is also rare. [1.11.21] Also learning and admiring are, for the most part, pleasant; for in admiring there is a desire to learn, so that the admirable is an object of desire, while in learning there is a settling into one's natural state. [1.11.22] Also doing well by others and having good done to one are among the pleasant things; for having good done to one is getting what one desires, and doing well by others is possessing and being superior, both of which people aim at. And because doing good is pleasant, it is also pleasant for people to set their neighbors right and to complete what is deficient in them. [1.11.23] Since learning and admiring are pleasant, things of the following kind must also be pleasant: whatever is imitative, such as painting, sculpture, and poetry, and everything that has been well imitated, even if the thing imitated is not itself pleasant; for one does not take pleasure in the object itself, but there is an inference that this is that, so that learning something occurs.
60| [1.11.24] Also reversals of fortune, and narrow escapes from danger, are pleasant; for all these things are admirable. [1.11.25] And since what accords with nature is pleasant, and things of the same kind are naturally akin to one another, all things akin and alike are, for the most part, pleasant — man to man, horse to horse, young to young; that is why the proverbs have been said, such as "age delights age," and "like always to like," and "beast knew beast," and "jackdaw beside jackdaw," and all the other such sayings. [1.11.26] And since what is like and akin is in every case pleasant to itself, and each person is affected this way most of all toward himself, it necessarily follows that everyone is self-loving, either more or less; for all such things belong most of all in relation to oneself. And since everyone is self-loving, one's own things must also be pleasant to everyone, such as one's works and words; that is why people are, for the most part, fond of flatterers, fond of lovers, fond of honor, and fond of their children; for children are their own work. And completing what is deficient is pleasant, [1.11.27] for it is already becoming one's own work. And since ruling is most pleasant, seeming to be wise is also pleasant; for practical intelligence is a capacity to rule, and wisdom is knowledge of many admirable things. Further, since people are, for the most part, fond of honor, it follows that finding fault with those nearby is pleasant, and so is ruling, [1.11.28] and spending time in that activity in which one seems to be best at himself, just as the poet says: "and he presses on toward this, allotting the greatest part of each day to that in which he happens to be best at himself" (Euripides, fr. 183).
61| [1.11.29] Likewise, since play is among the pleasant things, and so is all relaxation, and laughter is among the pleasant things, laughable things must also be pleasant — people, speeches, and deeds alike; the subject of the laughable has been distinguished separately in the works on poetics. Let this much be said, then, about pleasant things; painful things are evident from their opposites. [1.12.1] These, then, are the things for the sake of which people commit injustice; let us now say in what state of mind, and against whom, they do so. People themselves commit injustice whenever they think it possible for the act to be done, and possible for themselves to do it — and then, if it is done, either that it will escape notice, or that if it does not escape notice they will not pay the penalty, or that if they do pay it, the penalty will be less than the gain to themselves or to those they care about. [1.12.2] What sort of things appear possible and what impossible will be stated later (for this is common to all speeches); but people think they are most able to commit injustice without penalty if they are capable speakers, practical men, experienced in many contests, and if they have many friends or are wealthy. [1.12.3] And they think they are most able if they themselves possess the qualities just mentioned; and if not, if they have friends, servants, or associates of that sort; for through these they are able both to act, to escape notice, and to avoid paying the penalty. [1.12.4] Also if they are friends with those they wrong, or with the judges; for friends are unguarded against being wronged and are reconciled beforehand rather than pursuing the matter, while judges favor those who are their friends, and either acquit them altogether or impose small penalties.
62| [1.12.5] Likely to escape notice are those whose character is opposite to the charge — for example, weak men in a charge of assault, and a poor man or an ugly man in a charge of adultery — and acts done too much out in the open and before everyone's eyes; for these go unguarded against because no one at all would think them likely. [1.12.6] Also acts so great, and of such a kind, as no single person would commit; for these too go unguarded against: for everyone guards against the usual kinds of wrongdoing, just as against the usual kinds of illness, but no one takes precautions against an illness no one has ever yet had. [1.12.7] Also those who have no enemies, or many; the former think they will escape notice because no one is on guard, the latter escape notice because no one would think they would attempt it against people who are on guard, and because they can offer the defense that they would not have attempted it. [1.12.8] Also those who have means of concealment, whether in manner or in place, or resourceful circumstances. And those who, even if they do not escape notice, have a way to deflect the suit, or to delay it in time, or to corrupt the judges. And those who, if a penalty is imposed, have a way to deflect the payment, or a long delay, or who, through poverty, have nothing to lose. [1.12.9] Also those for whom the gains are evident, or great, or near at hand, while the penalties are small, or unclear, or far off. And a person for whom the punishment is not equal to the advantage, as seems to be the case with tyranny. [1.12.10] Also those for whom the wrongdoings are gains, while the penalties are mere reproaches. And, conversely, those for whom the wrongdoings lead to a kind of praise — as happened, for example, when someone at the same time avenged his father or mother, as with Zeno — while the penalties are fines, exile, or something of the sort; for people commit injustice on account of both these motives and while in both these states of mind, though not the same people in each case, but people of opposite characters.
63| [1.12.11] And those who have often escaped detection or gone unpunished, and those who have often failed (for there are some who, even in such matters, are like men in war, capable of fighting back again). [1.12.12] And those for whom the pleasure is immediate and the pain later, or the gain immediate and the loss later; for the lacking-in-self-control are of this sort, and lack of self-control extends to everything people desire. [1.12.13] And those for whom, conversely, the pain or the loss is already present, but the pleasure and the benefit come later and last longer; for the self-controlled and the more prudent pursue such things. [1.12.14] And those for whom it is possible to seem to have acted through chance, or through necessity, or through nature, or through habit, and in general to have made a mistake rather than committed injustice. [1.12.15] And those for whom it is possible to meet with fairness. And all who are in need; and people are in need in two ways: either of what is necessary, as the poor are, or of what is in excess, as the rich are. [1.12.16] And those held in very high repute, and those in very low repute — the former because they will not be suspected, the latter because their reputation will be no worse for it. [1.12.17] Those, then, who are in such a condition attempt to commit injustice, and they wrong such people and in such ways: those who have what they themselves lack, whether for necessities, for superiority, or for enjoyment, [1.12.18] and both those who are far away and those who are near; for with the former the seizing is quick, and with the latter the retaliation is slow — as with those who plunder the Carthaginians. [1.12.19] And those who are not cautious or watchful but trusting; for it is easy to escape the notice of all such people. And the easygoing; for pursuing a wrong to the end takes diligence. And the bashful; for they are not combative over gain.
64| [1.12.20] And those who have been wronged by many and have not pursued redress, being, as the proverb says, 'spoil of the Mysians.' [1.12.21] And those who have never yet been wronged and those who have been wronged often; for both are unguarded, the former because they think it will never happen, the latter because they think it will not happen again. [1.12.22] And those who have been slandered or are easy to slander; for such people neither choose to pursue redress, fearing the judges, nor are able to persuade them, since they are hated and envied. [1.12.23] And those against whom they have a pretext, whether of ancestors, or themselves, or friends, having done wrong or being about to do wrong, either to themselves, or to their ancestors, or to those they care for; for as the proverb says, wickedness needs only a pretext. [1.12.24] And both enemies and friends; for wronging the former is easy, and wronging the latter is pleasant. And those without friends. And those who are not skilled in speaking or in acting; for either they do not attempt to pursue the matter to the end, or they come to a settlement, or they accomplish nothing. [1.12.25] And those for whom it is not profitable to spend time waiting on a trial or on compensation, such as foreigners and men who work with their own hands; for they settle for a small amount and are easily brought to drop the matter. [1.12.26] And those who have themselves committed many wrongs, or wrongs of the same kind as they are now suffering; for it seems close to not being unjust at all when someone suffers a wrong of just the sort he himself was accustomed to commit — I mean, for example, if someone should assault a man who was in the habit of committing outrage against others. [1.12.27] And those who have done harm, or wished to, or wish to, or will do so; for this carries both pleasure and nobility, and appears close to not being unjust. [1.12.28] And those by wronging whom they will do a favor — to friends, or to people they admire, or to their beloved, or to their masters, or in general to those on whom their own lives depend.
65| [1.12.29] And those from whom it is possible to obtain fair treatment afterward. And those against whom they have already brought a charge and already come to a settlement, as Callippus did in the affair concerning Dion; for such actions too appear close to not being unjust. [1.12.30] And those who are about to be wronged by others anyway, if not by themselves, on the ground that there is no longer any chance to deliberate about it — as Aenesidemus is said to have sent cottabus-prizes to Gelon after he had enslaved a city, because Gelon had gotten there first, when Aenesidemus himself had also been about to do it. [1.12.31] And those whom, by wronging, they will be able to do many just things, on the ground that they will easily make it right — as Jason the Thessalian said that one must commit some injustices in order to be able to do many just things as well. [1.12.32] And the wrongs that everyone, or many people, are in the habit of committing; for they think they will meet with pardon. [1.12.33] And wrongs that are easy to hide; such are things that are quickly used up, like foodstuffs, or things easily altered in shape, color, or blend, or things that there are many ways to make disappear; [1.12.34] such are things that are easy to carry off and that can be made to vanish in small spaces. [1.12.35] And things of which the wrongdoer already had many indistinguishable and similar ones beforehand. And wrongs that those who suffer them are ashamed to speak of, such as outrages against the women of their own household, or against themselves, or against their sons. And wrongs of a kind that pursuing them at law would make the one pursuing them seem litigious; such are petty matters, and ones for which pardon is customary.
66| In what condition, then, people are when they commit injustice, and what kinds of wrongs, and against what kinds of people, and for what reasons — these are, roughly speaking, the answers. [1.13.1] Let us now divide up all acts of injustice and all just acts, beginning first from this point. Just and unjust acts are defined, then, in relation to two kinds of law, and in relation to the persons concerned, in two ways. [1.13.2] By law I mean, on the one hand, the particular law, and on the other, the common law. The particular law is the one each community has defined for itself, and this in turn is partly unwritten, partly written; the common law is the law that accords with nature. For there is something that everyone divines, a naturally common sense of justice and injustice, even where there is no association or agreement between people — as Sophocles' Antigone appears to say, that it is just to bury Polyneices though it has been forbidden, on the ground that this is just by nature: 'for it is not a thing of today or yesterday, but lives forever, and no one knows from where it appeared' (Sophocles, Antigone 456-457). And as Empedocles speaks about not killing what has life: for this is not just for some and not just for others, but 'the law for all extends, through the wide-ruling air continuously, and through the boundless light.' And as Alcidamas says in his Messeniacus: 'God has left all men free; nature has made no one a slave.'
67| [1.13.3] As for the persons concerned, the division is twofold: for what must be done and not done has been defined either in relation to the community as a whole or in relation to one member of the community; hence it is possible to commit injustice and to act justly in two ways — either toward one definite individual or toward the community. For the adulterer and the man who strikes another wrongs some definite individual, while the man who fails to do military service wrongs the community. [1.13.4] Now that all acts of injustice have been divided, some being against the community and others against another individual or individuals, let us go back and say what being wronged is. [1.13.5] Being wronged, then, is suffering unjust treatment at the hands of someone acting voluntarily; for committing injustice has already been defined as being voluntary. [1.13.6] And since the one wronged must necessarily be harmed, and harmed by an act done voluntarily, the kinds of harm are clear from what was said before; for the things good and bad in themselves have already been discussed, and likewise voluntary acts, namely that they are whatever is done knowingly, [1.13.7] so that all accusations must necessarily be either against the community or against an individual, and must involve either someone ignorant and unwilling, or someone acting willingly and knowingly, and of these latter, some done by deliberate choice, others because of emotion.
68| [1.13.8] Spirit, then, will be discussed in the section on the emotions; but what kinds of things people choose, and in what state of mind, has already been discussed earlier. [1.13.9] But since people often admit to having done the act itself, yet do not admit to the charge as formally stated, or to what the charge is really about — for example, admitting to taking something but not to theft, to having struck first but not to committing outrage, to having had intercourse but not to adultery, to theft but not to temple-robbery (since it was not something belonging to a god), to farming another's land but not to encroaching on public land, to having conferred with the enemy but not to treason — because of this it would be necessary to have defined these terms as well: what theft is, what outrage is, what adultery is, so that, whether we wish to show that the charge applies or that it does not apply, we may be able to make the just state of the case clear.
69| [1.13.10] All disputes of this kind concern whether an act is unjust and base, or not unjust; for the wickedness and the injustice lie in the choice, and words of this sort signify the choice in addition — for example, "insolence" and "theft." For striking someone is not in every case insolence, but only if it is done for some purpose, such as to dishonor the man struck or to gratify oneself. Nor is taking something secretly in every case theft, but only if it is done to harm the person from whom it was taken and to appropriate the thing for oneself. The same holds for the other cases as for these. [1.13.11] Now since there are two kinds of just and unjust acts (some are written, others unwritten), what the laws speak of has been discussed; of the unwritten kind there are two kinds. [1.13.12] These are: the one kind concerns excess of virtue and vice, for which there is reproach and praise, dishonor and honor, and gifts of gratitude (for example, being grateful to a benefactor and repaying a benefactor's kindness, being ready to help one's friends, and other things of that sort); the other kind is what is lacking in the particular written law. [1.13.13] For what is equitable seems to be just, and the equitable is what is just apart from the written law. This comes about sometimes with the lawgivers' consent and sometimes without it: without it when it escapes their notice, with it when they are unable to draw the distinction but it is necessary to speak universally, though the case is not in fact universal but holds for the most part; and also in cases not easy to distinguish because of their indefinite variety — for example, how large and what kind of iron weapon must be used to wound someone: a lifetime would not suffice to enumerate them all.
70| [1.13.14] If, then, the matter is indefinite but a law must be laid down, it is necessary to speak simply — so that if a man wearing a ring raises his hand or strikes someone, according to the written law he is guilty and commits injustice, but in truth he commits no injustice; and this is what the equitable is. [1.13.15] If the equitable is what has just been described, it is clear what sorts of things are equitable and what are not, and what sorts of people are not equitable. [1.13.16] Cases that call for pardon are equitable; and it is equitable not to judge errors and injustices as deserving the same penalty, nor errors and misfortunes either. Misfortunes are things that are contrary to reasonable expectation and not from wickedness; errors are things that are not contrary to reasonable expectation but also not from depravity; injustices are things that are neither contrary to reasonable expectation and are from depravity — for acts done through appetite are from depravity. [1.13.17] And it is equitable to forgive human failings. And it is equitable to look not to the law but to the lawgiver, and not to the letter but to the intention of the lawgiver, and not to the act but to the choice behind it, [1.13.18] and not to the part but to the whole, and not to what a man is now but to what he has always been, or has been for the most part. And it is equitable to remember the good one has received rather than the harm, and the good one has received rather than the good one has done. And it is equitable to bear being wronged. And it is equitable to be willing to have a matter judged by argument rather than by force. And it is equitable to be willing to go to arbitration rather than to a lawsuit —
71| [1.13.19] for the arbitrator looks to what is equitable, while the judge looks to the law; and it was for this purpose that arbitration was devised, so that what is equitable might prevail. Let this, then, be our account of what is equitable. [1.14.1] An act of injustice is greater the greater the injustice it proceeds from; hence the smallest acts can be the greatest — for example, the charge Callistratus brought against Melanopus, that he cheated the temple-builders of three half-obols of sacred money; the opposite holds with justice. These cases are judged by what is implicit in the capacity involved: a man who has stolen three sacred half-obols would commit any injustice whatever. So sometimes the greater injustice is judged in this way, and sometimes it is judged by the harm done. [1.14.2] An injustice is greater when no punishment is equal to it, but every punishment falls short of it. And greater when there is no remedy for it, for it is difficult and impossible (text corrupt here). And greater when the victim has no way to obtain redress, for then it is incurable; for judicial penalty and correction are a kind of remedy. [1.14.3] And greater if the one who suffered the wrong punished himself severely as a result; for then the one who did the wrong deserves to be punished still more severely — as when Sophocles, speaking as advocate for Euctemon, said, after Euctemon had cut his own throat because of the insult done to him, that he would not set the penalty at less than the victim had set for himself. [1.14.4] And an injustice is greater if the man committed it alone, or first, or along with only a few others. And repeating the same offense many times is a great matter. And greater is the offense on account of which preventive and punitive measures have been sought out and found — for example, at Argos a man is fined on account of whom a law was enacted, and on account of whom the prison was built. [1.14.5] And the more bestial an act of injustice is, the greater it is. And an act done more from premeditation is greater. And an act is greater when those who hear of it feel fear rather than pity. And rhetorically effective points of this kind are: that the offender has violated or overstepped many things — oaths, pledges of good faith, sworn assurances, marriage-ties; for this is an accumulation of many injustices.
72| [1.14.6] And an injustice is greater when it is committed in the very place where wrongdoers are punished — which is what perjurers do; for where would they not commit injustice, if they do it even in the courtroom itself? And greater when it concerns matters of the greatest shame. And greater if it is done against the very person from whom one has received benefit; for then he commits a double injustice — both by doing harm and by failing to repay good with good. [1.14.7] And greater is an act contrary to the unwritten principles of justice; for it is the mark of a better man to be just without compulsion — and the written laws involve compulsion, while the unwritten do not. But looked at another way, an act against the written laws is greater; for a man who commits injustice where the penalties are fearful and heavy would also commit it where there is no penalty at all. So much, then, has been said about the greater and lesser degree of injustice. [1.15.1] It follows next, after what has been said, to run briefly through the so-called non-technical means of persuasion; for these belong specifically to forensic speeches. [1.15.2] They are five in number: laws, witnesses, contracts, evidence given under torture, and oaths. [1.15.3] Let us speak first, then, about laws, and how they should be used both when urging and dissuading, and when accusing and defending. [1.15.4] For it is clear that, if the written law is opposed to one's case, one must appeal to the universal law and to what is more equitable and more just. [1.15.5] And one must argue that this is exactly what judging by one's best understanding means — not adhering entirely to the written laws. [1.15.6] And one must argue that what is equitable always remains and never changes, nor does the universal law (for it is according to nature), while written laws often do change — which is why the lines in Sophocles' Antigone have been quoted: she defends herself by saying that she buried her brother in violation of Creon's law, but not in violation of the unwritten law — "for this is not a thing of today or yesterday, but lives always, and no one knows from where it appeared. These, then, I was not about to..." (text breaks off; Antigone 456, 458).
73| [1.15.7] And one must argue that what is just is what is true and beneficial, not what merely appears so, so that the written law is not really law at all — for it does not perform the function that law is meant to perform. And that the judge is like an assayer of silver, whose task is to distinguish counterfeit justice from genuine. [1.15.8] And that it is the mark of a better man to make use of and abide by the unwritten laws rather than the written ones. [1.15.9] And if the law is somewhere opposed to another law held in good repute, or even to itself — as sometimes one law commands that whatever people agree to among themselves shall be binding, while another law forbids making agreements contrary to the law. [1.15.10] And if the law is ambiguous, one must turn it about and examine which interpretation fits justice or advantage, and then make use of that one. [1.15.11] And if the circumstances for which the law was laid down no longer exist while the law itself still stands, one must try to point this out and to combat the law on this ground. [1.15.12] But if the written law favors one's case, one must say that the "best understanding" clause does not mean judging in defiance of the law, but only so that, if one is ignorant of what the law says, one will not perjure oneself. And that no one chooses the good in an unqualified sense, but only what is good for himself. And that it makes no difference whether a law is not enacted or is not applied. And that in the other crafts there is no profit in trying to outsmart the doctor; for the doctor's mistake does not do as much harm as the habit of disobeying the person in authority does. And that seeking to be wiser than the laws is exactly what is forbidden in the laws that are held in high esteem. Let this, then, be our account of the laws.
74| [1.15.13] Concerning witnesses: there are two kinds, the old and the recent, and of these some share in the risk of the trial and some are outside it. By "old" I mean the poets and any other well-known people whose judgments are a matter of public record — for example the Athenians used Homer as a witness concerning Salamis, and the Tenedians recently used Periander of Corinth against the Sigeans, and Cleophon used Solon's elegiac verses against Critias, saying that the house had long been given to outrage: for Solon would never have written the words "tell red-haired Critias to obey his father" (Solon, fragment 22). [1.15.14] Such witnesses, then, testify about things that have happened; but concerning things that will happen, the interpreters of oracles also testify — for example Themistocles, in maintaining that they must fight at sea, on the ground that the "wooden wall" meant this. Further, proverbs, as has been said, are also testimonies — for example if someone advises against making an old man a friend, the proverb testifies for him: "never do a favor to an old man," and likewise the proverb about destroying the sons of those whose fathers one has destroyed: "foolish is he who kills the father and leaves the sons alive." [1.15.15] Recent witnesses are those well-known people who have rendered some judgment; for their judgments are useful to those disputing about the same matters — for example Eubulus, in the courts, used against Chares what Plato said to Archibius, that it had become common in the city to admit to being wicked. [1.15.16] And so too are those who share in the risk of the trial, if they seem to be lying. Such witnesses, then, testify only to this: whether something happened or not, whether it is the case or not; but they are not witnesses as to its quality — for example whether it is just or unjust, advantageous or disadvantageous.
75| [1.15.17] Those far removed in time are more trustworthy about these matters, and the oldest are the most trustworthy of all, since they cannot be corrupted. As grounds for establishing credibility about testimony: for one who has no witnesses, that one must judge from probabilities, and that this is what is meant by "the best judgment," and that probabilities cannot be bribed with money, and that probabilities are never convicted of false witness; for one who has witnesses, against one who does not, that probabilities are not liable to prosecution, and that there would be no need of testimony at all if it were sufficient to examine the matter from arguments alone. [1.15.18] Testimonies are of two kinds: those concerning oneself and those concerning one's opponent, and again those concerning the fact and those concerning character; so that it is clear one can never be at a loss for useful testimony. For if there is none bearing on the fact, either agreeing with oneself or opposed to one's opponent, still there is testimony about character, either to one's own decency or to the opponent's baseness. [1.15.19] The other points about a witness — whether he is a friend or an enemy or neither, whether he is well-regarded or discredited or neither, and all other such distinctions — must be argued from the same topics from which we derive our enthymemes. [1.15.20] Concerning contracts, the use of argument extends only this far: to amplifying or diminishing their force, or to making them credible or incredible — credible and binding if they favor one's own case, the opposite if they favor the opponent.
76| [1.15.21] For making them credible or incredible, the treatment is no different from that concerning witnesses; for contracts are credible in proportion to the character of those who put their names to them or hold them in keeping. Given that the existence of the contract is admitted, then if it is favorable to one's own case one must amplify it: for a contract is a kind of private and particular law, and it is not contracts that give the law its authority, but laws that give authority to contracts made according to law, and in general the law itself is a kind of contract, so that whoever distrusts or does away with a contract does away with the laws.
77| [1.15.22] Further, most transactions, including voluntary ones, are carried out by means of contracts, so that if contracts are rendered void, the dealings people have with one another are destroyed. And the other points that fit here can be seen readily on the surface. [1.15.23] But if the contract is against one's own case, then, together with one's opponents, first: whatever arguments one would use against an unfavorable law are appropriate here too — for it is absurd that we think we need not obey laws if they have not been rightly framed and their framers erred, while we must obey contracts regardless. [1.15.24] Next: that the judge is an arbiter of what is just, so it is not this that he must consider, but rather what is more just. [1.15.25] And what is just cannot be turned aside either by deceit or by force, since it exists by nature, whereas contracts are made even by those who have been deceived or compelled. Besides this, one must consider whether the contract is contrary to any of the written laws, either one's own or a foreign city's, or to the common laws, and further whether it conflicts with other contracts, later or earlier ones: for either the later ones are authoritative and the earlier ones void, or the earlier ones are correct and the later ones the product of deception — whichever way serves. One should also look to advantage, to see whether the contract in any way runs contrary to the judges' interest, and to any other such point.
78| for these too are equally easy to discern. [1.15.26] Testimony under torture is a kind of testimony, and it is thought to carry credibility because a certain compulsion attends it. It is not difficult, then, to say what is available about this too: if the results are favorable to one's own case, one may amplify them, saying that these alone among testimonies are true; but if they are contrary and favor the opponent, one may refute them by telling the truth about the whole class of such testimony — that people under compulsion tell falsehoods no less than truths, some holding firm and refusing to tell the truth, others readily making false accusations in the hope of being let off sooner. One should be ready to cite, as examples, actual cases of this kind known to the judges. One must say that testimony under torture is not true: for many thick-witted and tough-skinned people, being strong of soul, bear up nobly under compulsion, while cowardly and cautious people lose their nerve even before seeing the instruments of compulsion — so that nothing in testimony under torture is to be trusted.
79| [1.15.27] Concerning oaths, a fourfold division is possible: either one both offers and accepts an oath, or neither, or one but not the other — and of these, either one offers but does not accept, or accepts but does not offer. Further, apart from these, there is the question whether this man has already been put under oath by himself or by the other party. [1.15.28] One does not offer an oath: because people readily perjure themselves, and because the one who has sworn does not pay up afterward, while the one who declines thinks he will win his verdict against those who have not sworn, and because this risk — the one before the judges — is the stronger, for he trusts the judges but not the other man. [1.15.29] One does not accept an oath: because the oath is offered in place of money, and because, if he were a base man, he would already have sworn falsely — for it would have been better to be base for some gain than for nothing; so if he swears he will keep the money, but if he does not swear he will not, and thus his refusal would be due to virtue, not to fear of perjury. And Xenophanes' remark fits here, that this is not an equal challenge as between an impious man and a pious one, but is like a strong man challenging a weak one to strike or be struck. [1.15.30] If he does accept an oath: that he trusts himself but not the other man. And one should turn Xenophanes' saying around and say that it would be equal in this way instead: if the impious man offers the oath and the pious man swears it.
80| it is a terrible thing for him himself to be unwilling, when it is on the strength of an oath sworn by others that he asks the judges to render their verdict. [1.15.31] If he does offer an oath: that it is pious to be willing to entrust the matter to the gods, and that he has no need of other judges, since he gives the decision to them. [1.15.32] And that it is absurd not to be willing to swear about the very things concerning which he asks others to swear. Since it is clear from each of these how one should argue, it is also clear how one should argue when cases are combined — for example if he himself is willing to accept an oath but not to offer one, or if he offers but is unwilling to accept, or if he is willing to do both, or neither: for the combination must necessarily be built up out of what has been said, so that the arguments too must be built up out of what has been said. And if an oath has been sworn by himself and turns out contrary to his case: that this is not perjury, for wrongdoing is voluntary, and perjury is wrongdoing, but what is done under force or deceit is involuntary. [1.15.33] Here, then, one must also bring in the point that perjury lies in the intention, not in the utterance of the mouth. But if the oath is contrary to the opponent's case and he too has sworn it: that he does away with everything by not abiding by what he swore — for it is precisely on this basis that people also make use of the laws once they have sworn to observe them. And: you demand that we abide by what we have sworn when we sit in judgment, yet they themselves do not abide by it. And whatever else one might say to amplify the point. So much, then, for the non-technical means of persuasion.
1| [2.1.1] These, then, are the sources from which one must exhort and dissuade, praise and blame, accuse and defend, and these are the sorts of opinions and premises useful for the proofs bearing on these things; for it is about these things and out of these that the enthymemes come, speaking of each kind of speech separately. [2.1.2] But since rhetoric exists for the sake of a judgment (for people judge deliberative speeches too, and a trial is a judgment), it is necessary not only to look to the argument itself, so that it will be demonstrative and persuasive, but also to construct a certain character for oneself and to put the judge into a certain condition. [2.1.3] For it makes a great difference for persuasion, especially in deliberative speeches but also in trials, both that the speaker should appear to be a certain sort of person and that his hearers should suppose him to be disposed toward them in a certain way, and further, if they themselves happen to be disposed in some way. [2.1.4] Now the speaker's appearing to be a certain sort of person is more useful for deliberative speeches, while the hearer's being disposed in a certain way is more useful for trials; for things do not appear the same to people who love and to people who hate, nor to people who are angry and to people who are calm, but either altogether different or different in degree. To the one who loves, the person about whom he is forming a judgment seems either not to be doing wrong at all or to be doing only a small wrong, while to the one who hates, the opposite seems true; and to the one who desires something and is hopeful, if the thing that is going to happen is pleasant, it appears that it both will happen and will be good, while to the one who is unaffected or is even resentful, the opposite appears. [2.1.5] Now as for the speakers themselves being persuasive, there are three causes; for these are the number of things, apart from demonstrations, on account of which we believe. These are practical wisdom, virtue, and goodwill; for people say what is false, or give false advice, about the matters on which they speak either through all of these causes or through some one of them.
2| [2.1.6] For either through lack of sense they hold opinions that are not correct, or, holding correct opinions, they do not say what they think because of badness of character, or they are sensible and decent but not well-disposed, and for this reason it is possible that, though they know the best course, they do not advise it; and besides these there is no other case. It is therefore necessary that anyone who appears to have all of these qualities be persuasive to his hearers. [2.1.7] The sources from which one might appear sensible and serious must be taken from the things distinguished concerning the virtues; for from the same sources one might construct either someone else or himself as being of that sort. But concerning goodwill and friendship, this must be discussed among the things concerning the emotions. [2.1.8] The emotions are those things through a change in which people come to differ in their judgments, and which are accompanied by pain and pleasure — for example anger, pity, fear, and all others of this kind, and their opposites. [2.1.9] One must divide the treatment of each into three parts; I mean, for example, concerning anger, in what condition people are angry, with whom they habitually get angry, and over what sorts of things. For if we had one or two of these but not all of them, it would be impossible to produce the anger; and likewise for the others. Just as, then, in what has been said before we set out the premises in writing, so let us also do concerning these, and let us divide them in the way stated.
3| [2.2.1] Let anger, then, be a desire, accompanied by pain, for a conspicuous revenge on account of a conspicuous slight that was directed, without justification, against oneself or one's own. [2.2.2] If this is indeed what anger is, it is necessary that the angry person is always angry at some particular individual, for example at Cleon and not at man in general, and because that person has done or was about to do something to him or to his own; and it is necessary that some pleasure follow upon every case of anger, the pleasure that comes from the hope of taking revenge. For it is pleasant to think that one will attain the things one desires, and no one desires what appears impossible for himself, while the angry person desires things that are possible for himself. For this reason it has been well said of anger: that far sweeter than dripping honey, it grows in the breasts of men (Homer, Iliad 18.109-110). For a certain pleasure accompanies it, both for this reason and because people dwell on taking revenge in their thoughts; the mental image that then arises produces pleasure, just as the images of dreams do.
4| [2.2.3] Since slighting is an activity of opinion concerning something that appears to be of no worth (for we suppose both bad things and good things to be worthy of serious attention, and likewise whatever tends toward them, whereas whatever amounts to nothing or to little we suppose to be of no worth), there are three species of slighting: contempt, spite, and insolence. [2.2.4] For the person who feels contempt slights another (for people feel contempt for the things they think are of no worth, and they slight the things that are of no worth), and the person who acts spitefully also appears to slight. For spite is an obstruction of another's wishes, not in order to get something for oneself but in order that the other should not get it; since it is not for his own gain, then, he is slighting the other. For it is clear that he does not suppose he will be harmed — for then he would be afraid and would not be slighting — nor that he would gain anything worth mentioning — for then he would take care to be a friend. [2.2.5] And the person who commits insolence also slights another; for insolence is doing and saying things at which the victim feels shame, not in order that something else should come to the doer besides what has occurred, but so that he himself may take pleasure in it. For those who retaliate are not being insolent but are taking revenge. [2.2.6] The cause of the pleasure for those who commit insolence is that they think that by doing ill they are being superior to a greater degree — this is why the young and the wealthy are prone to insolence, for they think that in being insolent they are being superior. And dishonor belongs to insolence, and the person who dishonors another slights him; for what is worth nothing has no honor attached to it, whether of good or of bad. This is why Achilles, in his anger, says: he has dishonored me; for he himself keeps the prize he took (Homer, Iliad 1.356), and: as though I were some dishonored vagrant (Homer, Iliad 9.648)
5| [2.2.7] as being angry for these reasons. And people think it fitting to be given much regard by those inferior to them in birth, in power, in virtue, and in general in whatever respect the person himself is greatly superior — for example, the rich man is superior to the poor man in money, the skilled speaker is superior to the man unable to speak in speaking, the ruler is superior to the ruled, and the man who thinks himself worthy to rule is superior to the man he thinks worthy only to be ruled. This is why it has been said: great is the anger of kings nurtured by Zeus (Homer, Iliad 2.196), and: but even afterward he holds his resentment (Homer, Iliad 1.82); for they are indignant on account of their superiority. [2.2.8] Further, people are angry at those from whom they think they deserve to be well treated: these are the people they have done good to or are doing good to, either they themselves, or someone on their account, or someone belonging to them, or those they wish, or wished, to do good to. [2.2.9] It is now clear from these considerations both in what condition people themselves become angry, and with whom, and over what sorts of things. For they become angry themselves whenever they are pained; for a person who is pained desires something. So whether someone opposes him directly in some way — for example, opposing a thirsty man's desire to drink — or does not, it likewise appears to him to be doing the same thing; and whether someone acts against him, or fails to cooperate with him, or in some other way troubles him while he is in this condition, he is angry at all of them alike. [2.2.10] This is why the sick, the poor, those at war, those in love, the thirsty — in general, those who desire something and are not succeeding — are prone to anger and easily roused, most of all against those who slight their present condition: for example, a sick man is roused against those who slight him with regard to his illness, a poor man against those who slight him with regard to his poverty, a man at war against those who slight him with regard to the war, a man in love against those who slight him with regard to his love, and likewise in the other cases too; for in each case a person is prepared in advance for that particular anger by the emotion already present in him. Further, this happens also if it turns out that a person is expecting the opposite of what occurs;
6| [2.2.11] For what is contrary to expectation, when it is bad, pains more, just as what is contrary to expectation, when it is what one wants, pleases more; and this is why the seasons, the times, the states of mind, and the ages that go with these become clear: what kinds of people are easily moved to anger, and where and when, and the more they are in these conditions, the more easily moved they are. [2.2.12] People in such conditions, then, are easily moved to anger; and they grow angry at those who mock them, jeer at them, and make fun of them (for this is insolence), and at those who inflict such injuries as are signs of insolence; and such injuries must be ones done neither for any purpose nor for any advantage to those who do them, for then they already seem to be done out of insolence. [2.2.13] And they grow angry at those who speak ill of and show contempt for the things they themselves are most serious about — for example, men who pride themselves on philosophy grow angry if someone shows contempt for philosophy, and men who pride themselves on their looks if someone shows contempt for their looks, and similarly in other cases. [2.2.14] And this happens far more if they suspect that these qualities do not belong to them at all, or not strongly, or are not thought to belong to them; for when they are firmly convinced that they excel in the very respects in which they are mocked, they take no notice. [2.2.15] And they grow angry at friends more than at those who are not friends, for they think it more fitting to be treated well by friends than not. [2.2.16] And at those who are accustomed to honor them or show them regard, if these no longer treat them in the same way; for they think they are being shown contempt by these people too, on the ground that, if they were not showing contempt, they would go on treating them the same. [2.2.17] And at those who do not return a favor or do not repay one in equal measure. And at those who act contrary to them, if these are their inferiors; for all such people appear to show contempt — some as showing contempt for their inferiors, others as showing contempt coming from their inferiors.
7| [2.2.18] And people grow angry more at those held in no regard at all, if these disregard them in any way; for anger at disregard was posited as directed at those who have no claim to disregard one, and it is one's inferiors who have no claim to disregard one. [2.2.19] And they grow angry at friends if these do not speak or act well toward them, and still more if they do the opposite, and if they fail to notice that they are in need — as Antiphon's Plexippus does toward Meleager; for failing to notice is a sign of disregard, since we do not fail to notice the things we care about. [2.2.20] And at those who rejoice in their misfortunes or, in general, remain cheerful in the presence of their misfortunes; for this is a sign either of an enemy or of one who shows disregard. And at those who show no concern if they cause pain; this is also why people grow angry at those who bring bad news. [2.2.21] And at those who either hear about their own bad points or witness them; for such people are like those who show disregard, or like enemies — [2.2.22] since friends share in one's pain, while everyone feels pain at witnessing their own faults. Further, people grow angry at disregard shown by five kinds of persons: those with whom they compete for honor, those whom they admire, those by whom they wish to be admired, those whom they respect, and those among whom they feel shame; if anyone among these shows disregard, people grow angrier. [2.2.23] And at those who show disregard in matters where it would be shameful for them not to help — for example, parents, children, wives, subjects. And at those who do not return a favor, for this too is disregard, contrary to what is due. [2.2.24] And at those who speak ironically toward people who are being serious, [2.2.25] for irony shows contempt. And at those who do good to others but not to them; for this too shows contempt — not thinking them worthy of what everyone else is thought worthy of, including themselves. [2.2.26] Forgetfulness, too, produces anger — for instance, forgetting someone's name, trivial as this is; for forgetfulness too is thought to be a sign of disregard, since forgetfulness comes about through carelessness, and carelessness is a kind of disregard.
8| [2.2.27] We have now stated at once at whom people grow angry, in what state of mind, and for what reasons. Clearly, then, in a speech one must put the audience into the state of mind of people who are given to anger, and represent one's opponents as guilty of the things at which people grow angry, and as being the sort of people at whom people grow angry. [2.3.1] Since being angry is contrary to growing calm, and anger to calmness, we must grasp in what state people are calm, toward whom they are calmly disposed, and by what means they are calmed. [2.3.2] Let calming, then, be a settling and quieting of anger. [2.3.3] If, then, people grow angry at those who show disregard, and disregard is voluntary, it is clear that people are calm toward those who do none of these things, or who do them involuntarily, or who only appear to do them. [2.3.4] And toward those who wish the opposite of what they did. And toward all who behave the same way toward themselves; for no one is thought to disregard himself. [2.3.5] And toward those who admit their fault and feel regret; for as though they had paid a penalty, people's anger stops when the wrongdoers feel pain at what they have done. A sign of this is found in the punishment of household slaves: we punish more severely those who contradict us and deny their fault, but we stop being angry at those who agree that they are justly punished. The reason is that denying what is obvious is shamelessness, and shamelessness is a form of disregard and contempt; at any rate, we feel no shame before those for whom we have great contempt. [2.3.6] And people are calm toward those who humble themselves before them and do not contradict them; for such people seem to admit that they are inferior, and inferiors are afraid, and no one who is afraid shows disregard. That anger stops toward those who humble themselves is shown even by dogs, which do not bite people who sit down. [2.3.7] And people are calm toward those who are serious when dealing with people who are serious; for it seems that one is being taken seriously and not held in contempt.
9| [2.3.8] And toward those who have done them greater favors. And toward those who are in need and beg forgiveness; for these are more humbled. [2.3.9] And toward those who are not insolent, nor given to jeering, nor disregarding of anyone, or at least not of good people, or of people like themselves. [2.3.10] In general, one must work out the things that calm anger from their opposites. And people are not angry with those they fear or feel shame before, so long as they remain in that state; for it is impossible to be afraid and angry at the same time. [2.3.11] And people either do not grow angry, or grow less angry, at those who acted out of anger themselves; for such people do not appear to have acted out of disregard, since no one who is angry shows disregard — disregard is painless, while anger involves pain. [2.3.12] And people are calm toward those who feel shame before them. And clearly people are calm when they are in states contrary to anger — for instance, in play, in laughter, at a festival, in prosperity, in success, in fulfillment, in general in freedom from pain and in pleasure that is not of the insolent kind, and in a decent hope. Further, people are calm when time has passed and their anger is not fresh; for time puts an end to anger. [2.3.13] And the anger felt toward one person is put an end to by a greater punishment already exacted from another; this is why Philocrates spoke well when, the people being angry, someone said to him, Why don't you defend yourself?, and he said, Not yet. But when? When I see someone else falsely accused. For people become calm when they have spent their anger on someone else, as happened in the case of Ergophilus; for though people were harsher toward him than toward Callisthenes, they let him go, because they had condemned Callisthenes to death the day before. [2.3.14] And people are calm if they have caught the wrongdoer. And if the wrongdoers have suffered a greater evil than they themselves would have inflicted in their anger; for they think they have, so to speak, already received satisfaction.
10| [2.3.15] And if people think that they themselves are in the wrong and are suffering justly (for anger does not arise against what is just), since they no longer think they are suffering contrary to what is due, and this — being contrary to what is due — was what anger consisted in; this is why one should inflict the punishment by argument beforehand, since even slaves feel less resentment when they are punished after being shown to deserve it. [2.3.16] And people are calm if they think the wrongdoer will not perceive that it is because of them and in return for what they suffered; for anger is directed at a particular individual, as is clear from its definition. This is why it has rightly been made a habit to call Odysseus sacker of cities, on the ground that he would not have taken his revenge if the Cyclops had not perceived both by whom and for what he was punished. And so people do not grow angry either at others who fail to perceive it, or any longer at the dead, since these have suffered the ultimate thing and will feel no more pain or perception — which is what angry people are after. This is why the poet spoke well about Hector, when he wished to stop Achilles' anger against the dead man: for he rages, maltreating senseless earth. [2.3.17] This is why it is clear that those who wish to calm an audience must speak from these lines of argument, putting themselves in such a state, and representing those at whom the audience is angry as either formidable, or deserving of shame, or as having done them favors, or as having acted involuntarily, or as grieving exceedingly over what they have done. [2.4.1] Let us now say whom people love and whom they hate, and why, having first defined friendship and loving. [2.4.2] Let loving, then, be wishing for someone the things one believes to be good, for that person's own sake and not for one's own, and being disposed, so far as one is able, to bring these about. A friend is one who loves and is loved in return; and people think they are friends who believe themselves to be so disposed toward one another.
11| [2.4.3] Given these points, it follows necessarily that a friend is one who shares in one's joys over good things and shares in one's pain over painful things, not for the sake of anything else but for the sake of that person: for when the things people wish for come about, all rejoice, and at the opposite they feel pain, so that pains and pleasures are a sign of what one wishes. [2.4.4] And people are friends who hold the same things to be good and bad, and who are friends to the same people and enemies to the same people: for these necessarily wish the same things, so that whoever wishes for another what he wishes for himself appears to be a friend to that person. [2.4.5] And people love those who have done well by them, either by themselves or by those they care about, whether the benefits were great, or given eagerly, or given at critical moments, and for the sake of the recipients themselves, or those whom they suppose wish to do them well. [2.4.6] And they love the friends of their friends and those who love the people they themselves love. And they love those who are loved by the people who are loved by them. [2.4.7] And they love those who are enemies to the same people, and who hate those whom they themselves hate, and those who are hated by the people hated by them: for to all these the same things appear good, including for themselves, so that they wish the same good things for themselves as for the other — which is what being a friend was. [2.4.8] Further, people love those who are generous with money and toward saving lives: this is why they honor the free-spending and the courageous and the just. [2.4.9] They suppose such to be people who do not live off others: and such are those who live from working, and among these those who live from farming, and among the rest most of all those who work with their own hands. [2.4.10] And they love the self-controlled, because they are not unjust. [2.4.11] And they love those who mind their own business, for the same reason. And they love those with whom they wish to be friends, if these appear to wish it in return: and such are those who are good in respect of virtue and those who are well regarded either among everyone, or among the best people, or among those admired by themselves, or among those who admire them.
12| [2.4.12] Further, people love those who are pleasant to spend time and pass the day with: such are those who are easygoing and not given to pointing out faults, and not contentious or quarrelsome (for all such people are combative, and those who fight appear to wish the opposite of what one wants), [2.4.13] and those who are skillful both at making a joke and at taking one: for in both cases they are aiming at the same thing as their neighbor, being able both to be teased and to tease gracefully. [2.4.14] And they love those who praise the good qualities one has, and especially those qualities one is afraid of not having. [2.4.15] And they love people who are clean in appearance, in dress, and in their whole way of life. [2.4.16] And they love those who do not reproach them, either for their faults or for the good turns done them: for both kinds of reproach are a form of fault-finding. [2.4.17] And they love those who do not bear grudges nor hold on to complaints, but are easily reconciled: for whatever sort of people they suppose someone is toward others, they suppose the person is toward themselves as well. [2.4.18] And they love those who do not speak ill of others, and who take note neither of their neighbors' faults nor their own, but only of their good points [2.4.19] — for this is what a good person does. And they love those who do not set themselves against people who are angry or in earnest: for such people are combative. And they love those who are somehow in earnest toward them, for example admiring them and supposing them to be worthwhile and taking pleasure in them, [2.4.20] and especially those who feel this most strongly with respect to the very things in which they themselves most wish to be admired, or thought worthwhile, or found pleasant. [2.4.21] And they love those who are like them and pursue the same occupations, provided these do not get in one another's way and their livelihoods do not come from the same source; for otherwise the saying holds: 'potter against potter' (the manuscript here breaks into a few corrupt, untranslatable characters). [2.4.22] And they love those who desire the same things, as long as it is possible for both of them to share in these together; and if not, the same result follows in this case too.
13| [2.4.23] And people love those toward whom they are so disposed that they are not ashamed before them of what concerns reputation, so long as this is not out of contempt. [2.4.24] And they love those before whom they are ashamed of what concerns truth. And whomever they are ambitious in the eyes of, or by whom they wish to be emulated and not envied — these they either love or wish to be friends with. [2.4.25] And they love those with whom they act together in good undertakings, provided greater harm is not going to come to them from it. [2.4.26] And they love those who love equally both the absent and the present: this is why everyone loves people who behave this way toward the dead. And in general they love those who are strongly devoted to their friends and do not abandon them: for among good people, they love most of all those who love good people. [2.4.27] And they love those who do not put on a false front toward them: such are those who even tell of their own shortcomings, for it has been said that before friends we are not ashamed of what concerns reputation; so if the one who is ashamed does not love, then the one who is not ashamed resembles someone who does love. And they love those who are not frightening, and those before whom we feel confident: for no one loves someone he fears. [2.4.28] The kinds of friendship are comradeship, familiarity, kinship, and the like. And things productive of friendship are the doing of a favor, [2.4.29] and doing it without being asked, and, having done it, not making it known: for in this way it appears to be for the other person's own sake and not for some other reason.
14| [2.4.30] Concerning enmity and hatred, it is clear that they can be studied from their opposites. Productive of enmity are anger, spiteful mistreatment, and slander. [2.4.31] Now anger arises out of things done against oneself, whereas enmity can arise even without anything done against oneself: for if we suppose someone to be of a certain sort, we hate him. And anger is always about particular cases, for instance about Callias or Socrates, whereas hatred extends also to classes of people: for everyone hates the thief and the false accuser as such. And the one is curable in time, the other incurable. And the one is a desire for the other person's pain, the other for the other person's harm: for the angry man wants the other to perceive his anger, whereas to the man who hates it makes no difference. Now all painful things are perceptible, but the greatest evils are the least perceptible — injustice and folly: for the presence of vice causes no pain. And the one is accompanied by pain, the other is not: for the angry man feels pain, but the man who hates does not. And the one, if many things came about, might feel pity, but the other never: for the one wants the object of his anger to suffer in return, the other wants him not to exist at all.
15| [2.4.32] It is clear, then, from these points that it is possible both to demonstrate people to be enemies and friends when they are, and to make them out to be so when they are not, and to refute them when they claim to be, and, when people are disputing out of anger or out of enmity, to bring them over to whichever side one chooses to argue for. [2.5.1] What sort of things people fear, and whom, and in what state of mind, will become clear as follows. Let fear, then, be a kind of pain or disturbance arising from an impression of a future evil that is destructive or painful: for people do not fear all evils, for instance whether they will turn out unjust or slow-witted, but only those evils capable of causing great pain or destruction, and these only if they appear not far off but close at hand, so as to be imminent. For people do not greatly fear things that are far off: everyone knows he will die, but because death is not near, they give it no thought. [2.5.2] If fear is this, then, it necessarily follows that the things that are frightening are whatever appear to have great power to destroy or to inflict harms tending toward great pain: this is why even the signs of such things are frightening, for the frightening thing then appears close at hand — this is in fact what danger is, the nearness of something frightening. [2.5.3] Frightening in this way are the enmity and anger of people who have the power to do something (for it is clear that they both wish to and are able to, so that they are close to doing it), [2.5.4] and injustice possessed of power, for it is by choice that the unjust man is unjust, [2.5.5] and virtue that is being outraged, when it possesses power (for it is clear that it always wishes to act when outraged, and now it has the power), [2.5.6] and the fear of people who have the power to do something, for such a person too must necessarily be in a state of preparation, [2.5.7] and since most people are rather base and inferior when it comes to gain, and cowardly in dangers, it is generally frightening to be in another person's power, so that those who are privy to some terrible deed one has done are frightening, since they may either denounce it or abandon one.
16| [2.5.8] And people are afraid of those who are capable of doing wrong, if they themselves are capable of having wrong done to them; for people generally do wrong when they are able to. And they fear those who have been wronged, or who think they have been wronged, by them; for such people are always watching for their opportunity. And those who have done wrong, if they have power, are frightening, since they are afraid of suffering in return: [2.5.9] for such a thing was laid down above as an object of fear. And rivals for the same things, whenever the things cannot belong to both at once, are frightening; for people are always at war with such rivals. [2.5.10] And those who are frightening to people stronger than themselves are frightening; for they would be still more able to harm us, if they can harm even those stronger than they are.; and for the same reason, so are those whom people who are stronger than us fear. [2.5.11] And those who have destroyed people stronger than us are frightening, and so are those who attack people weaker than us; for either they are already to be feared, or they will be once they have grown in strength. And among those who have been wronged, and among enemies or rivals, it is not the quick-tempered and outspoken who are to be feared, but the gentle, the dissembling, and the unscrupulous; for it is unclear whether they are close to acting, so that one is never in a position to see that they are far off. [2.5.12] All frightening things are more frightening when the errors involved cannot be set right, but are either altogether impossible to remedy, or not within the sufferer's own power to remedy but in the power of his opponents; and things for which there is no help, or none easily got, are also more frightening. And to put it simply, the things that are frightening are those which, when they happen or are about to happen to others, are pitiable. Now the things that are frightening, and the things people fear, are pretty much, one may say, the greatest of these; let us now say in what state of mind people are when they feel fear. [2.5.13] If, then, fear is a pain or disturbance accompanied by an expectation of suffering something destructive, it is clear that no one who believes he will suffer nothing fears it, nor do people fear things they do not believe they will suffer, nor those from whom they do not believe they will suffer them, nor at a time when they do not believe they will. It necessarily follows, then, that fear belongs to those who believe they will suffer something, and belongs in respect of those people, those things, and that time.
17| [2.5.14] People do not believe they will suffer anything, either when they are in the midst of great good fortune and appear to be so — which is why they are insolent, contemptuous, and rash, a character that wealth, strength, an abundance of friends, and power all tend to produce — nor when they already believe they have suffered every terrible thing and have gone numb about the future, as happens to those already being led out to execution; rather, there must remain some hope of safety concerning the very thing they are struggling over. A sign of this: fear makes people inclined to deliberate, and yet no one deliberates about things beyond hope. [2.5.15] Hence one must put an audience into such a state, whenever it is advantageous that they should be afraid, by showing that they are the sort of people liable to suffer (since others greater than they have suffered), and by pointing out that people like them are suffering or have suffered, and at the hands of people they did not expect it from, and suffering the very things, at the very time, they did not expect. [2.5.16] Now that it is clear what fear is, and what the things that cause it are, and in what state of mind people feel it in each case, it is also clear from this what confidence is, and about what sorts of things people are confident, and in what state of mind they are confident; for confidence is the opposite of fear, and what inspires confidence is the opposite of what is frightening, so that confidence is hope, accompanied by an impression that the sources of safety are near at hand and that the sources of fear are either non-existent or far off. [2.5.17] The things that inspire confidence are: terrible things being far off, and sources of safety being near; the possibility of setting matters right, and the presence of many or great means of help, or both; the fact that one has neither done wrong nor been wronged; the absence of rivals altogether, or their lack of power, or, if they have power, their being friends, or having done one good, or having received good from one; or the fact that those who share the same interest are more numerous, or stronger, or both.
18| [2.5.18] People themselves are confident when in the following state: if they believe they have succeeded often and have not suffered, or if they have often gone into danger and escaped it; for people become insensible to fear in two ways — either through lack of experience, or through having means of help — just as, in dangers at sea, those inexperienced in storms are confident about what is coming, while those who have means of help are confident because of their experience. [2.5.19] And people are confident when a thing is not frightening to their equals, nor to those weaker than themselves, nor to those over whom they believe themselves stronger; [2.5.20] and they believe themselves stronger over those they have already mastered, whether these were themselves or people stronger than these or people equal to them. And confidence comes if people believe they have available to them, in greater quantity and to a greater degree, the very things by an excess of which they are formidable to others; and these are: an abundance of money, physical strength, friends, territory, and equipment for war — either all of these or the greatest of them. And confidence comes if they have wronged no one, or not many, or not the people from whom they now fear something; [2.5.21] and in general, if their relations with the gods are in good order, both in other respects and as regards signs and oracles; for anger inspires confidence, and not doing wrong but having wrong done to oneself is productive of anger, while the divine is supposed to come to the aid of those who are wronged. [2.5.22] And confidence comes whenever, in undertaking something, people believe either that they will suffer nothing or that they will succeed. So much, then, has been said about the things that are frightening and the things that inspire confidence. [2.6.1] What sorts of things people are ashamed of, and what sorts of things make them shameless, and toward whom, and in what state of mind, will be clear from what follows. [2.6.2] Let shame, then, be a certain pain or disturbance concerning those evils, whether present, past, or future, that appear to bring one into disrepute; and let shamelessness be a certain contempt and lack of feeling about these same things.
19| [2.6.3] If, then, shame is as has been defined, people necessarily feel shame at such evils as seem disgraceful either to themselves or to those they care about; and such are the deeds that proceed from vice, for instance throwing away one's shield or fleeing, since these come from cowardice; and embezzling a deposit or committing an injustice, since these come from injustice; [2.6.4] and having intercourse with whom one should not, or where one should not, or when one should not, since these come from licentiousness; [2.6.5] and making profit from small or shameful sources, or from people unable to defend themselves, such as the poor or the dead — hence even the proverb about carrying off a corpse's goods — since these come from love of shameful gain and stinginess. [2.6.6] And failing to help someone with money when one is able to, or helping less than one might; and being helped by people who are less well off than oneself; [2.6.7] and borrowing when it will look like begging, and begging when it will look like demanding repayment, and demanding repayment when it will look like begging, and praising something in a way that will look like begging for it, and doing this again even after having failed to get it once — for all these are signs of stinginess; [2.6.8] praising people to their faces is a sign of flattery, as is over-praising their good points while glossing over their bad ones, and showing excessive distress at another's pain when one is present, and all other such things — for these are signs of flattery. [2.6.9] And not enduring hardships that one's elders endure, or the soft and those in positions of greater power endure, or in general the weaker endure — all these are signs of softness. [2.6.10] And accepting benefits from another, and doing so repeatedly, and reproaching a man with the good one has done him — all these are signs of a small and mean spirit. [2.6.11] And talking about oneself all the time, and making promises about oneself, and claiming credit for what belongs to others — these are signs of boastfulness. And likewise, from each of the other vices of character, the deeds, the signs, and the things resembling them are also shameful and shameless.
20| [2.6.12] And besides these, not sharing in the fine things that everyone shares in, or that all or most who are like us share in—by "like us" I mean people of the same nation, fellow citizens, people of our own age, relatives, in general those on an equal footing—for it is already shameful not to share, for instance, in education to the extent that they do, and likewise with the other things. And all of these are more shameful if they appear to be one's own fault: for then they come more from vice, if one is oneself responsible for what has happened, is happening, or is going to happen. [2.6.13] And people feel shame at suffering, having suffered, or being about to suffer such things as lead to dishonor and reproach: these are the things that involve servicing another's body or shameful acts, one of which is being subjected to outrage. And some of these bring shame both when willing and unwilling—those connected with licentiousness—while others bring shame only when unwilling—those connected with force; for enduring these and not defending oneself comes from unmanliness or cowardice. These, then, and things like them, are what people are ashamed of. [2.6.14] But since shame is an appearance concerning disrepute, and this for its own sake and not for its consequences, and since no one cares about reputation except on account of those who form the reputation, it follows that people are necessarily ashamed before those whose opinion they take into account. [2.6.15] And they take into account those who admire them, and those whom they admire, and those by whom they wish to be admired, and those with whom they are in rivalry, and those whose opinion they do not despise. [2.6.16] Now people wish to be admired by, and do admire, those who possess some good among the things held in honor, or those from whom they happen to need urgently something of which those others are in control—lovers, for example. [2.6.17] And they are in rivalry with their equals. And they take seriously the opinion of the prudent, as being truthful; such are the older and the educated.
21| [2.6.18] And people are more ashamed of things done before the eyes and out in the open—which is why the proverb says shame lies "in the eyes"—and for this reason they feel more shame before those who will always be present and before those who watch them closely, because in both cases the thing is before their eyes. [2.6.19] And they feel shame before those who are not themselves liable to the same charges, for it is clear that such people think the opposite of what they themselves do. And before those who are not forgiving of what looks like error: for what a person does himself he is said not to resent in his neighbors, so it is clear that he does resent what he does not do himself. [2.6.20] And before those inclined to report things to many people: for it makes no difference whether people fail to think ill of you or fail to report it. Those inclined to report are people who have been wronged, because they keep watch, and slanderers—for if they report even those who have not erred, still more will they report those who have. And people whose pastime is the errors of their neighbors, such as mockers and comic poets: for these are in a way slanderers and reporters. And before those in whose eyes one has never yet failed at anything: for one is disposed as if being admired by them; that is why people feel shame before those who have just now asked something of them for the first time, as not yet having lost any reputation in their eyes—such are those who have only recently wished to become friends (for they have seen only one's best side; hence the aptness of Euripides' reply to the Syracusans), and, among those long acquainted, those who are privy to nothing discreditable. [2.6.21] People are ashamed not only of the shameful acts themselves as stated, but also of the signs of them—for instance, not only of having sex but also of the signs of having done so; and not only of doing [2.6.22] shameful things, but also of speaking of them. Likewise, people are ashamed not only before those just mentioned, but also before those who will reveal such things to them, such as their servants and friends.
22| [2.6.23] Generally, people are not ashamed before those whose opinion for truthfulness they greatly despise (for no one feels shame before children or animals), nor are they ashamed of the same things before acquaintances as before strangers, but before acquaintances they are ashamed of what seems shameful by the standard of truth, before strangers of what seems shameful by the standard of law. [2.6.24] Being disposed in this way, people would feel shame, first, if there existed toward them people of the sort we said they feel shame before. These were: those who are admired, or who admire, or by whom they wish to be admired, or from whom they need some service which they will fail to obtain if they lose their reputation—and this whether such people are actually watching (as Cydias argued in his speech to the assembly about the allotment of Samos: he urged the Athenians to imagine the Greeks standing round them in a circle, as watching and not merely going to hear what they decreed), or whether such people are nearby, or are about to become aware of it; that is why people do not wish to be seen faring badly by those who once envied them, for those who envy are admirers. [2.6.25] And people feel shame when they have acts and circumstances that disgrace them, whether their own or their ancestors' or others' with whom they have some close connection. And, in general, people feel shame on behalf of those for whom they themselves are ashamed—these are the ones already mentioned and those who trace their standing back to them, or those whose teachers or advisers they have been, or if there are others like them with whom they are in rivalry. [2.6.26] For it is largely on account of such people that, out of shame, they both do and refrain from doing things. [2.6.27] And people are more prone to shame when they are about to be seen and to move about openly among those who share the knowledge—hence Antiphon the poet, when he was about to be clubbed to death by Dionysius, seeing those who were to die with him covering their faces as they went out through the gates, said, "Why do you cover your faces? Surely it is not that one of these men might see you tomorrow?" So much, then, for shame; and it is clear that concerning shamelessness we shall have ample resources from the opposites.
23| [2.7.1] To whom people feel gratitude, for what, and in what state of mind—this will become clear once we have defined gratitude. [2.7.2] Let gratitude, then, be that on account of which the one who has it is said to "feel grateful"—a service to one in need, not in return for anything, nor for the sake of anything to the one performing the service himself, but for the sake of the other; and it is great if the person is in great need, or if the things given are great and difficult, or given at such critical times, or if the giver is alone, or the first, or foremost in giving. [2.7.3] Needs are desires, and especially those accompanied by pain at their not being satisfied. Such are the appetites, for example erotic love, and those that arise in bodily afflictions and in dangers; for the person in danger desires, and so does the person in pain. That is why those who stand by people in poverty and in exile, even if their service is small, are felt to have done a favor, because of the greatness of the need and the critical moment—for instance, the man who gave the mat in the Lyceum. [2.7.4] It is necessary, then, that the service be directed above all at the same needs, or, failing that, at needs equal to or greater than these. [2.7.5] So then, since it is clear both to whom and for what gratitude arises, and in what state of mind, it is plain that one must build one's case from these points—showing either that people are, or have been, in such pain and need, or that others have rendered, or are rendering, such a service in such a need. It is also clear from what quarter it is possible to take away gratitude and make people appear ungrateful: either by showing that they served, or are serving, for their own sake (for that was not gratitude), or that it came about by chance or under compulsion, or that they were only giving back and not giving in the first place, whether knowingly or not: for in both cases it is a return for something, so that not even in this way could it be gratitude.
24| [2.7.6] And one must examine the matter with respect to all the categories: for gratitude arises because of a this, or a so-much, or a such-a-kind, or a when, or a where. A sign is if they rendered less service, and if they rendered the same, equal, or greater services to their enemies: for it is clear that not even these were for our sake. Or if they did it knowing the things given were worthless: for no one admits to needing worthless things. [2.8.1] We have now spoken of feeling gratitude and being ungrateful; let us now say what things are pitiable, whom people pity, and in what state of mind they do so. [2.8.2] Let pity, then, be a certain pain at an apparent evil, destructive or painful, befalling one who does not deserve it, which one might expect oneself, or one of one's own, to suffer, and this when it appears near at hand: for it is clear that the person who is going to feel pity must be of such a kind as to think that he himself, or one of his own, might suffer some evil, and an evil of the kind stated in the definition, or one like it, or comparable to it. [2.8.3] That is why neither those who are utterly ruined feel pity (for they think they can no longer suffer anything further—they have already suffered it), nor those who suppose themselves supremely fortunate; instead, these latter behave with insolence. For if they think all good things belong to them, it is clear that they also think it belongs to them not to be capable of suffering any evil—for this too is among the good things. [2.8.4] Those who are of the sort to think they might suffer are: those who have already suffered and escaped, the elderly—both because of their good sense and because of experience—the weak, those more inclined to cowardice, and the educated, for they reason well. [2.8.5] And those who have parents, children, or wives: for these belong to them, and are of a kind to suffer the things mentioned.
25| [2.8.6] And those who are not in a condition of courage's affection, such as anger or confidence (for these are unreasoning about what is to come), nor in a state of insolence (for these too give no thought to what they may suffer), but those in between these states; nor again those who are in extreme fear, for people who are panic-stricken do not feel pity, because they are wholly occupied with their own affection. [2.8.7] And people feel pity if they suppose that some are decent; for the one who supposes no one decent will suppose that everyone deserves misfortune. And in general, people feel pity when they are so disposed as to recall that such things have happened to themselves or to one of their own, or to expect that they will happen to themselves or to one of their own. [2.8.8] The state of mind in which people feel pity, then, has been stated; and what they pity is clear from the definition. For all things that are destructive and painful are objects of pity, and all things that are ruinous, and all things of which chance is the cause when the evils they bring have some magnitude. [2.8.9] Things painful and destructive are: deaths, bodily assaults and injuries, old age, diseases, and lack of food. [2.8.10] And the evils of which chance is the cause are: friendlessness, having few friends (which is why being torn apart from friends and intimates is pitiable), ugliness, weakness, disfigurement, and when some evil arises from a source from which some good ought properly to have come; [2.8.11] and when this happens often; and when some good comes to a person only after he has already suffered — as when the gifts from the King were sent down to Diopeithes after he was dead; and when either no good has ever come to someone, or when goods have come but there is no enjoyment of them.
26| These, then, and things of this kind, are the grounds on which people feel pity. [2.8.12] And people pity those known to them, provided they are not too closely related by kinship (for toward these they are disposed as if the misfortune were about to happen to themselves; this is why Amasis, as they say, did not weep at the sight of his son being led away to death, but did weep at the sight of his friend begging: for the latter was pitiable, the former terrible; for the terrible is different from the pitiable and drives out pity, and is often useful for producing the opposite effect):
27| [2.8.13] for people no longer feel pity when the terrible thing is close to themselves. And people pity those like themselves in age, in character, in states of character, in reputation, in birth; for in all these cases it appears more likely that the same thing could happen to themselves as well. For here too, in general, one must grasp that whatever people fear happening to themselves, they pity when it happens to others. [2.8.14] And since sufferings that appear near at hand are pitiable, while things that happened or will happen ten thousand years off, people neither expect nor remember, and so either feel no pity at all or feel it less — it follows of necessity that those who help the effect along with gestures, voices, clothing, and acting generally are more pitiable; for they make the evil appear near, setting it before the eyes either as about to happen or as having happened. [2.8.15] And things that have just happened, or are about to happen very soon, are more pitiable. [2.8.16] And for this reason the signs of suffering are pitiable too — for example the clothing of those who have suffered, and such things, and the actions and words and everything else belonging to those in the grip of the affection, such as people actually dying. And it is especially pitiable when serious, worthy people are found in such circumstances; for all these things, because they make the suffering appear near, produce pity more, both because it appears undeserved and because it appears before the eyes. [2.9.1] Opposed to pity, most of all, is what people call righteous indignation (nemesis): for being pained at undeserved bad fortune is, in a certain way, opposed — and from the same character — to being pained at undeserved good fortune. And both affections belong to a decent character; [2.9.2] for one ought to feel sympathetic grief and pity at those who fare badly undeservedly, and to feel indignation at those who fare well undeservedly; for what happens contrary to desert is unjust, which is why we attribute righteous indignation even to the gods.
28| [2.9.3] One might think that envy too is opposed to pity in the same way, as being close to and the same as righteous indignation, but it is different. For envy too is a disturbing pain, and is felt at good fortune, but not at the good fortune of the undeserving — rather at that of one's equal and like. And the feature common to both — that it is not because something is going to happen to oneself, but because of the neighbor himself — must belong to both alike; for otherwise the one will no longer be envy and the other righteous indignation, but fear, if the pain and disturbance arise because something bad will come to oneself from that person's good fortune. [2.9.4] It is clear that the opposite affections will follow upon these as well: the person pained at those who fare badly undeservedly will feel pleasure, or at least no pain, at those who fare badly in the opposite way — for instance no decent person would be pained at parricides or murderers when they meet with punishment; one ought to rejoice at such things, and likewise also at people faring well according to desert; for both are just, and both make the decent person rejoice, since he must expect that what happens to his like will happen to himself as well. [2.9.5] And all these affections belong to the same character, and their opposites to the opposite character; for the same person is malicious-rejoicer and envious; for whatever one is pained to see coming about and existing, that same person must necessarily rejoice at its privation and destruction. Hence all these are obstacles to pity, though they differ for the reasons stated, so that they are all equally useful for the purpose of making things not appear pitiable.
29| [2.9.6] Let us, then, speak first about righteous indignation — toward whom people feel it, over what, and in what state of mind they themselves must be — and after this about the other affections. [2.9.7] It is clear from what has been said: for if righteous indignation is being pained at an apparent case of undeserved good fortune, then in the first place it is clear that one cannot feel indignation at all goods whatsoever. [2.9.8] For no one will feel indignation at a man because he is just or courageous, or because he is going to acquire virtue (nor indeed is pity felt at the opposites of these); rather it is felt over wealth, power, and things of that sort — all the things of which, to put it simply, good people and those who possess the natural goods are worthy, such as good birth, beauty, and things of that kind. [2.9.9] And since what is ancient appears close to what is natural, it follows of necessity that people feel more indignation at those who have recently come to possess the same good and who fare well because of it; for the newly rich pain people more than those who have long possessed wealth and possess it through their family. Likewise too with rulers, the powerful, those with many friends, those with good children, and anything else of that kind. And if some other good comes to people because of these, the same holds: for here too, newly rich rulers pain people more, because of their wealth, than those whose wealth is of long standing.
30| And likewise too with the other cases. [2.9.10] The reason is that the latter seem to have what is their own, the former do not; for whatever appears always to have been so seems to be true, so that the others seem not to have what is their own. [2.9.11] And since each of the goods is not fitting for just anyone, but there is a certain proportion and fittingness — for instance, splendor of arms befits not the just man but the courageous one, and distinguished marriages befit not the newly rich but the well-born — then if a good person fails to attain what is fitting for him, that is a cause for righteous indignation. And so is the case of the lesser disputing with the greater — most of all when they are in the same field, which is why this too has been said: 'But he avoided battle with Ajax, Telamon's son; for Zeus was indignant with him, when he fought a better man' (Homer, Iliad 11.542) — but if not that, then in whatever way the lesser disputes with the greater, as when a musician disputes with a just man; for justice is a better thing than music.
31| [2.9.12] From this it is clear at whom people feel righteous indignation and why; these and things like these are the causes. People themselves are prone to such indignation if they happen to be worthy of the greatest goods and actually possess them: for it is not just that people who are not equals should be deemed worthy of equal things. [2.9.13] Second, if they happen to be good and excellent people: for they judge well and hate injustice. [2.9.14] And if they are ambitious and desire certain things, especially if they are ambitious about the very things which others, though unworthy of them, happen to possess. [2.9.15] And in general those who think themselves worthy of things they do not think others worthy of are prone to indignation at those people and on these grounds; this is why slavish, base, and unambitious people are not prone to indignation, since there is nothing they think themselves worthy of. [2.9.16] From this it is clear at what sort of misfortunes, hardships, or failures one ought to feel pleasure, or at least no pain: for from what has been said the opposite cases are clear. So if a speech disposes the judges to be of this kind, and shows that those who claim to deserve pity, and the things for which they claim to deserve it, are people who happen to be unworthy of obtaining them and worthy of not obtaining them, it will be impossible to feel pity for them. [2.10.1] It is also clear on what grounds, toward whom, and in what state of mind people feel envy, given that envy is a kind of pain at the apparent good fortune of people like ourselves, in the goods already mentioned—not for the sake of gaining anything oneself, but because of those people: for such people will feel envy toward those who are, or seem to be, like them. [2.10.2] By like I mean alike in birth, in kinship, in age, in states of character, in reputation, in possessions. And they envy those who fall a little short of having everything (which is why those who achieve great things and those who are fortunate are prone to envy): for they think everyone else is carrying off what is theirs.
32| [2.10.3] And people envy those who are honored for some outstanding quality, especially for wisdom or happiness. Ambitious people are more envious than unambitious ones. So are those who merely have a reputation for wisdom, since they are ambitious about wisdom. And in general those eager for reputation in some area are envious in that area. So are small-minded people, since everything looks great to them. [2.10.4] The goods over which people feel envy have already been named: for over whatever people seek reputation and ambition, in works or possessions, and desire glory for, and whatever counts as good fortune, there is envy about nearly all of it, and especially about the things they themselves desire or think they ought to have, or things in which they are a little ahead of others or a little behind. [2.10.5] It is also clear toward whom people feel envy, since this has been said at the same time: they envy those near them in time, place, age, and reputation; hence the saying that kinship, too, knows how to envy. And they envy those against whom they are ambitious: for people are ambitious against the people just named, but no one is ambitious against those who lived ten thousand years ago, or those not yet born, or the dead, or those who live at the Pillars of Heracles. Nor against those whom they think fall far short of them, whether in their own eyes or in others', nor against those they think far surpass them—and the same holds toward these people and in such matters. [2.10.6] Since people are ambitious against rivals, against competitors in love, and in general against those who aim at the same things, they must feel envy most of all toward these; hence the saying, potter envies potter (Hesiod, Works and Days, 25). [2.10.8] And they envy those whose possession or success is a reproach to themselves (and these too are people near them and like them): for it is clear that it is because of these people that they themselves fail to get the good, so that this fact causes the pain and produces the envy.
33| [2.10.9] And they envy those who have, or have acquired, things that were fitting for themselves, or that they themselves once possessed; this is why older people envy younger ones, [2.10.10] and why those who have spent a great deal on the same object envy those who have spent little. [2.10.7] And those who obtained something with difficulty, or did not obtain it at all, envy those who obtained it quickly. [2.10.11] It is also clear over what things such people feel pleasure, toward whom, and in what state of mind: for in the state in which they feel pain, in that same state they will feel pleasure at the opposite. So if the speakers themselves are brought into this state, and those who claim to deserve pity, or to obtain some good, are of the kind just described, it is clear they will not get pity from those who hold the power to grant it. [2.11.1] From this it is also clear in what state of mind people feel emulation, over what things, and toward whom: for if emulation is a kind of pain at the apparent presence, in people like ourselves by nature, of honored goods it is possible for us to obtain—felt not because another has them but because we ourselves do not also have them (which is why emulation is a decent feeling, felt by decent people, while envy is base, felt by base people: for the one, through emulation, prepares himself to obtain the goods, while the other, through envy, works to keep his neighbor from having them)—then it follows that people are prone to emulation who think themselves worthy of goods they do not have, when it is possible for them to obtain them: for no one thinks himself worthy of things that appear impossible (which is why the young and the great-souled are of this sort). [2.11.2] So are those who possess goods of the kind that befit honored men: these are wealth, many friends, offices, and the like; for since they think it fitting for them to be good in the way that fits people in a good condition, they feel emulation over such goods. And so do those whom others think worthy of them.
34| [2.11.3] And those whose ancestors, kinsmen, relatives, nation, or city are honored feel emulation about these things: for they think these belong to them, and that they are worthy of them. [2.11.4] If honored goods are objects of emulation, then the virtues must be such objects, and so must whatever is useful and beneficial to others (for people honor those who benefit others, and the good), and whatever goods can be enjoyed by one's neighbors, such as wealth and beauty rather than health. [2.11.5] It is also clear who the objects of emulation are: those who possess these and similar goods are objects of emulation; these are the things named, for example courage, wisdom, office (for those in office can benefit many people), generals, orators, everyone with such abilities. [2.11.6] And so are those whom many wish to resemble, or who have many acquaintances, or many friends, or whom many admire, or whom they themselves admire. [2.11.7] And those of whom praises and encomia are spoken, whether by poets or by prose-writers. People feel contempt for the opposites of these: for contempt is the opposite of emulation, and to feel contempt is the opposite of to feel emulation. Those who are so disposed as to feel emulation toward some people, or to be objects of emulation, must feel contempt toward these same people and on these same grounds, whenever those people have the opposite evils to the goods that are objects of emulation; that is why people often feel contempt for the fortunate, when good fortune comes to them without the honored goods. We have now said through what causes the emotions arise and are dissolved, and from what the proofs concerning them are formed. [2.12.1] Let us next go through what kinds of characters people have, in accordance with their emotions, their states of character, their ages, and their fortunes.
35| [2.12.2] By emotions I mean anger, appetite, and the like, about which we have spoken earlier; by states I mean virtues and vices, and these too have been discussed earlier, along with what each sort of person chooses and what sort of actions each is capable of. By ages I mean youth, the prime of life, and old age. By fortune I mean good birth, wealth, positions of power, and their opposites, and generally good fortune and bad fortune. [2.12.3] The young, then, are in character prone to appetite, and are the sort to do whatever they desire. Of the bodily appetites, they are most prone to follow the one concerned with sex, and are unable to control themselves in this. [2.12.4] They are changeable in their desires and quickly tire of them, and they desire strongly but stop quickly (for their wishes are sharp but not great, like the thirst and hunger of the sick). [2.12.5] They are passionate and quick-tempered, and the sort to follow their anger wherever it leads. They are ruled by their spirit, for because of their love of honor they cannot bear to be slighted, but grow indignant if they think they are being wronged. [2.12.6] They love honor, but even more they love victory (for youth desires superiority, and victory is a kind of superiority), and they love both of these more than they love money (they care least of all for money, because they have not yet experienced want, as Pittacus's saying about Amphiaraus has it). [2.12.7] They are not bad-natured but good-natured, because they have not yet witnessed much wickedness, and they are trusting, because they have not yet been deceived many times. [2.12.8] They are hopeful, for just as those who have drunk wine, so the young are heated by nature; and at the same time this is also because they have not yet failed at many things. And they live for the most part by hope, for hope concerns the future while memory concerns the past, and for the young the future is long and the past is short: on the first day of one's life there is nothing to remember, but everything to hope for. And they are easy to deceive for the reason just given, since they hope easily.
36| [2.12.9] They are more courageous, for they are spirited and hopeful, and the one keeps them from fear while the other gives them confidence: for no one who is angry is afraid, and hoping for something good is a source of confidence. [2.12.10] They are prone to shame, for they do not yet conceive of other things as fine, but have been trained only by the law. [2.12.11] They are high-minded, for they have not yet been humbled by life but are inexperienced in what is necessary, and thinking oneself worthy of great things is high-mindedness — and this belongs to one who is hopeful. [2.12.12] And they choose to do fine actions rather than advantageous ones more than they choose the advantageous: for they live more by character than by calculation, and calculation aims at the advantageous while virtue aims at the fine. [2.12.13] They are fond of their friends and fond of their companions more than people of other ages are, because they delight in living together and do not yet judge anything by advantage, and so do not judge their friends by it either. [2.12.14] And in everything they err on the side of excess and intensity, against the maxim of Chilon (for they do everything to excess: they love to excess and hate to excess, and likewise with everything else), and they think they know everything and are positive about it (this is in fact the cause of their excess in everything). [2.12.15] And the wrongs they do, they do out of insolence, not out of malice. And they are prone to pity, because they suppose everyone to be good and better than they are (for they measure their neighbors by their own guilelessness, and so suppose that people suffer undeservedly). [2.12.16] And they are fond of laughter, and so fond of wit as well, for wit is educated insolence. [2.13.1] Such, then, is the character of the young. Older men, and those past their prime, have for the most part characters largely opposite to these: because they have lived many years and have been deceived more often and have erred more often, and because most things turn out badly, they are positive about nothing, and they show less eagerness than they ought about everything.
37| [2.13.2] They suppose things but know nothing, and being of two minds they always add 'perhaps' and 'possibly,' and they say everything this way, nothing firmly. [2.13.3] And they are bad-natured, for bad nature is supposing everything for the worse. Further, they are suspicious because of their distrust, and distrustful because of their experience. [2.13.4] And because of these things they neither love strongly nor hate strongly, but in accordance with the counsel of Bias, they love as if they will one day hate, and hate as if they will one day love. [2.13.5] And they are small-minded because they have been humbled by life, for they desire nothing great or exceptional, but only what serves life. [2.13.6] And they are ungenerous, for property is one of the necessary things, and at the same time, from experience, they know how hard it is to acquire and how easy to lose. [2.13.7] And they are cowardly and apt to be fearful about everything, for they are disposed in the opposite way from the young: they are chilled, while the young are hot, so that old age has paved the way for cowardice, since fear too is a kind of chilling. [2.13.8] And they are fond of life, and most of all on their last day, because desire is for what is absent, and people desire most whatever they lack. [2.13.9] And they are more fond of themselves than they ought to be, for this too is a kind of small-mindedness. And they live for the advantageous rather than for the fine, more than they ought, because they are fond of themselves: for the advantageous is a good relative to oneself, while the fine is good simply. [2.13.10] And they are more shameless than prone to shame, for because they do not care equally about the fine and the advantageous, they think little of how they appear.
38| [2.13.11] And they are prone to despair because of their experience (for most of what happens is bad, since things generally turn out for the worse), and further because of their cowardice. [2.13.12] And they live by memory more than by hope, for of their life what remains is little and what has passed is much, and hope concerns the future while memory concerns what is past: and this is also the reason for their talkativeness, for they go on continually speaking of what has happened, since they take pleasure in recollecting it. [2.13.13] Their fits of anger are sharp but weak, and of their appetites some have left them entirely and others are weak, so that they are neither prone to appetite nor active in accordance with their appetites, but in accordance with gain — which is why people this age appear to be temperate: for their appetites have slackened, and they are enslaved to gain. [2.13.14] And they live more by calculation than by character, for calculation aims at the advantageous while character aims at virtue. And the wrongs they do, they do out of malice, not out of insolence. [2.13.15] Old men too are prone to pity, but not for the same reasons as the young: the young pity out of humanity, the old out of weakness, for they suppose that everything is close to happening to themselves as well, and this, as we said, is what disposes one to pity. That is why they are given to lamenting, and are not witty or fond of laughter, for lamenting is the opposite of loving laughter. [2.13.16] Such, then, are the characters of the young and of the old, so that since everyone accepts speeches spoken in accordance with their own character, and speeches like it, it is not unclear how, by using such speeches, both the speakers themselves and their speeches will appear to be of this sort.
39| [2.14.1] Those in their prime are clearly going to have a character between these two, taking away the excess of each: neither being overconfident (for that is rashness) nor being excessively fearful, but being well disposed toward both, [2.14.2] neither trusting everyone nor distrusting everyone, but judging rather by the truth, and living neither for the fine alone nor for the advantageous alone but for both, and inclining neither to stinginess nor to prodigality but to what fits, [2.14.3] and likewise both toward spirit and toward appetite; and they are moderate along with courage and courageous along with moderation. For in the young and the old these qualities are split apart: the young are courageous and unrestrained, while the older are moderate and cowardly. To put it generally, whatever benefits youth and old age have divided between them, these people in their prime have both, and whatever the young and old carry to excess or deficiency, these have in due measure and fittingly. [2.14.4] The body is in its prime from thirty years to thirty-five, and the soul at around forty-nine. Let this much be said, then, about youth and old age and the prime of life, and what kind of character belongs to each. [2.15.1] Let us speak next about the goods that come from fortune, and by what means they too bring it about that people's characters are of a certain sort. [2.15.2] The character that belongs to noble birth is to be more fond of honor in the one who possesses it: for everyone, once something is available to them, is accustomed to pile up more of the same, and noble birth is the being-held-in-honor of one's ancestors. And a person of noble birth is also disposed to look down even on people equal to their own ancestors, because things at a distance are more impressive and more apt to be boasted about than things close at hand.
40| [2.15.3] Being well-born is a matter of the excellence of one's stock, but being noble is a matter of not departing from that nature; and this generally does not happen with the well-born, but most of them are worthless. For there is a kind of yield in the generations of men just as in what the land produces season by season, and sometimes, if the stock is good, outstanding men arise in it for a certain span of time, and then it falls off again. Well-endowed stocks degenerate into more manic characters, as with the descendants of Alcibiades and of Dionysius the elder, while steady stocks degenerate into dullness and sluggishness, as with the descendants of Cimon, Pericles, and Socrates. [2.16.1] As for the characters that follow from wealth, it is easy for everyone to see them on the surface: the wealthy are insolent and arrogant, being affected in a certain way by their possession of wealth (for they are disposed as if they had all good things; wealth is a kind of measure of the worth of everything else, and so it seems that everything can be bought with it), [2.16.2] and they are given to soft living and to ostentatious display, soft in living because of their manner of upbringing and as a display of their good fortune, and ostentatious and tasteless because everyone is accustomed to spend their time on what they love and admire, and because they think others are emulating the very things they themselves value. And at the same time this happens to them reasonably enough (for there are many who are in need of those who have; hence the saying of Simonides about the wise and the wealthy, addressed to the wife of Hiero, who asked whether it was better to be born rich or wise: he said rich, for he saw the wise, he said, spending their time at the doors of the rich),
41| [2.16.3] and also the belief that they are worthy to rule; for they think they have the things for the sake of which ruling is worthwhile. In sum, the character of the wealthy fool is the character of wealth. [2.16.4] The characters of the newly rich and of those long rich differ in that the newly rich have all their bad qualities in a more pronounced and cruder form (for being newly rich is, as it were, a lack of education in wealth), and the wrongs they do are not the wrongs of villainy but rather some are insolent and some are the wrongs of a lack of self-control, for instance assault and adultery. [2.17.1] Likewise, as regards power too, most of its characteristic traits are fairly evident. For power has some traits in common with wealth and others that are better. [2.17.2] Those with power are more fond of honor and more manly in character than the wealthy, because of their desire for the deeds that their power gives them the license to do, [2.17.3] and they are more serious-minded because they must attend to things, being compelled to keep watch over the affairs connected with their power, [2.17.4] and they are more dignified than heavy, for their rank makes them more dignified, and so they moderate themselves; dignity is a soft and well-mannered form of heaviness. And if they do wrong, they are not petty wrongdoers but wrongdoers on a grand scale. [2.17.5] Good fortune, for its part, has the characteristics that belong in part to the goods already mentioned (for the greatest forms of good fortune tend toward these), and further, good fortune also brings the advantage of good children and of the goods of the body. [2.17.6] So people are more arrogant and less rational because of good fortune, but one very good trait accompanies good fortune: those who have it are god-loving and are disposed in some way toward the divine, trusting in it on account of what has come to them from chance. So much, then, has been said about the characters that go with age and with fortune; for the opposite characters are clear from the opposites of what has been said, for instance the character of the poor man, the unfortunate man, and the powerless man.
42| [2.18.1] Since the use of persuasive speeches is directed at a judgment (for concerning things we already know and have judged there is no further need of speech), this holds whether one is using speech to urge someone toward a course of action or to dissuade him, addressing a single person, as those do who admonish or who try to persuade someone (for the single person is no less a judge; the one who must be persuaded is, so to speak, simply a judge), or whether one speaks to people who are disputing, or in support of a hypothesis, the case is the same (for one must use argument and demolish the opposing views, against which one directs one's speech as though against a disputant), and likewise too in speeches of display (for the speech is constructed as if the spectator were a judge, and in general, in political contests, the only one who is, strictly speaking, a judge is the one who decides the matters at issue; for what is disputed is investigated as to how it stands, and so are the matters people are deliberating about). As for the characters connected with forms of constitution, this has already been discussed earlier in the treatment of deliberative speeches, so that it would now have been settled how, and by what means, speeches are to be made to display character. [2.18.2] Since for each kind of speech the end was different, and for all of them opinions and premises have been gathered from which people draw their proofs both in deliberating and in displaying and in disputing, and further, since the means by which speeches can be made to display character have also been settled, it remains for us to go through the topics common to all kinds of speech. [2.18.3] For it is necessary for everyone alike to make additional use, in their speeches, of arguments about the possible and the impossible, and to try to show, in some cases, that something will be, and in others, that something has been.
43| [2.18.4] Further, the topic of magnitude is common to all kinds of speech: for everyone makes use of diminishing and amplifying, both in deliberating and in praising or blaming and in accusing or defending. [2.18.5] Now that these matters have been settled, let us try to speak generally about enthymemes, if we have anything to say, and about examples, so that by adding what remains we may fulfill the plan set out at the beginning. Of the common topics, amplification is most proper to speeches of display, as has been said, what has happened is most proper to forensic speeches (for the judgment concerns these), and the possible and the future are most proper to deliberative speeches. [2.19.1] Let us speak first, then, about the possible and the impossible. If the opposite of something is possible either to be or to come to be, then the thing itself would also seem to be possible; for instance, if it is possible for a man to become healthy, it is also possible for him to become sick, since the same capacity applies to opposites insofar as they are opposites. And if the like is possible, so too is the like. [2.19.2] And if the more difficult thing is possible, so is the easier. [2.19.3] And if it is possible for something to come to be excellent and fine, [2.19.4] it is possible for it to come to be at all; for it is more difficult for a house to be fine than merely to be a house. [2.19.5] And that whose beginning can come to be, its end can too; for none of the impossible things comes to be, nor begins to come to be, for instance a diagonal commensurable with the side neither would begin to come to be nor does come to be. And that whose end is possible, its beginning is also possible; for everything comes to be from a beginning. [2.19.6] And if what is later in substance or in coming-to-be can come to be, so can what is earlier; for instance, if it is possible for a man to come to be, it is also possible for a child to come to be (for that comes to be first), and if a child, also a man (for that too is a beginning).
44| [2.19.7] And things for which there is by nature either love or desire are possible: for as a rule no one loves or desires what is impossible. [2.19.8] And things for which there are branches of knowledge and crafts — these can both exist and come to be. [2.19.9] And things whose origin of coming-to-be lies with people whom we could compel or persuade: these are people over whom we are stronger, or their masters, or their friends. [2.19.10] And things whose parts are possible, the whole is possible too; and things whose whole is possible, the parts are possible as a rule too: for if a strap and a toe-cap and a lining can be made, then shoes can be made too, and if shoes can be made, then a strap and a toe-cap and a lining can be made too. [2.19.11] And if the whole genus is among the things that can come to be, so is the species, and if the species, so is the genus — for example, if a boat can be built, so can a trireme, and if a trireme, so can a boat. [2.19.12] And if one of two things naturally related to each other is possible, so is the other — for example, if the double is possible, so is the half, and if the half, the double. [2.19.13] And if a thing can come about without craft and preparation, it can come about all the more through craft and diligence — hence the line spoken by Agathon: 'and indeed some things we accomplish by craft, while others come to us by necessity and chance.' [2.19.14] And if a thing is possible for the worse, the weaker, and the more foolish, it is possible all the more for their opposites — just as Isocrates said it would be strange if Euthynus learned it while he himself would be unable to discover it. [2.19.15] As for the impossible, it is clear that it follows from the opposites of what has been said.
45| [2.19.16] Whether something has happened must be examined from the following. [2.19.17] For first, if what is naturally less likely to happen has happened, then what is more likely to happen would have happened too. And if what usually happens later has happened, then what happens earlier has happened as well — for example, if someone has forgotten something, he must at some point have learned it. [2.19.18] And if he was able and willing, he has done it: for everyone, whenever able and willing, acts, since nothing stands in the way. [2.19.19] Further, if he was willing and nothing external prevented him; and if he was able and was angry; and if he was able and desired it — for as a rule people do what they reach for, if they are able: the base do so through lack of self-control, the decent because they desire what is decent. [2.19.20] And if he was about to do it, he did it: for it is likely that one who is about to do something also does it. [2.19.21] And if the things that naturally come before something, or for the sake of something, have happened, then that thing has happened too — for example, if it lightened, it also thundered; and if he attempted it, he did it. And if the things that naturally happen later, or the thing for the sake of which something happens, have happened, then what comes earlier, and what is for the sake of this, has happened too — for example, if it thundered, it also lightened; and if he did it, he attempted it. [2.19.22] Of all these, some hold of necessity, others as a rule. As for a thing's not having happened, it is clear that it follows from the opposites of what has been said. [2.19.23] And concerning what will be, it is clear from the same considerations: for what lies within capacity and within wish will be, and what lies within desire and anger and calculation together with capacity — these will be, whenever there is an impulse to do them or an intention to do them, for as a rule things that are intended happen more than things that are not intended.
46| [2.19.24] And if the things that naturally happen earlier have already happened, then the later thing is likely too — for example, if it is clouded over, it is likely to rain. [2.19.25] And if what is for the sake of this has happened, then this too is likely to have happened — for example, if there is a foundation, a house is likely too. [2.19.26] Concerning the greatness and smallness of things, the greater and the lesser, and generally the great and the small, it is clear from what we said before. For in the deliberative speeches we spoke about the magnitude of goods and about the greater and the lesser without qualification, so that, since in each kind of speech the end proposed is a good — for example the advantageous, the fine, or the just — it is clear that the means of amplification for all of them must be taken through those. [2.19.27] To go on seeking, beyond this, about magnitude and superiority in an unqualified way is empty talk: for particular facts about things carry more weight for practical use than universals do. Let this, then, be said concerning the possible and the impossible, and whether something has or has not happened and will or will not be, and further concerning the greatness and smallness of things. [2.20.1] It remains to speak about the proofs common to every kind of speech, since we have spoken about the proofs peculiar to each. The common proofs are two in kind: the example and the enthymeme, for the maxim is part of the enthymeme. [2.20.2] Let us speak first about the example, for the example resembles induction, and induction is a starting point. There are two kinds of example: one kind is to tell of things that have happened before, the other is to make them up oneself. Of this latter, one kind is the comparison, the other fables,
47| [2.20.3] such as the Aesopic and the Libyan fables. Telling of things that have happened is something like this: for example, if someone should say that one must prepare against the King and not let him subdue Egypt — for earlier, Darius did not cross over until he had taken Egypt, and once he had taken it, he crossed; and again Xerxes did not make his attempt until he had taken it, and once he had taken it, he crossed; so that this king too, if he takes it, will cross, and therefore he must not be allowed to. [2.20.4] The comparison is the Socratic kind — for example, if someone should say that officials must not be chosen by lot: it is like choosing athletes by lot, not the ones able to compete but whoever draws the lot, or like choosing by lot which of the sailors is to steer, as though it should be the one who draws the lot rather than the one who knows how. [2.20.5] The fable is, for example, Stesichorus' fable about Phalaris and Aesop's on behalf of the demagogue. When the people of Himera had chosen Phalaris general with absolute power and were about to give him a bodyguard, Stesichorus, after discussing the other points, told them a story: that a horse alone held a meadow, and when a stag came and ruined the pasture, the horse, wishing to punish the stag, asked a man whether he could help him punish it; the man said he could, if the horse took a bit and let him mount with javelins in hand. The horse agreed, and once the man had mounted, instead of getting his revenge, the horse became the man's slave. 'So you too,' he said, 'watch out that in wishing to punish your enemies you do not suffer the same fate as the horse: for you already have the bit, since you have chosen a general with absolute power; and if you give him a bodyguard and let him mount, you will already be slaves to Phalaris.'
48| [2.20.6] And Aesop, speaking in Samos when a demagogue was being tried for his life, said that a fox, crossing a river, was swept into a ravine, and being unable to climb out, suffered badly for a long time, with many dog-ticks fastened on her. A hedgehog, wandering by, saw her and, taking pity, asked whether he should pull off the ticks; but she would not let him. When he asked why, she said: 'These are already full of me and draw little blood; but if you pull them off, others will come, hungry, and drink up the rest of my blood.' 'And you too, men of Samos,' he said, 'this man will no longer harm you — for he is already rich — but if you kill him, others will come, poor men, who will use up what is left by stealing it.' [2.20.7] Fables are suited to popular oratory, and they have this advantage: while it is hard to find similar things that have actually happened, it is easier to make up fables — one must construct them, just as with comparisons, if one is able to see the similarity, which is easier for someone trained in philosophy. [2.20.8] Examples drawn from fables, then, are easier to procure, but those drawn from actual events are more useful for deliberation: for as a rule the things that are going to happen are similar to the things that have happened. [2.20.9] One should use examples, when one lacks enthymemes, as demonstrations — for persuasion comes through them — but when one has enthymemes, use the examples as testimony, adding them after the enthymemes as a supplement. For when placed first, an example resembles induction, and induction is not suited to rhetorical speeches except in a few cases; but when added afterward, examples serve as testimony, and a witness is everywhere persuasive. Hence too, one who places examples first must give many, but one who adds them afterward needs only one, for even a single good witness is useful. We have now said how many kinds of examples there are, and how and when one must use them.
49| [2.21.1] Concerning the use of maxims: once we have said what a maxim is, it will become clear enough what sorts of subjects, on what occasions, and for what kind of speaker it is fitting to use maxims in speeches. [2.21.2] A maxim is a statement, but not about particulars — not, for instance, about what sort of man Iphicrates was — but universal; and yet not about everything whatever, as that the straight is the opposite of the curved, but about matters of action, about things to be chosen or avoided with a view to acting. So since the enthymeme is the syllogism concerned with such matters, maxims are, roughly speaking, the conclusions of enthymemes, or their premises, with the syllogism itself removed — for example: "No man of sound mind should ever have his children taught to be excessively clever" (Eur. Med. 294-295). This by itself is a maxim. But once the cause and the reason why are added, the whole becomes an enthymeme, for example: "For apart from the idleness they already incur, they earn ill-will and envy from the citizens" (Eur. Med. 296-297). And so too: "There is no man who is happy in everything" (Eur. fr. 661), and "There is no man who is free" (Eur. Hec. 864) is a maxim, and joined to what follows it becomes an enthymeme: "for he is a slave either to money or to fortune" (Eur. Hec. 865). [2.21.3] If this is what a maxim is, then there must be four kinds of maxim: for it will either come with a supplement or without a supplement. [2.21.4] Now those maxims need a supporting supplement which state something paradoxical or disputed; those which state nothing paradoxical need none. [2.21.5] Of the latter, some need no supplement because they are already known in advance — for example, "For a man, health is the best thing, as it seems to me at least" (for that is how it appears to most people) — while others are evident as soon as they are said, to anyone who looks at them, for example "No lover is one who does not love forever" (Eur. Tro. 1051).
50| [2.21.6] Of those that come with a supplement, some are part of an enthymeme, as "No man of sound mind should ever..." (Eur. Med. 294); others are enthymeme-like without being part of an enthymeme — and these are the ones held in the highest regard. They are the ones in which the reason for what is said is made apparent within the statement itself, for example in "Being mortal, do not nurse an undying wrath" — for to say one ought not nurse it is the maxim, but the addition "being mortal" gives the reason why. Likewise: "The mortal must think mortal thoughts, not immortal ones." [2.21.7] It is clear, then, from what has been said, how many kinds of maxim there are, and which kind suits which subject: for concerning matters disputed or paradoxical, one should not speak without a supplement, but either state the supplement first and then use the maxim as the conclusion (for example, if one were to say: "For my part, then, since one ought neither to be envied nor to be idle, I say children should not be educated") — or state the maxim first and add the supplement afterward. But concerning matters not paradoxical, though not obvious either, the reason why should be added as concisely as possible. [2.21.8] In such cases the Laconic style of terse sayings and riddling remarks is also fitting, for example if someone were to say what Stesichorus said among the Locrians, that they ought not to be insolent, lest the cicadas end up singing from the ground. [2.21.9] It is fitting for maxims to be used by those advanced in age, and about matters in which the speaker has experience, so that for someone not of that age to use maxims is unbecoming, just as telling stories is, and to use them about matters one has no experience of is foolish and uneducated. There is sufficient evidence of this: for it is countrymen who are most given to coining maxims, and who pronounce them most readily.
51| [2.21.10] To state as universal what is not in fact universal is most fitting in expressions of indignant complaint and in amplification of outrage, and in these cases either at the beginning of the point or after it has been demonstrated. [2.21.11] One should also make use of maxims that are well-worn and common, provided they are useful; for because they are common, as though everyone agreed with them, they seem to be correct — for example, in urging men into danger without having first sacrificed: "One omen is best: to fight in defense of one's country" (Hom. Il. 12.243); or, when at a disadvantage: "The war-god is impartial" (Hom. Il. 18.309); or in urging that the children of enemies be destroyed even though they have done no wrong: "Foolish is the man who, having killed the father, leaves the children alive." [2.21.12] Further, some proverbs are also maxims, for example the proverb "An Attic neighbor." [2.21.13] One should also state maxims that run counter to the commonly published sayings — I mean by "commonly published" such things as "Know thyself" and "Nothing in excess" — whenever this is likely either to make one's character appear better, or to be stated with more emotional force. It has emotional force, for example, if someone speaking in anger were to say it is false that one must know oneself: "This man, at any rate, if he had known himself, would never have thought himself fit to command." And it shows better character to say that one ought not, as the saying goes, love as though one will someday hate, but rather hate as though one will someday love. [2.21.14] One's wording should make the underlying choice clear as well; failing that, one should add the reason for it — for example, saying it this way: "One ought to love not as they say, but as one who will always love; for the other course belongs to a schemer"; or this way: "I do not like the saying; for the true friend ought to love as one who will always love." And likewise with "nothing in excess": "For the wicked, at least, ought to be hated in excess."
52| [2.21.15] Maxims give great help to speeches for one reason owing to the vulgarity of the audience: for people are delighted when a speaker, in stating something universal, hits upon opinions which they themselves already hold about particular cases. What I mean will be clear from the following, and at the same time it will show how one should hunt out such maxims. A maxim, as has been said, is a universal statement, and people are delighted when a universal statement is made that matches an opinion they already happen to hold about a particular case — for example, if a man happens to have bad neighbors or bad children, he will welcome anyone who says that nothing is more troublesome than a neighbor, or that nothing is more foolish than having children. One must therefore aim at guessing what opinions the audience already happens to hold in advance, and then state the corresponding universal about them. [2.21.16] This, then, is one use maxim-speaking has, and there is another, better one: it lends a moral character to speeches. Speeches have moral character wherever the underlying choice is made plain; and maxims all do this, because the one stating a maxim declares a universal about matters of choice, so that, if the maxims are sound, they also make the speaker appear to be of sound character. Let this suffice, then, concerning the maxim: what it is, how many kinds of it there are, how it should be used, and what benefit it provides.
53| [2.22.1] Concerning enthymemes, let us now speak generally about how one should search for them, and after that about the topics from which they are drawn; for each of these is a different kind of inquiry. [2.22.2] That the enthymeme is a syllogism has been said before, and in what way it is a syllogism, and how it differs from the syllogisms of dialectic. [2.22.3] For one must not draw the conclusion by taking premises from too far back, nor by taking in everything: the former makes the argument unclear because of its length, the latter is mere garrulousness, because it states what is obvious. This is in fact the very reason why the uneducated are more persuasive than the educated before crowds, as the poets say the uneducated speak more musically before a crowd: for the educated speak in terms that are common and universal, while the uneducated speak from what they themselves know, and from what is near at hand; so one must not draw conclusions from everything that seems to be the case, but from a defined set of premises — for example, those held by the judges, or by people whose opinion they accept — and this because it thereby appears evident to all, or to most. And one should draw conclusions not only from what is necessarily so, but also from what holds for the most part.
54| [2.22.4] First, then, we must grasp that about whatever one has to speak and reason, whether by a political syllogism or by any other kind, one must have the facts that hold true of it, either all of them or some of them; for if you have nothing, you have nothing to draw a conclusion from. [2.22.5] I mean, for example, how could we advise the Athenians whether to go to war or not, without knowing what their power is, whether it is naval or infantry or both, and how great this is, and what their revenues are or who are their friends and enemies, and further what wars they have fought and how, and other such things? [2.22.6] Or how could we praise them, if we did not have the sea-battle at Salamis or the battle at Marathon or the deeds done by the sons of Heracles or some other such thing? For it is from the facts that hold true, or seem to hold true, that are fine that everyone praises. [2.22.7] And likewise people blame from the opposite facts, looking at what such fact holds true of the objects, or seems to hold true, of them — for instance that they enslaved the Greeks, and that they reduced to slavery those who had fought as allies against the barbarian and had distinguished themselves, the Aeginetans and the Potidaeans, and all the other such cases, and whatever other such fault holds true of them. In the same way both accusers and defenders, looking to the facts that hold true, accuse and defend. [2.22.8] And it makes no difference whether the case is about Athenians or Spartans, a man or a god — the same thing is to be done: for even in advising Achilles, and praising or blaming him, and accusing or defending him, one must take the facts that hold true or seem to hold true, so that we may speak from these, praising or blaming if anything fine or shameful holds true, accusing or defending if anything just or unjust, advising if anything advantageous or harmful.
55| [2.22.9] Likewise too concerning any matter whatever, for instance about justice, whether it is good or not good, one argues from the facts that hold true of justice and of the good. [2.22.10] So then, since everyone plainly demonstrates in this way, whether they reason more precisely or more loosely (for they do not take their premises from everything, but from what holds true about each particular subject), and since it is also clear through argument that it is impossible to show it otherwise, it is evident that it is necessary, just as in the Topics, first to have selected, for each subject, the facts that are possible and most opportune, [2.22.11] and concerning matters that arise on the spur of the moment to inquire in the same way, looking not to what is indefinite but to the facts that hold true concerning the subject of the speech, and marking off as many as possible and as close as possible to the matter at hand; for the more of the facts that hold true one has, the easier it is to demonstrate, and the closer they are, the more proper to the case and the less common they are. [2.22.12] I call common, for example, praising Achilles because he is a man, and because he is one of the demigods, and because he campaigned against Troy; for these hold true of many others too, so that such a person praises Achilles no more than he praises Diomedes. Proper facts are those that belong to no one else but Achilles, for instance that he killed Hector, the best of the Trojans, and Cycnus, who, being invulnerable, prevented everyone from disembarking, and that he campaigned though youngest and not under oath, and all the other such facts. [2.22.13] This, then, is one method of selection, the first, the topical one; let us now state the elements of enthymemes — I call element and topic of an enthymeme the same thing. But first let us speak about what it is necessary to speak of first.
56| [2.22.14] There are two species of enthymemes: some are demonstrative, showing that something is or is not the case, others are refutative, and they differ just as, in dialectic, refutation and syllogism differ. [2.22.15] The demonstrative enthymeme is the one that draws a conclusion from things agreed upon, the refutative one is the one that draws together things not agreed upon. [2.22.16] Now for practical purposes, concerning each of the useful and necessary species, we more or less already have the topics; for the premises about each subject have been selected, so that the topics from which we must bring forward enthymemes about the good or the bad, or the fine or the shameful, or the just or the unjust, and likewise about characters and emotions and states, have already been taken up by us beforehand. [2.22.17] But let us now, in another way, take up a general account concerning all of them together, and let us speak, noting in passing the refutative and the demonstrative enthymemes, and those that are apparent enthymemes but are not really enthymemes, since they are not really syllogisms either. And once these have been made clear, let us go on to distinguish, concerning solutions and objections, from where one must bring these to bear against enthymemes. [2.23.1] One topic of the demonstrative kind is from opposites: for one must consider whether the opposite holds true of the opposite, refuting if it does not hold true, establishing if it does hold true — for instance, that being temperate is good, since being unrestrained is harmful. Or as in the Messeniac speech: for if war is the cause of the present evils, one must set things right by means of peace. For if it is not just that anger should fall upon those who have done wrong involuntarily, nor should anyone who has been compelled to do someone a good turn be owed gratitude in return for it; but if it is possible among mortals to speak persuasive falsehoods, you must also believe the opposite, that many things unbelievable turn out true for mortals. (Euripides, fragment 396)
57| [2.23.2] Another topic is from similar inflections: for what holds true, or does not hold true, must hold true similarly — for instance, that not everything just is good; for then dying justly would also be good, but as it is, dying justly is not something to be chosen. [2.23.3] Another is from things relative to one another: for if it holds true of the one that he acted finely or justly, it holds true of the other that he was finely or justly treated, and if it holds true that he ordered it, it holds true that he did it — as the tax-farmer Diomedon said about the taxes, that if selling is not shameful for you, neither is buying shameful for us. And if it holds true of the one who was treated that he was treated finely or justly, it also holds true of the one who did it. But it is possible to be misled by this: for if someone suffered something justly, he has indeed suffered it justly, but perhaps not at your hands; so one must consider separately whether the one who suffered deserved to suffer it and whether the one who did it deserved to do it, and then use whichever application is fitting; for sometimes this sort of thing pulls apart, and nothing prevents it, as in the Alcmaeon of Theodectes: 'Did no mortal detest your mother?' And he, answering, says: 'But one must divide the matter and examine it separately.' And when Alphesiboea asks how, he replies, taking up the point: 'They judged that she should die, but not that I should kill her.' And so too the trial concerning Demosthenes and those who killed Nicanor:
58| for since they were judged to have killed justly, it was thought that he died justly. And concerning the man who died at Thebes, about whom the order is given to judge whether he deserved to die, on the ground that it is not unjust to kill someone who died justly. [2.23.4] Another topic is from the more and the less — for instance, if not even the gods know everything, hardly would men; for this amounts to saying that if something does not hold true of that of which it would more likely hold true, then clearly it does not hold true of that of which it would hold true less. And the point that a man strikes his neighbors, seeing that he strikes even his father is from the principle that if the less likely thing holds true, the more likely thing also holds true; for men strike their fathers less than they strike their neighbors — either put it this way, or say that if something does not hold true of that of which it more likely holds true, or holds true of that of which it less likely holds true, whichever one needs to show, whether that it holds true or that it does not.
59| [2.23.5] Further, if neither more nor less applies — hence the saying: "your father is pitiable, for he lost his children; but did not Oeneus lose the famous offspring of Greece?" And that if Theseus did no wrong, neither did Alexander; and if the sons of Tyndareus did no wrong, neither did Alexander; and if Hector killed Patroclus, Alexander killed Achilles. And if other craftsmen are not base for their errors, neither are the philosophers. And if generals are not base because they are often put to death, neither are the sophists. And that if the private citizen must look after your reputation, you must look after that of the Greeks. [2.23.6] Another topic is from examining the time — as Iphicrates did in his speech against Harmodius, that if, before he had done the deed, he had asked to be granted a statue in case he should do it, you would have granted it; will you then not grant it now that he has done it? So do not, while promising when the deed lies in the future, take the promise back once it has happened. And again, against the proposal that the Thebans let Philip pass through into Attica: that if, before he had helped the Phocians, he had asked leave to pass, they would have promised it; it is absurd, then, if because he already gave up his advantage and trusted them, they will not let him pass. [2.23.7] Another is from what has been said against a man himself, turned back on the one who said it — as in the Teucer. Different from this is the way Iphicrates used it against Aristophon: he asked him whether he would betray the fleet for money, and when Aristophon said no, Iphicrates said, "then if you, being Aristophon, would not have betrayed it, would I, being Iphicrates?" But it must first be established that the other man is the more likely of the two to have done wrong; otherwise the move looks ridiculous — as if, in accusing Aristides, someone made this same point in order to discredit the accuser, since the accuser in general wants to appear better than the defendant; this assumption, then, must be exposed as false. And in general it is absurd when a man censures in others what he himself does or would do, or urges others to do what he himself neither does nor would do.
60| [2.23.8] Another is from definition — for instance: what is the divine sign? Is it a god, or the work of a god? Yet whoever thinks it is the work of a god must necessarily think that gods exist. And as Iphicrates argued, that the best man is the most nobly born: for neither Harmodius nor Aristogeiton had any nobility before they did something noble. And that he himself is more akin to them: "at any rate my deeds are more akin to those of Harmodius and Aristogeiton than yours are." And as in the Alexander, that everyone would agree that undisciplined men do not want the enjoyment of one body only. And the reason Socrates gave for refusing to go visit Archelaus: he said it was an outrage to be unable to requite good treatment as well as bad. For all these people, having defined the thing and grasped what it is, reason syllogistically about the matter under discussion. [2.23.9] Another is from the number of senses a word has — as in the Topics, concerning "correctly." [2.23.10] Another is from division — for instance, if all people do wrong for one of three reasons (for it is for this reason, or this, or this), and two of the reasons are impossible in this case, and the wrongdoers themselves do not even claim the third. [2.23.11] Another is from induction — as from the speech For the Woman of Peparethus, that concerning their children women everywhere discern the truth.
61| For in Athens, when Mantias the orator was disputing with his son, his mother declared the truth of the matter; and in Thebes, when Ismenias and Stilbon were disputing, Dodonis testified that the boy was Ismenias's son, and for this reason they held Thettaliscus to be Ismenias's son. And again from the Law of Theodectes: if we do not hand over our own horses to men who have looked after other people's horses badly, nor our own ships to men who have wrecked other people's ships, then — if the principle holds equally in every case — men who have guarded what belongs to others badly should not be entrusted with the safety of what belongs to us. And as Alcidamas argued, that everyone honors the wise: at any rate the Parians have honored Archilochus, slanderous though he was; and the Chians have honored Homer, though he was not their citizen; and the Mytilenaeans have honored Sappho, though she was a woman; and the Spartans made Chilon one of the elders, although they are the least devoted to learning of anyone; and the people of Italy honored Pythagoras; and the people of Lampsacus buried Anaxagoras, a foreigner, and honor him still even now; and the Athenians, by using the laws of Solon, prospered, and the Spartans by using those of Lycurgus; and at Thebes, as soon as the leading men became philosophers, the city prospered.
62| [2.23.12] Another is from a judgment made about the same thing, or something similar, or its opposite — best of all if the judgment is everyone's and always given, but failing that, at least most people's, whether the wise or everyone or most, or the good; or if the ones judging now are themselves such judges, or those the current judges accept, or those against whom it is not possible to render a contrary judgment, such as those in authority, or those against whom it is not honorable to render a contrary judgment, such as gods, a father, or teachers — as Autocles said against Mixidemides: that if it was proper for the August Goddesses to submit to trial on the Areopagus, it was not proper for Mixidemides to refuse. Or as Sappho said, that dying is an evil: for the gods have judged so — since otherwise they themselves would die. Or as Aristippus said to Plato, when Plato had spoken rather too dogmatically, as Aristippus thought: "well, our companion" — meaning Socrates — "never spoke like that." And Hegesipolis at Delphi asked the god — having already consulted at Olympia — whether his own opinion agreed with his father's, on the ground that it would be shameful to say the opposite. And concerning Helen, as Isocrates wrote, that she was virtuous, since Theseus judged her so; and concerning Alexander, that the goddesses' preference speaks in his favor; and concerning Evagoras, that he was virtuous, as Isocrates says —
63| "at any rate Conon, when he met with misfortune, passed over all the others and went to Evagoras." [2.23.13] Another is from the parts — as in the Topics: what kind of motion is the soul? For it must be this kind or that. An example is from the Socrates of Theodectes: "against what sacred place has he committed impiety? Which of the gods the city recognizes has he failed to honor?" [2.23.14] Another, since in most cases something good and something bad follow from the same thing, argues from the consequence, to urge a course or dissuade from it, to accuse or defend, to praise or blame — for instance, being envied follows from being educated, and that is bad, while being wise is good; "therefore one should not be educated, since one should not be envied"; or on the other side, "one should be educated, since one should be wise." This topic is the whole of the Art of Callippus, with the addition of "the possible" and the rest as has been said.
64| [2.23.15] Another applies whenever, concerning two opposed courses, one must either urge or dissuade in both directions, using the method just described on both. It differs from that one in this: there, the things set against each other are chosen at random, but here they are genuine opposites — for instance, a priestess would not let her son speak in the assembly: "for if," she said, "you say what is just, people will hate you, and if you say what is unjust, the gods will." But one should speak in the assembly: for if you say what is just, the gods will love you, and if what is unjust, people will. This is the same as the saying "to buy the marsh along with the salt"; and this is what "twisting" is — whenever, of two opposites, a good and a bad follow from each one, the goods being opposite to each other and the bads opposite to each other. [2.23.16] Another, since people do not praise the same things openly as they do in private, but openly they praise justice and nobility above all, while privately they want rather what is advantageous, is to try to infer the one from the other: for of the topics used to establish paradoxical claims, this one is the most authoritative. [2.23.17] Another is from the fact that things happen in the same proportion — as when Iphicrates, whose son was younger than the required age but tall, was pressed to make him perform public services, and said that if they count tall boys as men, they will have to vote that short men are boys. And Theodectes in the Law: "you make citizens of mercenaries such as Strabax and Charidemus, because of their good service —
65| will you then not make exiles of those among the mercenaries who have committed irreparable wrongs?" [2.23.18] Another is from the fact that if the result is the same, then the things that produce it are the same too — as Xenophanes said, that those who say the gods were born are equally impious as those who say the gods die: for either way it follows that at some time the gods do not exist. And in general, one should take what follows from each thing as always the same: "you are about to judge not about Isocrates, but about a whole pursuit — whether one should practice philosophy." And that to give earth and water is to become a slave, and that to share in the common peace is to do what one is commanded. One must adopt whichever of these serves one's purpose.
66| [2.23.19] Another topic: from the fact that people do not always choose the same thing earlier and later, but the reverse — for instance the enthymeme: "When we were in exile we fought so that we might return, but now that we have returned we shall go into exile so as not to fight." For at one time they chose to remain rather than fight, and at another time chose not to fight rather than remain. [2.23.20] Another: to say that whatever a thing would be for the sake of, or would have come to be for the sake of, is in fact for that reason, or came to be for that reason — for instance, if someone would give a thing to another in order to cause him pain by taking it away again. Hence too the saying: "To many the god does not give great goods out of goodwill, but so that they may meet with more conspicuous disasters." And the passage from the Meleager of Antiphon: "not that they might kill the beast, but that they might become witnesses of Meleager's valor before Greece" (Antiphon fr. 2). And the passage from the Ajax of Theodectes, that Diomedes chose Odysseus not to honor him, but so that the one who followed him should be the lesser man — for it is possible that he did it for this reason. [2.23.21] Another, common both to disputants and to political advisers: to examine the things that urge toward and away from a course of action, and the things for the sake of which people both act and avoid acting — for these are the things that, if present, one ought to act on, and if absent, ought not to act on: for instance, whether a thing is possible and easy and beneficial either to oneself or to friends, or harmful to enemies, and even if it carries a penalty, whether the penalty is less than the gain. People are urged on from these considerations and dissuaded from their opposites. And from these same considerations people both accuse and defend themselves: from the dissuading considerations they defend, from the urging ones they accuse. This topic is the whole art of both Pamphilus and Callippus.
67| [2.23.22] Another: from things that seem to have happened but are hard to believe, is to argue that they would not have seemed so unless they were, or were close to being, true — and to argue that they are all the more likely to be true for this very reason: for people suppose either what is the case or what is likely; if then a thing is hard to believe and not likely, it would nonetheless be true, since it is certainly not because it is likely and persuasive that it seems so. For instance, Androcles of Pitthus, accusing the law, when the audience made an uproar at what he said, remarked: "The laws need a law to set them right, for fish too need salt" — though it is neither likely nor persuasive that creatures raised in brine should need salt — "and olive pulp needs oil" — though it is hard to believe that the very substance from which oil is made should itself need oil. [2.23.23] Another, refutative: to examine inconsistencies — whether there is some inconsistency in respect of places, times, actions, and statements — applied separately to the opponent, for instance: "he says he loves you, yet he conspired with the Thirty"; applied separately to oneself, for instance: "he says I am fond of lawsuits, yet he cannot show that I have ever had a single case tried"; and applied separately both to oneself and to the opponent: "he has never lent anyone anything, while I have ransomed many of you." [2.23.24] Another, for people or things that have already been maligned, or seem to be, is to state the reason for the paradox; for there is some reason why it appears so. For instance, a woman who had substituted her own son for another's, because she embraced him, was thought to be having an affair with the young man; but when the reason was stated, the slander was dissolved. And, for example, in the Ajax of Theodectes, Odysseus tells Ajax why, although he is braver than Ajax, he does not seem to be.
68| [2.23.25] Another, from the cause: if the cause is present, one is to argue that the effect is; and if the cause is not present, that the effect is not — for the cause and that of which it is the cause go together, and without a cause nothing exists. For instance, Leodamas, defending himself when Thrasybulus accused him of having had his name inscribed on a pillar on the Acropolis but of having had it struck out under the Thirty, said this was impossible: for the Thirty would have trusted him more had his hostility to the democracy stood on record. [2.23.26] Another: to examine, of the things a person advises, does, or has done, whether some better course was or is possible; for it is clear that if this is not the case, he has not acted wrongly — since no one deliberately and knowingly chooses what is base. This, however, is false; for often it becomes clear only afterward how it would have been better to act, though beforehand it was unclear. [2.23.27] Another: whenever an action about to be taken is contrary to what has already been done, to examine the two together at once — for instance, Xenophanes, when the people of Elea asked him whether they should sacrifice to Leucothea and lament for her or not, advised them: if they suppose her a god, not to lament her; if a human being, not to sacrifice to her. [2.23.28] Another topic: to accuse or defend on the basis of errors that have been made — for instance, in the Medea of Carcinus, some accuse Medea of having killed her children, on the ground that they are nowhere to be seen (for Medea's mistake was in how she sent the children away), while she defends herself by saying that it is not the children she would have killed but Jason —
69| for this would have been her mistake had she not done it, granted that she did do the other thing. This topic, and this form of enthymeme, make up the whole of the earlier art of Theodorus. [2.23.29] Another: from the name — for instance, as Sophocles says, "clearly of iron, and bearing the name too" (Sophocles fr. 597); and as people are accustomed to speak in praises of the gods; and as Conon called Thrasybulus "rash-in-counsel"; and as Herodicus said to Thrasymachus, "you are always rash-in-battle," and to Polus, "you are always a colt"; and said of Draco the lawgiver that his laws were not those of a human being but of a dragon — for they were harsh; and as Euripides' Hecuba says of Aphrodite: "and rightly does her name begin with folly" (Euripides, Hecuba 990); and as Chaeremon says: "Pentheus, named for the disaster to come" (Chaeremon fr. 4).
70| [2.23.30] Refutative enthymemes are held in higher regard than demonstrative ones, because the refutative enthymeme brings opposites together within a small compass, and things set side by side are more evident to the hearer. Of all syllogisms, both refutative and demonstrative, the ones that draw the most applause are those which, as they begin, the hearers foresee will not be superficial — for at the same time the hearers are pleased with themselves for having anticipated it — and those which lag just far enough behind that the hearers grasp them the instant they are stated. [2.24.1] Since it is possible for one syllogism to be genuine and another not to be genuine but only to appear so, it necessarily follows that one enthymeme is genuine, while another is not really an enthymeme but only appears to be one, inasmuch as the enthymeme is a kind of syllogism. [2.24.2] The topics of apparent enthymemes are as follows. One is that which depends on diction, and of this one part is — as in dialectical arguments — stating the conclusion at the end in syllogistic form without having actually reasoned it out: "therefore not this and that," "therefore necessarily this and that." In enthymemes, speaking compactly and antithetically gives the appearance of an enthymeme (for such diction is the proper home of an enthymeme), and this sort of effect seems to arise from the figure of the diction. For speaking syllogistically in one's diction it is useful to state the headings of many syllogisms together: "he saved some, avenged others upon their enemies, and freed the Greeks" —
71| for each of these was demonstrated from other premises, but when they are put together it appears that something further comes out of these very statements themselves. Another is that which depends on homonymy — for instance, saying that a mouse is a worthy creature, since from it comes the most honored of all initiation rites (for the Mysteries are the most honored of all rites). Or if someone praising a dog were to include along with it the dog in the heavens, or Pan, because Pindar said: "O blessed one, whom the Olympians call the great goddess's dog, in every shape"; or to argue that since to be no dog at all is the most dishonorable thing, it is clear that the dog is honorable. And saying that Hermes is the most sociable of the gods, since he alone is called "common Hermes." And that speech is the most serious thing of all, because good men are worthy not of money but of speech — for "worthy of speech" is not said in an unqualified sense.
72| [2.24.3] Another topic is to state as combined what is divided, or to state as divided what is combined. For since what is not the same often seems to be the same, one should do whichever of the two is more useful. This is Euthydemus's argument: for instance, knowing that a trireme is in the Piraeus, since one knows each thing separately. And that a man who knows the letters knows the poem too, since the poem is the same as the letters. And since twice as much of a thing is unhealthy, one should not say that a single amount of it is healthy; for it is absurd that two goods should make one evil. Constructed this way the argument is refutative, but constructed the other way it is demonstrative, since one good is not two evils. Still, the whole topic is fallacious. Again, there is Polycrates' remark about Thrasybulus, that he put down thirty tyrants, since he combines them into one. Or the passage in Theodectes' Orestes, which proceeds by division: it is just that whoever kills her husband should die, and that the son should avenge the father; well then, these very things have been done, for combined together they are perhaps no longer just. This kind of case might also come about through omission, since it leaves out by whom the act was done. [2.24.4] Another topic is to establish or overturn a case by intensification. This happens when, without showing that a man did or did not do the deed, one magnifies the matter, for this makes it seem either that he has not done it, when the man under the charge magnifies it, or that he has done it, when the accuser magnifies it. This, then, is not really an enthymeme, for the hearer is led into the false belief that the man did or did not do it, though nothing has actually been shown. [2.24.5] Another topic is from a sign, and this too is unsyllogistic: for instance, if someone should say that lovers are beneficial to cities, since the love of Harmodius and Aristogeiton overthrew the tyrant Hipparchus; or if someone should say that Dionysius is a thief, since he is wicked. This is unsyllogistic, for not every wicked man is a thief, though every thief is wicked.
73| [2.24.6] Another topic proceeds through what is accidental, such as what Polycrates says about the mice, that they helped by gnawing through the bowstrings; or if someone should say that being invited to dinner is the greatest honor, since it was because he was not invited that Achilles grew angry at the Achaeans at Tenedos. But he grew angry as a man dishonored, and it merely happened that this was because he had not been invited. [2.24.7] Another topic is from what follows: as in the speech called Alexander, that he is great-souled, for despising the company of the many he lived by himself on Ida, since great-souled men are of this sort, and so this man too might seem to be great-souled. Or: since a man is a dandy and wanders about by night, he is an adulterer, since men of that sort are like that. Similar too is the argument that in temples beggars both sing and dance, and that exiles are allowed to live wherever they wish, since these things belong to men who seem to be happy, and so those to whom these things belong might seem to be happy; but the difference lies in how, which is why this too falls under the fallacy of omission. [2.24.8] Another topic is treating what is not a cause as a cause, as by a thing's having happened at the same time as, or after, another; for people take what comes after a thing to have happened because of it, and politicians especially do this, as when Demades said that Demosthenes' policy was the cause of all the troubles, since the war came about after it. [2.24.9] Another topic is from the omission of when and how: as in the claim that Alexander justly took Helen, since a choice was given to her by her father. But this was perhaps not so for all time, but only for the first choice, since the father is master of her only up to that point. Or if someone should say that striking free men is an act of outrage: this is not so in every case, but only when the man begins with an unjust use of his hands.
74| [2.24.10] Further, just as in eristic arguments an apparent syllogism arises from treating something as simply true rather than true in a certain respect, as in dialectical arguments the claim that what is not, is, since what is not is indeed not, and that the unknown is knowable, since it is knowable that the unknown is unknown, so too in rhetorical arguments an apparent enthymeme arises from treating something as not simply likely but likely in a certain respect. This is not universal, as Agathon too says: one might perhaps say that this very thing is likely, that many things happen to mortals that are not likely. For what is contrary to the likely does come about, so that what is contrary to the likely is itself likely, and if so, then the unlikely will be likely. But not simply so; rather, just as in eristic arguments the sophistry arises when in what respect, in relation to what, and in what way are not added, so here too it arises from a thing's being likely not simply but likely in a certain respect. [2.24.11] It is from this topic that the art of Corax is put together: for whether or not a man is liable to the charge, he can argue from likelihood either way. Being weak, he denies a charge of assault, since it is not likely he did it; or even if he is liable, being strong, he still denies it, since it is not likely, because it was likely to seem so and he would therefore avoid it. It is the same in other cases too, for a man must be either liable or not liable to the charge; both possibilities, then, appear likely, but one of them really is likely, while the other is not simply so, but likely only in the way described. And this is what making the weaker argument the stronger amounts to. This is also why people rightly resented Protagoras' profession, for it is false, and it is not a true but only an apparent likelihood, and belongs to no craft except rhetoric and eristic.
75| [2.25.1] Concerning enthymemes, then, both real and apparent, an account has been given; it remains, following what has been said, to speak about refutation. One may refute either by counter-syllogizing or by bringing forward an objection. [2.25.2] Now it is clear that counter-syllogizing can be done from these same topics, for syllogisms are drawn from reputable opinions, and many things that seem true are contrary to one another. [2.25.3] Objections are brought, just as in the Topics, in four ways: either from the thing itself, or from what is similar, or from what is contrary, or from things already judged. [2.25.4] By from the thing itself I mean, for instance, if the enthymeme concerned love, arguing that love is a serious matter, the objection can go two ways: either by saying universally that all want is bad, or by saying in part that Caunian love would not be spoken of, if there were not also bad loves. [2.25.5] An objection is brought from the contrary, for instance, if the enthymeme claimed that the good man benefits all his friends, one might object that the bad man too does not harm all of his. [2.25.6] From the similar, for instance, if the enthymeme claimed that those who have suffered ill always hate, one might object that those who have been treated well do not always love.
76| [2.25.7] Judgments from well-known men, for instance: if someone stated the enthymeme that drunkards should be pardoned, since they err in ignorance, the objection is that then Pittacus is not to be praised, for he would not have legislated greater penalties for a man who errs while drunk. [2.25.8] Since enthymemes are said to be drawn from four sources, and these four are the likely, the example, the sign-proof, and the sign, and since some enthymemes are put together out of things that hold, or seem to hold, for the most part, drawn from likelihoods, while others proceed by induction from what is similar, either from one instance or from several, when a man takes the universal and then syllogizes the particulars, and these proceed through example, while others proceed through what is necessary and always so, and these proceed through the sign-proof, while others proceed through what is universal or through what holds in part, whether it is actually so or not, and these proceed through signs, and since the likely is not what always holds but what holds for the most part, it is clear that enthymemes of this kind can always be refuted by bringing an objection,
77| [2.25.9] The refutation is apparent but not always true. For the objector does not refute by showing that something is not probable, but that it is not necessary. [2.25.10] For this reason, because of this fallacy, it is always possible for the defendant to have the advantage over the prosecutor. For since the prosecutor demonstrates his case through probabilities, and refuting that something is not probable is not the same as refuting that it is not necessary, and what holds for the most part always admits an objection (otherwise it would not be probable but always necessary), the judge, if the case is refuted in this way, supposes either that it is not probable or that it is not his to judge, thereby reasoning falsely, as we said (for he ought not to judge only from what is necessary, but also from what is probable — this is what judging by the best opinion means). So it is not enough for him to refute by showing that it is not necessary; he must refute by showing that it is not probable. [2.25.11] This will happen if the objection itself holds for the most part rather than only sometimes. And it is possible for it to be of this kind in two ways, either in respect of time or in respect of the facts, and most authoritative of all if in respect of both; for if the greater number of cases and more often it is so, this is more probable. [2.25.12] Signs, and enthymemes stated by way of a sign, are refuted in the same way even when the facts alleged are true, as was said in the earlier part of this treatise; for it is clear to us from the Analytics that every sign is unsyllogistic. [2.25.13] Against arguments from example the same refutation applies as against arguments from probability. For if we have some one instance that is not so, the case is refuted, on the ground that it is not necessary, even if in the greater number of cases and more often it is otherwise; but if in the greater number of cases and more often it is so, then one must contend either that the present case is not similar, or is not similar in the same way, or at least that it has some point of difference.
78| [2.25.14] But conclusive proofs and enthymemes based on conclusive proof cannot be refuted on the ground of being unsyllogistic (this too is clear to us from the Analytics); what remains is to show that the thing alleged does not hold. And if it is evident both that it does hold and that it is a conclusive proof, then this becomes unrefutable; for the whole thing at once becomes a manifest demonstration. [2.26.1] Amplification and depreciation are not an element of the enthymeme; for I call the same thing an element and a topic — an element, or topic, being that under which many enthymemes fall. Amplification and depreciation are enthymemes directed to showing that something is great or small, just as others show that it is good or bad, or just or unjust, or whatever else. [2.26.2] All these are the very things that syllogisms and enthymemes are about, so that if none of these taken individually is a topic of the enthymeme, neither is amplifying and depreciating. [2.26.3] Nor are refutative enthymemes a distinct species from constructive ones; for it is clear that one refutes either by demonstrating the contrary or by bringing an objection, and one demonstrates the opposite in return — for example, if the other side showed that something happened, this side shows that it did not happen, and if the other side showed that it did not happen, this side shows that it did happen. So this could not be the point of difference between them (for both sides use the same means: they bring enthymemes to show either that something is or that it is not). [2.26.4] The objection is not itself an enthymeme, but, as in the Topics, it is the stating of some opinion from which it will be clear either that the syllogism has not been correctly drawn, or that some false premise has been assumed. [2.26.5] Since there are three things that must be dealt with concerning speech — for examples, maxims, enthymemes, and generally the matters belonging to thought, whence we shall find an abundant supply of them and how we shall refute them — let this much have been said by us; what remains is to go through style and arrangement.
1| [3.1.1] Since there are three things that must be dealt with concerning speech — first, from what sources the means of persuasion will come; second, concerning style; and third, how one must arrange the parts of the speech — concerning the means of persuasion it has been said both from how many sources they come, that they are from three, and what these are, and why there are only so many (for all people are persuaded either because the judges themselves are affected in some way, or because they suppose the speakers to be of a certain character, or because something has been demonstrated); and it has also been said concerning the enthymemes, whence one must procure them (for some are species of enthymemes, others are topics). [3.1.2] Next in order it remains to speak concerning style; for it is not enough to have what one ought to say, but one must also of necessity say it as one ought, and this contributes much to making the speech appear to be of a certain quality. [3.1.3] Now the first inquiry pursued, according to nature, was that which is naturally first — the facts themselves, from what sources they get their power to persuade; the second was to arrange these in style; and the third, which has the greatest power of all yet has not yet been undertaken, concerns delivery. Indeed, delivery came late even into tragic performance and rhapsodic recitation;
2| for at first the poets themselves acted their own tragedies. It is clear, then, that there is such a thing in rhetoric too, just as in poetics — a matter certain others have treated, among them Glaucon of Teos. [3.1.4] This consists in the use of the voice — how one ought to use it for each emotion, for example when loud and when soft and when in a middle register, and how to use the pitches, for example acute, grave, and intermediate, and what rhythms to use for each occasion. For there are three things that people look to in this regard: volume, harmony, and rhythm. Now those who practice this art win, one might almost say, most of the prizes in the contests, and just as there actors now have more power than the poets, so it is in the political contests too, because of the corruption of the citizens.
3| [3.1.5] But no systematic art concerning these matters has yet been composed, since even the matter of style came along late; and it seems a vulgar thing, when rightly understood. But since the whole business concerning rhetoric is directed toward opinion, one must give it attention not because it is right to do so but because it is necessary, since indeed what is just is to seek nothing more in a speech than that it neither give pain nor give pleasure; for it is just to contend by means of the facts themselves alone, so that everything apart from demonstration is superfluous — and yet it has great power, as has been said, because of the corruption of the hearer. [3.1.6] Still, the matter of style does have some small necessary place in all teaching; for it makes some difference to clarity to speak this way or that, though not so much as people think — rather, all such things are a matter of appearance, directed toward the hearer; and this is why no one teaches geometry in this way. [3.1.7] That art, then, whenever it does come, will do the same work as the art of delivery; and some have attempted to say a little about it, for example Thrasymachus in his work On Pity; and being a good actor is a matter of natural gift, and belongs less to art, while the matter of style is a matter of art. This is why prizes come, in turn, to those capable of this, just as to orators who excel in delivery; for speeches that are written down have more force through their style than through their thought. [3.1.8] The poets, then, were the first to set this in motion, as was natural; for words are imitations, and of all our parts the voice is the most capable of imitation. This is why the arts of rhapsodic recitation and acting, and others as well, came into being.
4| [3.1.9] Since the poets, though saying simple things, seemed to gain their reputation through their style, poetic style was the first to arise -- the style of Gorgias, for instance -- and even now most uneducated people think that speakers of this kind converse most beautifully. But this is not so; the style of prose and the style of poetry are different. What actually happens shows this: even the writers of tragedy no longer use style in the same way, but just as they moved from tetrameters to the iambic trimeter because this meter is closest of all the meters to ordinary speech, so too they have dropped those words that lie outside everyday language, the ones with which the first poets adorned their verse, and even now the writers of hexameters have dropped them. So it is ridiculous to imitate poets who themselves no longer use that manner. [3.1.10] It is clear, then, that we should not be precise about everything that can be said concerning style, but only about as much as concerns the kind of style we are discussing here; the other kind has been discussed in the works on poetics. [3.2.1] Let those points, then, be taken as settled, and let the virtue of style be defined as clarity -- since speech is a kind of sign, and if it does not make something clear it will not do its own work -- and let it be neither low nor above the dignity of the subject, but fitting; for poetic style is perhaps not low, but it is not fitting for prose. [3.2.2] Of nouns and verbs, the standard ones make style clear, while the other kinds of words discussed in the works on poetics make it not low but adorned, since departing from the ordinary makes style seem more dignified; for just as people feel toward foreigners as they feel toward their fellow citizens, they feel the same way toward style.
5| [3.2.3] For this reason one must give one's diction a foreign air, since people admire what is far off, and what is admired is pleasant. Now in verse this is done often and suits the verse well, since the subject matter and the persons concerned there have departed further from the ordinary; but in plain prose speeches it should be done much less, since the subject matter is lesser. For even in prose, if a slave used fine language, or someone too young did, it would be unfitting, or if the matter were too trivial; but even here there is a degree of fittingness that contracts and expands. [3.2.4] Hence one must do this without being caught doing it, and must not seem to speak in a contrived way but in a natural one, for the natural is persuasive and the contrived is the opposite -- people turn against it as against someone plotting against them, just as they turn against adulterated wine. It is like how the voice of Theodorus is different from the voice of the other actors: his seems to belong to the speaker, while theirs seem to belong to someone else. [3.2.5] The trick is worked well when one selects from ordinary language in composing -- which is what Euripides does, and was the first to show how. Since speech is composed of nouns and verbs, and nouns have as many kinds as have been discussed in the works on poetry, one should use rare words, compound words, and coined words rarely and in few places -- where, and why, we will say later, since they deviate too far from what is fitting -- [3.2.6] while the standard word, the proper word, and metaphor alone are useful for the style of plain prose speeches. A sign of this is that these are the only ones everyone uses: everyone converses using metaphors, proper words, and standard words. So it is clear that if one handles this well, the result will have a foreign air and yet escape notice, and will be clear -- and this was the virtue of rhetorical speech.
6| [3.2.7] Of nouns, ambiguous terms are useful to the sophist, since it is by means of them that he does his mischief, while synonyms are useful to the poet. By standard and synonymous terms I mean, for instance, "to journey" and "to walk": both of these are standard words, and they are synonymous with each other. What each of these things is, and how many kinds of metaphor there are, and that metaphor has the greatest power both in poetry and in prose speeches, has been discussed, as we said, in the works on poetics. [3.2.8] But one must work harder over metaphors in prose speech to the degree that prose has fewer resources at its disposal than meter has; for clarity, pleasure, and a foreign air belong most of all to metaphor, and it cannot be gotten from anyone else. [3.2.9] One must also apply epithets and metaphors that are fitting, and this will come from proportion; otherwise the result will appear unfitting, because opposites show up most clearly when set side by side. One must consider what suits an old man the way a purple robe suits a young man -- [3.2.10] for the same clothing does not suit both -- and if you want to adorn something, you should draw the metaphor from the best things of the same kind, and if you want to disparage it, from the worse things.
7| I mean, for instance, since opposites belong to the same genus, to say that the beggar prays and the one who prays begs, on the ground that both are a kind of asking, is to do what has just been described -- as when Iphicrates called Callias "a begging priest of the Mother" rather than "a torch-bearer," and Callias replied that Iphicrates himself must be uninitiated, since otherwise he would not call him a begging priest but a torch-bearer: both terms concern a god, but one is honorable and the other dishonorable. And some call flatterers of Dionysus "Dionysus-flatterers," while they call themselves "artists"; both of these are metaphor, the one degrading, the other the opposite. And pirates now call themselves "providers"; hence one may say that the wrongdoer "errs" and the one who errs "has done wrong," and that the thief both "took" and "provided for himself." But the line in which Euripides' Telephus says, "ruling the oar and having disembarked into Mysia," is unfitting, because "ruling" is too grand a word for what he deserved; so the trick has not been well concealed there.
8| [3.2.11] There is also a kind of error possible in the syllables themselves, if they are not signs of a pleasant sound -- as when Dionysius the Brazen, in his elegiac verses, calls poetry "the shrieking of Calliope," on the ground that both are a kind of voice; the metaphor is poor because of the meaningless sounds. [3.2.12] Further, one must not transfer a metaphor from far off, but from things akin and of the same kind, onto things that have no name, so that once it is stated it is clear that it is akin -- as in the celebrated riddle: "I saw a man who had glued bronze onto a man with fire": the experience has no name, but both cases are a kind of attachment, and so he called the application of the cupping-glass a "gluing." And in general, one can get good metaphors from well-made riddles, for metaphors imply a riddle, so it is clear that a metaphor drawn this way has been well transferred. [3.2.13] Metaphors should also be drawn from beautiful things. The beauty of a word lies, as Licymnius says, either in its sound or in what it signifies, and its ugliness likewise. There is also a third point, which refutes the sophistical argument: it is not the case, as Bryson said, that no one speaks shamefully, on the ground that saying this instead of that signifies the same thing -- for that is false. One word is more proper to a thing than another, more like it, and more suited to it, in that it sets the matter before the eyes. Further, this word and that word do not signify a thing in the same condition, so on this ground too one must hold that one thing is more beautiful or more ugly than another: for though both words signify the beautiful or the ugly, they do not signify it as beautiful or as ugly in the same degree, or rather they do, but as more or less. Metaphors should be drawn from this source -- from things beautiful either in sound, or in force, or in visual appearance, or in some other perception. And it makes a difference to say, for instance, "rosy-fingered dawn" rather than "purple-fingered," or worse still, "red-fingered."
9| [3.2.14] And with epithets it is possible to form them from something base or shameful, as in "the mother-slayer," or from something better, as in "the avenger of his father." And Simonides, when the winner with mules offered him only a small fee, was unwilling to write the ode, as if reluctant to write about mules, but when he was given enough, he wrote: "Hail, daughters of storm-footed horses" -- and yet they were also daughters of donkeys. There is, again, the use of diminutives. [3.2.15] The diminutive is what makes both the bad and the good smaller, as Aristophanes jokes in the Babylonians, saying "little gold-piece" instead of "gold," "little cloak" instead of "cloak," "little bit of abuse" instead of "abuse," and "little ailment" instead of "ailment." One must be careful, though, and observe due measure in both cases. [3.3.1] Frigidity of style occurs in four ways: in compound words, as when Lycophron speaks of "the many-faced sky of the great-peaked earth," and "the narrow-passaged shore"; and as Gorgias named perjurers set against a man who had kept his oath "beggarly Muse-flatterers"; and as Alcidamas speaks of "the soul filling with force," and "the countenance becoming fire-colored," and thought their eagerness would prove "fulfillment-bearing," and made the persuasiveness of his speeches "fulfillment-bearing," and called "the floor of the sea" "dark-hued." All these appear poetic on account of the compounding. [3.3.2] This, then, is one cause of frigidity; another is the use of rare, foreign-sounding words, as when Lycophron calls Xerxes "a monstrous man," and Sciron "a plundering man," and Alcidamas speaks of "a plaything for poetry," and "the recklessness of nature," and of one "sharpened by the unmixed anger of his mind."
10| [3.3.3] A third cause, in the use of epithets, is using them either at excessive length, or inopportunely, or too densely packed. For in poetry it is fitting to say "white milk," but in prose some such epithets are unfitting, while others, if piled on too thickly, give the game away and make it plain that the piece is poetry -- since one certainly must use them (for an epithet varies from the ordinary and makes the diction unfamiliar), but one must aim at due measure, since overdoing it does more harm than speaking carelessly does: careless speech merely lacks excellence, but overdone speech is positively bad. This is why the writing of Alcidamas seems frigid: he does not use epithets as a seasoning but as a main dish, so densely packed are they, so exaggerated, and so conspicuous -- for instance, not "sweat" but "the moist sweat," not "to the Isthmian games" but "to the assembly of the Isthmian games," not "laws" but "the laws that are kings of cities," not "at a run" but "with the running impulse of the soul," not "a school of the Muses" but "having taken over the school of the Muses that belongs to nature," and "the gloomy anxiety of the soul," and not "a craftsman of grace" but "a craftsman of grace for all the people," and "a steward of the pleasure of the listeners," and not "with branches" but "he hid it with the branches of the forest," and not "he covered his body" but "the shame of his body," and "the desire of the soul, mimicking its opposite" (this is at once both a compound and an epithet, so that it becomes a piece of poetry), and thus "an outlying excess of depravity."
11| This is why speaking poetically through such unfittingness produces both the laughable and the frigid, and also obscurity through sheer wordiness: for when a speaker piles words onto someone who already understands, he destroys clarity by throwing shade over it. People use compound words when a thing has no name of its own and the resulting expression is easy to put together, as in "to while away time"; but if the practice is carried too far, the effect is unmistakably poetic. This is why compound diction is most useful to writers of dithyrambs (for these are full of noise), rare words to epic poets (for epic is dignified and self-assertive), and metaphor to writers of iambic verse (for these are the meters now in use, as has been said).
12| [3.3.4] And there is, further, a fourth way in which frigidity occurs, namely in metaphors: for there are also unfitting metaphors, some unfitting because they are laughable (comic poets, too, use metaphors), others because they are too solemn and tragic; and metaphors are obscure if they are drawn from too far off, as when Gorgias speaks of "affairs pale and bloodless," and says, "you sowed these things shamefully and reaped them badly" -- for this is excessively poetic. And as Alcidamas calls philosophy "a fortification against the law," and the Odyssey "a fine mirror of human life," and offers nothing of that kind as "a plaything for poetry" -- all these are unconvincing for the reasons already stated. But Gorgias's remark about the swallow, when it flew over him and let its droppings fall, is the best of the tragic kind: he said, "How shameful, Philomela!" -- for if a bird had done it, it would not be shameful, but for a maiden it is shameful. So he rebuked her well by saying what she had been, not what she is. [3.4.1] The simile, too, is a metaphor, for it differs only slightly. For when one says of Achilles, "he rushed on like a lion," it is a simile; but when one says, "the lion rushed on," it is a metaphor -- since both are brave, the speaker transferred the term and called Achilles a lion. [3.4.2] The simile is useful in prose too, but only rarely,
13| for it is poetic. Similes are to be handled the way metaphors are, since they are metaphors, differing only in how they are expressed. [3.4.3] Examples of similes are the one Androtion made about Idrieus, that he was like puppies just let off their chain: for such dogs rush at people and bite, and Idrieus too, once freed from his fetters, was dangerous. And as Theodamas compared Archidamus to Euxenus not knowing geometry, by way of an analogy -- for Euxenus, too, would be an Archidamus who knows geometry. And there is the one in Plato's Republic, that those who strip the dead are like puppies that bite the stones thrown at them without touching the one who threw them; and the one aimed at the people, that they are like a ship's captain who is strong but rather deaf; and the one aimed at the meters of the poets, that they are like people who are lovely without beauty -- for once these have faded, and those have been broken up, neither still looks the same. And there is Pericles's simile about the Samians, that they were like children who take the food offered them but keep on crying; and the one about the Boeotians, that they are like holm-oaks -- for holm-oaks are cut down by wood from their own kind, and the Boeotians fight among themselves. And there is the one Demosthenes made about the people, that they are like people who get seasick on ships.
14| And there is the one Democrates made, comparing orators to wet-nurses who swallow the food themselves and then smear the children's mouths with their own spittle. And as Antisthenes compared the thin Cephisodotus to frankincense, because it delights people precisely as it is being consumed away. All of these can be stated either as similes or as metaphors, so that whatever wins approval when stated as a metaphor will clearly also work as a simile, and similes are simply metaphors that need an added word of explanation. [3.4.4] One must always render a metaphor drawn from proportion so that it applies reciprocally, on the other side too, among things of the same kind: for instance, if the cup is the shield of Dionysus, then it is also fitting to call the shield the cup of Ares.
15| [3.5.1] Speech, then, is composed out of these elements. Now the starting point of style is speaking correct Greek, and this consists in five things. [3.5.2] First, in the connecting particles, if one renders them in the order in which they naturally come before or after one another, as some of them require -- for instance, "on the one hand" requires "on the other hand," and "I, on the one hand" requires "but he, on the other." One must supply the answering particle to the first while it is still being remembered, and must neither hang it off too far, nor supply one connective before another when it is not yet due -- for that rarely fits. For example: "I, on the one hand, since he told me (for Cleon came both asking and demanding), set out, taking them with me." In a case like this, many connectives get thrown in ahead of the one that is finally to be answered; and if the gap before "I set out" grows too long, the result is obscure. [3.5.3] This, then, is one point of excellence in the use of connectives; a second is to speak in terms proper to the thing and not in broader terms that merely cover it. [3.5.4] A third is to avoid ambiguous terms -- unless one deliberately intends the opposite, which is what people do when they have nothing to say but want to seem to be saying something,
16| for people of that sort talk this way in poetry too, Empedocles for example: the sheer bulk of matter going round and round deceives the listener, and his audience is affected the way most people are affected by seers -- for when seers speak ambiguously, their hearers nod along in agreement: "Croesus, by crossing the Halys, will destroy a great empire." And seers speak in general terms about the matter because a mistake is then less likely overall: for in a game of guessing odd or even, one is more likely to be right saying "odd" or "even" than saying exactly how many there are, and likewise more likely to be right saying that something will happen than saying when -- which is why oracle-mongers never add a further specification of when. All these devices, then, are alike, so that unless one has some such purpose in mind, they are to be avoided.
17| [3.5.5] Fourth, as Protagoras divided the genders of nouns — male, female, and inanimate: for these too must be rendered correctly. [3.5.6] 'She came, and having talked with him, went away.' Fifth is naming the many, the few, and the one correctly: 'the men who came kept striking me.' In general, what is written should be easy to read and easy to deliver — and these are the same thing. An abundance of connectives lacks this, and so does whatever is not easy to punctuate, like the writings of Heraclitus. For punctuating Heraclitus is hard work, because it is unclear which word a given phrase attaches to, the one after or the one before — as in the very opening of his treatise, where he says, 'of this account's being always, men prove uncomprehending': for it is unclear which side 'always' should be punctuated with. [3.5.7] Further, this too produces a solecism: failing to render matters correctly, if you fail to attach a word that fits both terms — for instance, with sound and color: 'having seen' is not common to both, but 'having perceived' is common to both. And your speech will be unclear if you do not put first what you mean, when you intend to insert many things in between it — for instance, say 'for I intended, after conversing with him, to do this and this and go this way,' rather than 'for I intended, after conversing, to go' — and only then 'this and this happened.' [3.6.1] The following contribute to grandeur of style: using a phrase in place of a single name — for instance, not 'circle,' but 'the plane figure equidistant from the center'; for conciseness, the opposite — a single name in place of a phrase. [3.6.2] And if a thing is shameful or unseemly: if the shamefulness lies in the phrase, use the single name; if it lies in the name, use the phrase.
18| [3.6.3] And make things clear by metaphor and by epithets, taking care to avoid what is too poetic. [3.6.4] And turn one thing into many, as the poets do: though there is one harbor, they nevertheless say 'into Achaean harbors,' and 'these many-doored folds of the tablet.' [3.6.5] And do not yoke words together, but give each its own — 'of the woman, of ours'; but if speaking concisely, the opposite — 'of our woman.' [3.6.6] And speak with a connective; but if concisely, without a connective, yet not disconnected — for instance, 'having gone and having conversed' becomes 'having gone, I conversed.' [3.6.7] And there is Antimachus's useful device — speaking of things by what they lack, which is what he does concerning Teumessus: 'there is a small windswept hill' — for in this way the description grows without limit. And this works equally for good things and bad things, whichever way is useful, by saying what a thing does not have; and this is also where the poets get names like 'stringless' and 'lyreless' melody — for they produce these out of negations. This device is well regarded when used in metaphors formed by analogy, as when one says that the trumpet sends forth a lyreless melody. [3.7.1] Style will have propriety if it is expressive of feeling and of character, and proportionate to the subject matter at hand. [3.7.2] It is proportionate if weighty matters are not spoken of carelessly, nor trivial matters spoken of solemnly, and no ornament is fitted onto a trivial name; otherwise it looks like comedy, as Cleophon does — for he said some things just as one might say 'lady fig-tree.' [3.7.3] It is expressive of feeling if, where there is outrage, the diction is that of an angry man; if the matters are impious and shameful, the diction is that of one offended and reluctant even to speak of them; if the matters are praiseworthy, the diction is that of admiration; if pitiable, the diction is that of humility; and likewise with the rest.
19| [3.7.4] Style suited to the matter also makes the matter persuasive: for the hearer's soul is misled into thinking the speaker is telling the truth, because people are disposed that way toward such things, so that they suppose — even if the facts are not as the speaker says — that the facts are so; and the hearer always shares the feeling of one who speaks with emotion, even if he is saying nothing of substance. [3.7.5] That is why many speakers overwhelm their hearers by making an uproar. [3.7.6] This demonstration from signs is also expressive of character, whenever the style that fits each class and state follows accordingly. By class I mean by age — child, man, or old man — and by sex, woman or man, and by people, Spartan or Thessalian; by states I mean those conditions in virtue of which a person's manner of life has some particular quality, since it is not in virtue of every state that ways of life have some particular quality. [3.7.7] If, then, one also uses words appropriate to the state in question, this will produce the character; for a rustic person and an educated person would not say the same things, nor say them the same way. And the audience is affected in a certain way by a device the speechwriters use to excess — 'who does not know?', 'everyone knows' — for the hearer, out of shame, agrees, so as to share in what everyone else shares in. [3.7.8] Whether one uses such devices at the right moment or not is a matter common to every kind of style. [3.7.9] A remedy for every excess is the well-worn device: one should reproach oneself for it in advance, for then it seems to be true, since the speaker plainly does not fail to notice what he is doing. [3.7.10] Further, one should not use all the corresponding devices at once — for that is how the hearer is caught unawares. I mean, for instance, if the words are harsh, one should not also match them with a harsh voice and a harsh expression; otherwise each device becomes obvious for what it is. But if one matches in one respect and not another, one achieves the same effect without being noticed. So if soft things are said harshly and harsh things softly, the result becomes persuasive.
20| [3.7.11] Double words, an abundance of epithets, and foreign words suit a speaker expressing strong feeling best of all: one forgives an angry man for calling something evil 'sky-high' or calling it 'monstrous' — especially once he already has hold of his hearers and has made them enthusiastic, whether through praise, blame, anger, or affection, as Isocrates does, for instance, at the end of the Panegyricus: 'fame and memory and those who dared.' For people utter such things when they are in a state of enthusiasm, so that their hearers evidently accept them because they are in the same state. That is also why such language suits poetry — for poetry is inspired. So one should use it either in this way, or with irony, as Gorgias did, and as happens in the Phaedrus. [3.8.1] The shape of the style should be neither metrical nor entirely without rhythm: the metrical is unpersuasive, since it seems contrived, and at the same time it distracts the hearer, for it makes him watch for the recurrence, waiting for when the same pattern will come again — just as children anticipate the herald's formula: 'Whom does the freedman choose as his guardian?' — 'Cleon!' [3.8.2] What lacks rhythm entirely is unbounded, and speech should be bounded, but not by meter, for the unbounded is unpleasant and unknowable. Everything is bounded by number, and the number that bounds the shape of style is rhythm, of which meters too are segments.
21| [3.8.3] That is why prose should have rhythm, but not meter — otherwise it will be a poem. And it should have rhythm without exactness — this will hold if it is kept up only to a point. [3.8.4] Of the rhythms, the heroic requires a solemn harmony but not one suited to speech; the iambic is the very diction of ordinary people — that is why people utter iambic feet more than any other meter when they speak — but a speech needs solemnity to arise, and the hearer needs to be carried out of himself. The trochee is more suited to the cordax; the trochaic tetrameters show this, for the tetrameter is a tripping rhythm. What is left is the paean, which speakers have used ever since Thrasymachus began it, though they could not say what it was. The paean is a third kind, and related to the ones already mentioned: for its ratio is three to two, whereas of those others one is one to one and the other two to one; and next to these ratios comes the ratio of one and a half to one — and this is the paean.
22| [3.8.5] The other rhythms, then, must be dismissed for the reasons already given, and because they are metrical; the paean must be adopted, since it alone, of the rhythms mentioned, is not a meter, so that it escapes notice most easily. [3.8.6] Now people use one and the same paean both at the beginning and at the end, but the ending ought to differ from the beginning. There are two forms of the paean, opposite to each other, one of which suits a beginning, as indeed people use it: this is the one in which a long syllable begins and three short syllables end it, as in "Delos-born, whether of Lycia" and "Golden-haired Far-darter, son of Zeus." The other is the reverse, where three short syllables begin and a long syllable ends it: "After earth and waters and ocean, night made them vanish" (Simonides, fr. 26b). This one makes an ending, for the short syllable, because it is incomplete, produces a truncated effect. [3.8.7] Rather, the sentence should be cut off by the long syllable, and the ending should be evident not through the scribe, nor through a marginal notation, but through the rhythm itself. [3.9.1] That the style must have good rhythm and not be without rhythm, and what rhythms produce good rhythm and in what condition, has been stated. Style must necessarily be either strung-together and made one by the connective, like the preludes in dithyrambs, or turned back on itself and like the antistrophes of the ancient poets. [3.9.2] The strung-together style is the old one: "This is the exposition of the inquiry of Herodotus of Thurii" (this style everyone used formerly, but now not many do). By strung-together I mean a style that has no end in its own right, unless the matter being spoken of comes to an end. It is unpleasant because of its unboundedness, for everyone wants to see the end in view; that is why runners gasp and grow faint at the turning-post, since foreseeing the finish they do not tire beforehand.
23| [3.9.3] The strung-together style, then, is this one; the turned-back style is the one in periods. By a period I mean a stretch of speech that has a beginning and an end in its own right and a magnitude easy to take in at a glance. Such a style is pleasant and easy to learn - pleasant because it is the opposite of the unbounded, and because the hearer always thinks he is grasping something and that some point has been rounded off for him, whereas foreseeing nothing and finishing nothing is unpleasant; easy to learn because it is easy to remember, and this because the style in periods has number, which of all things is easiest to remember. That is why everyone remembers verse better than prose spoken at random, for verse has a number by which it is measured. [3.9.4] The period must also be brought to completion in its thought, and not be cut off in the middle, as in these iambics of Sophocles: "This land is Calydon; of the Peloponnesian soil" (Euripides, fr. 515) - for one can take the opposite sense by the way it is divided, as in the example given, namely that Calydon is part of the Peloponnese. [3.9.5] Of periods, one kind is in clauses, the other simple. A style in clauses is one that is complete, divided, and easy to draw breath through, not in the division as also the period, but as a whole [corrupt text] (a clause being one of the two parts of it).
24| By simple I mean the one-clause kind. [3.9.6] Both the clauses and the periods must be neither stunted nor long. A too-short clause often makes the hearer stumble, for when he is still pressing forward toward the measure whose limit he holds within himself, and is suddenly checked as the sentence stops, a kind of stumbling necessarily results from the collision. Long ones, on the other hand, leave the hearer behind, like people who turn back beyond the finish-line - these too leave behind those who were walking with them. Likewise, periods that are too long become a mere speech and resemble a prelude, so that what Democritus of Chios mocked in Melanippides comes about, when he composed preludes instead of antistrophes: "The man who works evil for another works evil for himself, and the long prelude is worst for the one who made it" (Hesiod, Works and Days 265) - for this fits equally well when said against those who use long clauses. And clauses that are too short do not make a period; they hurry the hearer along headlong.
25| [3.9.7] Of style in clauses, one kind is divided, the other antithetical. Divided, for example: "I have often admired those who convened the festivals and those who established the athletic contests." Antithetical is style in which, in each of the two clauses, either a contrary is set against a contrary, or the same term is yoked to two contraries - for example: "They benefited both those who stayed behind and those who followed; for to the one group they won more than what they had at home, to the other they left enough at home" - here "staying behind" is opposed to "following," "enough" to "more." Or: "for both those who need money and those who wish to enjoy it" - here "enjoyment" is opposed to "acquisition." And again it often happens in these that the prudent come to grief and the imprudent succeed: "They were at once judged worthy of the prizes for valor, but not long after took command of the sea." "To sail across the mainland and march across the sea, by bridging the Hellespont and cutting through Athos." "And though citizens by nature, to be deprived of the city by law." "Some of them perished miserably, others were saved shamefully." "Privately to employ barbarians as household servants, but publicly to look on while many of the allies are enslaved." "Either to hold them living or to leave them behind dead." And what someone said against Peitholaus and Lycophron in the lawcourt: "These men, when at home, used to sell you, but now that they have come to you, they have bought you." All these examples produce the effect described. [3.9.8] Such a style is pleasant because contraries are most easily recognized, and are still more recognizable when set beside one another, and because it resembles a syllogism, for refutation is a bringing-together of opposites.
26| [3.9.9] Antithesis, then, is a thing of this sort; equality of clauses is when the clauses are equal in length, and similarity of endings is when each of the two clauses has similar endings. This must occur either at the beginning or at the end - at the beginning it is always nouns, at the end either the final syllables, or inflections of the same noun, or the same noun itself. Examples at the beginning: "For he received a field from him, and it was untilled"; "They could be won over by gifts, and turned aside by words" (Homer, Iliad 9.526). At the end: "You would have thought that he had not fathered a child, but had himself become a child"; "in the greatest anxieties and in the least hopes." Inflections of the same noun: "Does he deserve to be honored with a bronze statue, when he is not worthy of bronze?" The same noun: "While he was alive you spoke ill of him, and now you write ill of him." From a syllable: "What terrible thing would have happened to you, if you had seen an idle man?" It is possible to have all these features at once, so that the same expression is antithesis, and equal in clauses, and similar in endings. The beginnings of periods have been more or less fully catalogued in the Theodectea. [3.9.10] There are also false antitheses, of the kind Epicharmus used to make: "At one time I was among them, at another I was beside them." [3.10.1] Now that these matters have been distinguished, we must say from what sources clever and well-received sayings come. Producing them belongs to a naturally gifted person, or to one trained by practice, but pointing them out belongs to this method of inquiry. [3.10.2] Let us then discuss them and enumerate them; let this be our starting point. Learning easily is by nature pleasant to everyone, and words signify something, so that whatever words produce learning in us are the most pleasant. Now, unfamiliar words we do not know, and current words we already know; it is metaphor above all that produces this effect, for when the poet calls old age "stubble," he produces understanding and knowledge through the genus, since both old age and stubble belong to the class of things that have lost their bloom.
27| [3.10.3] The images used by poets do the same thing, and that is why, when well made, they seem clever. For an image, as has been said before, is a metaphor differing by an added word; that is why it is less pleasant, because it is longer, and it does not say "this is that" — so the soul does not even look for that. [3.10.4] It follows, then, that both diction and enthymemes are clever whenever they produce quick learning in us; that is why superficial enthymemes are not well thought of (by "superficial" we mean those that are clear to everyone and require no inquiry at all), nor those which, once stated, we still do not understand, but rather those where understanding occurs at the very moment they are spoken, even if it was not there before, or where the mind lags only a little behind; for something like learning occurs, but in neither of the other two cases. [3.10.5] So then, as regards the thought of what is said, enthymemes of this kind are well thought of; but as regards the diction, this is by the figure, if it is put antithetically — for example, "those who think that the peace which is common to others is war on their own private interests": war is opposed to peace. [3.10.6] And by the words, if it has a metaphor, and one that is neither foreign (for that is hard to take in together) nor superficial (for that produces no effect on us). Further, if it puts the matter before the eyes; for one must see the things being done rather than about to be done.
28| One must aim, then, at these three things: metaphor, antithesis, actuality. [3.10.7] Of metaphors, there being four kinds, those by analogy are the most esteemed, as when Pericles said that the youth lost in the war had vanished from the city as if someone had taken the spring out of the year. And Leptines, about the Spartans, said that one should not allow Greece to become one-eyed. And Cephisodotus, when Chares was eager to render his account concerning the Olynthian war, was indignant, saying that he was trying to render his account to the people while choking them by the throat. And once, urging the Athenians to sail to Euboea with provisions, he said they must go out under Miltiades' decree. And Iphicrates, when the Athenians made a truce with Epidaurus and the coastal region, was indignant, saying that they had stripped away their war supplies. And Peitholaus called the state galley "the club of the people," and Sestos "the bread-bin of the Piraeus." And Pericles urged that Aegina, "the eyesore of the Piraeus," be removed. And Moerocles said he was no more wicked than a certain respectable man he named — for that man was wicked at one-third interest, but he himself only at one-tenth. And the iambic line of Anaxandrides about daughters delaying their marriage: "My girls are overdue in their marriages." And Polyeuctus' remark about a certain paralyzed man, Speusippus, that he could not keep still, bound as he was by fortune in a disease with five holes.
29| And Cephisodotus called the triremes "dappled mills," and the Cynic called the taverns of Attica "the common messes." And Aesion said that they had poured the city out into Sicily — for this is a metaphor and puts the matter before the eyes. And "so that Greece cried out" — this too is in a way a metaphor and before the eyes. And as Cephisodotus urged, one should be careful not to let them make the gatherings of the assembly too frequent. And Isocrates likewise spoke of those who run together at the festival gatherings. And as in the Funeral Oration, that it was fitting for Greece to cut her hair at the tomb of those who died at Salamis, since her freedom was being buried along with their courage — for if he had said it was fitting to weep because their courage was being buried, that would be metaphor and before the eyes, but "freedom along with their courage" carries a certain antithesis as well. And as Iphicrates said, "for my path of words runs through the middle of what Chares has done" — a metaphor by analogy, and "through the middle" puts it before the eyes. And to say that he called on the dangers to come to the help of the dangers is before the eyes and a metaphor. And Lycoleon, on behalf of Chabrias: "not even respecting his suppliant branch" — meaning his bronze statue; for this is a metaphor in the present circumstance, though not always so, but it is before the eyes.
30| For while he is in danger, the statue is imagined to be supplicating — the lifeless thing made alive, a memorial of the city's deeds. And "practicing in every way to think small thoughts" — for practicing is a kind of increasing something. And that god kindled the intellect as a light in the soul — for both make something clear. For we do not dissolve wars but postpone them; for both are things belonging to the future, both the postponement and this kind of peace. And to call the treaty a trophy far finer than those won in wars: for the latter are for small things and a single stroke of fortune, but these are for the whole war; for both are signs of victory. And that cities render great accounts to men's blame; for the rendering of accounts is a kind of just injury.
31| [3.11.1] It has been said, then, that clever sayings come from metaphor by analogy and from putting things before the eyes; but we must now say what we mean by "before the eyes," and what produces this effect. [3.11.2] I mean that things are put before the eyes which signify things in actuality, as for example calling a good man "four-square" is a metaphor, since both are complete, but it does not signify actuality; whereas "having his prime in full bloom" is actuality, and "you, like an animal let loose and free" is actuality, and "thereupon the Greeks, darting forward on their feet" (Euripides) — "darting" is actuality and metaphor, for it conveys speed. [3.11.3] And so Homer often uses metaphor to make lifeless things alive. In all these cases it is the making of actuality that wins esteem, as in these lines: "again down onto the plain the shameless stone came rolling" (Odyssey), and "the arrow flew" (Iliad), and "eager to fly upon him" (Iliad), and "they stood fixed in the ground, longing to glut themselves on flesh" (Iliad), and "the spearpoint rushed raging through his chest" (Iliad). In all of these, because the things are made alive, they appear to be acting; for being shameless, and raging, and the rest, are all actuality. He attached these by a metaphor according to analogy: for as the stone is to Sisyphus, so the shameless thing is to the one it shames. [3.11.4] The same effect occurs in the esteemed images concerning lifeless things: "curved, crested with foam, some before, others behind" (Iliad) — for it makes everything move and live, and actuality is motion.
32| [3.11.5] One must draw metaphors, as has been said before, from things that are akin but not obvious — just as in philosophy too it takes a good eye to observe the similar even in things far apart, as when Archytas said that an arbitrator and an altar are the same thing, since to both the wronged party flees for refuge. Or as if one were to say that an anchor and a hanging pot-hook are the same thing, since both are in a way the same, but differ in being above and below. And to say that cities have been "leveled" is the same kind of thing applied to things far apart, meaning equality in reputation and in power. [3.11.6] Most clever sayings, too, come through metaphor and through an added deception: for it becomes clearer what one has learned by the outcome running contrary to expectation, and the soul seems to say, "how true, and I was wrong." And among apophthegms, the clever ones come from not saying what the words state, as in Stesichorus' saying, that the cicadas will sing to themselves from the ground. And well-made riddles are pleasant for the same reason, since there is learning and metaphor in them, and so too, as Theodorus puts it, is "saying new things." This happens when the saying is paradoxical, and not, as he puts it, measured against the previous opinion, but rather as in comic sayings, words twisted out of their proper form — which puns on a single letter can also do, since they deceive — and likewise in verse, since it does not turn out as the hearer supposed: "he walked with chilblains under his feet" — and the hearer thought he would say "sandals." This must become clear the very moment it is spoken. Puns on a letter make the hearer take, not what the phrase states, but what the word, twisted around, means, as in Theodorus' quip against Nicon the harp-singer, "it Thrax-es you" — for it pretends to say "you are a Thracian" and so deceives, since it means something else. Hence it is pleasant once understood, since if one does not grasp that it means "Thracian," it will not seem clever.
33| [3.11.7] and "do you want to destroy it." Both must be said fittingly. The same is true of witty remarks — for example, saying that for the Athenians their rule of the sea was not the beginning of their troubles, for they benefited by it; or as Isocrates said that empire was for the city the beginning of its troubles. In both cases, what one would not have expected to be said is said, and it is recognized as true: for to say that the beginning is a beginning is nothing clever, but he is not speaking in that sense, but in another; and "beginning" he denies not in the sense he first used it, but in another sense. [3.11.8] In all such cases, when the word is applied fittingly by homonymy or metaphor, then it is well done. For example, "Anaschetos is not bearable" denies by homonymy, but fittingly, if he is in fact unpleasant. And "you could not become more of a stranger than you ought" — for "a stranger, no more than you ought" is the same as saying that the stranger ought not always to be a stranger, since that too is a kind of estrangement. The same holds for the celebrated line of Anaxandrides: "It is fine to die before doing a deed worthy of death," for this is the same as saying "it is worth dying, though not being worthy to die," or "it is worth dying, not being worthy of death," or "not doing deeds worthy of death."
34| [3.11.9] The form of expression in these cases, then, is the same, but the more briefly and antithetically it is stated, the more it is admired. The reason is that learning happens more readily because of the antithesis, and more quickly because it is stated briefly. [3.11.10] What is said must always have present in it either truth relative to the person spoken of, or correctness in the saying, if what is said is to be true and not superficial. For it is possible to have these separately — for example, "one who has done no wrong ought not to die," but this is not witty; "the worthy man ought to marry the worthy woman," but this is not witty either — unless it has both at once: "it is worth dying, though not being worthy of death." The more features it has, the wittier it appears — for example, if the words are also metaphorical, and metaphorical in a particular way, and there is antithesis and balanced clauses, and it has vividness.
35| [3.11.11] Similes too, as has been said above, when they are admired, are in a sense metaphors, for they are always stated from two terms, like the metaphor by analogy — for example, we say the shield is the bowl of Ares, and the bow is a stringless lyre. Said this way the expression is not simple, but calling the bow a lyre, or the shield a bowl, is simple. [3.11.12] And people make comparisons this way too — for example, comparing a flute-player to a monkey, or a sputtering lamp to a man screwing up his eyes; for both draw the two things together. [3.11.13] It is well done when there is a metaphor: for it is possible to compare the shield to the bowl of Ares, and a ruin to the rag of a house, and to call Niceratus a Philoctetes bitten by Pratys, as Thrasymachus compared him when he saw Niceratus, beaten by Pratys in a rhapsode's contest, still unkempt and long-haired. It is in this kind of thing that poets fail most badly if they do it poorly, and win most praise if they do it well — I mean when the terms correspond, as in "his legs are as curly as celery," or "like Philammon fighting the punching-bag." All such expressions are similes. And that similes are metaphors has been said many times. [3.11.14] Proverbs, too, are metaphors from one species to another: for example, if someone brings something in expecting to benefit from it himself, and is then harmed by it, as they say the man of Carpathus was by the hare — for both have suffered what is described in the saying. The source, then, from which witty sayings come, and the reason why, has now pretty much been stated. [3.11.15] Admired hyperboles, too, are metaphors — for example, of a man with a black eye: "you would have thought him a basket of mulberries," for a bruise under the eye is something red, but this is red to an extreme degree. "Like" and "as" constructions are hyperbole differing only in wording: "like Philammon fighting the punching-bag" becomes "you would have thought him Philammon himself, fighting the bag"; "his legs as curly as celery" becomes "you would have thought he had not legs but celery, they were so curly."
36| [3.11.16] Hyperboles are juvenile, for they display vehemence. That is why people use them most when angry: "Not even if he gave me as many gifts as the sand and dust — I will not marry the daughter of Agamemnon, son of Atreus, not even if she rivaled golden Aphrodite in beauty, and Athena in her works." That is why it is unbecoming for an older man to speak this way; and it is the Attic orators who use this device most. [3.12.1] It must not escape notice that a different style is fitting to each genre; for written style and the style of oral contest are not the same, nor are the style of political oratory and that of forensic oratory. One must know both: the one is knowing how to write correct Greek, the other is not being forced into silence when one wishes to communicate something to others — which is what happens to those who do not know how to write. [3.12.2] Written style is the most precise, while the style of oral contest is the most suited to delivery (and of this there are two kinds: one expressive of character, the other of emotion). That is why actors pursue plays of this kind, and poets pursue actors of this kind. But poets meant to be read are carried about in people's hands — for example Chaeremon, who is as precise as a speechwriter, and Licymnius among the dithyrambic poets. And when compared, the speeches of writers appear cramped in actual contests, while those of orators, however well delivered, look amateurish in the hand.
37| The reason is that what suits delivery is fitting in an actual contest; so when delivery is stripped away and such speeches no longer do their proper work, they appear simple-minded — for example, asyndeton and repeating the same thing often are rightly condemned in written style, but not in the style of contest, and orators do use them, for this belongs to delivery. [3.12.3] It is necessary to vary one's manner while saying the same thing, which in a sense paves the way for delivery: "This is the man who robbed you, this is the man who deceived you, this is the man who in the end attempted to betray you," as the actor Philemon used to do in Anaxandrides' Old Men's Battle, whenever he spoke the names Rhadamanthys and Palamedes, and as he did with the word "I" in the prologue of The Pious. For if one does not deliver such passages with proper acting, the effect is like the man carrying the beam.
38| [3.12.4] The same is true of asyndeton: "I came, I met him, I begged him" — for this must be acted out, not said as a single unit in the same manner and tone. Furthermore, asyndeton has its own particular effect: in an equal amount of time, many things seem to have been said; for the connective makes the many into one, so that if it is removed, clearly the opposite will happen — the one will become many. So it has an amplifying effect: "I came, I conversed, I entreated" (it seems like many things) — "he disregarded everything I said." This is also what Homer wants to achieve in the lines "Nireus, in turn, from Syme, Nireus son of Aglaia, Nireus who was the most handsome" — for about someone spoken of at length, it follows that he is mentioned often; so if he is mentioned often, it also seems that much is said about him, so that Homer has amplified him — though he mentions him only once — through this fallacious reasoning, and has made him memorable, even though he never speaks of him again afterward. [3.12.5] Political style, then, is altogether like scene-painting: for the larger the crowd, the more distant the viewing, so that in both cases precise detail is superfluous and appears worse. Forensic style is more precise; and even more so is the style before a single judge, for it contains the least rhetorical artifice — what is relevant to the case and what is irrelevant to it are more easily surveyed together, and the element of contest is absent, so that the judgment is clear-headed.
39| That is why the same orators do not succeed in all these settings: wherever delivery matters most, there precision matters least. This is wherever the voice matters, and especially wherever a loud voice matters. Epideictic style, then, is the most suited to writing, for its proper function is to be read; [3.12.6] forensic style is second. To further divide style by saying it must be pleasant and magnificent is superfluous; for why these qualities any more than temperate and liberal, or any other excellence of character? Being pleasant will clearly result from the qualities already stated, if the excellence of style has been correctly defined. For why, after all, must style be clear, and not flat, but fitting? If it rambles, it is not clear, nor if it is too terse; clearly the mean fits. And what has been described will make style pleasant, if the familiar and the unfamiliar are well blended, together with rhythm, and the persuasiveness that comes from fittingness.
40| [3.13.1] We have now discussed style, both what is common to all kinds of speeches and what belongs to each kind separately; it remains to speak about arrangement. A speech has two parts: for it is necessary to state the subject one is speaking about, and to demonstrate it. Hence it is impossible either to state the case without demonstrating it, or to demonstrate it without first stating it: for one who is demonstrating something demonstrates some thing, and one who states something beforehand states it for the sake of demonstrating it. [3.13.2] Of these parts, the one is the statement of the case, the other is the proof, as if one were to divide it into the problem and the demonstration of it. [3.13.3] But as things stand people divide speeches ridiculously: narration, surely, belongs only to the judicial speech; how can there be narration of the kind they describe in an epideictic or deliberative speech, or arguments directed against an opponent, or an epilogue to speeches that involve demonstration? An opening, a comparison, and a recapitulation occur in deliberative speeches only when there is a dispute between opposing sides. For accusation and defense often involve these, but deliberative advice does not; and the epilogue does not even belong to every judicial speech—for instance, when the speech is short or the matter easy to remember; for it turns out that length is what is being cut away. [3.13.4] The necessary parts, then, are the statement of the case and the proof. These are the parts proper to every speech; but most speeches have an opening, a statement of the case, a proof, and an epilogue: for the arguments against the opponent belong among the proofs, and the comparison is an amplification of one's own case, so that it too is a part of the proofs (for one who does this is demonstrating something), whereas the opening is not, nor is the epilogue—rather, it reminds the hearer. [3.13.5] If, then, one divides things in this way—as the followers of Theodorus used to do—narration will become distinct from further-narration and pre-narration, and refutation distinct from further-refutation. But one must give a name only when speaking of some distinct form with a real differentia; otherwise the result is empty and nonsensical, as Licymnius does in his handbook, when he names things "impulsion," "digression," and "ramifications."
41| [3.14.1] The opening, then, is the beginning of a speech, corresponding to the prologue in poetry and the prelude in flute-playing: all of these are beginnings, and as it were a paving of the way for what follows. The flute-prelude is like the opening of epideictic speeches: for flute-players, whatever passage they happen to play well, they play as a prelude and then join it to the keynote; and in epideictic speeches one should write in the same way—saying whatever one wishes at once, then striking the keynote and joining it on, as everyone does. An example is the opening of Isocrates' Helen: there is nothing in common between the eristics and Helen; and yet even if he wanders off the point, it fits, and it is better that the whole speech not be uniform in kind. [3.14.2] The openings of epideictic speeches are said to be drawn from praise or blame (for instance Gorgias, in his Olympic speech, says: "Men of Greece, you deserve to be admired by many"—for he is praising those who organize the panhellenic festivals; while Isocrates finds fault, because they honored bodily excellences with gifts but made no prize for those of good sense), [3.14.3] and from advice (for instance, that one ought to honor good men, and so he himself praises Aristides; or those of the sort who are neither well-regarded nor base, but who, though good, go unnoticed—like Alexander the son of Priam; for this man gives advice); [3.14.4] and further, from the openings used in judicial speeches: this is drawn from what is directed at the hearer, when the speech concerns something paradoxical, or difficult, or something already talked to death by many, so as to win indulgence—for instance Choerilus: "But now, when everything has been divided up." The openings of epideictic speeches, then, are drawn from these sources: from praise, from blame, from exhortation, from dissuasion, from what is directed at the hearer; and the keynotes must be either foreign to the speech or proper to it.
42| [3.14.5] One must grasp that the openings of judicial speeches have the same function as the prologues of dramas and the proems of epic poems: for the openings of dithyrambs are like those of epideictic speeches—"because of you, and your gifts, or your spoils." [3.14.6] But in dramatic prologues and in epic proems there is a sample of the discourse, so that the audience may know beforehand what the speech is about and the mind not be left hanging; for what is indefinite leads one astray. So one who gives the beginning, as it were, puts it into the hearer's hand, so that by holding on to it he can follow the speech. That is why we have: "Sing, goddess, the wrath" (Hom. Il. 1.1); "Tell me, Muse, of the man" (Hom. Od. 1.1); "Lead me to another tale, how out of the land of Asia a great war came into Europe." And the tragedians too make clear what the drama is about, even if not immediately, as Euripides does, in the prologue—still, somewhere—as Sophocles too does: "Polybus was my father" (Soph. OT 774). And comedy does the same. The most necessary function of the opening, then, and the one proper to it, is this: to make clear what the end is for the sake of which the speech is being given (and for this reason, if the matter is already clear and small, one should not use an opening at all). [3.14.7] The other kinds people employ are remedies for defects, and are common to the other parts of the speech as well.
43| These are drawn from the speaker, from the hearer, from the matter, and from the opposing side. Those concerning oneself and one's opponent have to do with the sort of thing that either dissolves a slander or creates one (and this is not done the same way in both kinds of speech: for the defendant should put what answers the slander first, while the prosecutor should do it in the epilogue; and the reason is not obscure—for the defendant, when he is about to bring himself forward into the jury's favor, must first remove whatever stands in his way, and so he must dissolve the slander first; but the one bringing the slander must do the slandering in the epilogue, so that the jury will remember it better). What concerns the hearer is drawn from making him well-disposed and from making him angry, and sometimes from making him attentive, or the opposite; for it is not always advantageous to make him attentive, which is why many speakers try to move him to laughter instead. Everything can be brought round to promoting ease of understanding, if one wishes, and to seeming reasonable oneself; for people pay more attention to speakers of that kind. Hearers are attentive to what is important, to what concerns them personally, to what is astonishing, to what is pleasant; hence one must instill the impression that the speech concerns things of that sort. And if one wants to make them inattentive, one should suggest that the matter is trivial, that it is nothing to do with them, or that it is painful.
44| [3.14.8] One should not fail to notice that all such devices lie outside the speech proper: they are addressed to a poor sort of hearer, one who listens even to what is beside the matter; for if the hearer is not of that sort, there is no need of an opening at all, except to state the matter briefly in summary, so that the speech may have a head, as it were, the way a body does. [3.14.9] Further, making the audience attentive is a task common to all the parts, wherever it is needed; for people's attention flags everywhere more than at the beginning—hence it is absurd to place this device at the beginning, the very point where everyone listens with the greatest attention. So wherever the right moment is, one should say: "and give me your attention"; "for this concerns me no more than it does you"; and "for I shall tell you a thing as terrible, or as astonishing, as you have never yet heard." This is what Prodicus called, whenever the audience began to nod off, throwing in a bit of his fifty-drachma lecture for them. [3.14.10] That the appeal is directed at the hearer not in his role as a mere hearer of the case is clear: for everyone, in their openings, either slanders the other side or dissolves fears about themselves. "My lord, I shall not speak with any eagerness—" (Soph. Ant. 223); "Why do you preface your speech this way?" (Eur. IT 1162); and speakers who have a bad case, or seem to, do the same—for it is always better to dwell on anything rather than the matter itself, which is why slaves, when questioned, do not answer what they are asked but talk all around it, and give preliminary openings of their own. [3.14.11] Where good will is to be won from has already been discussed, and so has each of the other such points. And since it is well said, "grant that I may come dear to the Phaeacians and win their pity" (Hom. Od. 7.327), one should aim at these two things. In epideictic speeches, one should think of making the hearer share in the praise—either himself, or his family, or his pursuits, or in some other way; for what Socrates says in the Funeral Oration is true, that it is not hard to praise Athenians before an Athenian audience, but it is hard to do so before a Spartan one.
45| [3.14.12] The parts of a deliberative speech are drawn from those of a forensic speech, but by nature it has the least need of them; for the subject is one the audience already knows, and the matter needs no introduction except for the speaker's own sake or that of his opponents, or if the audience takes the matter to be of a different size than you wish — either greater or less — so that it becomes necessary either to disparage or to clear away that impression, and either to magnify or to minimize. It is for these purposes that an introduction is needed, or else merely for ornament, since a speech seems improvised if it lacks one. Such is Gorgias's encomium to the Eleans: without any preliminary sparring or limbering-up he begins straight off, "Elis, a happy city." [3.15.1] On the subject of disparagement: one topic is to argue from whatever will clear away an unfavorable impression — for it makes no difference whether someone has actually voiced it or not, so this holds generally. [3.15.2] Another topic is to meet the disputed points head-on, saying either that the thing did not happen, or that it was not harmful, or not harmful to this person, or not as serious as claimed, or not unjust, or not great, or not shameful, or not of any magnitude — for disputes turn on these very points, as Iphicrates did against Nausicrates: he admitted doing what was alleged and causing harm, but denied acting unjustly. Or one may trade off: granting the wrongdoing but claiming it was fine, granting the harm but claiming it was beneficial, granting the pain but claiming it was useful, or some other such exchange. [3.15.3] Another topic is to say the act was an error, or a misfortune, or something necessary — as Sophocles said he trembled not, as his accuser claimed, in order to seem an old man, but of necessity, since it was not by his own choice that he had reached eighty years. And one can trade off the purpose: that he did not intend to cause harm but aimed at this other thing, and did not do what he was accused of doing, but harm happened to result; and it is just to resent someone only if he acted in order to bring the harm about.
46| [3.15.4] Another topic: whether the accuser himself is implicated, now or before, either himself or someone close to him. [3.15.5] Another: whether others are implicated whom people agree are not liable to the same charge — for instance, if it is argued that so-and-so is an adulterer because he is well-groomed, then so-and-so would be one too. [3.15.6] Another: whether he has accused others, either someone else or the speaker himself, or whether people were suspected without any accusation being made, just as the speaker now is, and have turned out not to be liable. [3.15.7] Another topic proceeds from turning the accusation back on the accuser: for it is absurd that the words of a man who is himself untrustworthy should be trusted. [3.15.8] Another: whether a judgment has already been rendered, as Euripides did against Hygiaenon in the property-exchange suit, when Hygiaenon accused him of impiety for having written, urging men to perjury, "the tongue has sworn, but the mind is unsworn" (Eur. Hipp. 612); Euripides replied that his opponent was acting unjustly in bringing before the courts a case already judged in the dramatic competition, since he had already given an account of it there, or would give one there, if his opponent wished to bring the charge. [3.15.9] Another topic proceeds from accusing the disparagement itself, showing how serious a matter it is, and that it creates further judgments beyond the case, and shows that the accuser does not trust the facts of the matter itself. A topic common to both sides is to cite corroborating signs — as in the Teucer, Odysseus argues that Teucer is a relative of Priam, since Hesione was Priam's sister,
47| while Teucer replies that his father Telamon was an enemy of Priam, and that he did not betray the spies. [3.15.10] Another topic available to the one disparaging: to praise something small at length and censure something great briefly, or to set out many good points and then bring forward, briefly, one bad one that bears on the matter. Such speakers are the most skillful and the most unscrupulous, for they try to do harm by way of the good points, mixing them in with the bad. Common to both the accuser and the defendant, since the same act can be done for more than one reason, is this: the accuser must take the malicious view, interpreting it for the worse, while the defendant must take the better view — for instance, that Diomedes chose Odysseus as his companion: the one side says it was because he judged Odysseus the best man, the other that it was not for that reason but simply because Odysseus was the only one who would not compete with him for glory, as being unworthy of rivalry.
48| [3.16.1] Let this much be said about disparagement. As for narrative: in epideictic speeches it does not proceed continuously but part by part. For one must go through the actions from which the speech is composed, since the speech is made up partly of the inartistic element (for the speaker is not the cause of the actions) and partly of what comes from art — and this consists either in showing that the action occurred, if it is not credible, or in showing its quality, or its magnitude, or all of these together. [3.16.2] For this reason it is sometimes better not to narrate everything continuously, because such a demonstration is hard to keep track of: from these facts he is shown brave, from those wise or just. A speech of this kind is also simpler, while the continuous kind is elaborate and not plain. [3.16.3] One should remind the audience of facts that are already well known — which is why most speeches need no narrative at all: for instance, if you wish to praise Achilles, everyone already knows his deeds, and you need only make use of them, not narrate them. But if you wish to praise Critias, narrative is needed, since not many people know his deeds. [3.16.4] As it is, people absurdly say that the narrative must be quick. Yet it is like the answer given to the baker who was asked whether he should make the bread hard or soft: "Well," someone said, "can't you make it well?" — and the same applies here. One should not narrate at length, just as one should not make a long introduction or set out one's proofs at length; for what matters here is not doing it well by being quick or brief, but by hitting the right measure — that is, saying only as much as will make the matter clear, or as much as will lead the audience to suppose that the event occurred, or that harm was done, or that injustice was committed, or whatever degree of these you wish to establish — and, for the opposite purpose, the opposite.
49| [3.16.5] One should narrate alongside the facts whatever bears on your own good character — for example, "and I kept admonishing him, always urging what was right, not to abandon his children" — or on the other party's bad character: "but he answered me that wherever he might be, there would be other children for him," which is the answer Herodotus reports the rebelling Egyptians gave; or whatever will be pleasing to the jurors. [3.16.6] For the defendant the narrative should be shorter, since the points in dispute are either that the act did not happen, or that it was not harmful, or not unjust, or not as serious as claimed — so one should not linger over what both sides agree on, unless it bears on one of those points, as when, for example, the act is admitted to have been done, but denied to be unjust. [3.16.7] Further, one should mention as accomplished only those things whose being described as still in progress would arouse pity or a sense of outrage; an example is the account Odysseus gives to Penelope in Alcinous's hall, compressed into sixty lines, and how Phayllus handled the epic cycle, and the prologue to the Oeneus. [3.16.8] The narrative should also reveal character; and this will happen if we know what produces character. One way is by making one's choice clear: character is of a certain quality according to what the choice is, and the choice is of a certain quality according to its end. This is why mathematical discourses reveal no character, because they involve no choice either — they have no "for the sake of which" — whereas Socratic dialogues do,
50| since they deal with matters of that kind. [3.16.9] Other things are revelatory of character insofar as they accompany each type of character — for instance, that a man kept talking as he walked along, which shows boldness and boorishness of character. And one should not speak as if from calculated thought, the way people do nowadays, but as if from deliberate choice: "I wished it, and I chose it deliberately; even though I gained nothing by it, it was still better so" — for the first way of speaking belongs to a prudent man, the second to a good man, since prudence lies in pursuing what is advantageous, goodness in pursuing what is fine. And if a claim seems incredible, then one should add the reason for it, as Sophocles does — an example is the passage from the Antigone, where Antigone says she cared more for her brother than for a husband or children, since a husband or children could be had again once the ones lost were gone, "but with my mother and father in Hades, there is no brother who could ever be born again" (Soph. Ant. 911-912). But if you have no reason to give, you should still say that you are not unaware you are stating something incredible, but that you are simply that way by nature — since people find it hard to believe that anyone would willingly do anything except what is to his own advantage.
51| [3.16.10] Further, when narrating, speak from the emotional side, adding the accompanying details, even ones the audience already knows, and the features peculiar either to yourself or to the other person: "and off he went, glaring at me." And as Aeschines said about Cratylus, that he "hissed," "shaking his hands violently" -- for these are persuasive, because such details become tokens of things people do not know, drawn from things they do know. Most touches of this kind can be got from Homer: "so she spoke, and the old woman covered her face with her hands" (Homer, Odyssey 19.361) -- for people who begin to weep clutch at their eyes. And bring yourself on stage at once as a person of a certain sort, so that the audience will view you that way, and likewise your opponent -- but do it without their noticing. That this is easy, see from how messengers do it: about things we know nothing of, we still form some impression. And in many places one must narrate, and sometimes not at the beginning. [3.16.11] In deliberative speech there is least room for narrative, because no one narrates about the future; but if there is to be narrative at all, let it concern things that have happened, so that, being reminded of those, the audience may deliberate better about what comes later -- either by way of blame or of praise; but doing that at that point is not the work of the counselor. If a thing is hard to believe, you must promise to prove it and state the reason at once, and arrange the points in the order the hearers want -- as Iocaste in Carcinus's Oedipus continually keeps making promises as the man searching for his son keeps asking, and so does Sophocles' Haemon. [3.17.1] Proofs must be demonstrative; and one must demonstrate, since the dispute is over one of four points, by bringing the demonstration to bear on the very point in dispute -- for instance, if it is disputed that the act took place, then at the trial the demonstration must above all be brought to bear on this; if that it did no harm, on this; and likewise if the dispute is that it was not so great, or that it was done justly; the same holds too if the dispute concerns whether the thing happened at all.
52| [3.17.2] And it must not escape notice that only in this dispute is it necessary for one of the two parties to be wicked -- for ignorance is not the cause here, as it might be if people were disputing about what is just; so in this case one must dwell at length, but not in the others. [3.17.3] In epideictic speeches, for the most part, let amplification serve to show that the deeds are noble and beneficial; for the facts themselves must simply be believed -- rarely do speakers bring demonstrations even of these, only if they are hard to credit or if someone else is given the credit for them. [3.17.4] In deliberative speeches, one might dispute either that a thing will not happen, or, granting that it will happen if people do what is urged, that it is not just, or not beneficial, or not as important as claimed. One must also watch whether the speaker is lying about something outside the matter itself; for such lies appear as evidence that he is lying about the rest as well. [3.17.5] Examples suit deliberative oratory better, enthymemes forensic oratory better; for the one concerns the future, so that examples necessarily must be drawn from things that have happened, while the other concerns things that are or are not the case, where there is more room for demonstration and necessity -- for what has happened carries necessity with it. [3.17.6] One should not state enthymemes one after another in a row, but mix them in; otherwise they damage one another. For there is a limit even to quantity: "friend, since you have said as much as a sensible man would say" (Homer, Odyssey 4.204) -- but not more than that. [3.17.7] And do not hunt for enthymemes about everything; otherwise you will do what some who philosophize do, who draw syllogisms from premises more familiar and more credible than the conclusions they are arguing for.
53| [3.17.8] And whenever you are working on the emotions, do not also state an enthymeme (for either the enthymeme will drive out the emotion, or the enthymeme will have been stated in vain: simultaneous movements knock each other out, and either wipe one another away or weaken one another), nor, when the speech is meant to display character, should you look for an enthymeme at the same time; for demonstration carries neither character nor moral purpose. [3.17.9] Maxims should be used both in narration and in proof; for there they show character -- "and I gave it, and that though I knew one should not trust people"; and, spoken emotionally, "and I do not regret it, wronged though I was; for he has the profit, but I have justice." [3.17.10] Speaking in the assembly is harder than pleading in the courts, and reasonably so, because it concerns the future, whereas the latter concerns what has happened, which is already knowable even to seers, as Epimenides the Cretan said (for he did not prophesy about things to come, but about things that had already happened but were unclear); and in forensic speeches the law is the starting point, and once one has a starting point it is easier to find a demonstration. Nor does deliberative speaking allow for many delaying digressions -- attacking the opponent, or dwelling on oneself, or working on the emotions -- least of all any of these, unless one departs from the subject. So a speaker at a loss must do what the orators at Athens do, and Isocrates: for even while giving counsel he accuses -- as he accuses the Lacedaemonians in the Panegyricus, and Chares in the speech On the Alliance. [3.17.11] In epideictic speeches one must vary the speech with episodes of praise, as Isocrates does; for he is always bringing someone new onto the stage. And what Gorgias used to say -- that his speech never runs short -- comes to the same thing: for if he speaks of Achilles he praises Peleus, then Aeacus, then the god; and likewise he praises courage, describing the things it does or the sort of thing it is.
54| [3.17.12] So when you have demonstrations, you must speak in a way that shows character as well as in a demonstrative way; but if you have no enthymemes, speak in a way that shows character: and it suits the decent man better to appear virtuous than for his speech to be exact. [3.17.13] Among enthymemes, the refutative kind is better regarded than the demonstrative, because whatever produces a refutation makes it clearer that a real deduction has taken place: for opposites are recognized more clearly when set side by side. [3.17.14] Arguments against the opponent are not some separate kind of proof, but belong among the proofs -- the business of dissolving some points by objection and others by counter-syllogism. In both deliberative and forensic speaking, when you speak first you should state your own proofs first, and only afterward meet the opposing arguments, dissolving them and discrediting them in advance. But if the opposition is many-sided, take up the opposing points first -- as Callistratus did in the Messenian assembly: he first demolished what his opponents were going to say, and only then delivered his own case. [3.17.15] But when speaking second, one must speak first against the opposing speech, dissolving it and counter-arguing, especially if it was well received; for just as the soul will not receive a man already discredited, in the same way it will not receive a speech either, if the opponent seems to have spoken well. One must therefore make room in the hearer for the speech that is to come; and this will happen if you demolish the other side first.
55| Therefore, having fought against either all the opposing points, or the strongest, or the ones that went over well, or the ones easy to refute, one should in this way make one's own case credible. "To the goddesses I will be an ally first -- for I, Hera..." (Euripides, Trojan Women 969-971) -- in these lines the speaker seized first on the weakest point of the other side. [3.17.16] So much, then, for proofs. As for character: since to say certain things about oneself involves either envy, or long-windedness, or the risk of contradiction, and to say certain things about another person involves either abuse or boorishness, one should have someone else say it instead -- which is what Isocrates does in the Philip and in the Antidosis, and the way Archilochus handles blame: he makes the father speak about his daughter in the iambic poem, "nothing is beyond hope or beyond oath where money is concerned" (Archilochus, fragment 74), and makes Charon the carpenter speak in the iambic poem that begins "not for me the possessions of Gyges"; and just as Sophocles makes Haemon speak on Antigone's behalf to his father as though he were reporting what others say.
56| [3.17.17] One should also vary one's enthymemes and sometimes turn them into maxims — for example: "Sensible men, when they are prospering, ought to make reconciliations; for that way they would gain the most" — and put it enthymematically: "For if reconciliations ought to be made when they will be most advantageous and most profitable, then one ought to reconcile while prospering." [3.18.1] As to questioning, it is most opportune to employ it above all when the opponent has already said one of the two things needed, so that when the one further question is put to him the absurdity follows. For example, Pericles asked Lampon about the rite of initiation into the mysteries of the Savior Goddess, and when Lampon said that it was not possible for an uninitiated person to hear of it, Pericles asked whether he himself knew it; and when Lampon said yes, Pericles asked, "Then how, being uninitiated?" [3.18.2] Second, one should question when one point is evident and it is clear that the opponent will grant the other if asked: for having secured this, one should not go on to ask the premise that is evident, but should simply state the conclusion. For example Socrates, when Meletus denied that he believed in gods but said that he spoke of some divine something, asked whether spirits were not either children of gods or something divine; and when Meletus said yes, Socrates said, [3.18.3] "Is there, then, anyone who believes there are children of gods but does not believe there are gods?" Further, one should question when one is about to show that the opponent is either contradicting himself or saying something paradoxical. [3.18.4] Fourth, when it is not possible for him to escape except by answering like a sophist: for if he answers in that way — "it is so, and it is not so," or "in some respects yes, in some respects no," or "in one way yes, in one way no" — the audience grows restive, taking it that he is at a loss. Otherwise one should not attempt questioning; for if the opponent objects, one will seem to have been worsted. For it is not possible to ask many questions, because of the weakness of the hearer; that is also why one ought to compress one's enthymemes as much as possible.
57| [3.18.5] In answering, one should, in the case of ambiguous questions, draw distinctions by an extended statement and not briefly; but in the case of questions that seem to involve contradiction, one should give the solution at once, in the very answer, before the questioner asks the next question or draws his conclusion; for it is not hard to see beforehand where the argument tends. This point, and the solutions, are clear to us from the Topics. [3.18.6] And when a conclusion is being drawn, if the opponent puts the conclusion in the form of a question, one should state the reason for it. For example, Sophocles, when questioned by Peisander whether it had seemed good to him, as it had to the other special counselors, to establish the Four Hundred, said yes. "What then?" said Peisander. "Did these things not seem to you to be wicked?" "Yes," he said. "Then did you not do these wicked things?" "Yes," he said, "for there was nothing better to do." And so too the Spartan, when called to account for his ephorate and asked whether it seemed to him that the others had been justly put to death, said yes. "Then did you not vote the same measures as they did?" "I did," he said. "Would you not, then, justly be put to death yourself?" "Not at all," he said, "for they did these things after taking money, but I did not — I did them by judgment." For this reason one ought neither to ask a further question after the conclusion, nor to put the conclusion itself as a question, unless the truth is heavily on one's side. [3.18.7] As to jests, since they seem to have some use in contests, and Gorgias said one should destroy the opponents' seriousness with laughter and their laughter with seriousness, and he was right to say so — how many kinds of jests there are has been stated in the works on poetics, of which one kind befits a free man and another does not, so that each speaker may take the kind that befits himself. Irony is more suited to a free man than buffoonery is: for the ironist makes the joke for his own sake, while the buffoon makes it for another's.
58| [3.19.1] The epilogue is composed of four parts: disposing the hearer favorably toward oneself and unfavorably toward the opponent, amplifying and depreciating, bringing the hearer into the appropriate emotions, and recapitulation. For it is natural, after one has demonstrated that one is truthful oneself and that the opponent is false, that praising and blaming and putting the finishing stroke should follow in that order. One should aim at one of two things: either that one is good in relation to these particular matters, or good simply, while the opponent is bad in these particular matters, or bad simply. The topics from which one must construct this have been stated — the places from which one should establish men as good and as base. [3.19.2] The next task, once the facts have already been proved, is naturally to amplify or depreciate them: for the facts must be agreed upon, if one is going to speak of their magnitude, just as the growth of bodies proceeds from things already existing. The topics from which one should amplify and depreciate have been set out earlier. [3.19.3] After this, when it is clear both what the facts are and how great they are, one should lead the hearer into the emotions. These are pity, indignation, anger, hatred, envy, rivalry, and contentiousness. The topics for these too have been stated earlier, [3.19.4] so that what remains is to recall to mind what has already been said.
59| And this should be done not in the way people do it in their introductions, where they do it wrongly. For there, to make the case easy to follow, they urge that one repeat things often. In an introduction, then, one should state the matter, so that the point under judgment does not go unnoticed; here, in the epilogue, one should state the things through which it has been proved, summarily. [3.19.5] The starting point is that one has delivered what one promised, so that one must say both what one has proved and why. This is stated by way of comparison with the opponent's case. One may compare either what both parties said about the same point, or not point for point ("but he said this about that, while I said this, and for this reason"), or ironically ("for he said this, while I said that — and what would he have done, if he had shown this, rather than that?"), or by way of a question ("what then has been proved? or what did he prove?"). One may proceed either in this way, by comparison, or in the natural order as it was stated, taking up one's own points in that order, and then, if one wishes, separately taking up those of the opponent's speech. [3.19.6] As for the ending of the style, the asyndetic manner is fitting, so that it may be an epilogue and not a speech: "I have spoken. You have heard. You have the facts. Judge."
1| [1447a] Let us discuss the art of poetry itself and its species, the capacity each has, and how plots must be constructed if the poetry is to turn out well; further, of how many and what kind of parts it consists; and likewise about the other matters that belong to the same inquiry — beginning, as is natural, from first things first. Epic poetry, then, and the poetry of tragedy, and further comedy and dithyrambic poetry, and most flute-playing and lyre-playing, all happen to be, taken as a whole, imitations. But they differ from one another in three respects: either in imitating by different means, or in imitating different objects, or in imitating in a different manner and not in the same way. For just as some people, imitating many things, represent them by colors and shapes (some through craft, others through habit), while others do so through the voice, so too in the arts mentioned all of them make their imitation in rhythm and speech and harmony, but using these either separately or mixed together. For example, flute-playing and lyre-playing use only harmony and rhythm, and so do any other arts of that kind of capacity, such as that of the pipes; while dancers imitate by rhythm itself without harmony — for they too, through rhythms given shape, imitate characters, emotions, and actions.
2| But [epic poetry], which uses bare speech alone, or the art that uses [1447b] meters — whether mixing them with one another or using a single kind of meter — has, up to now, no name. Indeed we could give no single name shared by Sophron's and Xenarchus's mimes and by the Socratic dialogues, nor one covering an imitation carried out in trimeters, elegiacs, or any other such meter. Yet people, by attaching "making" to the meter, call some "elegy-makers" and others "epic-makers," naming them not by their imitation but indiscriminately by their meter — for even if they produce something medical or scientific in meter, people are accustomed to call them so. But there is nothing common to Homer and Empedocles except the meter; hence it is right to call the one a poet, but the other a natural scientist rather than a poet. Likewise, even if someone were to make an imitation mixing all the meters together, as Chaeremon did in composing the Centaur, a rhapsody mixed from all the meters, he too must be called a poet. On these matters, then, let this distinction stand. There are, further, some arts that use all the means mentioned — I mean rhythm, melody, and meter — as does the poetry of dithyrambs and of nomes, and both tragedy and comedy.
3| These differ in that some use all the means at once, others part by part. These, then, are the differences of the arts I speak of, in the means by which they make their imitation. [1448a] Since those who imitate imitate people acting, and these must be either good or base — for characters nearly always answer to these two alone, since all people differ in character by vice and virtue — they must imitate people either better than we are, or worse, or of the same sort, as painters do: Polygnotus painted people better than they are, Pauson worse, and Dionysius painted them as they are. It is clear that each of the imitations mentioned will admit these differences, and that each will be distinct from the others by imitating different things in this way. For in dancing and flute-playing and lyre-playing these dissimilarities can arise, and likewise in prose speech and in bare-meter poetry: Homer makes people better, Cleophon makes them as they are, and Hegemon of Thasos, who first composed parodies, and Nicochares, who composed the Deiliad, make them worse. Similarly too with dithyrambs and with nomes, just as one might imitate the Cyclopes as Timotheus and Philoxenus did [corrupt text]. In this very difference tragedy stands apart from comedy, for comedy wishes to imitate people worse, and tragedy better, than those of the present day. And there is yet a third difference among these: the manner in which one might imitate each of these things.
4| For it is possible, using the same means and imitating the same objects, to imitate at one time by narrating — either becoming someone else, as Homer does, or remaining the same person and not changing — or by presenting all the persons imitated as acting and doing something themselves [corrupt text]. It is in these three differences, then, that imitation consists, as we said at the outset: in the means, the objects, and the manner. So that in one respect Sophocles would be the same kind of imitator as Homer, since both imitate good people, while in another respect he would be the same as Aristophanes, since both imitate people acting and doing things. This, some say, is why such works are called dramas, because they imitate people doing things. For this reason too the Dorians lay claim to both tragedy and comedy — the Megarians, both those here in Attica, on the ground that comedy arose among them when they had democracy, and those from Sicily, since the poet Epicharmus was from there and lived much earlier than Chionides and Magnes; and some of those in the Peloponnese lay claim to tragedy — making the names their evidence. They say that they themselves call the outlying villages komai, while the Athenians call them demoi, on the ground that comedians (komoidoi) are named not from komazein, "to revel," but from their wandering through the villages (kata komas) when they were driven out in dishonor from the city.
5| [1448b] And they say that they themselves call "to make" [a thing happen] dran, while the Athenians call it prattein. Concerning the differences of imitation, then — how many they are and what they are — let this account stand. As for what generally gave birth to the art of poetry, there seem to have been two causes, and these natural ones. For imitating is innate in human beings from childhood, and in this they differ from the other animals, that they are the most imitative of creatures and make their first steps in learning through imitation; and also innate is the delight everyone takes in works of imitation. A sign of this is what happens in fact: things we look upon with pain when we see them in reality, we take delight in contemplating when they are rendered in the most exact likenesses — for example, the forms of the most despised animals, and of corpses. The reason for this too is that learning is most pleasant, not only to philosophers but likewise to everyone else, though the others share in it only briefly. For this is why people delight in seeing images — because it turns out, as they contemplate them, that they are learning and inferring what each thing is, as for instance that "this is that"; since if one happens not to have seen the thing before, the image will not produce pleasure as an imitation but on account of its execution, or its color, or some other such cause. Since imitation is natural to us, and so too are harmony and rhythm — for meters are evidently parts of rhythms — those who from the beginning were most naturally suited to these, advancing little by little, gave birth to poetry out of improvisations.
6| Poetry then split apart according to the individual characters of its makers: the more dignified poets imitated fine actions and the actions of people of that sort, while the more common poets imitated the actions of base people, at first composing invectives, just as the others composed hymns and encomia. Now of the poets before Homer we cannot name any such poem, though it is likely there were many; but starting from Homer there are examples, such as his own Margites and works of that kind. In these works the iambic meter came in, as fitting — hence it is even now called iambic, because in this meter people lampooned (iambized) one another. And among the ancients some became poets of heroic verse, others poets of iambic verse. Just as Homer was above all the poet of serious things — for he alone did not merely compose well, but also made dramatic imitations — so too he was the first to display the shape of comedy, by dramatizing the ridiculous rather than invective. For the Margites bears the same relation to comedies as the Iliad and the Odyssey bear to tragedies,
7| [1449a] so too this poem stands in relation to comedies. Once tragedy and comedy had come to light, those who turned to each kind of poetry according to their own natural bent became, some of them, writers of comedy instead of iambic verse, and others, instead of epic, became producers of tragedies, because these forms were grander and held in higher esteem than those. Now to examine whether tragedy is by now adequately developed in its formal elements or not, and to judge this both in itself and in relation to the theaters, is another discussion. At all events, arising from an improvisatory beginning — both tragedy itself and comedy, the one from those who led off the dithyramb, the other from those who led the phallic songs which even now still remain customary in many of the cities — it grew little by little as the poets advanced whatever part of it became evident; and tragedy, after passing through many changes, came to a stop, since it had attained its own nature. And it was Aeschylus who first brought the number of actors from one to two, and who diminished the role of the chorus and prepared for speech to take the leading part; three actors and scene-painting were Sophocles' doing. Further, there is its scale: it was late in acquiring dignity out of small plots and comic diction, through its change from the satyric, and its meter changed from the tetrameter to the iambic.
8| For at first they used the tetrameter because the poetry was satyric and more suited to dance, but once speech had come in, nature herself found the fitting meter; for the iambic is the most speech-like of meters. A sign of this: we speak very many iambics in conversation with one another, but hexameters rarely, and only when we depart from the rhythm of speech. Further, there is the number of episodes. Let what has been said stand for us regarding these and the other elements, as each is said to have been given its ornament; for to go through each of them one by one would perhaps be a great task. Comedy is, as we said, an imitation of people who are worse, yet not in the sense of the whole of vice, but the laughable is a part of the shameful. For the laughable is a certain error and ugliness that is painless and not destructive, just as, to take an obvious case, the comic mask is something ugly and distorted but without pain. Now the changes tragedy went through, and those responsible for them, have not gone unnoticed, but comedy escaped notice because it was not treated seriously from the start.
9| [1449b] For it was only late that the archon granted a comic chorus; before that the performers were volunteers. And it was only once comedy already had certain formal features that those said to be its poets are remembered. Who supplied it with masks, or prologues, or a plurality of actors, and such things, is unknown. The making of plots [Epicharmus and Phormis] came originally from Sicily, but of the Athenians, Crates was the first to begin, abandoning the iambic form, to compose speeches and plots of a general kind. Now epic poetry followed tragedy up to the point of being an imitation, in verse, of people of high standing; but they differ in that epic has a single meter and is narrative; and further, in length: tragedy tries so far as possible to keep within a single revolution of the sun, or to vary from it a little, while epic is unlimited in time — and in this too they differ, although at first they did this equally in tragedies as in epics. The parts are in some cases the same, in others peculiar to tragedy; hence whoever knows about tragedy, good and bad, knows about epic too; for whatever epic has, tragedy possesses, but not everything tragedy has is found in epic. We shall speak later about the art that imitates in hexameters, and about comedy.
10| Let us now speak about tragedy, taking up the definition of its substance that arises from what has been said. Taking this as our starting point, then: tragedy is the representation of a grave and finished action possessing magnitude, cast in speech that has been rendered pleasurable, each element used separately according to its part of the work, carried out by agents performing rather than by report, and bringing about, by means of pity and fear, the purging of such affections. By language made pleasurable I mean language that has rhythm and harmony [and melody]; and by "separately in the various kinds" I mean that some parts are carried out through meter alone, and again others through melody. Since it is by people acting that they make the imitation, in the first place the arrangement of the spectacle would necessarily be some part of tragedy; then the making of melody and diction, for it is in these that they make the imitation. By diction I mean the actual composition of the meters, and by melody-making I mean that whose power is entirely evident. Since it is an imitation of an action, and the action is carried out by certain agents who act, and these must necessarily be of a certain quality both in character and in thought (for it is on account of these that we also say the actions are of a certain quality,
11| [1450a] [there are by nature two causes of actions, thought and character], and it is in accordance with these that everyone either succeeds or fails), the action itself is represented through the plot — and by "plot" here I mean the arrangement of the incidents — whereas the characters are what makes us call the agents such-and-such in quality, and thought appears whenever, through speech, they show something or state a judgment. Necessarily, then, there are six parts of every tragedy, in accordance with which tragedy is of a certain quality: these are plot, characters, diction, thought, spectacle, and melody-making. For two of the parts are that by which they imitate, one is the manner in which they imitate, and three are what they imitate, and beyond these there is nothing. Not a few of them, so to speak, have used these elements; for indeed every play has spectacle and character and plot and diction and melody and thought likewise. Chief among these is how the incidents are put together. For tragedy represents actions and a life, not persons as such, [and happiness and unhappiness lie in action, and the end is a certain kind of action, not a quality; and people are of a certain quality in accordance with their characters, but happy or the opposite in accordance with their actions].
12| So it is not to represent character that agents act, but they acquire character for the sake of the actions; hence the events and their arrangement form tragedy's goal, and that goal outweighs everything else. Further, without action there could be no tragedy, but without characters there could be; for the tragedies of most of the moderns are lacking in character, and in general there are many poets of this kind, just as, among painters, Zeuxis stands in relation to Polygnotus; for Polygnotus is a good painter of character, while Zeuxis' painting has no character in it. Again, if someone sets in a row speeches expressive of character, and well made in diction and thought, he will not achieve what was said to be the function of tragedy; a tragedy that uses these things less well but has a plot and a structure of incidents will do so far more. Besides this, the greatest things by which tragedy sways the soul are parts of the plot — reversals and recognitions. A further sign: those who attempt to compose are able to be exact in diction and characters before they can construct the incidents, as is true of practically all the first poets. The plot, then, is the origin and, as it were, the soul of tragedy, and second come the characters (for it is much the same as in painting too;
13| [1450b] for if someone were to smear on the most beautiful colors at random, he would not give as much pleasure as if he had drawn an outline in white). And tragedy is an imitation of an action, and on that account chiefly of the people who act. Third is thought: this is the ability to say what is in a situation and what is fitting, which in the case of speeches is the function of political and rhetorical skill; for the poets of old made their characters speak in a political manner, but those of today speak in a rhetorical manner. Character is that sort of thing which reveals the choice [in cases where it is not clear what someone chooses or avoids]; hence speeches in which there is nothing at all that the speaker chooses or avoids have no character. Thought is present in those speeches where they demonstrate that something is or is not the case, or declare some general opinion. Fourth of the elements of speech is diction; by this, as was said before, I mean the expression of meaning through words, which has the same force whether in verse or in prose. Of the remaining elements, melody-making is the greatest of the pleasurable additions, while spectacle is a thing that sways the soul but is the least artistic and least proper to the poetic craft; for the power of tragedy exists even without performance and actors, and moreover the craft of the property-maker has more authority over the production of spectacle than does that of the poets.
14| Now that these matters have been distinguished, let us next discuss what kind of arrangement the events ought to have, since this stands as the first and greatest matter of tragedy. We have established that tragedy represents an action that is finished and entire and carries a certain size — for a thing may be entire while having no size at all. An entire thing is one possessing a start, a mid-point, and a close. A start is that which does not necessarily come after something else, though something else naturally exists or arises after it. A close, conversely, is that which by nature comes after something else, either necessarily or in most cases, while nothing further comes after it. A mid-point is that which comes after something else and is itself followed by yet another thing. Well-built plots, then, must neither start nor close at some arbitrary point, but must follow the patterns just given. Further, since anything beautiful — whether an animal or anything else composed of parts — must not only have these parts arranged in order but must also have a magnitude that is not random (for beauty consists in magnitude and order), it follows that a very tiny animal could not become beautiful (for the perception of it grows blurred as it approaches the span of an imperceptible instant of time), nor could a very huge one
15| [1451a] (for then the perception does not occur all at once, but the unity and wholeness of the object escapes those who are perceiving it), as would happen if an animal were ten thousand stades long. So just as with bodies and with animals a certain magnitude is needed, and this magnitude must be one that can be taken in at a single view, so too with plots: a certain length is needed, and this length must be one that can be easily held in memory. As for the limit of length that concerns dramatic contests and the audience's perception, that is not a matter belonging to the art itself — for if a hundred tragedies had to compete, they would be timed by water-clocks, as they say was once done on other occasions too. But the limit set by the nature of the subject matter itself is this: the greater the magnitude, up to the point where the whole remains clearly graspable, the finer the plot is in respect of magnitude. To state the matter simply: whatever magnitude, in a sequence of events occurring in accordance with probability or necessity, permits a change from bad fortune to good fortune or from good fortune to bad, is an adequate limit of magnitude. A plot is not one, as some suppose, simply because it is about one person — for many things, indeed countless things, happen to one person, and some of these do not combine to form any unity; and likewise there are many actions of one person from which no single action results.
16| For this reason all the poets who have written a Heracleid, a Theseid, and poems of that kind seem to be in error: they suppose that because Heracles was one person, the plot too ought properly to be one. But Homer, just as he surpasses others in every other respect, seems to have seen this point well too, whether by art or by nature: when shaping the Odyssey he left out the greater part of what actually befell Odysseus — his wound on Parnassus, say, or his pretended madness at the muster of the fleet — since neither event, once the one had happened, made the other either necessary or likely; rather he built the Odyssey, and the Iliad no less, around a single action of the sort we have described. Just as in the other imitative arts a single imitation is an imitation of one thing, so too the plot, since it is an imitation of an action, must be an imitation of one action and of that action as a whole, and the parts of the events must be so structured that if any part is shifted or removed, the whole is disturbed and thrown out of joint; for that whose presence or absence makes no perceptible difference is not a part of the whole at all. What we have said also makes plain that a poet's task is not reporting events that actually occurred, but rather the sort of events that could occur — what probability or necessity makes possible.
17| For the historian and the poet do not differ by speaking in verse or without verse [1451b] (Herodotus's work could be put into verse, and it would be no less a kind of history with meter than it is without meter); rather they differ in this: the one relates what has happened, the other the kind of thing that might happen. For this reason poetry is a more philosophical and more serious thing than history; for poetry speaks more of universals, history of particulars. A universal statement is one about the kind of thing a certain kind of person will, in accordance with probability or necessity, say or do — this is what poetry aims at, even while attaching names to the characters; a particular statement is one about what Alcibiades did or what happened to him. In the case of comedy this has by now become clear: comic poets construct the plot on the basis of what is probable, and only then assign chance names to the characters, rather than proceeding, as the writers of iambic verse do, about a particular individual. But in tragedy poets hold fast to the names of people who actually existed. The reason is that what is possible is persuasive: we do not yet believe that things which have not happened are possible, whereas it is clear that things which have happened are possible — for they would not have happened if they were impossible. Nevertheless, even in tragedies, in some plays only one or two of the names are well known and the rest are invented, while in others none is well known — as, for example, in Agathon's Antheus,
18| for in this play both the events and the names alike have been invented, and it delights no less for that. So one need not at all costs seek to hold fast to the traditional stories about which tragedies are composed. Indeed it is absurd to seek this, since even the well-known stories are well known only to a few, yet they delight everyone all the same. It is clear from this, then, that the poet must be a maker of plots rather than of verses, inasmuch as he is a poet in virtue of imitation, and what he imitates is actions. And even if it turns out that he composes about things that actually happened, he is no less a poet for that; for nothing prevents some of the things that have happened from being the sort of thing that would probably [and possibly] happen, and it is in respect of this that he is their poet. Among simple plots and actions, episodic ones are the worst. I call a plot episodic in which the episodes follow one another without either probability or necessity. Plots of this kind are made by bad poets because of their own deficiency, and by good poets for the sake of the actors: composing show-pieces for competition and stretching the plot beyond its natural capacity, they are often forced to distort the sequence of events.
19| [1452a] Since the imitation is not only of a complete action but also of events that arouse fear and pity, and these come about, and come about most of all [and more], when they occur contrary to expectation yet on account of one another — for in that way the marvelous element will be present more than if the events occurred spontaneously or by chance, since even among chance events those seem most marvelous which appear to have happened as if on purpose, as, for instance, when the statue of Mitys at Argos killed the man responsible for Mitys's death by falling on him as he stood watching a spectacle; for such things seem not to happen at random — so that plots of this sort must necessarily be finer. Among plots, some are simple and some are complex, since the actions of which plots are imitations are themselves already of these two kinds from the start. I call an action simple when, occurring as it has been defined, continuous and unified, the change of fortune comes about without reversal or recognition; and I call it complex when the change of fortune comes about with recognition or reversal or both. These must arise out of the very structure of the plot itself, so that they follow from what has gone before either by necessity or in accordance with probability; for it makes a great difference whether these events happen because of those or merely after them.
20| Reversal is a change of the actions to their opposite, as has been said, and this too, as we say, in accordance with probability or necessity. Take the Oedipus: a messenger arrives meaning to lift Oedipus's spirits and clear away his dread concerning his mother, yet in disclosing his identity he brought about the reverse; and in the Lynceus, one man is being led off to die, and Danaus is following to kill him, but as a result of what has happened one of them dies while the other is saved. Recognition, as the very name signifies, is a change from ignorance to knowledge, disclosing either a bond of friendship or one of enmity, on the part of people marked out for good or bad fortune. Recognition is finest when it occurs at the same time as reversal, as with the one in the Oedipus. There are also other kinds of recognition, for it can occur even in relation to lifeless things and to chance occurrences as has been said it happens, and it is possible to recognize whether someone has or has not done something. But the recognition most proper to the plot and most proper to the action is the kind just described; for a recognition of this sort, joined to reversal, will yield either pity or fear
21| [1452b] (and it is actions of this sort that tragedy has been posited as an imitation of), since both misfortune and good fortune will follow upon such things. Now since recognition is a recognition of certain people by certain people, in some cases it is recognition of one person by the other only, when it is already clear who the other one is, but at other times both parties must recognize each other, as when Iphigenia was recognized by Orestes through her sending of the letter, while a separate recognition was needed to make him known to Iphigenia. These, then, are two parts of the plot, reversal and recognition; and a third is suffering. Of these, reversal and recognition have been discussed; suffering, by contrast, is an act that destroys or causes pain — visible deaths, agonies, woundings, and the like. The parts of tragedy that must be treated as forms we stated earlier, but the parts into which it is divided by quantity, taken separately, are these: prologue, episode, exodos, and choral song, this last divided into parodos and stasimon. These are common to all tragedies, while songs from the stage and laments are proper to some. The prologue is the whole part of a tragedy before the parodos of the chorus; the episode is the whole part of a tragedy between complete choral songs; the exodos is the whole part of a tragedy after which there is no song of the chorus;
22| and of the choral part, the parodos is the whole first utterance of the chorus, the stasimon is a song of the chorus without anapaest or trochee, and the kommos is a lament shared between the chorus and the actors on stage. The parts of tragedy that must be treated as forms we stated earlier, and the parts into which it is divided by quantity, taken separately, are these. Next in order after what has now been said, it would be proper to state what one ought to aim at and what one ought to guard against in constructing plots, and what it is that will produce the effect proper to tragedy. Since, then, the structure of the finest tragedy must be not simple but complex, and must be an imitation of things that evoke fear and pity (for this is distinctive of this kind of imitation), it is clear, first, that decent men should not be shown passing from good fortune to bad fortune, for this is not fearful or pitiable but repugnant; nor should base men be shown passing from bad fortune to good fortune, for this is the most untragic thing of all, since it has none of the qualities it should have — it is neither humane, nor pitiable, nor fearful;
23| [1453a] nor again should an utterly wicked man fall from good fortune into bad fortune. Such a structure might have the humane quality, but it would produce neither pity nor fear, since pity is felt about a man who suffers undeservedly, and fear about a man like ourselves — pity about the undeserving, fear about the man like ourselves — so that what happens will excite neither pity nor fear. What is left, then, is the man in between these. Such is the man who is not outstanding in virtue and justice, and who does not pass into misfortune through vice and wickedness, but through some error, being one of those who are held in great esteem and enjoy good fortune, such as Oedipus and Thyestes and the notable men of families of that kind. It follows, then, that the well-constructed plot must be single rather than double, as some say, and must involve a change not from bad fortune to good fortune but, on the contrary, from good fortune to bad fortune, and this not on account of wickedness but on account of some great error on the part of a man such as has been described, or a better man rather than a worse. And what actually happens confirms this: at first the poets recounted whatever plots came their way, but nowadays the finest tragedies are composed about a few houses — about Alcmaeon, for instance, and Oedipus and Orestes and Meleager and Thyestes and Telephus, and all the others to whom it has befallen to suffer or to do terrible things.
24| The tragedy that is finest according to the art, then, is built on this structure. Hence those who criticize Euripides for doing this in his tragedies, and for having many of them end in misfortune, are making the same mistake. For this is, as has been said, correct; and the strongest sign of it is this: on the stage and in the dramatic competitions, such plays appear the most tragic of all, if they are brought off successfully, and Euripides, even if he does not manage everything else well, still appears the most tragic of the poets. Second in rank is the structure that some call first, the one that has a double structure, like the Odyssey, and ends in opposite ways for the better and the worse characters. It is thought to be first because of the weakness of audiences, for the poets follow along, composing to gratify the spectators' wishes. But this is not the pleasure that comes from tragedy; it belongs rather to comedy, where those who are the bitterest enemies in the story, such as Orestes and Aegisthus, walk off as friends at the end, and no one is killed by anyone.
25| [1453b] Now the fearful and the pitiable can arise from the spectacle, but they can also arise from the very structure of the events, which is the prior and better way, and the mark of a better poet. For the plot should be so constructed that, even without seeing it performed, the person who hears the events that occur shudders and feels pity at what happens, which is what one would feel on hearing the plot of the Oedipus. To produce this effect through spectacle is less a matter of art, and depends on lavish production. Those who use spectacle to produce not the fearful but merely the monstrous have nothing in common with tragedy, for one should not seek every kind of pleasure from tragedy, but only the pleasure proper to it. And since the poet must produce the pleasure that comes from pity and fear by means of imitation, it is clear that this effect must be built into the events themselves. Let us, then, take up what sorts of events seem terrible and what sorts seem pitiable among those that occur. Necessarily, such actions occur either between people who are friends toward one another, or between enemies, or between people who are neither. Now if an enemy does it to an enemy, there is nothing pitiable either in the doing or in the intending, except so far as the suffering itself goes; nor is there when the people involved are neither friends nor enemies; but when the suffering occurs within relationships of friendship — when, for example, a brother kills a brother, or a son a father, or a mother a son, or a son a mother, or is about to, or does something else of that kind — these are the cases to be sought after.
26| Now the plots that have been handed down one must not break up — I mean, for example, the death of Clytemnestra at the hands of Orestes, and that of Eriphyle at the hands of Alcmaeon — but the poet must himself invent, and use the traditional stories well. Let us say more clearly what we mean by "well." It is possible for the action to take place as the poets of old made it happen, with the people involved acting knowingly and with awareness, as Euripides too made Medea kill her children. Or it is possible for them to act, but to act in ignorance of the terrible thing they are doing, and afterward to recognize the bond of friendship, as with the Oedipus of Sophocles; that case falls outside the drama itself, whereas within the tragedy proper we find something like Astydamas's Alcmaeon, or the Telegonus of the Wounded Odysseus. There is, besides these, a third possibility: someone about to do one of the irreparable deeds in ignorance recognizes the truth before doing it. And beyond these there is no other way; for it is necessary either to act or not to act, and either knowingly or unknowingly. Of these, to know and intend but not to act is the worst; for it has the repugnant quality, and it is not tragic, since it involves no suffering. That is why no one composes it in this way, except rarely,
27| [1454a] if not rarely — as with Haemon toward Creon in the Antigone. Acting is second-best. Better than that is to act in ignorance and then, after acting, to recognize: for the shocking element is absent, and the recognition is startling. Best of all is the last kind — I mean, for example, in the Cresphontes, where Merope is about to kill her son but does not kill him, but instead recognizes him; and in the Iphigenia, where the sister recognizes the brother; and in the Helle, where the son, about to hand his mother over, recognized her. This is why, as was said earlier, tragedies are about few families. For in searching, poets found how to produce this sort of thing in their plots not by craft but by chance, and so they are forced to fall back on those households in which such sufferings have occurred. Concerning the construction of the incidents, then, and what qualities the plots should have, enough has been said. As for character, there are four things one must aim at. One, and first, is that it be good. A speech or action will have character, as was said, if it makes clear a choice of some kind, whatever that choice may be, and the character will be good if the choice is good. This holds within each class of person:
28| for even a woman can be good, and a slave too, although one of these is perhaps the inferior kind, the other altogether base. Second is the fitting: for there is such a thing as a manly character, but it is not fitting for a woman to be manly or clever in that way. Third is likeness. This is different from making the character good and fitting, as said before. Fourth is consistency. For even if the person offering the imitation is himself inconsistent, and such a character is assumed for him, he must nevertheless be consistently inconsistent. A model of character that is bad without need is Menelaus in the Orestes; of the improper and unfitting, Odysseus's wailing in the Scylla and Melanippe's speech; of the inconsistent, the Iphigenia at Aulis, since the girl begging for her own life resembles not at all the woman she later becomes. In matters of character, just as in the construction of the incidents, one must always seek either the necessary or the probable, so that for such a person to say or do such things is necessary or probable, and for this to follow after that is necessary or probable. It is clear, then, that the resolutions of plots too must come about from the plot itself,
29| [1454b] and not, as in the Medea, from a contrivance, or as with the matters of the departure in the Iliad. A contrivance should be used for what lies outside the drama — either events that happened earlier, which a human being could not know, or events that come later, which need to be foretold or reported; for we grant the gods the power to see everything. But there should be nothing irrational within the events themselves; if there is, it should be kept outside the tragedy, as with the irrational element in Sophocles' Oedipus. Since tragedy is an imitation of people better than we are, one should imitate good portrait-painters: for they too, in rendering a person's own form, make a likeness and yet paint it handsomer. In the same way the poet, in imitating people who are irritable or easygoing or have other such traits of character, should, while making them such, make them decent as well. (The text is corrupt at this point in the manuscripts; the sense appears to be something like: take a harsh character, and, as Homer does with Achilles, make him good.) These points, then, must be watched, and besides them, the points bound up with the perceptions that necessarily follow on the poetic craft; for one can err often here too — enough has been said about these matters in the published treatises. What recognition is has been stated before. As for the kinds of recognition, the first is the least artful, and the one used most often for lack of resource — recognition by signs.
30| Of these signs, some are innate — for example, "the spear the earthborn bear," or the stars such as Carcinus gives in the Thyestes — and some are acquired; and of these acquired ones, some are on the body, such as scars, and some external, such as necklaces, or, as in the Tyro, the chest. Even these can be used either better or worse: for example, Odysseus was recognized by his scar in one way by the nurse and in another way by the swineherds. For recognitions used only to establish belief are less artful, and all of that kind are so, while those that arise out of a reversal, as in the Washing Scene, are better. Second are those contrived by the poet, and for that reason inartful. For example, Orestes in the Iphigenia recognized that he was Orestes: she made herself known through the letter, but he himself says what the poet wants said, not what the plot requires. This is why it comes close to the fault mentioned before, since he might just as well have been carrying tokens. And in Sophocles' Tereus there is the voice of the shuttle. The third kind is through memory, by perceiving something on seeing it,
31| [1455a] as in the Cyprians of Dicaeogenes — for on seeing the painting he wept — and as in the tale told to Alcinous, where, hearing the lyre-player and being reminded, he shed tears; and from this they were recognized. The fourth kind comes from reasoning — for example in the Libation-Bearers: someone resembling him has come; no one resembles him except Orestes; therefore Orestes has come. There is also the one devised by Polyidus the sophist concerning the Iphigenia: for he said it was likely that Orestes reasoned that, since his sister had been sacrificed, it fell to him too to be sacrificed. And in Theodectes' Tydeus: that he came expecting to find his son, and instead perishes himself. And the one in the Phineidae: for the women, on seeing the place, reasoned out their fate, that it had been destined for them to die there, since they had also been exposed there. There is also a composite kind that arises from a false inference on the audience's part, as in the Odysseus the False Messenger: that he alone could draw the bow and no one else was a device the poet invented as a starting assumption, as was the claim that he would know the bow on sight, though he had never laid eyes on it; but to construct the scene so that he is recognized by means of that same bow is a false inference drawn by the spectators. Best of all recognitions is the one that arises out of the events themselves, the astonishment coming about through probabilities, as in Sophocles' Oedipus and in the Iphigenia:
32| for it is probable that she would want to have a written message delivered. Recognitions of this kind alone dispense with contrived signs and necklaces. Second-best are those from reasoning. Plots must be constructed, and worked out in diction, by setting the action as far as possible before one's eyes: for in this way, seeing it most vividly, as if present among the very events taking place, [the poet] would discover what is fitting and would be least likely to miss [the] contradictions. A sign of this is the fault found with Carcinus: his Amphiaraus was coming up from the temple, a fact that escaped [the spectator] because he did not see it, but on the stage it fell flat, since the spectators were offended by it. So far as possible, one should also work the action out with the very gestures: for those actually caught up in the emotions are the most convincing, by the very nature of the case, and the person truly storm-tossed storms and the person truly angered rages most truly. This is why poetry belongs to a person of natural gift, or to one touched with madness: for of these, the one kind are easily molded, the other beside themselves. As for the stories, both the traditional ones and those he makes up himself, the poet must first set them out in their universal form,
33| [1455b] and only then, in that form, fill them out with episodes and stretch them to length. What I mean by viewing the universal outline is this — take the Iphigenia, for example: a certain girl was sacrificed and vanished without the knowledge of those who sacrificed her, and was established in another land, where the custom was to sacrifice strangers to the goddess, and she held this priesthood; some time later it happened that the priestess's brother came there — that the god ordained his coming there [for some reason outside the universal outline], and for what purpose, lies outside the plot; having come, and having been seized, and being about to be sacrificed, he was recognized, whether the poet made it happen as Euripides did or as Polyidus did, by saying, in accordance with probability, that it was fated for him too, not only for his sister, to be sacrificed — and from this comes his deliverance. After this, once names have been assigned, one adds the episodes; and one must see to it that the episodes belong to the story, as in the Orestes, the madness through which he was seized, and the deliverance through the purification. In dramas, then, the episodes are compressed, but epic poetry is drawn out by means of them. For the plot of the Odyssey is not long: a man is away from home for many years, watched closely by Poseidon, and alone; and meanwhile things at home stand so that his wealth is being consumed by suitors and his son is being plotted against; he himself arrives, storm-battered, and after making himself known to some people, attacks, and is himself saved while destroying his enemies.
34| This, then, is what is proper to the plot; everything else is episode. Every tragedy has a complication and a resolution: the events outside the play, and often some of those within it, form the complication, and the rest is the resolution. By complication I mean the part from the beginning up to the last point from which the change to good fortune or bad fortune occurs; and by resolution, the part from the beginning of that change to the end. Take Theodectes' play Lynceus: its complication is built from what happened beforehand, the taking of the infant, and then, in turn, the abduction of the pair themselves; its resolution stretches from the charge of killing all the way through to the close. Tragedy divides into four types (matching the number of parts already named): the complex kind, whose whole substance is reversal and recognition; the pathetic kind, such as the Ajaxes and the Ixions; the kind of character, such as the Women of Phthia and the Peleus;
35| [1456a] and the fourth kind (the text is corrupt at this point), such as the Phorcides, the Prometheus, and all the plays set in Hades. One should try, above all, to have all of these elements, or failing that, the greatest and the most of them, especially given how people now unfairly attack poets: since good poets have arisen in each particular part, critics demand that a single poet surpass what was excellent in each one taken separately. It is right to call one tragedy different from another, or the same as another, by nothing so much as by its plot — that is, by tragedies that have the same complication and resolution. Many poets tie the knot well but resolve it badly; both need to be brought off skillfully. One must remember, as has often been said, and not turn a tragedy into an epic structure — by epic I mean a structure with many stories — as if someone were to make the whole story of the Iliad into a single tragedy. For there, because of its length, the parts take on their proper scale, but in plays the result falls far short of what one would expect. The proof is this: those who have dramatized the whole sack of Troy, rather than a part of it as Euripides did, or the whole story of Niobe, rather than as Aeschylus did, either fail outright or fare badly in competition — since even Agathon failed on this point alone. But in reversals, and in simple actions, poets hit wonderfully well what they aim at;
36| for this is both tragic and appeals to our human feeling. This happens whenever a man who is clever but wicked is deceived, as Sisyphus is, or when a man who is brave but unjust is defeated. And this is also probable, as Agathon says, for it is probable that many things happen even against probability. One should also regard the chorus as one of the actors, and as a part of the whole, taking part in the action — not as in Euripides, but as in Sophocles. In the rest of the poets, the songs belong no more to the plot than they would to any other tragedy; that is why they now sing interludes, a practice Agathon was the first to begin. Yet what difference is there between singing interludes and fitting a speech, or even a whole episode, from one play into another? That accounts for the remaining elements; what is left to discuss is verbal expression and thought. Let what concerns thought be set down in the works on rhetoric, since that subject belongs more properly to that discipline. Thought covers everything that has to be produced by means of speech; its parts are demonstrating, refuting, and arousing emotions
37| [1456b] (examples include pity, fear, and anger, among similar feelings), together with amplification and diminishment. It is clear that in the actions too one must draw on the same forms whenever it is necessary to produce effects that are pitiable, terrible, great, or probable; except that they differ in this respect — that the effects in the action must appear without any explanation, while those produced through speech must be brought about by the speaker and arise out of the speech itself. For what would be the speaker's function, if the effect appeared just as it should without being due to the speech? Among the matters concerning diction, one line of inquiry concerns the forms speech can take, and knowing them is the business of the actor's craft and of anyone who has command over it — for example, knowing what a command is, what a prayer is, and what narration, threat, question, and answer are, and anything else of this kind. For knowledge or ignorance of these brings against the poetic art no criticism worth taking seriously. What fault could anyone find in what Protagoras criticizes — that Homer, thinking he is uttering a prayer, actually gives a command when he says, "Sing, goddess, of the wrath"? For to bid someone do something or not, Protagoras says, is a command. So let this be set aside as belonging to another discipline, not to poetics.
38| Of diction as a whole, these are the parts: letter, syllable, connective, noun, verb, article, inflection, and phrase. A letter is an indivisible sound — not just any such sound, but one out of which a composite sound is naturally formed; for animals too have indivisible sounds, none of which I call a letter. The parts of this class are the vowel, the semivowel, and the mute. A vowel is that which has an audible sound without any contact of the speech organs; a semivowel is that which has an audible sound with contact, such as S and R; a mute is that which, even with contact, has by itself no sound at all, but becomes audible only in combination with letters that do have some sound, such as G and D. These differ from one another in the shapes and places of contact in the mouth, in roughness and smoothness, in length and shortness, and further in pitch, whether high, low, or intermediate; the detailed study of each of these belongs properly to works on metrics. A syllable is a non-signifying composite sound made up of a mute and a letter that has sound; for GR without an A is not a syllable, while with an A it is, as in GRA — but to examine these differences too belongs to metrics.
39| A connective is a non-signifying sound [1457a] which neither prevents nor helps form a single signifying sound naturally composed of several sounds, and which is not fitting to place by itself at the beginning of a sentence, whether at the extremes or in the middle — for example, men, ētoi, de. Or alternatively, a connective is a non-signifying sound naturally capable of forming, out of several signifying sounds, a single signifying sound. An article is a non-signifying sound that marks the beginning, end, or boundary of a phrase, such as amphi and peri and the like. Or alternatively, an article is a non-signifying sound which neither prevents nor helps form a single signifying sound naturally composed of several sounds, and which can be placed both at the extremes and in the middle. A noun is a composite signifying sound without reference to time, no part of which is by itself signifying; for in compound words we do not treat each part as signifying on its own — in Theodorus, for instance, the -dorus does not signify anything by itself. A verb is a composite signifying sound with reference to time, no part of which signifies by itself, just as with nouns; for man or white does not signify when, whereas walks or has walked additionally signifies, the one present time, the other past time.
40| An inflection of a noun or a verb is one that indicates of this or to this and the like, or one that indicates singular or plural, such as men or man, or one that indicates the modes of delivery, such as question or command — for did he walk? or walk! is an inflection of the verb according to these forms. A phrase is a composite signifying sound, some of whose parts signify something by themselves (for not every phrase is composed of verbs and nouns — the definition of man, for example, is not — but a phrase can exist without verbs, though it will always have some part that signifies something), as in Cleon walks, where Cleon signifies something by itself. A phrase is one in two ways: either as signifying one single thing, or as composed of several parts joined by a connective — the Iliad, for instance, is one by connection, while the definition of man is one by signifying one thing. Nouns are of two kinds: simple, by which I mean one not composed of signifying parts, such as earth, and double. Of the double kind, one sort is composed of a signifying part and a non-signifying part, except that within the noun itself that part functions neither as signifying nor as non-signifying, while the other sort is composed of two signifying parts. There could also be a triple, quadruple, or manifold noun, such as many of the names used by the people of Massalia, like Hermocaicoxanthus.
41| . . [1457b] Every noun is either a standard term, or a dialect word, or a metaphor, or an ornament, or a coined word, or a lengthened word, or a shortened word, or an altered word. By "standard" I mean the word each group of people uses; by "dialect word" I mean one that other people use; so it is clear that the same word can be both a dialect word and a standard term, though not for the same people: for the word "sigynon" is a standard term for the Cyprians, but a dialect word for us. Metaphor is the carrying-over of a name that properly belongs elsewhere: the shift runs from a general class down into a particular kind, from a particular kind up into its general class, from one particular kind across into another, or along a proportion. By "from genus to species" I mean, for example, "here my ship stands": for lying at anchor is a kind of standing. By "from species to genus": "truly Odysseus has done ten thousand noble deeds": for "ten thousand" is a large number, and here he has used it in place of "many." By "from species to species," for example: "drawing off the life with the bronze" and "cutting with the long-edged bronze": here he has used "draw off" for "cut" and "cut" for "draw off," since both are a kind of taking away. I call it "by analogy" whenever the second term stands to the first as the fourth stands to the third:
42| for then the speaker will say the fourth in place of the second, or the second in place of the fourth. And sometimes people add, in place of the term replaced, the term to which it stands in relation. I mean, for example, that a cup stands to Dionysus as a shield stands to Ares; so one will call the cup "the shield of Dionysus" and the shield "the cup of Ares." Or again, as old age stands to life, so evening stands to day; so one will call evening "the old age of the day," or, as Empedocles does, call old age "the evening of life" or "the sunset of life." In some cases there is no established name for one of the terms in the analogy, but nonetheless the thing will be spoken of in the same way: for instance, releasing seed onto the ground is called "sowing," but releasing flame from the sun has no name; yet this stands to the sun just as sowing stands to the seed, and so it has been said, "sowing the god-created flame." And it is possible to use this manner of metaphor in another way too, by applying the foreign name and then denying of it one of its own proper attributes—for example, if one were to call the shield not "the cup of Ares" but "the wineless cup" . . . A coined word is one that, being called by no one at all, is set up by the poet himself; for some words do seem to be of this kind, such as calling horns "sprouts" and a priest a "prayer-man." A word is lengthened or shortened,
43| [1458a] the one when it makes use of a vowel longer than its own or of an inserted syllable, the other when something has been removed from it; lengthened, for example, "poleos" for "poleos" and "Peleidou" for "Peleiadeo"; shortened, for example, "kri" and "do," and "one voice results from both." A word is altered whenever, of the word as normally spoken, part is left as it is and part is made up, as in "the right one, on the breast" in place of "the right-hand one." Of the nouns themselves, some are masculine, some feminine, and some between the two: masculine are all that end in N and R and S, and those composed from this last (these are two, Psi and Xi); feminine are those ending in vowels that are always long, namely Eta and Omega, and, among the ones that admit lengthening, those ending in Alpha; so it turns out that the masculine and feminine endings are equal in number, since Psi and Xi are compounds. No noun ends in a mute consonant, nor in a short vowel. Only three end in Iota: honey, gum, pepper. Five end in Upsilon. The nouns between the two genders end in these same letters and in N and S. The excellence of diction is to be clear and not low.
44| The clearest diction, then, is the one made of standard words, but it is low; the poetry of Cleophon and that of Sthenelus are an example. Dignified diction, one that rises above the ordinary, is that which makes use of foreign elements; and by "foreign" I mean dialect word, metaphor, lengthening, and everything that departs from the standard. But if someone makes a whole composition of such things, the result will be either a riddle or barbarism: if it is made of metaphors, a riddle; if of dialect words, barbarism. For this is the very nature of a riddle, to state true things while combining them in an impossible way: this cannot be done by the ordinary combining of other kinds of words, but it can be done by means of metaphors, for example, "I saw a man gluing bronze onto another man with fire," and things of that sort. And compositions made of dialect words are barbarism. So these elements must somehow be blended together: for the dialect word, the metaphor, the ornament, and the other kinds mentioned will keep the diction from being ordinary and low, while the standard word will supply its clarity. Not the least part of what contributes
45| [1458b] to the clarity of diction, and to its not being ordinary, is the lengthening, curtailing, and altering of words: for because such a word is other than the standard form, departing from the customary usage, it will make the diction not ordinary, while because it still shares in the customary usage, it will remain clear. So those critics are not right who fault this manner of diction and mock the poet for it, as the elder Eucleides did, on the ground that it is easy to compose poetry if one is to be allowed to lengthen words as far as one pleases—composing, in that very style, iambic lines such as "I saw Epichares walking to Marathon," and "not (the text is corrupt here) his hellebore." Now to make one's use of this device in some way conspicuous is ridiculous; but due measure applies in common to all the parts of diction alike: for indeed someone using metaphors and dialect words and the other forms unsuitably, and on purpose for the sake of raising a laugh, would produce the very same effect. How great a difference fitness makes can be studied in epic verses by inserting the standard words in place of the others, within the same meter. And likewise with the dialect word, the metaphor, and the other forms: if one substitutes the standard words in their place, one can see that what we say is true; for example, the very same iambic line was composed by both Aeschylus and Euripides, and with only a single word changed—a dialect word put in place of the customary standard one—the one line appears beautiful and the other trivial.
46| For Aeschylus, in the Philoctetes, wrote: "the cancer that eats the flesh of my foot," but the other poet substituted "feasts on" for "eats." And: "but now, being small and worthless and unseemly," if someone were to substitute the standard words and say: "but now, being small and weak and ugly." And: "setting down an unseemly stool and a small table," becomes "setting down a wretched stool and a small table." And "the shores are roaring" becomes "the shores are shrieking." Further, Ariphrades used to mock the tragic poets because they use expressions that no one would use in ordinary speech—for instance, "from the halls" rather than "away from the halls," and "of thee," and "and I him," and "Achilles concerning" rather than "concerning Achilles,"
47| [1459a] and all the other things of that kind. For it is precisely because such expressions are not among the standard words that they all make the diction not ordinary; but Ariphrades did not understand this. Now it is a great thing to use each of the kinds mentioned fittingly—both compound words and dialect words—but by far the greatest thing is to have a gift for metaphor. This alone cannot be acquired from another, and it is a sign of natural talent: for to make good metaphors is to perceive what is similar in things. Of nouns, compound words suit dithyrambs best, dialect words suit heroic verse, and metaphors suit iambic verse. And in heroic verse all the kinds mentioned are useful; but in iambic verse, because it imitates speech as closely as possible, the words that are fitting are those that one might also use in ordinary prose speech, namely the standard word, the metaphor, and the ornament. Concerning tragedy, then, and imitation carried out in action, let what has been said be sufficient for us. As for the narrative kind, which imitates in meter, it is clear that its plots must be constructed dramatically, as in tragedies, and must be about a single action that is whole and complete and has a beginning, middle parts, and an end, so that like a single whole living creature it may produce the pleasure proper to it—and that and its compositions must not be like histories, which are bound to give an account not of one action but of one stretch of time -- everything that occurred within it concerning one person or many, each event related to the rest purely as chance would have it.fittingly—both compound words and dialect words—but by far the greatest thing is to have a gift for metaphor. This alone cannot be acquired from another, and it is a sign of natural talent: for to make good metaphors is to perceive what is similar in things. Of nouns, compound words suit dithyrambs best, dialect words suit heroic verse, and metaphors suit iambic verse. And in heroic verse all the kinds mentioned are useful; but in iambic verse, because it imitates speech as closely as possible, the words that are fitting are those that one might also use in ordinary prose speech, namely the standard word, the metaphor, and the ornament. Concerning tragedy, then, and imitation carried out in action, let what has been said be sufficient for us. As for the narrative kind, which imitates in meter, it is clear that its plots must be constructed dramatically, as in tragedies, and must be about a single action that is whole and complete and has a beginning, middle parts, and an end, so that like a single whole living creature it may produce the pleasure proper to it—and that its compositions must not be like histories, which are bound to give an account not of one action but of one stretch of time -- everything that occurred within it concerning one person or many, each event related to the rest purely as chance would have it.
48| For just as the sea battle at Salamis and the battle of the Carthaginians in Sicily happened at the same time without tending toward the same end at all, so too in successive stretches of time one thing sometimes happens after another, and no single end results from them. Most poets do this. That is why, as we have already said, Homer would appear divinely inspired beyond the others in this respect too: that he did not even attempt to make the whole war his subject, even though it has a beginning and an end—for the plot was bound to become too large and hard to take in at a single view, or else, kept moderate in size, entangled by its variety. As it is, he has taken up one part and used many of the rest as episodes—for instance the catalogue of ships—and diversifies the poem with other episodes [twice]. But the other poets compose about one person, and about one time, and one action with many parts,
49| [1459b] as, for instance, the man who wrote the Cypria and the Little Iliad. Hence out of the Iliad and the Odyssey only one tragedy is made from each, or two at most, while out of the Cypria many are made, and from the little Iliad [[more than] eight, for instance the Judgment of Arms, Philoctetes, Neoptolemus, Eurypylus, the Begging, the Spartan Women, the Sack of Troy, and the Sailing Away [and Sinon and the Trojan Women]]. Further, epic must have the same species as tragedy: it must be either simple or complex, or one of character or one of suffering. And its components, too, match those of tragedy save for song-composition and spectacle, since it likewise requires reversal, recognition, and suffering. Further, it must handle thought and diction well. Homer has used all of these, and was the first to do so, and did so adequately. For of his two poems, the Iliad is constructed as simple and one of suffering, while the Odyssey is complex (for there is recognition running throughout it) and one of character; and besides this he has surpassed all others in diction and in thought. Epic differs from tragedy in the length of its structure and in its meter. The limit of length already stated is sufficient: it must be possible to take in the beginning and the end together in a single view. This would be so if the structures were shorter than those of the old epics, and reached up to the length of the number of tragedies set for one hearing.
50| Epic has, for extending its magnitude, a great deal that is peculiar to it, because in tragedy it is not possible to represent many parts occurring at the same time, but only the part that is on the stage and involves the actors; whereas in epic, because it is narrative, it is possible to make many parts being completed at the same time, and these, being proper to the subject, increase the poem's bulk. So epic has this advantage toward grandeur, and toward shifting the listener's attention and diversifying the work with dissimilar episodes; for it is sameness that quickly fills one up and causes tragedies to fail. As for meter, experience has fitted the heroic meter to epic. For if someone were to compose a narrative imitation in some other single meter, or in several meters, it would appear unfitting; for the heroic is the most stately and weighty of meters (which is also why it admits foreign words and metaphors most readily, since narrative imitation too stands apart from the others), while the iambic and the trochaic tetrameter are meters of movement, the one suited to dancing, the other to action.
51| [1460a] Further, it is even more absurd if one mixes these meters together, as Chaeremon did. That is why no one has composed a long structure in any meter other than the heroic; rather, as we have said, nature itself teaches us to choose what is fitting to it. Homer deserves praise for many other things, and especially because he alone among the poets is not ignorant of what he himself ought to do. For the poet himself ought to speak as little as possible, since in speaking he is not being an imitator. The other poets compete in their own persons throughout, and imitate only a little and rarely; but Homer, after a brief prelude, at once brings in a man or a woman or some other character, and none of them without character, but each possessing one. Now the marvelous must be produced in tragedies, but epic allows more scope for the irrational, through which the marvelous is chiefly achieved, because one does not look at the person acting. For the events of the pursuit of Hector, if placed on the stage, would appear ridiculous—the Greeks standing still and not pursuing, and Achilles shaking his head to hold them back—but in the epic verses this passes unnoticed. And the marvelous is pleasant: a sign of this is that everyone, in reporting a story, adds something to it, since this pleases their hearers. It is Homer above all who has taught the rest how one ought to tell lies.
52| This is a false inference. For people suppose that, when this thing being so that thing is, or when this coming to be that comes to be, then if the later thing is true, the earlier thing too is true or has come to be—but this is false. Hence, if the first thing is false, but there is something else that necessarily is or comes to be if the first were true, one must add that: for because we know this second thing to be true, our mind falsely infers, on that basis, that the first thing is true as well. An example of this is the passage from the Washing scene. One ought to prefer probable impossibilities to improbable possibilities; and stories should not be composed of irrational parts—rather, so far as possible they should contain nothing irrational, or if they do, it should fall outside the plot itself, as with Oedipus not knowing how Laius died, and not within the drama, as with the messengers reporting the Pythian games in the Electra, or the mute character in the Mysians who comes from Tegea into Mysia. To say that otherwise the plot would have been destroyed is ridiculous, for one ought not to construct such plots from the beginning. But if one has set such a thing in place and it appears to admit of a more plausible account, it is nevertheless absurd since the irrational elements in the Odyssey concerning the putting ashore would clearly have been intolerable, had an inferior poet composed them;
53| [1460b] but as it is, the poet conceals the absurdity, sweetening it with his other virtues. In diction one must labor especially over the idle passages, those that convey neither character nor thought; for excessively brilliant diction, in turn, obscures the characters and the thoughts. Concerning problems and their solutions, one can see how many and what kinds there are if one considers the matter as follows. Since the poet is an imitator just like a painter or any other maker of images, he must always imitate one of three things in number: either how something was or is, or how people claim and believe it to be, or how it should be. These are conveyed in diction, in which there are foreign words and metaphors and many modifications of diction, for we grant these to poets. Besides this, correctness is not the same thing for political science and for poetics, nor for any other art and poetics. Within poetics itself there are two kinds of error: one belonging to it in its own right, the other incidental. For if the poet set out to represent something and failed through . . . incapacity, the error is his own; but if he chose incorrectly—representing, say, a horse throwing forward both right legs at once—or made an error belonging to some particular art, such as an error in medicine or in whatever other art [or has represented impossibilities], that is not an error in the poet's own right.
54| Hence one must resolve the objections raised in these problems by examining them under these headings. First, those bearing on the art itself: if impossibilities have been represented, this is an error—but it is correct if the poem thereby achieves its own end (for the end has been stated), that is, if this makes that very part, or some other part, more astounding. The pursuit of Hector is an example. If, however, the end could have been achieved either better, or no worse, while still observing the correctness proper to that art, then [the error stands] and is not right; for one ought, wherever possible, to make no error at all. Further, one must ask to which class the error belongs: one against the art itself, or an incidental one against some other point? For it is a lesser fault not to know that a female deer has no horns than to draw one unrecognizably. Besides this, if the objection is that something is not true, one may perhaps answer that it is as it ought to be—just as Sophocles said that he himself portrayed people as they ought to be, while Euripides portrayed them as they are; this is the way to resolve such an objection. But if neither answer applies, one may say that this is simply what people say, as with the stories about the gods; for perhaps it is neither better nor true to speak of them so, but it may simply be as Xenophanes held—still, that is what people say.
55| [1461a] Other things again are perhaps not better as put, but that was simply how matters stood — for example the point about the weapons, "their spears stood upright on the butt-spike": that was the custom then, just as it still is among the Illyrians now. As to whether something has been well said or well done by someone, one must not look only at the deed or the saying itself and ask whether it is good or bad, but also at the agent or speaker — the person addressed, the occasion, the instrument used, and the purpose behind it: for example, whether a greater good was the goal, meant to result, or a greater evil, meant to be prevented. Other problems must be resolved by attending to the diction — for example, to a rare word, as in "the mules first": perhaps he does not mean the mules but the sentries. And the line on Dolon, "who indeed was poor in looks," points not to a misshapen body but to an unsightly face — since among the Cretans, a good-looking face is what "handsome" designates. And "mix it zoroteron" does not mean unmixed, as for heavy drinkers, but "more quickly." Other expressions are said by way of metaphor, as when "all the gods and men slept the whole night through," while at the same time he says, "whenever he looked out over the Trojan plain, [he heard] the din of flutes and pipes": for "all" is said instead of "many" by metaphor, since "all" is a kind of "much."
56| And "alone she has no share" is likewise by metaphor, for the best-known thing is called the only one. Other problems are solved by accent, as Hippias of Thasos solved "we grant him to win his prayer" and "the part of it that rots in the rain." Others are solved by punctuation, as with Empedocles: "suddenly things grew mortal that before had learned to be immortal, and things unmixed before became mixed." Others are solved by ambiguity, as "more of the night has gone by": for "more" is ambiguous. Others are solved by the ordinary usage of speech. They call mixed wine simply "wine," and from this usage comes the phrase "a greave of freshly-worked tin"; and those who work iron are called "bronze-workers," and from this usage it is said that Ganymede pours wine for Zeus, though the gods do not drink wine. This last case, however, could also be explained as metaphor. And whenever a word seems to signify some contradiction, one must also consider in how many ways it could bear that meaning in the passage in question — for example, in "there the bronze spear was stopped," one should ask in how many ways it might be stopped "there," this way or that, in whichever sense would most naturally be understood: taking it as the direct opposite, or as Glaucon states it —
57| [1461b] namely that some people assume something without good reason, and then, having themselves passed a verdict on it, reason from that assumption, and censure the poet for having said what merely seems to them to have been said, whenever it conflicts with their own opinion. This is what has happened with the matter concerning Icarius. For they suppose him to be a Spartan, and so find it strange that Telemachus did not meet him when he went to Lacedaemon. But perhaps the matter stands as the Cephallenians say: they claim that Odysseus married a wife from among their own people, and that the man's name was Icadius, not Icarius; the difficulty, it seems likely, arises from an error (the text here is uncertain). Broadly speaking, an impossibility needs defending on one of three grounds: the demands of poetic composition, a standard of excellence, or common belief. For with a view to poetry, a persuasive impossibility is preferable to an unpersuasive possibility; ... that men should be such as Zeuxis painted them, but better — for the model ought to surpass its subject. To the charges that things are irrational one should answer in this way too: that sometimes a thing is not in fact irrational, for it is likely that even improbable things happen. Apparently contradictory statements call for the same scrutiny used in refuting arguments: check that the term applies identically — same object, same respect, same manner — ...to determine whether the poet contradicts himself [corrupt text], or contradicts what he himself says elsewhere, or what a person of sound judgment would suppose.. Censure is justified in the case of irrationality and of depravity, whenever, though there is no necessity for it, the poet makes use of the irrational — as Euripides does with Aegeus — or of baseness of character, as with the character of Menelaus in the Orestes.
58| The criticisms brought against poets, then, fall under five kinds: works are censured as impossible, or as irrational, or as harmful, or as self-contradictory, or as contrary to correctness as defined by the craft. The solutions to these must be examined under the categories just stated; there are twelve of them. One might raise the question whether epic imitation or tragic imitation is the better. For if the less vulgar art is the better, and the art addressed to the better sort of spectators is always of that kind, then it is quite obvious that an art which imitates everything indiscriminately is vulgar: performers, supposing the audience will not understand unless they themselves add something, make a great deal of movement — as inferior flute-players roll about if a discus-throw must be represented, and drag the chorus-leader about if they are playing Scylla. Tragedy, then, is of this sort, just as the earlier actors thought of their successors: for Mynniscus used to call Callippides "the ape," on the ground that he overacted so excessively, and the same opinion was held of Pindarus as well.
59| [1462a] And as these actors stand to one another, so tragic art as a whole stands to epic poetry. Epic, they say, is addressed to respectable spectators who need no bodily gestures at all, while tragedy is addressed to inferior ones; and if it is vulgar, it is clearly the worse art. But in the first place, this charge is not against the poetic art but against the actor's art, since it is possible to overdo the gestures while merely reciting, as Sosistratus did, or while singing, as Mnasitheus of Opus used to do. Next, it is not every instance of movement that deserves censure — dancing as a whole is no more guilty than movement as a whole — rather only the movement performed by inferior performers — which is exactly what Callippides was criticized for, and what others are criticized for now, on the ground that they represent women who are not respectable. Further, tragedy achieves its own proper effect even without movement, just as epic does: for through reading alone it becomes clear what kind of thing it is; so if it is superior in every other respect, this defect need not belong to it of necessity. Then again, tragedy has everything that epic has — it too can make use of meter — and it has besides, as no small part of itself, music [and spectacle], through which its pleasures are established most vividly; further, it possesses vividness both when read and when performed on stage: [1462b] and further, its imitation reaches its end within a shorter length, since what is concentrated is more pleasant than what is diluted over a long stretch of time — I mean, for example, if one were to set Sophocles' Oedipus in as many verses as the Iliad.
60| Further, the imitation carried out by epic poets is less unified — a sign of this is that from any single epic imitation several tragedies can be produced — so that if epic poets treat a single plot, it either appears truncated when shown briefly, or, if it keeps to the length proper to the meter, appears watered down. I mean, for instance, a case where the poem is composed of several actions, as the Iliad has many such parts, and the Odyssey too, parts which even by themselves possess magnitude; and yet these epics are put together as skillfully as can be managed, and come as close as possible to representing one unified action. Given, therefore, that tragedy has the advantage on every one of these points, and additionally in the function proper to the art — since these poems ought to produce not just any pleasure whatever, but the pleasure already specified — it is clear that, since it attains its end more fully, tragedy would be superior to epic poetry. Concerning tragedy and epic poetry, then — both in themselves and in their species and parts, how many these are and in what they differ, what the causes are of their being good or not, ...and concerning objections and their solutions — let this much be said. . . . [text breaks off]
1| Book 1: Medical Problems. Why are great excesses productive of disease? Is it because they produce excess or deficiency, and this is what disease is? Why do diseases often heal when someone departs greatly from the norm? Indeed some doctors' craft works exactly this way: they cure by excesses of wine or water or brine or food or fasting. Is it because the things that cause the disease are opposite to one another, so that each of the two drives the other toward the mean? Why do the changes of the seasons and the winds intensify or halt diseases, bring them to crisis, and produce them? Is it because the seasons are hot and cold and wet and dry, while diseases are excesses of these, and health is equality? So if a disease is due to wetness or cold, the opposite season stops it; but if the opposite season is already at work, a like temperament supervening intensifies it and does away with the patient. For this same reason the changes make even the healthy sick, because in changing they dissolve the temperament; for it (the temperament) increases together with the seasons and ages and places that suit it. That is why one must steer oneself with special care through the changes. What has been said generally about the seasons holds also in particular, for the cause is the same: changes of winds and of ages and of places are themselves changes of a kind of season. That is why these too intensify, halt, bring to crisis, and produce diseases, just as the seasons do, and the risings of the stars, such as Orion and Arcturus and the Pleiades and the Dog-star, [just as] winds and rains and fair weather and storms and heat do.
2| Why should one not use vomiting during the changes of the seasons? Is it so that no disturbance may arise from the residues becoming of different kinds because of the changes? Why do both those cheated of their food and those distressed by hunger swell in the feet? Is it because both waste away? Those suffering from famine waste away because they take in no nourishment at all, while those cheated of food waste away because they get no benefit from the nourishment they do take. Why is it that, of the diseases arising from bile — for people run the highest fevers in summer — the acute ones that come from bile occur more in winter? Is it because, occurring along with fever, they are acute owing to their violence, and violence is contrary to nature? For when certain places become wet, a hot inflammation arises, and inflammation, being an excess of heat, produces the fevers. In summer, then, diseases are dry and hot, but in winter they are wet and hot, and for that reason acute; for they carry the patient off quickly, since the residue, being abundant, will not be concocted. Why is it that plague alone, of all diseases, above all infects those who come near the people being treated for it? Is it because it alone among diseases is common to everyone, so that for this reason it brings the plague upon all who are already in poor condition beforehand? And also, because of the kindling supplied by the disease coming from those under treatment, people are quickly caught by the thing.
3| Why is it that, if the winter turns northerly, and then the spring becomes rainy and southerly, the summer becomes disease-ridden with fevers and eye-inflammations? Is it because bodies then meet the summer already holding much foreign moisture, and the earth and the region people inhabit becomes waterlogged, of the sort that are said to be the perpetually unhealthy places? First, then, eye-inflammations occur, as the residue around the head melts, and afterward fevers. For one must grasp that the very same thing can become both hottest and coldest, as with water and stone: the one boils, the other burns still more. So in the air, stifling heat occurs when the air is heated through thickness, and likewise in bodies there occur stifling heat and burning; and the burning in a body is fever, in the eyes it is eye-inflammation. In general a change that is violent destroys bodies, whenever, the spring being wet, the summer — hot and dry — takes hold immediately after. And it is still worse if the summer too turns rainy. For then the sun has matter which it will make boil, both in bodies and in the earth and in the air; hence fevers and eye-inflammations occur.
4| Why is it that, if the winter turns southerly and rainy, but the spring is parched and northerly, both the spring and the summer become disease-ridden? Is it because in the winter, owing to the mildness and moisture, bodies are disposed similarly to the season? For they must be moist and not well compacted. Bodies being in this state, the spring, being cold, freezes and hardens them because of the drought — (so that for pregnant women the spring delivery ends in miscarriage, because of the heat and the mortification produced by the dry cold, since the moisture is not being excreted, while the children conceived are born weak and defective because of the excess of cold; for it happens that children born at that season are formed and nourished within the mother in fair weather) — while for the rest, since in the spring the phlegm was not purged out on account of the excess, which is what happens when the weather turns mild, but instead was compacted through cold, then, when the summer takes hold and the heat forcibly melts it: in those who are bilious and dry, because their bodies are not moist but have a naturally parched nature, moistures do form, but these are thin, so that they are seized by dry eye-inflammations; while the phlegmatic are seized by hoarseness and by catarrhs running into the lung. Women get dysentery because of the moistness and coldness of their nature; the more elderly get strokes, whenever moisture, released all at once in a mass, falls upon them and, through the weakness of their innate heat, congeals.
5| Why is it that, if the summer turns parched and northerly, but the autumn is the opposite — wet and southerly — headaches occur in the winter, along with hoarseness and coughs, ending in consumption? Is it because the winter takes on much matter, so that its task becomes to congeal the moisture and produce phlegm? In the head, then, when moistness occurs, it produces heaviness, and if it is abundant and cold, it produces mortification; but if because of its quantity it does not congeal, it flows to the neighboring region, whence coughs and hoarseness and consumptions arise. Why is it that, if the summer turns northerly and parched, and the autumn too, this is beneficial to the phlegmatic and to women? Is it because in both of them nature tends to excess in one direction, so that the season, pulling them toward the opposite, restores them to a good mixture? And they become healthy at once, provided they do nothing wrong themselves, and they arrive at winter not moist, though carrying kindling material for the cold.
6| Why is a northerly and parched summer, and likewise autumn, unhealthy for the bilious? Is it because the body and the seasons incline in the same direction for them, so that it is like fire upon fire? For as their bodies dry out, and the sweetest element is drawn off from them as moisture, while they become excessively overheated, it must follow that dry eye-inflammations arise because of the wastings, and that, since the humor left behind is bilious, when this too is overheated, acute fevers arise, coming as they do from unmixed bile; and in some, those in whom black bile is naturally present, it produces fits of madness, for this humor rises to the surface when the opposite humors are dried away. Why do people say that a change of waters is unhealthy, but not a change of air? Is it because water becomes nourishment, and people have had and enjoyed the water before they move on, whereas nothing of the sort happens with air? Further, there are many kinds and differences of water in their own right, but not of air, so that this too is a cause; for in the air it happens that one goes on using more or less the same air even when traveling abroad, but in waters one moves among different ones. Hence a change of water is rightly held to be unhealthy. Why is a change of water more unhealthy than a change of food? Is it because we consume the most water? For it is present in foods and in relishes too, and in drink it is the greatest part.
7| Why is change productive of disease? Is it because every change, whether of season or of stage of life, is easily set in motion? For the extremes are easily moved, for instance both beginnings and endings. So too foods, when they differ from one another, destroy one another's effect: some have only just been assimilated, others not yet. Further, just as varied food is disease-producing (for it is disturbing, and there is no single process of digestion for it), so it happens when people change their use of water for drink, using varied water as their nourishment. And such drink is more decisive than dry food, because it is the greatest part of our diet, and because moisture becomes nourishment even out of the foods themselves. Why does a change of waters make those who have lice have more of them? Is it because a failure of digestion of the moisture arises through the disturbance, which comes about through the variety of waters, when people change frequently, and this produces an excess of moisture, most of all in the place naturally suited for it? And the brain is moist; that is why the head is always most affected. This is shown by the fact that hairs are present there in the greatest number. And the moisture of this region is productive of lice. This is shown too in the case of children: their heads are moist, and they often either run at the nose or bleed, and those of this age have more lice.
8| Why is it that from the setting of the Pleiades until the west wind blows, those suffering from long illnesses die off most, and the old more than the young? Is it because there are two things most destructive, excess and cold? For life is warm, and this season has both these qualities: it is cold, and winter is then at its height, for what is left is spring. Or is it because those who suffer from prolonged weaknesses are disposed in the same way as the old? For a prolonged weakness amounts to a kind of old age already: the body in both cases is dry and cold, in the one case through age, in the other through illness. Now winter and frost are an excess of coldness and dryness. So for people who need only a small tipping-force, winter comes as fire added to fire, and destroys them for this reason. Why is it that in marshy places wounds on the head heal quickly, but those on the shins only with difficulty? Is it because the moisture is heavy, being earthy, and heavy things withdraw downward? So the parts above are free of it, since it has withdrawn to the parts below, while the parts below are full of much residue, and residue easily putrefies.
9| Why is it that, if the winter is northerly and the spring southerly and rainy, and then the summer becomes excessively dry, the autumn proves deadly for everyone, and most of all for children, while for others too dysentery and prolonged quartan fevers occur in it? Is it because, when a moderate amount of summer rain supervenes, the boiling moisture within us is cooled and subsides, that is, whatever was collected during the moist spring? But if this does not happen, children, because they are naturally moist and warm, boil over with the affection, because they are not cooled. And whatever does not boil over in the summer does so, to that extent, in the autumn. And the residues, if they are not carried off at once, form around the lung and windpipe, since being formed above they are the first to be established there, because we are warmed by the air; and this is also why inflammations of the eyes occur before fevers in an unhealthy summer. — If, then, as has been said, the residues are not carried off at once in the upper parts, they descend into the bowels while still undigested, and this is dysentery, because the moisture is not excreted on account of its quantity. And if the dysentery stops, quartan fevers arise in those who survive; for the sediment of the undigested matter is the most persistent, and becomes fixed in the body, like black bile.
10| Why is it that, if the summer turns out rainy and southerly, and the autumn likewise, the winter becomes unhealthy? Is it because winter makes the bodies extremely moist, and the change is still great, coming as it does from much warmth and not by gradual approach, because the autumn too turns out warm? So that for some it is necessary that acute diseases arise, namely those who are not of loose flesh; for in such people the moist residues collect more in the upper parts, because these regions have room for them, while the lower regions belong to other purposes. Those, then, who are close-fleshed do not admit many residues. So when the residue in the upper parts of the body is chilled, just as happens to drunken men when they shiver, the diseases mentioned occur. But in those of looser flesh, when fevers arise, the fevers that come from the greatest indigestion turn out to be burning fevers, because in such people the moisture is more scattered throughout the whole body than in the close-fleshed, and when their flesh contracts under the action of the winter, the moisture, being heated, produces fevers. For fever is an excessive heat of the whole body; and when this is intensified because of the quantity of moisture present in them, it becomes a burning fever.
11| Why is it that, when much vapor rises from the earth under the action of the sun, the year becomes pestilential? Is it because it is necessary that a moist and rainy year, and one in which the earth is moist, be signified? So it is as if one's dwelling were in a marshy place. And such a place is unhealthy. And it is necessary too that bodies then have much residue, so that in the summer they have unhealthy matter. Why do the years become unhealthy when there occurs an abundance of the small toad-like frogs? Is it because each thing thrives in the region proper to its nature? And these creatures are by nature moist, so that they signify that the year is becoming rainy and moist. And such years are unhealthy; for bodies, being moist, have much residue, which is the cause of diseases. Why are the dry south winds, and not the rainy ones, productive of fever? Is it because they produce moisture and heat that is foreign to the body? For they are moist and warm by nature. And this condition is feverish; for fever arises from an excess of both these qualities together. So when they blow without rain, they produce this condition in us, but when accompanied by rain, the water cools us. South winds from the sea are even beneficial to plants; for they arrive at the plants having been cooled by the sea. And blight arises from moisture and heat that are foreign to the plant.
12| Why do people feel heavier and more feeble in south winds? Is it because much moisture arises out of little, melted down by the warmth, and out of a light breath a heavy moisture is made? Further, our strength lies in our joints, and these are relaxed by south winds. This is shown by the creaking of joints that have been glued together, as it were: for what is viscous in the joints, when congealed, prevents us from moving, but when it is too moist, prevents us from being drawn taut. Why do people fall ill more in summer, but those who are ill die more in winter? Is it because in winter, on account of the density of the body, the heat is drawn together within, and people, working harder, if they fail to digest the residues forming within them, must have the onset of the disease be strong? And being of this kind, it is likely to be destructive. But in summer, when the whole body is loose and chilled and relaxed for hard work, the onsets of disease must be more numerous, on account of fatigue and the indigestion of what is taken in (for the new fruits are then in season), but not so strong, and therefore easily treated. Why is it that people die most in the hundred days after each of the two solstices? Is it because the excess, whether of hot or of cold, extends that far in each case? And it is excess that produces diseases and destructions in the weak.
13| Why are spring and autumn prone to sickness? Is it because changes of season are what cause sickness? But autumn is more prone to sickness than spring, because we fall ill more from the hot growing cold than from the cold growing hot. So in spring the cold grows warm, but in autumn the warm grows cold. Why are there fewer illnesses in winter than in summer, yet they are more often fatal? Is it because in summer illnesses arise from a slight cause, but not in winter? For we digest better and are healthier in winter, so naturally what arises from a greater cause is more severe and more deadly. We observe this same thing in athletes too, and in general in people who are in a healthy condition: either they do not catch the disease at all, or they succumb quickly along with it; for they need a great cause.
14| Why do burning fevers occur more in the cold seasons, in autumn and winter, while in summer, when it is hot, shivering fits trouble people instead? Is it because, in a human being, bile is hot and phlegm is cold? So in summer the cold is dissolved, and being diffused it produces shivering and trembling; but in winter the heat is overpowered by the season and grows chilled. Burning fevers trouble people more in winter and autumn, because on account of the cold the heat is drawn together inside, and a burning fever is internal and not on the surface; so naturally burning fevers occur in this season. One could learn this more precisely from those who bathe in cold water in winter and those who bathe in hot water in winter: those who bathe in cold water, after shivering briefly while they bathe, suffer nothing from the cold for the rest of the day, while those who use hot water pass the day more prone to shivering. For in those who bathe in cold water the flesh is made dense and the heat is drawn together inside, while in those who bathe in hot water the flesh is loosened and the heat is drawn out as far as the outer region.
15| What is the virtue of a poultice? Is it that, because it is capable of dissolving matter, it can also produce sweat and exhalation? By what sign is it evident when a swelling is full of pus? Is it that, if it changes when hot water is poured on it, it is full of pus, but if not, it is not? What kind of growths should be cauterized, and what kind cut? Is it that those which have a large mouth and do not close up quickly should be cauterized, so that the scab falls right there? For in this way they will not become hollow beneath the skin. What is the virtue of a styptic for a wound? Is it to be drying, and to check the residue that flows in, checking the forming of a scab and the putrefaction of the flesh? For in this way it will be free of inflammation and will promote healing together. For if nothing flows in it will be free of inflammation, and being dry it will heal together; but as long as it runs with moisture, it will not heal together. For this reason most such remedies are pungent, so as to astringe. What should be cut, what cauterized, and what not, but treated with drugs instead? Is it that those at the armpits and the groin should be treated with drugs? For after cutting, some cases are painful, others dangerous. Cauterize the broad tumors, and those presenting a large surface, and those situated among veiny and not fleshy parts. Cut those drawn together to a point, and those not situated in solid parts.
16| Why, if someone is cut with bronze, does he heal more easily than with iron? Is it because bronze is smoother, so that it tears less and makes less of a wound? Or is it that, since iron takes a sharper edge, the cutting is easier and less painful? But then again bronze is medicinal, while the wound itself, freshly made, is a sensitive thing. So the fact that the medicinal action works at once, together with the cutting, produces the healing-together more quickly. And why do burns made with bronze also heal more quickly? Is it because bronze is more porous and less solid, whereas in more solid things there is more heat retained? Is barley gruel lighter and better for illnesses than wheat gruel? Some think so, taking as their sign that those who work with wheat flour have a much better complexion than those who work with barley meal. Then again, because barley is moister, and the moister requires more concoction. Or is there nothing to prevent some things being harder to digest and yet more useful for lightness? For barley is not only moister than wheat but also colder. And what is given as drink and offered to a feverish patient ought to be of a kind that will provide little nourishment and will cool him. And barley gruel has this property: because it is moister, or less substantial in body, it gives little, and this little is cooling.
17| Why do purslane and salt stop the sensation of teeth being set on edge? Is it because purslane has a certain moisture? This is evident when it is chewed, and if it is crushed for a time, for the moisture is drawn out. So this sticky element, seeping in, draws out the sharp element. And indeed that it is akin to the sharpness is shown by its own sharpness; for the juice of purslane has a certain sharpness in it. Salt, by dissolving matter, also draws out the sharpness. Why then do lye and soda not do this? Is it because they are astringent and do not dissolve? Why should summer fatigue be treated with bathing, but winter fatigue with rubbing in oil, since winter fatigue is treated with oil on account of the shivering fits and the changes that occur? For one should relieve it with warmth, which will produce a sense of being warmed; and oil is warm. But in summer one should moisten instead; for the season is dry, and shivering fits are not to be feared, on account of the body's inclination toward warmth. Now scanty eating and heavy drinking occur in summer, the one absolutely, the other more so: drinking occurs in summer altogether on account of the dryness, while scanty eating, though common to every season, occurs more in summer; for people are heated up by their food on account of the season.
18| Why do some drugs loosen the bowel but not the bladder, while others loosen the bladder but not the bowel? Is it that those which are moist in nature and full of water, if they are medicinal, loosen the bladder? For there the undigested part of moisture settles; for the bladder is the receptacle for the moisture in the belly that is not concocted, which does not remain but withdraws there before it can act or be acted upon. But those which are earthy in nature, if they are medicinal, loosen the bowel instead; for the movement of earthy matter is toward the bowel. So if a drug is capable of causing movement, it disturbs the bowel.
19| Why do some drugs move the upper belly, others the lower, as hellebore moves the upper and scammony the lower, while some move both, as squirting cucumber and the juice of thapsia? Is it because, among the drugs that move the bowel, some are hot and some cold, so that those which, on account of their heat, are at once carried, while still in the upper belly, up toward the upper region, and from there dissolve especially what is most foreign and least assimilated to the body — but if the drug is strong, or given in excess of what nature can bear, it draws down into the upper belly both this matter and any residue there may be, and, on account of its heat, disturbing the breath which becomes abundant because of it, and pressing upon it, produces vomiting. But those cold in nature, on account of their weight, are carried downward even before they act or are acted upon, and starting from there they do the same as the hot ones do above: for rising up through the passages from below, and having set in motion whatever residues and dissolved matter they can overpower, once they have taken hold of it they lead it along the same path downward. But those drugs that partake of both natures, and are mixtures of hot and cold medicinal substances, produce both effects through each of their two powers, just as physicians nowadays prepare them by mixing them together.
20| Why do drugs purge, while other things that are more bitter and more astringent and go to excess in these same respects do not purge? Is it because they do not purge on account of such powers, but because they are unconcocted? For whatever things, on account of an excess of heat or of cold, are small in bulk and unconcocted and such as to overpower rather than be overpowered by the heat of animals, and are easily dissolved by the two cavities — these are drugs. For when they enter the stomach and are dissolved, they travel by the same passages as nourishment into the veins, but not having been concocted; rather, having overpowered the body, they fall out again carrying with them the things that obstruct them; and this is called purgation. Bronze and silver and things of that kind are unconcocted by the heat of animals, but they are not easily dissolved by the cavities. Oil and honey and milk and such foods do purge, but not by their quality, but by their quantity; for when, because of their amount, they become unconcocted, then they purge, if indeed they do purge at all. For there are two causes of being unconcocted: being so by quality, or being so by quantity. Hence none of the things mentioned is a drug; for none of them purges by a power. Astringency and bitterness, and foul odor, are accidental attributes of drugs, arising from the fact that a drug is the opposite of nourishment. For what is concocted by nature attaches itself to bodies and is called nourishment; but what is not naturally overpowered, entering into the veins and, through excess of heat or cold, causing disturbance — this is the nature of a drug.
21| Why does pepper, when taken in a large amount, loosen the bladder, but in a small amount the bowels, while scammony, when taken in a large amount, loosens the bowels, but in a small amount, and when old, loosens the bladder? Is it because each is more able to move the one organ than the other? For pepper is diuretic, while scammony acts downward. So pepper, when much, is carried into the bladder and is not dissolved in the stomach, but when little, being overpowered, it is broken down and becomes a drug for the stomach. Scammony, when much, is overpowered only to the point of being dissolved, and once dissolved it becomes a drug, for the reason stated above; but when little, it is drunk up along with the liquid into the passages, and quickly, before it can cause disturbance, is carried down into the bladder, and there, by its own power, carries off the residues and the meltings that lie near the surface. But the large amount, as has been said, because of its strength, remains a long time and brings down a great and earthy purgation. Why do some cure the same inflammations by cooling, while others concoct them by heating? It is because the latter use a heat foreign to the body, while the former, by cooling, draw together the body's own heat.
22| Why must poultices be changed? Is it so that the body may feel them more? For what is familiar, just as in the case of foods, no longer acts as a drug but becomes nourishment — so too in the case of such things. Why is it healthy to reduce food but increase exertion? Is it because the cause of disease is an abundance of residue, and this arises whenever there is an excess of food or a deficiency of exertion? Why do drugs, and bitter things for the most part, and foul-smelling things, purge? Is it because all foul-smelling and bitter things are unconcocted? That is why drugs too are bitter and foul-smelling; for by being unconcocted and capable of causing movement along with bitterness, a thing is a drug. And if it is given in a greater amount, it destroys. But whatever things are destructive even when given in a small amount are not called drugs, but deadly poisons. Nor are things that purge otherwise than by quality drugs. For many foods also produce the same effect if given in quantity — for instance milk, oil, must; all these purge because of not being easily concocted, and they purge those for whom they are not easily concocted. For different things are easily or with difficulty concocted by different people. Hence the same things are not drug-like for everyone, but for some they are peculiar to them. For in general a drug must not merely fail to be concocted, but must also be capable of causing movement, just as exercise too, whether it comes from outside or from within, by its movement expels what is foreign to the body.
23| Why are fragrant seeds and plants diuretic? Is it because they are hot and easily concocted, and things of that kind are diuretic? For the heat present in them quickly thins the fluid, and their odor is not corporeal, since even odorous things, such as garlic, are diuretic because of their heat, though they act more by melting the flesh; and fragrant seeds are hot. Why must one use dry, sharp, and astringent drugs for sores that are unclean and in bad condition, but for clean sores that are healing, moist ones only? Is it because from the unclean sores something must be taken away — namely, a foreign moisture, which must be removed? Biting, sharp, and astringent things do this, and the dry more than the moist. But clean sores need only a closing-over. Why does sexual intercourse help against diseases arising from phlegm? Is it because semen is a secretion of residue and by nature similar to phlegm, so that intercourse, by removing much that is phlegm-like, gives benefit? And is it better to offer food at the beginning of an illness or later? Is it at the beginning, so that the inflammation does not fall upon a body already weakened beforehand? So one must either reduce food at once, or proceed in this way: one must first restore strength with gruels, for these are gentler and smoother and more easily dissolved, and it is easy for a weakened body to take in solid food after them. For the food ought not first be acted upon in the stomach — dissolved and heated — with the distress that the body suffers when this happens.
24| Why must one examine the signs concerning the urine by catching the urine in separate portions, to see whether it has already been concocted, rather than examining one who is urinating continuously? Is it because the sign of its having been concocted is that it is tawny-red, and this appears more clearly when the flow is taken in separate portions? Or is it because every liquid becomes more of a mirror the smaller the amount of it, and less of a mirror the greater? For in a large amount of liquid the shapes are seen, but in a small amount the colors, as also happens with dew and with raindrops and with the tears on the eyelids. So when discharged continuously it becomes more in volume, but when broken up it takes on color more; so that even if it is already of the concocted kind, it appears more clearly so, because the reflection occurs and it is more visible as a mirror on account of the division.
25| That one must not thicken the flesh for the sake of health, but rather loosen it. For just as a city is healthy when well-ventilated, and a place is healthy when well-ventilated — which is also why the sea is healthy — so too a body that is well-ventilated is the healthier. For it is necessary either that no residue exist at all, or that it be got rid of as quickly as possible, and that the body always be in such a state that, as soon as it takes on residue, it excretes it, and that it be in motion and not at rest. For what remains putrefies, just as water that is not in motion, and by putrefying it causes disease; but what is excreted is separated off before it can be corrupted. Now this does not happen when the flesh is thickened, since the pores are, as it were, blocked up, but it does happen when the flesh is loosened. Hence too one should not walk naked in the sun; for the flesh contracts and is quite stripped away, and the body becomes more moist, since the inner part remains while the surface is carried off — just as roasted meats lose more than boiled ones. Nor should one walk with the chest bare; for the sun takes away, from the best-built parts of the body, what least needs taking away, when it ought rather to take away more from the internal parts. From the interior, because it is far off, it is not possible to bring on sweat except with exertion, but from the surface it is easy, because it lies close at hand.
26| Why is it that both cold water and hot water help chilblains? Is it because chilblains arise from an excess of moisture? Now the cold contracts and roughens the moisture, while the hot turns it into vapor and makes an outlet for the vapor, loosening the flesh. Why does cold both cause and stop chilblains, and heat both cause and stop burns? Is it for the same reason? It causes them by melting the flesh, and stops them rather by drying it.
27| In fevers one should give the patient drink often and in small amounts. For a large amount runs off, whereas a small amount, given often, soaks in and passes into the flesh. It is like what happens in the earth: if water comes in a large amount, it runs off, but if it comes little by little, it does the same thing as it does in fevers, only wetting the ground. For if one directs flowing water in small amounts, the channel drinks it up, but if one directs an equal amount all at once, wherever it is directed, it simply passes through. Next, the patient should lie as still as possible — still, because fire too, plainly, if no one stirs it, dies down of itself. But he should not lie facing a draft, because wind rouses fire, and fire, when fanned, grows from a little into a great deal. He should also be wrapped up, for this reason: if you give fire no outlet for breath, it is put out. And his coverings should not be stripped off until moisture has formed, for visible fire is put out by wetness. The same holds in nature generally. In intermittent fevers one must prepare the patient beforehand by weakening him, applying hot fomentations to the feet, and having him rest well wrapped up, so that he may be as hot as possible before the attack begins. For where there is a great fire, a lamp cannot go on burning: the great fire draws the small one to itself. For this reason one must build up a great fire in the body, because the fever itself has only a little fire, so that the great fire draws the little one to itself.
1| In quartan fevers one should not thin the body down, but instead build fire into the body by what one brings in. One should also make use of exercises. On the day of the attack, after bathing, one should not seek sleep. And for this reason a heating regimen is beneficial, because the quartan fever is weak — for if it were not weak, it would not have become quartan. Do you see? Where there is a great fire, a lamp cannot go on burning, for the great draws the small to itself. For this reason one should build a great fire into the body, because the fever has only a little fire. Now the daily regimen consists in bringing fire on the one hand and moisture on the other into the body. And diseases are of two kinds, some from fire, some from moisture. Diseases from fire are cured by moisture, and diseases from moisture by fire; for fire dries up moisture. Book 2. Problems Concerning Sweat. Why does sweat occur neither when we hold our breath tightly nor when we simply hold it, but rather when we let it go? Is it because breath held in fills the veins, so that it prevents the moisture from getting out, just as water from water-clocks is prevented when someone stops them up while they are full? But when the breath does get out, a great deal of sweat results, because during the stoppage it has been collecting little by little within.
2| Why do parts of the body immersed in hot water not sweat, even if they are hot? Is it because the water prevents the flesh from being dissolved, and sweat is the badly-attached material built up in the flesh, which is prevented from being dissolved when it is being excreted on account of heat? Why is sweat salty? Is it because it comes about through motion and heat, which separate out whatever is foreign present in the union of nourishment with blood and flesh? For this foreign material separates off most quickly, because it is not proper to the body, and it exudes outward. And it is salty because the sweetest and lightest part is expended into the body, while the most foreign and most undigested part is released. Such matter, when it collects below, is called urine, and in the flesh, sweat; both are salty for the same cause. Why do the upper parts sweat more than the lower? Is it because what is hot rises and is above, and this carries the moisture upward? Or is it because breath produces sweat, and breath is in the upper parts? Or is it because sweat is undigested moisture, and such moisture is in the upper parts, since the blending of elements is upward?
3| Why, when we exercise, do our hands sweat the most, if we keep everything else in the same posture? Is it because we exert our strength most in that part? For it is with this part, being nearest to the source of strength, that we hold our breath; and when working hard we exert more strength, and being in this state we hold our breath more. Further, we labor along with the part being rubbed more than when some other part is rubbed; for through the retention of breath we exercise ourselves both by being rubbed and by rubbing. Why does sweat from the head either not smell or smell less than sweat from the rest of the body? Is it because the region of the head breathes well? This is shown by its being porous, as is evident from the growth of hair there. But regions, and the things in them, become foul-smelling wherever they do not breathe well. Why do those exercising sweat more if they wrestle after resting in between than if they wrestle continuously? Is it because sweat collects during the rests, and the subsequent wrestling then draws this sweat out, whereas continuous exercise dries it up, as the sun does? Why do people sweat more when they have not used sweat-baths for a long time? Is it because sweating comes about not only through moisture but also because the pores are opened wider and the body is looser? So in those who do not use them the pores are closed up, while in those who do use them the pores are opened.
4| Why, when the sun heats the naked more than the clothed, do the clothed sweat more? Is it because the sun, by scorching, closes up the pores? Or is it because it dries up the vapors? These effects occur less in those who are clothed. Why do faces sweat the most? Is it because they are especially loose and moist, and sweat passes through such parts? The head seems to be a spring of moisture; this is why the hairs too grow there, on account of the abundance of moisture. And the region is loose and thin, so moisture naturally passes through it. Why do people not sweat more when the fire is applied all at once, nor always less as it is applied in a smaller amount, but rather when more is brought to bear over time? For those in sweat-rooms sweat more than they would if that much heat were applied all at once. Is it because each thing produces its effect in due proportion? So if a given amount produces the effect, a greater amount will not produce more effect, but rather the opposite, because it is by being in due proportion that the amount produces the effect. For this reason people do not sweat more in proportion to a greater amount of heat, but because a different proportion is required for each stage, what has already produced its effect no longer produces it when more is added. For the same thing does not both prepare the way for each stage and render it fit, and also, already, produce the effect — rather, one thing does one and another does the other. So a small amount rather than a large amount prepares the way and readies the body for sweating; a different, greater proportion is needed to produce the sweat itself. And this latter no longer does what the former did, but afterward does something else, being a different proportion.
5| Why does sweat flow more freely when people are scraped off with a strigil than if it is left to remain? Is it because of cooling from outside? Or is it because the sweat on the outside forms like a lid over the pores, so that it blocks the outward drive of the sweat from within? Why does rue make sweat foul-smelling, and so do some perfumes? Is it because those substances whose odor has a heaviness in it, when mixed with the excess moisture, make the smell more offensive? Why do we sweat on the back more than on the front? Is it because in the front there is an internal region into which the moisture can be channeled away, while in the back there is no such region, so the excretion must happen outward? The same cause explains why we sweat less on the belly than on the chest. Further, the back and the rear parts hold on to sweat more than the front parts do, because the front parts cool off more than the rear. This is also why the armpits sweat fastest and most: they cool off least. Further, the parts around the back are fleshier than the front, and so moister. And there is more moisture in the rear parts, since the marrow, running along the spine, supplies a great deal of moisture.
6| Why do we not sweat on the parts we lie on? Is it because the place we are touching, being made hot, prevents the sweat from passing through, since it dries it up? And further, it is pressed, and blood that is pressed is dispersed, and when this happens the part is cooled more. A sign of this is numbness: this affection is a kind of chilling, and it comes about from pressure or a blow. Why do people sweat more while asleep? Is it on account of counter-reaction? For the heat, being collected within, drives the moisture out. Why does the face sweat most, though it has the least flesh? Is it because the parts that sweat easily are those that are somewhat moist and porous, and the head is of this kind? For it has the greatest amount of moisture proper to itself. The veins stretching from it show this, and so do the catarrhs that come from it, and the brain being moist, and the passages being many. A sign that there are many passages is the hair, which reaches all the way out. So the sweat does not come from the lower parts but arises from the head. That is why the forehead sweats first and most: for it lies below the head first in order, and moisture flows downward, not upward. Why do people who are sweating feel nausea if they are chilled, whether by water or by wind? Is it that the moisture, being chilled, stood still in a mass, whereas before it was not at rest because it was flowing? Or is it also that the breath, as it passes out and becomes sweat through the chilling, is turned to moisture within before it gets out, once it is chilled inside, and by falling upon the stomach produces the nausea?
7| Why is it that when the head and the feet are heated, sweat comes from them most of all? Is it because the part that is heated draws the moisture to itself, and the moisture has nowhere to be used up, since these places are bony? So it falls out to the surface. Why do people who have been exerting themselves sweat when they stop? For if exertion is the cause, they ought to sweat while exerting themselves. Is it that during exertion the veins, being inflated by the breath, make the passages close together, while when they stop the veins subside, so that, the passages becoming wider, the moisture passes through more easily? Or is it that during exertion the motion separates off breath from the moisture that is naturally present, and because of the heat that comes from the motion the moisture becomes breath on the surface; but when a person stops exerting himself, the heat also ceases at the same time, and out of the breath, as it condenses, moisture is formed, which is called sweat? Should one prepare to sweat more in summer or in winter? Is it that, since people become more moist and more troublesome without care in winter, one would need it more in winter, when the change is great and the residues are not concocted along with the rest? But again, the winter condition, being chilled, is contrary to nature. So it is clear rather that one should do it more in summer; for indeed all moist things putrefy more in summer, and that is why one must draw them off then. This is also why the ancients, all of them, spoke in this way.
8| Why is it that, though the body is always flowing and there is always an efflux from the residues, the body is not made lighter unless it sweats off some moisture? Is it that the excretion is smaller? For when the moisture changes into air, more comes from less, since the moisture, being separated out, becomes greater in bulk; so the excretion takes a longer time, both for this reason and because the excretion passes through fewer passages. Further, the viscous and sticky matter is excreted along with the moisture because of its admixture with it, but is unable to be excreted along with the breath. This is above all what causes distress. That is why vomiting relieves more than sweating does, because vomits carry this matter out along with them, being thicker and more bodily. And also because this place, where the viscous and sticky matter is, is far from the flesh, so that it is a task to remove it from there, whereas it is near the stomach cavity, since it arises either in the stomach itself or close to it; that is also why it is otherwise hard to draw out. Why do people sweat less in the very act of exerting themselves than when they relax? Is it that while exerting themselves they are producing, while when they have exerted themselves they have produced? It is reasonable, then, that more is excreted then, for at one time it is coming to be, at the other it already is. Or is it that during exertion the passages of the flesh are closed up because the breath is held in check, and when people relax they open? That is also why people who hold their breath sweat less.
9| Why is it that when we are running, or when the body is in motion generally, the sweat is not greater, but rather when people stop? Is it that at that time it is possible, as if by a hand or something else, to block off the water that is flowing and being collected from every side, whereas when it is released there is more than there was at the start? And just as it can be checked off by the hand, so it can also be checked off by the breath, as in a water-clock, and again as with the bladder, for it takes it up within. So likewise, when there is much motion, the breath is caught and held within; that is also why the veins are stretched taut, since the moisture is unable to get out. And the moisture, being held back in a mass, when the breath is released, comes out all at once. Why do people sweat less after eating, once they have drunk? Is it because the food draws the moisture to itself, like a sponge falling into it, and it is no small part of the body's mass that can check the onward rush, just as in the case of flowing streams, taking in nourishment blocks the passages?
10| Why do people in a state of anxious tension sweat in the feet but not in the face? For it would be more reasonable that, when the whole body sweats, the feet should sweat then most of all, since that place is coldest, which is why it sweats least. And doctors, in cases of illness, above all instruct people to wrap up the feet, because they are easily chilled, so that they readily cause the beginning of a shivering fit that spreads to the rest of the body as well. Or is it that anxious tension, too, is not a shifting of heat, as happens in fear, from the upper regions to the lower (which is also why the bowels are loosened in those who are afraid), but rather an increase of heat, as happens in anger? For anger too is a boiling of the heat around the heart; and the person in anxious tension is affected not through fear and chilling, but through what is coming. Why do people become very red in the face, yet do not sweat there? Is it because that part is heated more, so that the moisture in the face is dried up by the heat coming to the surface, while the moisture in the feet is melted away, because it is a smaller quantity there but greater than the natural and pre-existing amount? Why do people sweat more while asleep than while awake? Is it because the origin of the sweat is from within, and the inner parts are hotter, so that the inner heat, dispersing the inner moisture, excretes it? And it is because something always seems to be flowing away from the body, but because there is nothing for it to strike against and collect visibly, it escapes notice. A sign of this is that the hollow parts of the body are always sweating.
11| Why do people sweat more in sweating-rooms when it is cold? Is it because the heat does not travel outward on account of the surrounding cold, being checked by it, but, being wrapped up and remaining within, dissolves the moisture in us and produces sweat out of it? Why is the sweat that comes from running naked, even if less in quantity, more beneficial than that which comes from running in a garment? Is it because exerting oneself is, in general, better than not exerting oneself, and sweat that comes with exertion is better than sweat without exertion, and sweat that comes with more exertion is better than that with less? And the sweat of one running naked comes with more exertion, for unless he runs with a great deal of strain he cannot sweat while naked, whereas in a garment, even if he runs quite moderately, he quickly sweats because of the warmth from the garment. Also, those who run naked in summer become better colored than those who run in garments, because just as all who live in places with better ventilation are better colored than those who live in stifled places, so too a person himself, compared to himself, is better colored when he is, as it were, in good ventilation than when he is stifled and enclosed by a great deal of warmth, which happens more to the person running in a garment. For these same reasons, too, those who sleep for a long time have a worse color than those who sleep a moderate amount, for the sleeper too is stifled.
12| Why do people in the grip of anxiety sweat at the feet but not at the face, when in the rest of life we sweat most at the face and least at the feet? Is it because anxiety is a kind of fear before the start of an undertaking, and fear is a cooling of the upper parts? That is also why the faces of anxious people turn pale. But they move and kick about with their feet; for anxious people do this, and in a sense exercise themselves; and so naturally these parts, the ones they work, sweat — just as people also rub their hands together, crouch down, stretch out, leap up, and are never still, since they are eager to get moving toward the task, because their heat has collected in the region around the chest, which is more solidly fleshed. Hence, as the heat and the blood dart about in every direction, a dense and varied motion results. They sweat most at the feet because these work continuously, while the other parts of the body get some rest through changes of posture and motion.
13| Why in steam-rooms do people not sweat more when the fire is applied all at once, nor when it is kept continually smaller, but rather when it is being increased? For people sweat more in the steam-rooms when the fire is being built up gradually than if it had been that great from the very start. Is it that a great fire, taking hold of the flesh and skin from the first while they are still dry, burns them and bakes them hard like a shell, and once the flesh has become like that, it checks the sweat? Whereas a small fire relaxes the flesh more and makes it porous, and, as it were, works the interior like kneaded dough toward separation and expulsion of moisture. And with the flesh in this state, more fire brought in afterward, sinking into the depth of the flesh because of its porousness, evaporates the moisture already softened beforehand, and separating out its finer parts, drives it out together with the breath. Should one arrange to induce sweating more in summer or in winter? Is it that in winter the heat, being drawn together inside, concocts and turns to vapor the moisture within us, so that, since all or most of it is used up, none of it needs a corresponding excretion? Whereas in summer, since the heat escapes through the porous flesh, the moisture within us is concocted less, and so needs to be drained off; for if it remains there because of the season, it putrefies and produces disease. For everything that putrefies does so under the action of a foreign heat, whereas it is concocted by its own proper heat. In summer, then, the foreign heat prevails, which is why everything putrefies more readily then; but in winter the body's own heat prevails, which is why winter does not putrefy things.
14| Why, when sweats occur either from heat within or from heat striking in from outside, do we shiver at some sweats? Is it because, when they break out under the action of the internal heat, moving from a large space into a small one, they are compressed against what surrounds them and block off the heat's circuits altogether, and then shivering sets in — especially once the flesh has become thoroughly drenched and the heat is passing out through it? Whereas heat striking in from outside first rarefies the skin; then the heat natural to us, being separated off, produces the shiver. Why are hot sweats judged to be better than cold ones? Is it because every sweat is an excretion of some residue, and it is reasonable that a small residue should be thoroughly heated while a larger one is not heated in the same way, so that a cold sweat would be a sign of abundant residue? That is also why it points to more prolonged illnesses. Why, when sweats occur because of heat, do we sweat less in the presence of a great fire? Is it either because, the body being very greatly heated, the moisture is dissolved into vapor, or because, as the moisture escapes and quickly dries up all around, we fail to perceive it? Why, when the sun is heating more, if we have no covering... do sweats occur more for those wrapped up in cloaks than for the same in cloaks? About this too we shall say the same as for the previous question.
15| Why, though sharp motions seem to heat more and sluggish ones less, are uphill journeys, though more sluggish, more productive of sweat, and do they bring on shortness of breath, as though they heated more than downhill journeys? Is it because it is natural for heavy things to be carried downward, and contrary to nature to be carried upward? So the nature of the heat that carries us contributes no effort toward downhill travel, but on the uphill it continually does the carrying-work. So through this kind of motion the body is heated more, excretes more sweat, and brings on shortness of breath. The bending of the body in walking also contributes something on uphill journeys, by hindering the breath from passing straight through. Why, when sweats occur, is it not the case that the more clothes one piles on, the more those who pile on the most sweat? About this too we shall say the same as above. Why, though bodies are drier in summer than in winter, are we more disposed to sweat in summer? Is it because in summer, the body being porous, the body's natural heat is not held back much? So it dissolves the moisture into vapor. But in winter, the outer parts of the body being condensed, the natural heat, being held in in quantity, does not dissolve the moisture into vapor. Further, in summer we take in much liquid, but in winter the opposite.
16| Why do the sweats that occur spontaneously in healthy people seem inferior to those produced by exertion? Is it because exertions, continually draining off the excess moisture, render the flesh drier, so that the channels of the pores are healthy and, through the habituation of the heat, no blockage occurs; whereas the so-called spontaneous sweats, occurring of necessity, when, because the body's natural channels are thrown into confusion by too much moisture, the heat is not completely overpowered but is still able to fight back and excrete it — these reasonably appear as signs of disease? For at that time the body is chilled by more moisture than is proportionate to its nature, and the flesh, becoming waterlogged, takes on the worst condition for health. Why do sweats occur less in winter, and why do we not wish to induce them in the same way, even though bodies are more moist in winter? Is it that we sweat less because the moisture in winter has frozen and set very hard, and so is harder to dissolve? And we do not suppose one ought to induce sweating in winter, because such a condition is healthy. But whatever induces sweats melts and confounds the body's state; further, by making it more porous than is fitting and by separating off the internal heat, it makes that heat less, so that it is not equally able to be set in opposition to the surrounding cold; and the moisture from outside will more easily invade the body, since the pores are more open because of the sweat-inducing.
1| Book 3. Problems Concerning Wine-Drinking and Drunkenness Why, though wine is hot, are drunk people prone to chill, and quickest to be seized by pleurisy and similar diseases? Is it because much moisture, if it is chilled, becomes very cold, so that it overpowers the natural heat? For it becomes like a garment soaked in cold liquid — so is the flesh from within. Why is it not those who are extremely drunk who behave badly under wine, but rather those who are only half-drunk? Is it because they have neither drunk so little as to be in the same condition as the sober, nor so much as to be dissolved, which is what happens to those who have drunk a great deal? Further, the sober judge more correctly, while those who are extremely drunk do not even attempt to judge; but the half-drunk do judge, because they are not extremely drunk, yet judge badly because they are not sober, and quickly come to despise some people, while seeming to others to be treated with contempt. Why do those who drink wine more diluted suffer worse hangovers than those who drink it wholly unmixed? Is it because, owing to its thinness, the diluted wine penetrates into more and narrower places, while the unmixed wine does so less, so that the diluted is harder to expel? Or is it because people drink less unmixed wine, being unable to drink much of it, and vomit it up more readily? Further, being hotter, unmixed wine helps concoct the rest, and concocts itself as well, whereas watery wine does the opposite.
2| Why is the seed of heavy wine-drinkers generally not fertile? Is it because the mixture of the body has become too moist? And moist seed is not fertile, but rather seed that is compact and has thickness.
3| Why do heavy wine-drinkers tremble, and more so the more they drink unmixed wine? Wine is a heating thing, yet trembling arises above all from cold — that is why people shivering with cold tremble the most. Yet many who have used unmixed wine only, for nourishment's sake, have already had violent tremors befall them, so that they threw off their wrappings, and when bathing in hot water they had no sensation of it. Or is it rather that trembling comes about through a chilling, and this chilling comes about either when the internal heat is forced inward by an external cold, as in winter, or when the natural heat is being quenched — quenched either by its contrary, or through time, as in old age, or by an excess of foreign heat, which is what happens to a man burned by the sun or by fire? And this same thing happens to those who use unmixed wine. For being itself something hot, when it is mixed with the body's own heat and overpowers it in strength, it quenches that heat; and once the body's heat has been quenched and chilled, tremors result. But besides all the ways mentioned there is another mode of chilling. When the matter is taken away by which the heat in each thing is nourished, the heat itself is destroyed along with it. In lifeless things this is evident in the case of a lamp: once the oil has been used up, the flame goes out. In living things old age produces this same effect, and so do the long, wasting diseases.
4| For when the nourishment of the heat is being removed, or thinned out, the heat is bound to be extinguished along with it. The heat is nourished by moisture, but not by any moisture whatever — by moisture that is smooth and abundant. That is why, in those suffering from the diseases mentioned and in the elderly, once this kind of moisture is being destroyed and altered (for it turns sharp and dry instead of smooth and rich), the heat is bound to fail along with it. A sign of what has been said is the relief given to those whose life is ebbing away in a wasting decline: whatever nourishing moisture one drips into them is found to revive them, and this is plainly the case, since their dissolution comes about through the failing of this very thing. This same cause seems to apply to heavy wine-drinkers. For wine, being itself hot, combines with the heat naturally present in the body and thereby uses up all the more the body's stored resources through that heat of its own. That is why some of them become dropsical, others rheumatic, and others afflicted in the belly. For the rest of their fluids turn sharp, and what they take in, being soft through the weakness of their own heat, does not thicken properly. And the heat is weak because the matter in which it is still preserved is of that same weak sort — like a fire of reed-stalks, which for the very same reason, the weakness of its fuel, is weaker than a fire of solid wood.
5| Why are drunk men, though the wine in them is hot, unusually prone to chill, and quickest of all to be seized by pleurisy and diseases of that kind? Is it because abundant moisture, once chilled, becomes abundantly cold, so that it overpowers the natural heat? Now all the moister things are by nature the hotter. Here is a sign of it: they are heated by external things but not made moist by them. But if they are less hot, it is clear that their heat also leaves them faster than their moisture does, so that once the cold moisture is left behind, it is reasonable that drunk men chill more readily and suffer the affections proper to chilling. Why is it that children, though hot, are not fond of wine, while Scythians and manly men, though hot, are fond of wine? Is it because these men are hot and dry (for that is the state proper to a man), whereas children are moist as well as hot? Now the love of drink is a desire for something moist. Moistness, then, prevents children from being thirsty in this way, for desire is a kind of deficiency.
6| Why do we, when drunk, perceive salty and foul waters more sharply, but less so when sober? Is it because a thing is unaffected by what is akin to it, and by what is disposed in a like manner to it, while contraries are most perceptive of their contraries? Now the drunk man has sweet flavors within himself (for that is what wine seems to be), and so he is more perceptive of bad flavors, while the sober man has sharp and salty flavors within him. So once the nourishment has been concocted, the residue-producing elements rise to the surface. These men, then, are unaffected by things like themselves, and they make the person who has them the same way.
7| Why is it that to men who are very drunk everything appears to move in a circle, and once drunkenness is taking hold they cannot fix their gaze on distant things — which is why some people even make this a test of drunkenness? Is it because the sight is set in frequent motion by the heat of the wine? It makes no difference whether one moves the sight itself or the thing seen, since the effects described come about in the same way from either. And since it happens that in drunk men the sight is deceived even about things nearby, it is reasonable that they suffer this even more about things far off. That is why distant things are not seen at all, and near things are not seen in the place where they actually are. And things appear to move in a circle, not simply near and far, because in the case of the far, on account of the circular motion, the sight is less able to reach out to it — for it is not easy to do opposite things at once. Now the desire toward the far-off is a strong reaching-out, while the circular desire lies in the very shape the word signifies. So for the reasons given the sight does not reach far off; and even if it did reach both the near and the far, it would not see these things. For the thing seen would then be left behind, at one moment or the other, in the same place, and once left behind the sight could no longer see it. It moves in a circle because of the shape the sight itself has. For it is a cone, whose base is a circle, and moving within that circle it does see the object, because it never leaves it behind — but it is deceived about its place, because it is not the same line of sight that falls upon it each time. For it would come to the same thing whether this object were moved relative to the sight or the sight relative to it.
8| Why is it that to drunk men one thing sometimes appears as many, though they are looking at one thing? Is it, as has been said, that since the sight is in motion, the same sight can never remain still upon the same object for any span of time? And a thing seen differently within the same span of time seems to be a later seeing; for the thing seen is seen by a kind of contact of the sight, and it is impossible to touch the same thing with several contacts at once. Now since the interval of time in which the sight made contact and then shifted past the object seen is imperceptible, that time seems to be one single time in which the sight both touches the object and has shifted past it — so that, several acts of sight touching the same thing within what seems the same time, the things seen appear to be several, because it is impossible for these acts to make contact in the same manner. Why are drunk men incapable of sex? Is it because a certain part must be heated more than the rest of the body, and they are unable to do this on account of the great amount of heat spread through the whole body? For the heat generated by the motion is quenched all the more by what surrounds it, because there is much undigested moisture in them. Further, seed comes from nourishment, and all nourishment must be concocted; and it is when men are filled with concocted nourishment that they are impelled toward sex. That is why some people even recommend, for such an act, eating a large midday meal but a small evening one, so that the undigested part of their food may be less than the concocted part.
9| Why do sweet wine, unmixed wine, and the barley-drink, when drunk in between during drinking bouts, make people sober? And why are people less likely to get drunk when they drink from large cups? Is the cause the same in all these cases, namely the deflection of the heat that lies on the surface? For being drunk consists in the heat being in the regions around the head. Since sweet wine tends to float on the surface, why is it that if someone already drunk drinks sweet wine on top, the wine already inside is digested down and troubles him less? Is it because sweet wine is smoothing and sticky (so it blocks up the passages), while dry wine is roughening? And the one makes the rising of the heat easy, while the sweet wine seals it in by blocking the passages. And it has been said that drunkenness belongs to the parts heated above. Further, sweet wine is odorless, while dry wine is not; and every smell weighs down the head. Why do people suffer more from headache the morning after drinking wine that was mixed but rather strong than after drinking unmixed wine? Is it because unmixed wine, being coarse in its particles, does not itself fall into the narrow passages around the head, but only its power — its smell and heat — does; whereas mixed wine, being blended with fine water, itself makes its way in, and having body, and much of the power of unmixed wine besides, is harder to digest. For liquids are the hardest of all things to digest, and bodies are harder to digest than the powers residing in them.
10| Why can the unexercised drink more toward drunkenness than the exercised, and recover more easily? Is it because those who have residue and moisture in themselves become prone to urination, which enables them to drink and afterward to feel light, because a great deal of winy moisture does not remain in them? So the unexercised are moist and full of residue, while the exercised are dry, so that in these the winy moisture reaches into the body itself. so that in these the winy moisture reaches into the body itself. At once, then, this movement pulls against urination, and afterward this moisture, remaining in the body, produces heaviness. Why does wine make some people stupefied and others manic? For these are opposite conditions: the one is already more in motion, the other less. Is it as Chaeremon said — that wine is mixed with the characters of those who use it? So it produces opposite effects not on the same people, but on those who are not alike, just as fire dries some things and moistens others, though not the same things, and melts ice while it congeals salt. So wine too, being moist by nature, intensifies the slower and makes them quicker, but relaxes the quicker. That is why some who are melancholic by nature become utterly slack in their hangovers. For just as bathing makes the stiff and rigid-bodied more agile, but relaxes those who are already agile and moist, so wine, as if washing the insides, produces this same effect.
11| Why does cabbage stop a hangover? Is it because its juice is sweet and cleansing (which is why doctors use it to purge the stomach with an enema), while the cabbage itself is cold? Here is a sign: doctors use it against severe diarrhea, boiling it thoroughly, straining it out, and cooling it. Now what happens in those with hangovers is that the juice of it draws the moisture in them — being winy and undigested — down into the stomach, while the cabbage itself, remaining behind in the upper stomach, cools the body. And as the body cools, thin moisture is carried off into the bladder, so that on both counts — the moisture being excreted through the body, and the body being cooled — people naturally recover from their hangover; for wine is moist and hot. Further, as the moisture is drawn down and excreted, breath is drawn along with it, and it is precisely this breath, when it travels up alone from the wine into the head, that produces stupor and hangover. But once the body has turned downward and is cooled for the reasons stated, the pain of the hangover is released. For a hangover is a kind of boiling and inflammation that is subsiding. And it distresses more than drunkenness does, because drunkenness puts a person out of himself, while hangover causes pain to people who are in full possession of themselves — just as those seized by fevers play about more than they feel pain, but the same people, once they come back to themselves, relieved of the affliction, do feel pain. For the same thing happens in the case of hangover as in the case of drunkenness.
12| Why does watered-down wine cause vomiting more than either water or unmixed wine does? Is it because what most causes vomiting is what floats on the surface and whatever is unpleasant? Now wine is astringent, while water is thin and not unpleasant. Because it is thin and not unpleasant, water passes through downward quickly; and because it is not unpleasant, it does not cause queasiness. But wine that is too diluted is not thin enough to flow through quickly, and because it contains little wine it is unpleasant; for it disturbs perception by producing several movements in it at once, one from the wine and one from the water, since both become perceptible. But well-mixed wine makes the sensation of the water disappear, and produces the sensation of a mild wine; that is why it is drunk pleasantly. Watered-down wine, being unpleasant, floats on the surface, and what is of this kind causes vomiting. Why do we perceive salty and foul waters more when we are drunk, and less when we are sober? Is it because distressing things are more evident to those who do not desire something, while they escape the notice of those who do desire it? Now the person who is enjoying himself is in the same condition as one who desires, and the sober person is in that condition too — but the drunk person is full.
13| Why does everything appear to those who are very drunk to be moving in a circle, and why, once the drunkenness is already taking hold, can they not count things at a distance? For this reason some people even use it as a sign of drunkenness. Is it because the sight is set in motion repeatedly by the heat of the wine? So just as when someone presses a finger under the eye, things appear double, so it is too with the drunk. For it makes no difference whether one presses something under the eye and sets sight in motion that way, or whether the motion comes from outside or from inside; either way sight undergoes the same thing. So the thing seen will not seem to stay still, and this is even more so with what is far away; for sight, being extended further, has even less control of it, and this motion, close by, produces a proportionally greater displacement at the far end. And if the motion is vigorous and even, up and down, it will have even less control over what is far off. Now everything that is extended out is carried in a circle, for example arrows and things suspended and whirled around. And sight, through weakness, undergoes the same thing as if it were being carried far off. And it makes no difference whether one sets the sight in motion or the thing seen; for either produces the same effect as regards appearance. Why, when people drink all at once in a mass, do their stomachs become drier, at just the time when they ought to become more moistened by the greater quantity? Is it because the stomach does not master the large amount drunk all at once, but it passes through, unaffected, into its own place? And the place for undigested moisture is the bladder. But the stomach does master and digest a small amount, so that it stays and moistens.
14| Why do people who drink wine mixed with water get worse hangovers than those who drink it unmixed? Is it because, on account of its thinness, the mixed wine penetrates into more places, as happens with cloaks, and is harder to get out again, whereas water, though it has finer parts, passes out easily? Or is it because people drink less unmixed wine, since they cannot manage as much of it, and vomit it up more; and besides, the rest is thoroughly concocted? This is the same problem. Why do people die from unmixed wine, if someone drinks a great deal of it after fasting for a long time beforehand? And even without fasting beforehand, many heavy drinkers become dry after drinking a great deal all at once. For wine seems by nature to belong among hot things, and to be alive is to be hot, while to die is to be chilled. Is it as with hemlock, where the body's own heat is extinguished little by little, but in a different way? For hemlock, by its coldness, congeals the moist and hot element, whereas wine, by its own heat, wastes away the natural heat. So then, just as a small fire is put out by a great fire or by the sun, so too the heat in bodies is put out by the heat in wine, if it is excessive. Why are drunk people more given to tears? Is it because they become hot and moist, and so lose self-control, so that they are moved by small things?
15| Why are people less drunk when they take deep draughts from large cups? For in all cases the cause is the same: knocking-down, that is, striking on the surface. For drunkenness occurs in the regions around the head. [chapter 25a] Why does sleep not come upon drunk people? Is it because sleep requires the presence of a hot moisture within? For this is easily concocted. But if there is little moisture present, or moisture that is hard to concoct, sleep does not occur. This is why, after fatigue and after food and drink, people are most inclined to sleep, on account of the heat. But for melancholic people, and for those who have undergone great sweatings (the text is corrupt here), sleeplessness occurs — in the one case because the moisture has been chilled, in the other because there is none, or only a little. It is clear, then, that one must look to these factors in each of the affections separately.
16| Why do heavy wine-drinkers tremble, and more so the more unmixed wine they drink? Wine is a heat-producer, yet trembling arises most of all from cold, which is why people who are chilled tremble the most. Many who have already made a practice of using unmixed wine alone as their nourishment have developed severe trembling, so severe that they threw off those who tried to hold them still, and when bathed in hot water they had no sensation of it. Others, living in this same way, and also using massage and a diet of meat, were driven into apoplectic disorders; in these, trembling occurred less, because of their lack of movement, but instead there was severe pain and an inability to keep still. The cause of trembling is coldness; for as has been said, both people who are chilled and the very old are evidently affected by it. But of these two groups, in the one the affection is cold, in the other it is the age itself that is cold; whereas wine is most productive of heat, so that something contrary would seem to result. Or is there nothing to prevent the same effect arising from contrary causes, when they do not act in the same way — just as flesh is burned both by frost and by heat, when the frost concentrates the body's own heat all at once? So it is possible in one sense for the same affection to arise from contraries, and in another sense for the same affection to arise from the same cause.
17| Trembling arises from a deficiency of heat — not of just any heat, but of the body's own proper heat. Heat perishes either by wasting away or by being extinguished: by extinction, under the action of its contraries, cold and moisture; by wasting away, through lack of nourishment, as with lamps when they have no fuel and no oil left; or else through an alien heat, as the fire in a lamp is overpowered by the sun, and lamps set beside a fire. So people who are chilled tremble because their heat is being extinguished by cold. This is also why people who have hot water poured over them get shivers: for the cold, being shut in inside and forced to shift its position, makes the hairs stand up; and the chill that comes upon someone at the onset of a fever arises through a similar cause. In old age, the heat wastes away because nourishment fails; for nourishment is moisture, which serves the heat, and old age is cold. Heavy wine-drinkers tremble because their own proper heat is wasting away, as do any others who suffer this on account of wine — though not in the same way as those who suffer it through old age, but there was yet a third way in which heat perishes. For when people use wine to excess in the body, the great quantity of heat either extinguishes or weakens the body's own proper heat, the heat by which we have our strength.
18| For this happens whenever what moves fails to master what is moved — as when someone holds a long, heavy piece of wood without a firm enough grip, its far end trembles. This occurs either because the part held is too large, or because the moving force is too small. And it happens, when the heat is being extinguished (for this is thought to be the cause of motion in living things), that nature fails to master the moved part. A sign that the affection arises in heavy wine-drinkers and in old people through coldness is that the trembling occurs without shivering. Why is a person only slightly drunk more prone to act badly under wine's influence than one who is thoroughly drunk, or one who is sober? Is it because the sober person judges well, while the person who is completely drunk, since his senses are as it were plastered over, cannot bear the weight of judgment and so does not judge at all — and not judging, he does not misbehave under wine's influence? But the person only slightly drunk does judge, and because of the wine judges badly, so he does misbehave. It was just so with Satyrus of Clazomenae, a man given to abuse, who, when defending a lawsuit, in order that he might speak to the matter at hand and not fall into abuse, had his ears plastered over, so that by not hearing he would not be provoked into abuse. When his opponent stopped speaking they removed the plaster; but hearing a little more of him still speaking, he could not restrain himself, and spoke abusively — because he could perceive, but judged badly.
19| Why do people not become heavy wine-drinkers over sweet wine, even though it is more pleasant? Is it because the sweet does not have a flavor of its own, but one belonging to something else? So the person overcome by it will be a lover of sweetness rather than a lover of wine. Why do heavy wine-drinkers most enjoy being warmed by the sun? Is it because they need concoction? And also because they have been chilled; which is also why apoplexies and numbing seizures occur most quickly after drinking bouts. Why do drunk people sometimes see one thing as many? Is it because the starting-points of vision are moved inward by the wine, just as the whole head is, and when the starting-points are moved, the two lines of sight no longer converge on the same point, but each falls, so to speak, on a different part of the object seen — hence it appears as two. This same thing happens if someone presses on the eye from below; for this moves the starting-point of vision, so that it no longer converges with the other eye on the same point. This sort of movement, then, comes from outside, while the movement from wine comes from within. But it makes no difference; for however it is set in motion, it will produce the same effect.
20| Why does the tongue stumble in drunk people? Is it because, just as the whole body is unsteady in drunkenness, so too the tongue, being unsteady, stumbles and cannot articulate speech clearly? Or is it that the flesh of the tongue is spongy, and so swells up when soaked; and because this happens, the tongue, being harder to move on account of the bulk that results from its swelling, cannot achieve precision? Or is it because we are unable to speak clearly either in water, for lack of air, or when we have taken liquid into the mouth? So in drunkenness, since the tongue is in a great deal of liquid, we lack precision, and this lack of precision is what stumbling is. Or is it because in drunkenness the soul, becoming affected along with the body, stumbles? Since the soul undergoes this, it is likely that the tongue undergoes the same thing too, for the origin of speech is from the soul. This is why, apart from drunkenness as well, whenever the soul is affected in some way, the tongue is affected along with it — as happens with people who are afraid. Why do heavy wine-drinkers and people who live by the sea enjoy the sun? Is it because heavy wine-drinkers need concoction, and at the same time it happens that certain regions of their body have been chilled — which is also why apoplexies and numbing seizures occur after drinking bouts? And people who live by the sea do this because they are always in moisture.
21| Why are drunk men incapable of intercourse? Is it because a certain part needs to be heated more than the rest of the body, but drunk men are incapable of this because of the abundance of heat overall, so that the heat coming from the movement is extinguished, since it is already made hot by the surrounding wine? Or is it because the lower regions need to be heated, but wine is naturally borne upward, so that it produces heat there and draws it away from the lower regions? And men are least inclined to intercourse after eating, and doctors recommend eating a large midday meal but a small evening one; for when food is undigested the heat is carried upward, but when it is concocted the heat and moisture go downward, and the generation of semen comes from these. And men who are worn out with fatigue have emissions in their sleep, because fatigue is moist and hot; if then the residue collects in that region, the emission results. And for the same reason this happens also in the case of certain illnesses, whenever it occurs in them. And it happens in the same way to men who are frightened and to men who are dying.
1| Why do the young urinate in their sleep more than older men when they get drunk? Is it because, being hot and moist, a great quantity of residue collects in them, since the body does not use up the moisture, so that it overflows? But in older men, because of their dryness, the body draws back the excess. Or is it because the young are more given to deep sleep than older men? Hence in the young, while they are deeply asleep, the urge of the urine escapes their notice as it discharges before they are roused, but not in older men — just as none of the movements from outside escape their notice any less than they do the young. This is clear: for the young themselves wet the bed most of all in their very deepest sleep. Why does oil help against the effects of drunkenness, and why does gulping it down help one's capacity to drink? Is it because it is diuretic and prepares the way for the drink? D. Problems Concerning Sexual Intercourse Why does a man having intercourse, and a man dying, roll his eyes upward, while a man sleeping lets them droop downward? Is it because the heat, going out from above, turns back to where it is rushing, whereas in sleep it is drawn together downward, so it inclines downward? And the eyes close because moisture is no longer present in them.
2| Why is it that in men who indulge in intercourse frequently, the eyes and the hips show the effect most conspicuously, the one being near and the other far off? Is it because in the act of intercourse itself these parts most conspicuously labor together with the work involved in the expulsion of the semen? So from these parts especially whatever meltable nourishment is present is squeezed out together, on account of the compression. Or is it because parts that are warmed alongside melt most readily, and the act of intercourse works by means of heat? And the parts most heated are those that are set in motion during the act. Now the eyes and the region of the seat conspicuously labor together in this. For it is not possible to emit without first drawing together the parts around the seat, nor without the eyes being cast down; for the parts around the seat, by coming together, press out the fluid, as the hand does from a bladder, while the drawing together of the eyes presses out what comes from the brain. That the eyes have great power, and that their region is significant for generation, is shown by the experience of childless and fertile women with ointments applied there, on the ground that power ought to pass through this region into the semen. Both regions happen always to be the fattest of all in every creature — the region of the rump and the eyes; because of this shared function they share in the heat, and because of this they are made thin and much is secreted along with it into the semen. For if a part is not fat, the heat does not glide through it in like manner, nor, if it is fat but does not labor together, as in the belly; but the kidneys of all parts perceive this most, on account of their nearness. And the very passage of the semen, lying alongside these regions, is conspicuously sufficient by itself to make them thin; for it takes away, it does not add, as it passes close by.
3| Why do both those who have intercourse and eunuchs who do not use intercourse alike suffer harm in their eyesight for sharpness of vision? Is it because in the one case through sexual indulgence, in the other through mutilation, the upper regions become drier than they should be, and this is most conspicuous in cases where the function is a precise one — and sight is such a function? For when the moisture is drawn down, the upper regions are dried out. Now it is clear that intercourse produces this effect; and in eunuchs the legs swell and the bowels move freely, as though the moisture were being shifted downward. Why is it that man alone, when he begins to be capable of intercourse, grows a beard, while none of the other animals that have hair does so? Is it because animals change into the opposite condition as they age? For the voice becomes deep from being high-pitched, and grows shaggy from being smooth; it is clear, then, that animals shaggy from birth would become smooth, not shaggier, as they become capable of generating seed. But this does not happen to man, because creatures that produce seed become drier and more porous, and it is from this that hair grows. This is clear from the fact that hair does not grow on scars; for scars are compact, not porous. Nor does it grow on children and women; for both of these are moist, not dry.
4| Why is going barefoot unfavorable for intercourse? Is it because the body that is about to have intercourse needs to be hot and moist within? And this condition holds more in sleep than in waking; hence emissions in sleep occur quickly and without effort, but in waking they occur only with exertion. And at the same time as the body is in this condition, the feet too are moister and warmer; a sign of this is that they are warm in people who are asleep, as being in the same condition as the parts within. But going barefoot produces the opposite effect; for it dries and chills. So whether it is impossible or merely difficult to have intercourse when the body is not hot, it must necessarily be unfavorable for the practice of intercourse. Why is man, of all animals, most weakened after having intercourse? Is it because he emits the most semen in proportion to the size of his body? And why does he emit the most? Is it because he expends the least effort on digesting his food, and is by nature the moistest and hottest of animals? Of these two facts, the one produces a large quantity of semen, the other makes the nature itself productive of semen; for semen itself is of this character, as long as it is preserved.
5| Why is it that, although intercourse comes about through heat, and fear and dying are chilling, in some men, when they come to be in these states, semen is emitted nonetheless? Is it because, when certain regions are being chilled, other regions are being warmed in addition, having both their own proper heat and receiving that of the regions being chilled? So that while it happens when regions are being chilled, it is not on account of being chilled, but rather also on account of being heated. This is clear also from sight: for in men who are afraid, the upper parts are drained of blood, while the lower parts become moist, and the bowels and bladder are loosened. So as the heat goes downward in fear, but from below upward in the case of death, it produces the emission of the semen by moistening through its heat. Why should one, when not aroused, neither have intercourse nor vomit nor sneeze nor pass wind? Is it because when we are not aroused we are in the same condition as things torn up out of the earth, from which something foreign to them is torn away besides, or is left behind having been torn off? For everything that should be pulled out entire, but is left behind stunted, will cause pain for a longer time. And if one sets something foreign in motion, this will cause pain, since it is not in its proper place; and this is what will happen to those who do any of the things mentioned while not aroused.
6| Why do men who are fasting have intercourse more quickly? Is it because the passages of the body are emptier in men who are fasting, but full in men who have eaten their fill? So when full they hinder the moisture from passing through into the semen. This is clear in the case of the bladder; for men cannot quickly have intercourse when it is full. Why is it that young men, when they first begin to have intercourse, come to hate the women with whom they have consorted, after the act? Is it because a great change takes place? For remembering the unpleasantness that follows afterward, they shun her with whom they had relations, as though she were the cause. Why do men who ride horses continually become more inclined to intercourse? Is it because through the heat and the motion they undergo the same experience as in intercourse itself? Hence too, as their age advances, these parts around the genitals become larger. So in men who continually engage in this motion, the bodies become well-channeled and prepared in advance for the act of intercourse.
7| Why is it that once people become capable of having sex, their skin gives off an odor, whereas before puberty neither men nor women smell this way? Is it because unconcocted substances always have worse flavors (either sharper, or saltier, or more bitter) and more foul-smelling odors, while concocted substances have flavors that are sweeter or less unpleasant, and odors that are more fragrant or less foul? This is clear if you observe it across the board, in both plants and animals. For once the well-concocted part is removed, what is left over is unconcocted — just as, in ash, once the sweet part has been used up, the lye is bitter, and sweat is salty. Now natural heat concocts the seed, which, small as it is, has great power, since much has been summed up into a little. So when it departs, people are as a rule more relaxed and cooled down; the result is that their bodily fluids become more unconcocted, since the pores are opened up by its excretion. So the sweat of children is saltier and more foul-smelling because of their lack of concoction; and if a person's nature happens to be such that the residue of his sweat is foul-smelling, this shows up in these people more, and especially in these places, such as the armpit, where it shows up most in everyone else as well.
8| Why is it that if an animal is born from our own seed, it is our offspring, but if it comes from some other person's, or from some part or secretion, it is not ours? For many things also come to be from seed through putrefaction. Why then is it that if the offspring is of the same kind as we are, it is ours, but if it is of another kind, it is not? Surely either everything born from us belongs to us, or nothing does. Or is the first point this — that in the one case the offspring comes to be from what is our own, while in the other it comes to be from what belongs to another, namely whatever comes from a discharge or excretion? And in general, nothing that belongs to the animal generates an animal, except the seed. What is harmful and bad belongs to nothing as its own, nor does what is foreign; for it is not the same thing for something to belong to a thing and for it to be foreign, or other, or bad, in relation to that thing. Excretions and putrefactions are not ours; they are other than, and foreign to, our nature. For not everything that occurs in the body should be reckoned as belonging to the body, since tumors too occur in it, which people cut out and expel. And in general, everything contrary to nature is foreign; and many of the things that arise along with us are contrary to nature. If, then, an animal comes to be from this alone among the things that are ours, it would rightly follow that only what comes to be from this is our offspring.
9| And if something else comes to be from the seed — for instance a worm, when it has putrefied, or something malformed in the womb, such as what are called monstrous births — these should not be called offspring. For, generally, things that come to be from what has been corrupted no longer come to be from what is ours, but from what is foreign, just as things that come from excretions do, such as what comes from dung. A sign of this is that all such things come to be from something undergoing corruption; for when there is no corruption, what naturally comes to be is of the same kind as that from which the seed is drawn — if from a horse, a horse, and if from a human being, a human being. And in fact we do not honor the seed itself, nor everything that is brought to completion in generation. For fluid comes to be, and a certain mass, and flesh. But sometimes, because the thing does not yet possess nature, but only this much of nature — that it is so disposed as to become, from itself, something such as we are — while from what has been corrupted, not even this. For these reasons, the offspring is not ours either when it comes from some other part within us, or when it comes from this seed corrupted or incompletely formed. Why is it that people are less able to have sex in water? Is it because in water nothing melts that is melted by fire — for instance lead or wax — whereas seed evidently melts by a kind of fire? For before friction heats it up, it does not melt. Fish, however, do not mate by friction.
10| Why is having sex most pleasant, and does it belong to animals from necessity or for the sake of something? Is it pleasant either because the seed departs from the whole body, as some say? Or is it rather that it does not depart from the whole body, but through such a passage into which all the channels of the veins converge? Since the pleasure is then similar to that in itching, this happens as if throughout the whole body. Now itching is pleasant as the exit of a fluid, filled with wind, that has been shut in contrary to nature; and the emission of seed is the exit of such a thing into what is in accordance with nature. It is pleasant both from necessity and for the sake of something: from necessity, because the path toward what accords with nature is pleasant, if it is perceptible; for the sake of something, so that there may be generation of animals — for it is because of the pleasure that animals are the more driven toward intercourse. Why does sexual indulgence help against certain diseases arising from phlegm? Is it because it is an outlet for residue, so that a great deal of residue is excreted along with it? And phlegm is a residue. Why do sexual acts cool and dry the belly? Do they cool it because heat is excreted in intercourse? And intercourse also dries, since as the heat goes out it evaporates, and it goes out as the body cools. Further, the heat generated in the act itself also dries.
11| Why are those whose eyelashes fall out lustful? Is it for the same reason that the bald are too? For both are parts made of the same stuff. And the cause is this: whatever hair, among those that grow together as of the same kind, fails to grow as a person gets older, all such hair suffers this in bouts of lust. For the head, the eyebrows, and the eyelashes are hairs of the same kindred growth. Of these, only the eyebrows in some people grow thicker as they get older (the reason for this has been stated elsewhere), while the other two fall out together for the same reason. The cause is that lust cools the upper parts, which have little blood, so that the region fails to concoct its nourishment; and receiving no nourishment, the hairs fall out. Why can those who need to urinate not have sex? Is it because their passages become full? And what is full of one fluid does not admit another. Why do mistletoe-berries prevent those who have them from begetting offspring, both in humans and in whichever other animals have them? Is it because mistletoe comes to be when wind shifts course within the tree? That is also why it helps against melancholic conditions. And the sexual act, too, involves the emission of wind. If, then, the impulse finds its path already made by the presence of mistletoe, the seed is not driven forward, but is instead cooled; so it withers the tension of the genitals.
12| Why do those who have sex grow slack and generally weaker? Is it because the seed is a discharge drawn from every part, so that, just as the joints hold together a building, so too the composition of the body is shaken by something having departed from it — as it would be if blood, either all of it or some other part, went out? So critical is what goes out, and it is little, made from much nourishment, as starch is made from a great deal of dough. Why do those having sex, and those needing to urinate, become erect? Is it because, as the passages fill with fluid, the seed, working its way out through a narrower space, creates a greater mass and lifts it up? For the genital organ lies upon these passages. Why does the tension and enlargement of the genitals occur? Is it for two reasons — both because weight comes to bear behind the testicles and is thereby lifted (for the testicles act as a fulcrum), and because the passages fill with wind? Or is it that, as the fluid increases and shifts, or as bulk arises from fluid, the mass becomes greater? Very large ones are raised less, because the weight lies farther from the fulcrum.
13| Why do those who have intercourse, or people of that sort, smell bad, while children do not? They also smell of what is called rankness. Is it because, as has been said, breath in children concocts the moisture and the sweats, while in men's it is unconcocted? Why in summer are men less able to have intercourse, while women are more able, just as the poet says of the artichoke season: "then women are most lustful, but men are feeblest"? Is it because the testicles descend more than in winter? And it is necessary, if a man is to have intercourse, that they be drawn up. Or is it because hot natures collapse in summer when the heat is excessive, while cold natures are warmed? Now a man is dry and hot, a woman cold and moist. So the man's power is dimmed, while the woman's flourishes, being equalized by its opposite.
14| Why do some people enjoy having intercourse, and some at the very moment of acting, others not? Is it because for each residue there is a place into which it is naturally suited to be secreted, and when exertion arises, the breath going out causes swelling and secretes the residue along with it — just as urine goes to the bladder, digested-out nourishment to the belly, tears to the eyes, mucus to the nostrils, blood to the veins? Likewise, then, seed goes to the testicles and the genitals. In those whose passages are not in their natural condition — either because the ducts leading to the genitals have become blocked, as happens to eunuchs and to women who are similarly incapacitated, or for some other reason — such moisture flows together into the seat, for it passes out that way too. A sign of this is that during intercourse this region contracts and the parts around the seat liquefy. So if someone is excessive in lust, in these people the residue collects there, so that whenever the desire arises, what he desires is the friction at the place where it collects. And the desire arises both from food and from thought. For whenever it is set in motion by anything whatever, the breath rushes together to that place, and this sort of residue flows together to where it is naturally disposed to go.
15| And if it is thin or breath-like, once this has gone out — just as with the convulsions that occur in children and in those of a mature age, which sometimes stop with no moisture at all being excreted — they stop. But when the moisture has been quenched... and if neither of these things happens to him, he goes on desiring until one of them occurs. Those who are by nature effeminate are so constituted that at that place either nothing, or only a little, is secreted — where it is secreted in those constituted according to nature — but instead it goes to this other place. The cause is that they are constituted contrary to nature: being male, they are so disposed that this part of them is necessarily disabled. Now disablement either produces total destruction or produces distortion. The former is not the case here, for then the person would have become a woman. So it must be that the seminal secretion has been diverted and set moving toward some other place. That is also why such men are insatiable, like women: for the moisture is scanty, and it does not force its way out, and it cools quickly. And those in whom it collects at the seat desire to be acted upon in that region; those in whom it goes to both places desire both to act and to be acted upon; and whichever region gets the greater share, that is the one they desire more. In some people this condition also arises from habit. For whatever acts they perform, it results for them that they take pleasure and emit seed in that way.
16| So they desire to do whatever produces this result for them, and habit becomes, as it were, a second nature all the more. That is why those who are habituated to intercourse not before puberty but around the time of puberty — because for them the memory becomes associated with the use, and along with the memory the pleasure, and because of habit they desire, as if by nature, to be acted upon — for most of them, habit comes to function just as if they were so by nature. And if the person happens to be lustful and soft besides, each of these things comes about the more quickly. Why are those who desire intercourse most ashamed to admit it, but not to admit wanting to drink or eat or anything else of that kind? Is it because for most such things the desires are necessary, and some even destroy those who fail to get what they want, whereas the desire for sexual matters comes from surplus? Why are men more inclined toward intercourse in winter, and women in summer? Is it because men are by nature more hot and dry, while women are moist and chilled? For men, then, the moisture and heat present in winter are sufficient for the impulse (for the generation of seed comes from these), while for women the heat is less, and the moisture is congealed because of the deficiency of fire; and this happens in summer. For women, then, the heat is in due proportion, but for men it is more than sufficient — for too much of it weakens the capacity. That is also why children are thinner in summer: for it amounts to bringing fire upon fire.
17| Why is it that men who are hot by nature, if they are strong and well-nourished, often find bile rising and something bitter descending and their phlegm becoming salty, and their complexion changing, if they do not have intercourse? Is it because residue always departs together with the seed? That is also why in some breath-filled fish the seed smells like washing-water. So when they have intercourse, this residue departs along with it, so that it causes no distress; but for those who do not engage in intercourse, the residue turns bitter or becomes salty. Why are melancholic people inclined toward intercourse? Is it because they are full of breath, and seed is an emission of breath? Those, then, who have a great deal of this kind of thing must often desire to purge themselves, for they are relieved by it. Why are both birds and hairy men lustful? Is it because they have much moisture? Or is that not so (for the female is moist but not hairy), but rather because both natures are able, through heat, to concoct much moisture? A sign of this is the hair and the feathers. Or is it that the moisture is abundant and is mastered by the heat? For neither hair nor feathers would grow out unless the moisture were abundant, nor unless it were mastered. And seed comes to be in the greatest quantity in such places and seasons — for instance in spring, since its nature is moist and hot. For the same reason both birds and lame men are lustful: for both, the nourishment going downward is little, because of the incapacity of the legs, and it travels instead to the upper region and is combined into seed.
1| Why, if a man has intercourse, are his eyes especially weakened? Is it clear that this happens because the moisture is depleted? A proof that seed is cold is this: it does not become moist unless the hot parts heat it through. Nor does it need melting, for it is already in a fluid state within the man, just like blood. E. Problems Connected with Fatigue Why are walks that are long on level ground more tiring than uneven ones, while short ones are less tiring? Is it because both abundant motion and forceful motion produce fatigue? Motion of the jolting kind is forceful, and continuous, uniform motion is abundant. Now on uphill ground, if the walk is long, the change of position becomes a kind of rest, and the motion is not long, nor even for the horses themselves, because of the change; but on level ground, the uniformity of posture does not divide up or rest the parts, but rather works together to make the motion continuous. When the walk is short, on flat ground no fatigue results, because of the sheer quantity of motion required to tire; but on uphill ground, because the change becomes forceful and opposite — now upward, now downward — it produces fatigue. Such change occurs, as we say, on uphill ground, but on level ground the opposite is the case.
2| Why do people who faint, and people who are worn out from exercise, seem to have smaller bodily bulk and shriller voices? Is it because voices that appear smaller also appear shriller (a sign of this is that when people imitate those speaking from far off, they pitch their voice high), and their bulk is smaller as well? Why is the belly the only part that gets thin from exercise? Is it because the fat is greatest around the belly? Why does fat get rubbed away in those who work hard, while flesh does not? Is it because fat melts when heated, and motion produces heat, while flesh does not melt? Why are the parts around the belly the fattest? Is it because they are close to the food? For while the other parts receive their nourishment from the belly, the belly itself often takes it directly and repeatedly. Or is it because the belly does the least work, since it has no joints to bend? Why does fatigue stop more effectively when someone mixes water with oil and rubs it in? Is it because the oil penetrates more when mixed with water? For if it is used by itself, it does not penetrate in the same way, because it tends to float on the surface. So the body is softened more when the mixture penetrates, since oil is by nature hot, and hot things both dry and harden, and dryness and hardness are unfavorable against fatigue; but oil rubbed in with water dries less.
4| Why do they instruct the fatigued to vomit, if vomiting itself is fatiguing? Is it because fatigue arises from bones being bruised, pressed, and strained, and this can happen to them from something outside the body or from something within it, and in two ways: either because the flesh is stretched beyond its own capacity, or because a considerable quantity of matter is mixed into the rest of the body without having a proper place of its own, as is the case with residues? For all external weights fastened onto us are more fatiguing than the body's own parts, even if they happen to be lighter in weight than those parts. A sign of what has been said is this: those who have eaten and drunk more, though they have exerted themselves less than those who are fasting, become more fatigued, because the food, being undigested, does not have its proper place. And since fatigue produces a wasting-away, and this wasting-away is a residue, it is this residue that produces fatigue in us, wandering about in disorder and falling upon the bones and sinews and the loose, open interior parts of the flesh. Vomiting, then, by expelling this very thing, which is the cause of the fatigue, naturally makes people free of fatigue; for the body is left as it was at the start of the exertion. But vomiting is fatiguing not because of any excess in the motion that occurs in it, but when it happens that one does not vomit thoroughly; for when much food is left behind, with residues present in it, the fatigue that comes from vomiting occurs, just as has been said in the case of those who are overfull. If, then, in those cases too the exertion is not the cause of the fatigue, but rather being in that condition and then exerting oneself, then neither would vomiting be the cause of fatigue for those who do not expel the food; for fatigue would have to occur in everyone who vomits, yet many people become less fatigued after vomiting.
5| Why is it more fatiguing for the arm to throw at nothing than to throw a stone? Is it because throwing at nothing produces more of a wrench? For it finds no resistance to brace against, as the thrower does against the missile in his hand. Similarly with this is the pentathlete against his jumping-weights, and the runner swinging his arms. This is why the one jumps farther when he has jumping-weights than when he does not, and the other runs faster swinging his arms than not swinging them. Why does running at speed, in a human being as in other animals, produce diseased conditions in the region of the head? And yet running as a whole seems to draw the residues downward, just as walking does; this is why the legs of those who walk a great deal become thick, because both the nourishment and the residues migrate downward from above. Is it, then, that the motion produces the same effect, but the rapid motion, on account of the strain and the holding of the breath, heats the head excessively, and inflates the veins in it, and makes it susceptible to being seized by external forces, such as cold and heat and the effects coming from the chest, and when these enter, that region is necessarily thrown into disease?
6| Why do people grow more fatigued on level ground than on uneven ground, yet walk a level road faster than an uneven one? Is it because it is less fatiguing not always to make one's motion in the same posture, which happens more in uneven walking? For people walk faster on it because they move less against nature. On level ground the lifting and the setting-down of the foot are small and frequent, while on uneven ground the opposite holds. Now lifting is against nature, for every lifting involves force. And what is small in each single step becomes great over many steps. Why is it more fatiguing to lie down on flat surfaces than on hollow ones? Is it for the same reason that convex surfaces are more fatiguing than flat ones? For weight gathered onto a single spot, in sitting or in lying down, produces distress through the pressure. Now a convex surface has this quality more than a straight one, and a straight one has it more than a hollow one; for our body is more curved than straight, and hollow surfaces come into contact with such shapes over a greater area than flat ones do. For these same reasons, surfaces that give way are less fatiguing to lie and sit on than surfaces that do not give way.
7| Why are short walks fatiguing? Is it because they are uneven? For they often involve stopping. And changing frequently from one state to its opposite is fatiguing, since it allows no habituation to either, and habituation is what makes something free of fatigue. But habituation to both at once is not possible. Why do the eyes of people riding on horseback water more, the faster the horse runs? Is it because the air that keeps striking them is colder the shorter the time it stays in contact with the body, which is what happens with people running unclothed? And cold produces tears. Or is it for the opposite reason? For heat too produces tears, as the sun does, and motion produces heat. Or is it because of the blow from the air? For just as winds blowing against the eyes from the front disturb them, so too the air striking against them delivers a softer blow the faster it drives.
8| Why do other parts of the body become fleshier when rubbed, while the belly becomes thinner? Or does even the belly not become thinner exactly, but rather firmer through this treatment, though not in the same way as the flesh does, which is why this is a problem at all? For in general it is in exercises and exertions above all that the belly grows thin. The cause is that fatty things melt when heated, and things that by nature already have tension melt more readily. Now the skin is by nature possessed of tension; but because it fattens very quickly, it always has some measure of fatness, unless it happens to be afflicted by some disease. The cause of this is that it is close to the nourishment. Since, then, fat as a whole is not present by nature but is acquired, and is not one of the necessary parts as flesh is, both the motion of exercise and the motion of massage, by heating it, melt it away and distribute the excess nourishment to the other parts. This is why sitting still fattens the belly while making the rest of the body thinner, whereas motions and massage make the belly thinner while making the rest of the body thicker.
9| Why is it that after long, hard walks and runs, when a person stands on the tips of the toes, the heels of the feet shake and are pulled downward and forward? Is it because, on account of the continuity and intensity of the motion, the shaking of the sinews does not settle down in a person? For the soul often has control of the whole body, but not of its parts, whenever they are set in motion in some way, as with the heart and the genitals. The cause is that a great deal of breath is kindled around the sinews, and this does not cool off at the same moment that the person stops. So this breath, shaking the sinews as it were pulls them out from under, is dragged down, and makes control least possible over the part that is farthest away; and the heels are just such a part, as the lower lip is for people who are angry. Why is it that people who are not running very intensely breathe in rhythm? Is it because every rhythm is measured by a definite motion, and such is the motion that proceeds by equal steps, which is what people running at a trot do? So as soon as they begin to trot they breathe accordingly, so that the breathing, occurring by equal steps because it is measured by an equal motion, produces rhythm. Or is it because absolutely all breathing occurs by equal steps in those who use it naturally and do not hold it back? So when people are sitting or walking, since the motion of the body is moderate, the rhythm does not become obvious; but when they run intensely, since perception does not keep pace with the motion, we cannot take in the rhythm of the breathing together. But in moderate trotting, the motion, being a perceptible measure of the breathing, makes the rhythm evident.
10| Why is it that in trotting the air seems to us to turn into wind? Is it because, being set in motion by trotting, we set in motion the air that is continuous with our bodies, and this is breath? That is why the air not only seems to but in truth does turn into wind. Or is it because in trotting we strike against the air, and when this happens we perceive the air more, through the motion? So it is reasonable that it seems to us to turn into wind; for this is what happens on account of the forward motion. Why is it that people fall more often running than walking? Is it because they lift the foot more before it moves? For this is how running differs from walking. Why is it that going up we feel the strain in our knees, but going down in our thighs? Is it because when we go up, we throw the body upward, and the great pull on the body comes from the knees as well, which is why we feel it in the knees; whereas on downward slopes, because the legs are carried forward under us, we brace ourselves on the thighs and so feel it in them. And further, everything that occurs contrary to nature produces strain and distress. Now what is natural for the knees is to bend forward, and for the thighs to bend backward. So on upward slopes the knees bend backward, because they want to brace against something, while on downward slopes the thighs bend forward, because our body is inclined to pitch forward.
11| Why is it that on long walks we feel the strain most in the middle of the thighs? Is it because, in anything long and continuous, when the middle is held fixed, the strain occurs there most of all? That is also why breakage occurs there most of all. And the thigh is just such a thing; that is why we feel the strain most in its middle. Why do people who are moist choke quickly when they exert themselves and when they are overheated? Is it because moisture, when heated up, turns into air, and the more there is of it, the more it burns? So when it cannot escape on account of its quantity, no cooling occurs, and it is quickly set ablaze by the innate heat together with the acquired heat. That is also why the sweats that occur in people exercising, and in general in people exerting themselves, and the discharge of breath, are beneficial; for as the moisture is separated out and made thin, breath is produced. Why is it that well-proportioned bodies often fall ill, yet recover more easily? Is it for the same cause in both cases? For what is well-proportioned is uniform, and what is uniform shares more in the same affections; so if some part suffers, at once the whole suffers along with it. But what is disproportionate, being more disjointed, does not share the enjoyment of its parts. So a well-proportioned body falls ill often for this reason, but recovers more easily because the whole body has a share in it; for the affection, being distributed among more parts, becomes weaker, and so is more easily got rid of. The disproportionate body, on the other hand, since it does not share the affection among its parts, falls ill less often, but recovers with more difficulty, since the affection is intense.
12| Why is it that people grow weary more on level ground than on uneven ground, yet walk the level road faster than the uneven one? Is it because it is least wearying not always... (the text breaks off here) on the uneven course more, but they travel faster where, in an equal time, there is less lifting of the foot? So on level ground the lifting is small and frequent, while on uneven ground it is the opposite. And what occurs a little with each step becomes a great deal over many steps. Why is it that going down slopes we feel the strain most in the thighs, but going up in the shins? Is it because in going up we lift the body? For the whole body becomes a burden. So whatever the whole weight rests on, and by which we lift it, feels the strain the most. And this is the shin. For it is the extreme part, having length, and not, like the foot, having breadth; that is why it is unsteady. So it is as though we move weights by the shoulder, and support them on it. That is precisely why we feel the strain most in the shoulder. But going down, since the body falls forward and is thrust ahead contrary to nature, the strain is felt in whatever part the body falls onto most and makes unsteady. Now the shin stays still, and the weight becomes the chest; but the thigh receives the fall and is made unsteady, because it has length and turns from above, at the point where the chest falls onto it.
13| Why does a road seem longer when we walk it without knowing how long it is, than when we know, other things being equal? Is it because to know how long it is, is to know its number; and the indefinite always seems greater than the definite? Just as, if one knew that it was of a certain length, it would necessarily be limited, so too, even when one does not know, the soul reasons falsely as though the reverse were the case, and the road appears unlimited. Further, quantity is what is definite, and the definite is quantity. So whenever something does not appear definite, it appears unlimited, because what is naturally definite, if it is not definite, is unlimited; so what appears undefined must in some way appear unbounded. Why do people feel weary in the thighs more than in the shins? Is it because the thighs are near the region that holds the residue, so that if it becomes excessive through the heat produced by motion, the thighs contract more, and more, than the shins? Or is it because the thighs are more continuous with the trunk? For they feel the strain most through the separation of what is continuous. And indeed even when people have no residue at all and grow weary, they still feel the strain in the thighs and the lower back more. Or is it that, just as swellings in the groin occur from a blow because of the connection of the veins and sinews, so it is here too? And the thigh is nearer to the source. Or is it because the thigh stays in the same posture more than the shin does? And this is more wearying. Or is it because it is fleshy, so that there is much that is natural to it in its own right?
14| Why is it that in some people, when they exert themselves, sores break out? Is it because, when the body is unclean, the motion, by heating it, draws off other residues along with the sweat? And since these are thick and contain bad humors — sharp, bitter, and salty — the residues cannot be excreted because of their thickness, but are lifted up through the flesh and cause sores because of the bitterness of the humor. Why is it that people are not given food right away after exercise or after taking medicine? Is it because the body is still being purged, and has not yet ceased its exertion, and the residues have not yet been separated out? Why is it harder to run than to walk? Is it because the runner carries a greater burden? For whenever the body is airborne, it bears the whole of itself upon itself. But the walker, like people resting against low walls, has part of the weight resting on what is at rest. Why is it that people are not hungry right after exercise? Is it because of the residue left over from the wasting away of the body, until this is digested in turn? Or is it because of the breath that exertion produces out of the moisture? Or is it because of the thirst that arises from being heated by the exertion? For all of these things happen together.
15| Why do the exhausted and the wasting-away have nocturnal emissions? Is it because, in general, the hot and moist are prone to nocturnal emissions? For semen is by nature of that sort. And such a thing arises most from bodies so disposed, when the heat that comes from sleep is added to them; for their bodies need only a slight tip of the scale, and this from within, not from without. Now the consumptive and the exhausted are disposed in just this way: the exhausted are full of hot molten residue because of their fatigue and exertion, while the consumptive are so because of their catarrh and the heat produced by the inflammation. Why is it harder to rub the left leg against itself for a long time than the right? Is it because we are able to labor with the right leg? In movements contrary to nature, the rubbing of the left leg happens in a reversed way, and things done contrary to nature are difficult. But to the left leg the right is nothing noticeable, because it is not strong in either direction. Why is it healthy to cut back on food but do more exercise? Is it because the cause of disease is an abundance of residue? And this arises either from an excess of food or from a deficiency of exertion.
16| Why should one not make the flesh dense for the sake of health, but rather porous? For just as a city is healthy, and a place well-ventilated is healthy (which is also why the sea is healthy), so too a body that is well-ventilated is the more healthy. For either no residue at all must be present, or it must be got rid of as quickly as possible; and bodies must be in such a condition that, as soon as they take in food, they excrete the residue, and be in motion and not at rest. For what stays in place putrefies, like standing water, and what putrefies and is not moved produces disease; but what is excreted before it spoils is removed in time. This, then, does not happen when the flesh is dense (for the pores are as it were blocked up), but it does happen when the flesh is porous. That is also why one should not walk about naked in the sun; for the flesh contracts, and people become altogether stripped of flesh, and the body becomes moister. For what is inside then remains, while what is on the surface is got rid of, just as boiled meats lose more than roasted ones. Nor should one walk about with the chest bare; for from the best-built bodies the sun takes away what least needs taking away, when it ought rather to take from what is inside. From there, then, because it is far off, sweat cannot be drawn up unless with exertion, but from the surface, because it is close at hand, it is easy.
17| Why are short walks tiring? Is it because there is frequent stopping, and the motion around the turns is uneven? And such a thing is tiring. Why do people standing still in the sun grow hotter than those in motion, even though motion produces heat? Is it that not every motion heats, but some cools, as happens also with people who blow on and stir boiled pots? If, then, heat stays with one who stands still, and staying heats more than moving does (for our body is always giving off from itself a certain warm vapor of its own, which heats the air nearby as a firebrand does when present), then when we are at rest the air surrounding us becomes hot for the reasons stated, but when we are in motion it becomes a wind, which cools us; for all wind is cold.
18| Why do those riding on horses weep more from the eyes the faster the horse runs, and likewise those on foot the faster they run? Is it because the air striking them is cold? For cold produces weeping; by contracting and condensing the flesh it purges out the moisture. Or is it for the opposite reason? For heat produces sweats, and a tear is a kind of sweat. That is why both of these arise from heat, and both are equally salty. And motion produces heat. Or is it because of the blow dealt by the air? For just as winds blowing from opposite directions disturb the eyes, so too the air that strikes us, the faster it is driven, or the faster one runs oneself, the more it deals a soft blow, and it is because of this blow that weeping occurs, the pores of the eye being loosened by the blow; for every blow either divides or bruises. Why must summer fatigue be cured with a bath, but winter fatigue with an anointing of oil? Is it because winter fatigue, on account of the shivering and the changes that occur, must be relieved with heat, which the oil will produce by warming (for oil is hot); whereas in summer one must moisten? For the season is dry, and no shivering occurs because of the warmth. And scant eating and heavy drinking occur in summer, the one entirely, the other more: drinking occurs entirely in summer because of the dryness, while scant eating is common to both seasons but more marked in summer, since the body is heated more by food on account of the season.
19| Why do those who run vigorously get the worst strains, when someone stands in their way as they run? Is it because those things are torn apart the most which are pulled and set in motion strongly in opposite directions at once? So when someone stands in the way of a runner whose parts are being thrust forcefully forward, it happens that a counter-pull toward the opposite direction occurs at the very moment that they are still being carried forward, so that the strain becomes stronger the more violently they are running.
20| Why, among walks along roads, are the uneven ones less tiring than the level ones? Is it because an upright bearing is natural to the whole body? Walks on level ground are more tiring than those on uneven ground; for they impose the exertion on the same parts, while walks on uneven ground distribute it more over the whole body. And walks in warm weather make people thinner more than walks in cold weather; for they impose more exertion on the outer parts, and that is why, by producing sweats, they make people thinner. But walks in cold weather make the flesh tighter and make people more desirous of food; for they produce an increase of heat in the inner parts, and, since the outer parts become hard to move because of the cold, they purge the inner region, increasing the heat within it, and they make the flesh solid, being unable to master it throughout. Likewise, uphill walks are more laborious and more thinning than downhill ones. For uphill walks make especially the lower back labor, while downhill ones make the thighs labor; for the whole weight, falling upon the thighs, tends to produce fatigue. For the heat, being carried upward against nature by force, heats thoroughly. That is why uphill walks produce sweats, and by raising the breath make one thinner, and cause pain in the lower back; for the legs, being lifted with difficulty, bend and pull back the lower back, and it is by this that people are compelled to labor most. Walks on resistant ground cause fatigue in the muscles and the stretched parts of the legs; for they produce tension in the sinews and the muscles, since the pressure against them becomes forceful. Walks on soft ground are also tiring to the joints; for they cause frequent bendings of the joints, since the footing gives way beneath them. And this is the same problem.
1| Why do we walk with difficulty up sloping ground? Is it because every act of walking is completed out of a lifting and a placing of the foot? Now the lifting is contrary to nature, the placing is in accordance with nature, and the setting-forward is a mean between the two; but in walking up a slope there is much that is contrary to nature. Why do those who fall from horses suffer less harm? Is it because, out of fear, they guard themselves more? Book 6. Problems Arising from How Things Are Positioned and Shaped Why does sitting make some people fatter, and others thinner? Is it 〈because〉 their states differ? For some are hot, others cold. Now the hot grow fat, since the body masters the food because of its heat; but those who are chilled, because they need heat brought in from outside, and the body is most affected by this through movements, cannot digest food while at rest. Or is it because some are full of residue and need motion to use it up, while others are not? Why must one produce a stretching of the parts, as the person who exercises does? Is it because the pores must be cleared out by the body's own breath?
2| Why is it better to lie curled up, and many people, including doctors, recommend this? Is it because the stomach, being warmed, digests faster? And curling up warms it more. Further, one must give the winds a place against which to press; for in this way the flatulence will cause the least trouble. This is also why boils and other abscesses are healthy, because they have cavities into which they receive the winds. Now when the body is stretched out, no cavity forms (for the internal organs occupy the whole space), but when it is bent, one forms. Why does dizziness occur more in those standing up than in those sitting down? Is it because, when at rest, the fluid inclines all together toward one part? But fluid that is in motion is uniformly distributed. So people grow dizzy on standing up after being at rest, when they are in this condition; but they sit down after having been in motion, when the fluid is evenly distributed and dispersed. Why does sleep come over people more readily when they lie on their right side? Is it because people are disposed oppositely when awake and when asleep? Since, then, people lie on their left side when awake, the opposite will hold from another starting point, the contrary one. Or is it because sleep is a lack of motion? So the parts that produce motion must be at rest, and the right side is the motive one. So when people lie in this position, some waking principle is, as it were, bound down.
1| Why do people go numb, and why more in the hands and feet? Is it because numbness is a chilling? For it comes about through a deprivation of blood and its displacement. These parts are the least fleshy and most sinewy, especially the feet. So they are, by nature, made ready in advance for being chilled quickly. Why do we lie down pleasantly on our left side, but sleep more on our right? Is it because, turned away from the light, we do not see it? For sleep takes hold more quickly in the dark. Or is it because we are awake while lying on our left side, and our activities are thus ready to hand there, so that the opposite posture is advantageous? For each posture summons a person toward its work more than the other does. Book Seven. Problems Arising from Sympathy Why do people yawn back in return when others yawn, for the most part? Is it because, if they are reminded while already aroused, they act, especially in things that move easily, such as urinating? Yawning is breath and a motion of moisture. So it is ready to hand, if one merely thinks of it; for it lies close by. Why is it that if we see someone stretching out a hand or a foot or something else of that sort, we do not do the same thing in response, but if we see someone yawning, we yawn back? Or is this too not always so, but only when the body happens to be aroused and disposed in such a way that the moisture is being warmed up? For then memory produces the motion, just as it does with sex and with eating; for what produces memory is the having of an impulse toward the imagined affection.
2| Why is it that when we stand by a fire we feel the urge to urinate, and if we stand by water, for instance by a river, people urinate? Is it because all water gives a reminder of the moisture in the body, and calls forth what is approaching it? Fire itself, for its part, loosens what is congealed in the body, just as the sun does snow. Why do people who associate with those suffering from certain diseases become sick themselves, while no one becomes healthy from associating with health? Is it because disease is a motion, but health is a state of rest? So the one moves people, the other moves nothing. Or is it because the one comes about against one's will, the other by one's will? And indeed involuntary things differ from voluntary ones, and from things done by forethought.
3| Why is it that some of the unpleasant things heard make us shudder, such as a saw being sharpened, or pumice being cut, or a stone being ground, while things seen that are signs of an affection produce the very affections themselves in us? For we get a tingling in our teeth watching people eat something sharp, and some people faint on watching others being strangled. Is it because every voice and every sound is breath? And this, entering into us, is by nature able to move us. And it moves us more, either through its size or through a more violent blow, by producing or altering something within us. Now large, smooth currents of breath move the very seat of perception, which is why such things please us; but rough ones, producing a violent blow, shake that place and transmit the force of the blow far off. Cold things also transmit far off; for coldness too is a kind of power. That this is why it makes us shudder, then, has been stated. Rough sounds, by producing a rapid succession of blows, striking against the root of the hairs, push it back the other way; and as it is pushed back, the tip of the hair must necessarily turn back on itself; that is why the hairs come to stand up, for they all naturally incline downward. And the movement of the breath, through hearing, into the body is from above downward.
4| Since the sounds mentioned are rough, then, the shuddering would come about for the reasons stated. And this happens more in the rest of the body than in the head, because the hairs there are weaker and the affection is weak. Now since hearing is a duller sense than sight, the affections that come from it are also superficial; and shuddering is such a thing, which is why it also arises from many dissimilar causes. But since sight is the most vivid of the senses, what results from it is correspondingly vivid; that is why the affections that come from it turn out to be the same ones that come from the actual truth, though lighter than the truth. But from hearing we do not feel the affections themselves, but we shudder at the expectation arising from them; for it is an expectation of a painful evil. Why do people yawn back when others have yawned, and when they see someone urinating, do they urinate too, especially pack animals? Is it on account of memory? For when the animal is reminded, this part is set in motion. Now in the case of human beings, because they are more sensitive, it happens that on merely seeing it they are at once moved and reminded; but for pack animals, seeing is not enough, and they need another sense besides; that is why they also need to smell it, since this sense is more easily set in motion in creatures without reason. And this is also why they all urinate in the same spot, wherever the first one urinated. For they are most set in motion when they smell it, and they smell it when they come close.
5| Why is it that when we see someone being cut or burned or racked or suffering some other terrible thing, we suffer along with them in our mind? Is it because our nature is common to us all? So it suffers along with the sufferer, whenever it sees such a thing, on account of kinship. Or is it because, just as the nostrils and the ears receive certain emanations according to their own proper powers, so too sight itself is affected by pleasant and painful things alike? Why is it that people who associate with those suffering from consumption, ophthalmia, and scabies are caught by these diseases, but people are not caught from dropsy, fevers, and apoplexy, nor from the others? Is it that ophthalmia spreads because the eye is the most easily moved of the organs, and is most fully assimilated to what it sees, of all the organs, being moved by what is moved, so that one who looks back at a disturbed eye is himself most disturbed? While consumption spreads because it produces a foul and heavy breath, and these diseases attach themselves most quickly to everyone, namely all those that arise from the corruption of this breath, such as the plague-diseases. And the person who associates with a consumptive breathes in such breath. So he becomes sick because it is disease-bearing; and he becomes sick from this alone because the consumptive exhales it, while the other diseases work in a different way; and he catches the same disease, because whatever part has grown weak in the sufferer, he breathes out through it in such a way as if he too had been afflicted there. And scabies spreads more than the others, such as leprosy and the like, because what flows off is superficial and sticky; for itchy things are of this sort. That is why these take hold, through occurring on the surface and being sticky. Of the others, some do not take hold because they do not occur on the surface, and others, though occurring on the surface, do not take hold because they do not remain there, on account of dryness.
1| Why does purslane, and also salt, stop the shivering of the teeth? Is it because purslane has a certain moisture? This is evident when it is chewed, and even if it is left standing for a while, for the moisture is drawn out of it. So the sticky substance, seeping in, draws out the sharpness. And the fact that the sharpness is akin to it is also a sign of this; for the juice of purslane has a certain sharpness of its own. Salt, for its part, draws out the sharpness by dissolving it. Why then do lye and soda not do this? Is it because they are astringent and do not dissolve things? Book 8. Problems Connected with Chill and Shivering Why do people who are chilled turn livid? Is it because the blood congeals on account of the cold, and in congealing turns dark through the absence of heat? For white belongs to fire. That is also why the flesh of old people turns livid most of all, because they have the least heat. Why can people who are chilled not sleep? Is it because everyone who is chilled holds their breath in more, while a person sleeping breathes out more than he breathes in, so that it is hard for someone chilled to sleep? For it is impossible to do opposite things at the same time. Why, in the cold, are people who have been ill, and people who are grieving, and people who are angry, sharper? Is it because being chilled makes the body more compact?
2| Why are athletes, when in good condition, poor at bearing cold? Is it because their bodily state is clean, well-aerated, and without fat? Such a state is most easily affected by the air, whenever the air passes through it readily and it has no heat within itself; whereas fatty tissue is hot, unless it is very moist. Why do the extremities feel cold most of all? Is it on account of their narrowness? For the passages in them, being narrow, contain little blood, so that they also have little heat; for blood is hot. Why, if the feet are raised up, do people feel colder? Is it that the air blows underneath more? Or is it that the blood collects in a smaller space below, so that the rest of the body becomes more easily chilled once the heat there is lacking? Why do very fat people feel the cold severely, although fatty tissue is hot? Is it because, on account of the thickness of the fat, the extremities are far removed from the heat within, while they are near to the cold without? Why do people shiver after sneezing and after urinating? Is it because the veins are emptied in both cases, and once they are emptied, cold air enters, and this is what causes the shivering?
3| Why are people especially subject to ravenous hunger in the cold, and more in winter than in summer? Is it because boulimia arises from a lack of dry food, and in cold weather and in winter, since the heat within contracts into a smaller region, the food within runs out sooner? And when this happens, it is likely that one becomes more ravenously hungry. The faintness and weakness that occur in boulimia arise because a wasting takes place in the body on account of the gathering together of the heat; when this wasted matter flows into the region of the food, it itself becomes nourishment for the body; but if it reaches the source of the breath, loss of voice and weakness result — loss of voice because the passage of the breath is blocked, weakness because of the body's lack of nourishment and its wasting away. Remedies for such people work quickly and from small amounts, because the starting point of the affection arises from outside. For the cold, by contracting what is within, produces our ravenous hunger. Just as, then, people who are trembling and pale with fear become the same as before immediately once the danger is past, so too people suffering from boulimia, once they have taken in a little bread, having been forcibly moved out of their natural state but not destroyed, recover quickly. For the same thing that opposed the natural course also restores it to that course. One need only let it go — just as with children who are pulling back against cords behind them; for these too, once the cords are let go, immediately fall over backward.
4| Why are people who have been through athletic training more susceptible to chill than the untrained? Is it because the fat has been removed by their labors, and fat provides warmth (for what is oily is hot)? Or is it because their bodies are more well-aerated and more porous, since the fat and the residue have been removed, so that nothing keeps the cold out? Or is it on account of the opening up of the pores by their sweating, as though many doors had been taken away? It is clear that the same bodily condition is not conducive to both health and strength; for the one state appears to be fat, the other porous. Why do people shiver both when cold water is poured over them and when hot water is poured over them? For it is strange that opposites should be the cause of the same thing. Is it because, when cold water is poured on, the heat within, being quenched, produces the shivering, while when hot water is poured on, the cold outside, being driven back together into one place and gathered by its retreat inward, produces it instead? So that both come about through the same thing, but at one time through what is within, at another through what is without. Why do the hairs on the skin bristle? Is it that, whenever they draw the skin together, the hairs naturally stand up? And chill, like other affections too, draws the skin together.
5| Why do we shudder at the final release of urine? Is it because, while the fluid is present, the bladder and the passages around it are full of warmth, but once it has gone out, cold air fills them instead? For nothing must be empty, but must be full either of air or of body. Since, then, cold air has come in, it is natural that shuddering results. Why does the tongue of people who are chilled stumble, just as that of drunk people does? Is it that, being frozen and hardened by the cold, it becomes hard to move, and when this happens it cannot articulate clearly? Or is it that, the outer parts having been made dense by the cold, the moisture flows together inward and moistens the tongue, so that the tongue cannot do its own work — just as was said in the case of drunk people? Or is it on account of the trembling that comes from chill, the motion being disordered, that the tongue cannot articulate what is said, and this is why it stumbles? Why do the hairs on the body of people who are chilled stand up straight? Is it because, from the chilling, the heat gathers into the region within, and as the heat leaves the flesh, the flesh draws together more, and as it is drawn together the hairs become more upright? Or is it because . . . [text breaks off]
6| Why do we feel colder running in winter than standing still? Is it because the air around the body of people standing still, once it has been warmed up, no longer troubles them, while for people running, one cold mass of air after another keeps striking them, and this is why we feel colder? Further, air also becomes colder when it is set in motion, and this happens especially in running. Why is it colder when it is barely light [than] when the sun is nearer? Is it because the time of the sun's absence has been greater, so that the earth has cooled more? Or is it because toward daybreak the dew falls, like frost, and these are cold things? Or do these too fall because the heat rising up is overpowered, and it is overpowered on account of the sun's absence — which is also why, when the sun is farther off, dew does not fall, but when it is nearer, it falls and freezes, because the place has cooled more, the sun having been absent for a longer time? Or is it because toward daybreak the winds coming from the night bring more of the cold? Or does it merely seem to us to be colder, because our food has by then been digested? For people who are more empty are more susceptible to chill. A sign of this is that people feel cold especially after vomiting.
7| Why do people suffer pain when those who are chilled are brought to the fire, but not when they are warmed gradually, little by little? Is it because, in general, a change to the opposite from opposites, when it happens all at once, produces a great disturbance? Just as with trees: if one bends a branch a little at a time, it will not be hurt, but if one bends it more violently and not gradually, it breaks. If, then, like is unaffected by like, and the heat of a person who is chilled gathers and draws together inward, while the moisture and the cold are left behind in the flesh, and the opposite is destructive of the opposite, then if one warms the person gradually, the heat goes out little by little and he suffers less, but if he is not warmed gradually, the heat presses in on him more forcefully. Why, once we have been chilled, do we get burned and feel pain more from the same degree of heat? Is it because, on account of its density, the flesh holds in the heat that strikes it? This is also why lead feels hotter than wool. Or is it that the passage of the heat becomes violent because the pores have been frozen shut by the cold?
8| Why don't angry people shiver? Is it because anger is opposite to cowardice, and so is spirit? Anger comes from fire: for people who hold a great deal of fire inside grow warm. One can observe this best in children. For grown men are harmed by anger, but children first take in a great deal of breath, and then blush; for the heat, being abundant inside and moistening things, makes them blush, since if someone poured a great deal of cold water over them, they would stop being angry, for their heat would be quenched. Cowardly and fearful people are the opposite: they shiver and become cold and pale, for the heat leaves the surface regions of their body.
9| Why, when we shudder, do the hairs stand up straight? Is it because hair is by nature enclosed in moisture? For the depth of the hair is held fast by the moisture. Now shuddering comes about from cold, and cold by nature makes moisture congeal. So when the moisture out of which the hairs grow changes and congeals, it is likely that the hairs change too. If they change to the opposite state, or stay the same, the hair will again prevail over the moisture; but it is not likely that, once the moisture has congealed and become dense, the hair prevails over it by weight. And if it is not possible for the hair to lean in any direction because the moisture has congealed, it remains that it stands upright. Or is it rather because, under the effect of chilling, the heat gathers into the interior region, and as the heat leaves the flesh, the flesh contracts more, and as it is drawn together the hairs become more upright — just as, if one drives a splinter of wood or something else into the earth and packs it down, gathering the earth in from all sides, it stands more upright than if one leaves the earth ungathered. Why do people who are shivering, above all, fail to sleep? Is it because a person who shivers holds his breath in rather than breathing it out, whereas a person who sleeps breathes out or breathes in? So shivering puts one in a state opposite to sleeping.
1| Book Theta. Problems Concerning Bruises, Scars, and Weals Why do freshly-flayed skins, applied to the body, and especially those of rams, and eggs cracked over the spot, prevent bruises? Is it because both of these prevent the gathering of fluid and its rising up? For a bruised area draws fluid to it and swells because of the heat; so the eggs, through their stickiness, glue it down and prevent it from swelling, in the way that heat-applications do, and like glue; and the skins too stick fast both through their stickiness, and at the same time, through their warmth, they concoct the swelling and stop the inflammation — for indeed people do not remove them for some days. Those who rub the spot with salt and vinegar also want to draw the inflammation out. Why are scars black on the rest of the body, but white in the eye? Is it because a scar takes on a color opposite to the color that was there before, as does everything that has been diseased? And the sores in the eye occur in the black part. Indeed, even on the body scars are not black right away, but white to begin with, nor are they always black in the eye either, but they settle back over time, either completely or more toward the original color. Why does the fennel-rod make the area around the blow red, but the middle of it white? Is it because it squeezes the blood out of the middle, where it strikes most, being round? But then for this very reason the blood ought to flow back again; rather, the redness is a gathering-together of blood, and the gathering runs toward the place that was struck.
2| Why, when someone is struck hard with a fennel-rod, does the middle of the flesh turn white and the area around it red, whereas with a piece of wood the middle turns redder? Is it because the fennel-rod, on account of its lightness, if it strikes hard, scatters the blood that is near the surface, so that where the blood has departed the flesh looks white, and where more blood has arrived it looks redder? And once the blow has caused swelling, the scattered blood does not quickly settle back, because there is little of it and because its movement runs uphill, as it were — for, being forced by the quantity, it must be carried along a course contrary to its nature. But blows from hard objects, because of their weight and force, produce both compression and bruising. What is compressed becomes hollow, what is bruised becomes porous; for a bruise is a kind of soft cutting and dividing. And once the middle has become hollow and porous, blood is carried into it from the surrounding surface areas; for blood naturally travels downward, and into porous places, since these yield to it. And once the blood has gathered there, as is reasonable, it reddens that spot, while the areas it has left behind, it whitens.
3| Why are the scars of people with diseased spleens black? Is it because they have corrupted blood, on account of the mixture of diseased and watery blood coming from the spleen? Now a scar has thin and superficial skin; and the blood, being watery and warm even though black, produces this kind of scar by showing through it; and indeed, in such people, the scar generally turns out blacker. And this comes about through the same cause: for through the weakness of the skin the blood is chilled, and as the heat evaporates out of it, it becomes blacker. In the same way, in old people too, both the complexion becomes blacker, and scars from birth become blacker than in the young; for their whole body is, so to speak, one great bruise, not because of the thinness of the skin, but because the heat has left them. Do all things that are causes of the same effect have the same power to produce it, or not? I mean, for instance, since bruises are drawn out both by bronze and by radish and by broad-bean chewed up and by lung-tissue and by clay and by certain other things, do they act by the same power, or does bronze act because it produces verdigris, and verdigris is medicinal, while the bean and the lung and the clay act by drawing the matter to themselves on account of their porousness, and other things act through other causes? Or is the ultimate effect the same in all such cases (for many opposite things too produce a single effect, just as both heat and cold do), while nothing prevents the causes prior to that ultimate effect from being different in each case?
4| Why do other scars turn out black, but those in the eye white? Is it because scars change, wherever they occur, toward the opposite of the surrounding colors, and since they occur in the black part of the eye, they must necessarily turn out white? Why is the blow of a fennel-rod more painful than that of some harder objects, if one considers the matter in proportion when striking? For it stands to reason that the blow of the harder object should be more painful, since it strikes harder. Is it rather because the flesh feels pain not only when it is struck, but also when it strikes? Now by hard objects the flesh is only struck (for it yields on account of their hardness), but from the fennel-rod both things happen to it: it is struck, and, because of the lightness of its weight, it also strikes back without yielding, so that the blow becomes, in effect, double.
5| Why do thapsia-resin and the bronze cup stop bruises, one at the start and the other later, though they are opposite in nature? For the cup is cold, just as the poet too says, "he took the cold bronze in his teeth," while thapsia is hot and burning. Is it that the cup acts like cold water on people who are fainting? For the coldness meeting the blood prevents the heat from going out of the blood that has run together at the surface because of the blow, and prevents it from congealing once the heat has gone out. For just as blood congeals when it is exposed outside, so too the blood near the surface, when it is under the skin, since its heat is prevented from passing through by the coldness of the bronze, does 〈not〉 congeal, but instead disperses again and returns to the place from which it had run together. Thapsia, being hot, produces the same effect: for, being hot, it prevents the blood from congealing. Why do bruises disperse when bronze objects, such as cups and the like, are applied to them? Is it because bronze is cold? So it prevents the heat from going out of the blood that has gathered from the blow, and it is when that heat goes out from the surface that a bruise forms. That is why one must apply it quickly, before the blood congeals. And thapsia mixed with honey helps for the same reason: being hot, it prevents the blood from being chilled.
1| Why is it that, when a wound occurs repeatedly in the same place, the scar becomes black? Is it because every wound, once it has formed, is weak, and the more often it recurs the weaker it becomes; and what is weak is chilled and full of moisture? That is why it also appears black, since large wounds and long-standing ones have black scars. And to receive a wound many times is nothing other than having a wound for a long time. Why do we apply metal cups to bruises? Is it because, when we are struck, the place becomes chilled, and the heat withdraws? So the cup, being applied while the bronze is cold, prevents the heat from escaping. Why do hairs not grow on scars? Is it because the pores from which hairs grow are blocked up, and are displaced? Why do blows produce swelling and discoloration? Is it because, in that place, the fluids are forced apart, and, striking against the neighboring places, rebound back again and are drawn together by the cohesion of the fluids? And if some small veins are also torn, the gathering becomes suffused with blood. X. Summary of Natural Problems Why do some animals cough while others do not — man, for instance, coughs, but the ox does not? Is it because in most animals the residue turns off into something else, but in man it turns here? Or is it because man has the largest and moistest brain, and coughing arises from phlegm running down.
2| Why does blood flow from the nostrils in man alone among animals? Is it because he has the largest and moistest brain, from which the veins, filled with the residue, send out a flow through the passages? For diseased blood becomes thinner than pure blood, and this is blood mixed with the residues of the brain, and it is like serum. Why are some animals fat beneath the flesh, others fat throughout the flesh, and others fat in both ways? Is it that in those whose flesh is dense, the moisture is drawn together between the skin and the flesh, because [the skin] by nature stands apart from it — and this moisture, when concocted, becomes fat? But those that have looser flesh, with the skin lying close against it, become fat throughout the flesh. And those in both conditions grow fat in both ways. Why do children and women have vitiligo less than men, and among women the older women more? Is it because vitiligo is an escape of breath, and children's bodies are not well-vented but dense, and women's bodies less so than men's — for the breath turns instead into the menstrual discharge; and the smoothness of the skin shows the density of the flesh? But the bodies of older men and of old women are well-vented; for they alone, like old buildings, have the fitting-together of their parts loosened.
3| Why does man alone contract vitiligo? Is it because he is the thinnest-skinned of animals, and at the same time the most full of breath? A sign of this is that vitiligo occurs most, and first, in the thinnest-skinned parts. Or is it for these reasons, and also because he alone among animals turns gray? For in vitiligo the hairs turn gray, so that it is impossible for whatever does not turn gray to contract vitiligo. Why do goats and sheep, though they do not have the largest bodies, yield the most milk when milked, while man and the ox yield less in proportion? Is it because in the others what is left over is spent on the body, but in sheep and goats the whole surplus of the residue becomes milk? Or is it because they bear more young than the large animals, so that they draw off more residue because they nourish more offspring? Or is it that, because of the weakness of their bodies, more residue is produced in them while they are pregnant, and milk comes from the residue? Why do some animals, when they change their water, change their color too and become like the creatures there — goats, for instance — while others do not, man for instance? And in general, why do some change while others do not — the raven, for instance, does not change? Is it that those whose nature does not master the moisture, as with birds (which is also why they have no bladder), do not change? And why is it not the animals themselves but their offspring that change? Is it because the young are weaker than those that begot them?
4| Why are males generally larger than females? Is it because they are hotter, and heat promotes growth? Or because they are whole, while the females are stunted? Or because males reach completion over a long time, and females in a short time? Why do some animals bear young quickly, while others have a long gestation? Is it because the longer-lived are by nature slower to reach completion? And the long-lived are slow to give birth. Not, however, the longest-lived of all — the horse, for instance, is slower to give birth than man, yet shorter-lived. The cause of this is the hardness of its womb; for just as dry earth does not quickly bring things to maturity, so too the womb of the horse. Why do the offspring of the other animals resemble their parents' natures more than human offspring do? Is it because man's soul is affected in many different ways during intercourse, and according to how the father and the mother are disposed at the time, so too the offspring turn out varied? But most of the other animals are directed toward this one thing alone. Further, for the most part it is not fulfilled on account of this desire. Why are white men and horses generally gray-eyed? Is it because, there being three colors for eyes — black, goat-eyed, and gray — the color of the eye follows the color of the body, and this color, in their case, is grayness.
5| For what cause do dwarves come about? And still more generally, why are some animals altogether large, others small? This must be examined as follows. There are two causes: either place or nourishment. Place, if it is cramped; nourishment, if it is scanty — just as people try to make animals small even after they have already been born, for instance those who raise puppies inside quail-cages. Now those for whom place is the cause become pygmy-like. For they come to have breadths and [the] lengths corresponding to the size of their parents, yet are altogether small. The cause of this is that, because of the narrowness of the place, straight lines, being bent together, become curved. So just as figures painted on tavern signs are small, yet appear to have breadth and depth, the same thing happens with pygmies too. But those who become stunted through lack of nourishment turn out to have childlike limbs as well. And one can see some that are very small indeed, yet well-proportioned, like Maltese lap-dogs. The cause is that in this case it is nature, not place, that produces the effect.
6| Why do some animals come to be from one another, while others come to be from certain things combining, in the same way that their original generation once came about for them — just as those who discourse about nature say that the original generation of animals also came about because of the changes and shifts of the cosmos and the universe being so great; and if it is to happen again now, must not motions of that kind occur once more? For the beginning of every task is the greatest part of it, since it is half the whole. And seed is a beginning. Now for the small animals that do not come to be from one another, the cause of their coming to be just as they were generated at the start is the smallness of their seed; for the beginning of a smaller thing is also smaller. So that even the changes affecting such a creature are enough to generate seed for it, which is in fact what happens — for they come to be especially during changes. But the larger animals need a greater change as well. Why are some animals prolific, the pig, the dog, the hare, for instance, while others are not, man and the lion for instance? Is it because the former have many wombs and compartments, which desire to be filled and into which the seed is divided, while the latter have the opposite?
7| Why does a human being have the smallest distance between the eyes of all animals, in proportion to size? Is it because a human is most in accordance with nature among the others, and perception is by nature directed forward? For the direction in which motion occurs is the direction one must look ahead toward. And the greater the distance between the eyes, the more the lines of sight will fall to the side. If, then, one must be constituted according to nature, the distance ought to be as small as possible; for in this way one will travel forward most directly. Further, in the other animals, since they do not have hands, they are forced to look sideways as well. That is why their eyes are set farther apart, most of all in sheep, because of their proceeding on their way most of all with the head bent down. Why is it that some of the other animals do not have wet dreams at all, and others only rarely? Is it because none of them lies on its back, and nothing that does not lie on its back has a wet dream? Or is it that the other animals do not dream in the same way, while a wet dream occurs together with imagination? Why do some animals move the head, while others do not? Is it because some do not have a neck? That is why these do not move the head.
8| Why does a human being sneeze more than any other animal? Is it because he has wide passages through which breath and smell enter? For when these are filled with breath, sneezing occurs. That his passages are wide is shown by the fact that he has the weakest sense of smell of all the animals; for the finer passages give the more exact perception. If, then, into the wide passages the moisture enters in greater quantity and more often — the moisture whose turning into breath produces the sneeze — and humans have such passages more than any other animal, then it stands to reason they would sneeze most often. Or is it because their nostrils are shortest in length, so that the moisture once heated can quickly turn into breath? In the other animals, because of the length, it cools again first. Why does no animal have a fatty tongue? Is it because the fatty is dense, while the tongue is by nature porous, so that it may discern flavors? Why do females urinate with a straining effort, but males do not? Is it because the bladder of females lies farther off, both in depth and in length? For between them the womb lies between the seat and the bladder. So what is expelled needs more force, precisely because of the distance from the womb; and it is forced out by straining together with the breath.
9| Why do all animals that do not fly shed their winter hair, except the pig? For the dog sheds, and so does the ox. Is it because the pig is the hottest of animals, and its hairs grow out of heat? For the oily is of that character. In the case of the others, either the hairs fall out because the moisture is chilled, or because the animal's own heat is unable to concoct the nourishment; but because the pig's moisture within it undergoes nothing of that sort — since its nourishment is well concocted — it does not shed its hairs. For whenever the cause of shedding is present, richness of fat is sufficient to prevent it. Sheep and humans, because of the quantity and density of their hair, are unaffected: for the cold does not penetrate to depth, so as either to freeze the moisture or to prevent the heat from concocting it.
10| Why do the hairs of sheep grow back softer when plucked out, but those of humans harder? Is it because the hairs of sheep grow from the surface? That is why they are also pulled out without pain, since the root of their nourishment remains undestroyed, being in the flesh. Now the residues, once the follicles are opened, evaporate the more, while the wool takes its own proper nourishment from the flesh; and flesh is nourished by things soft and sweet. But the hairs of humans, growing from a depth, are pulled out by force and with pain. This is clear: for they draw up blood with them. So when the spot is wounded it happens also to scar over. That is why in the end this happens to those who pluck their hair; and as long as hairs continue to grow back, they grow back hard, because all the nourishing part of the flesh has been used up, and they are formed instead out of residues. Here is a sign: in all people who live toward the south the hairs are hard, because the external heat, penetrating to a depth, evaporates the well-concocted nourishment, while in those who live under the Bears the hairs are soft; for in these the blood and the sweet juices lie more toward the surface, which is also why they are of good complexion.
11| Why is it that the hairs of sheep become harder the longer they grow, while those of humans become softer? Is it because the hairs of sheep, having the kind of nourishment described, are less well nourished the farther they hang from their root, and the nourishment present in them is readily evaporated by heat because of its being easily concocted? And as they dry out they become drier, for the moist is soft. But the hairs of humans, though shorter, are more closely attached to their root; and they are concocted more in them because they are shorter, and being concocted makes the hair softer, since all concocted things are softer than unconcocted ones. For human hair grows out of a greater quantity of residue than sheep's hair does. Here is a sign: young sheep have softer wool than old ones. Why are humans and birds that are shaggy inclined to lust? Is it because they are hot and moist in nature, and both are needed for mating? For the hot excretes, and the moist is what is excreted. For the same reason lame men too are lustful; for their nourishment, little of it reaching down because of the disability of their legs, comes in quantity to the upper region and is combined into seed.
12| Why does a human being not have a mane? Is it because he has a beard, so that the nourishment which would go there, being of that kind of residue, goes instead to the jaws? Why do all animals have an even number of feet? Is it because motion is not possible unless something is at rest, unless the animal leaps? Since, then, motion in walking must necessarily consist of two things — motion and rest — these two are already an even number. And four-footed animals too, because they have more feet, are the same way: for they move two feet while the other two are at rest, and so too with six-footed animals; and the rest likewise have two more: of these, one is in motion, the other at rest.
13| Why is it that in horses and donkeys hairs grow out of scars, but not in humans? Is it because in the other animals the skin is part of the flesh, while in a human being it is, as it were, an affection of the flesh? For in them it seems that what is chilled at the surface becomes more solid, just as with boiled flour the substance called "the crust." Since, then, that too is boiled flour, what is called skin in a human being would likewise be flesh; and when a human is wounded or chafed, it happens that the flesh becomes dense. That is why, once the surface flesh has been altered, the wounds do not take on the same nature as they had from birth; and it is no strange thing that, once it has been altered, nothing further grows from it, just as with what are called foxes' manges — for these too are destructions and alterations of the surface flesh. But in beasts of burden, when they are chafed and then healed again, the diseased parts of the body are filled back in, being the same in kind but weaker than they were originally. And since the skin too is a part of them, hairs would form and grow (for hairs grow out of skin), but they grow white because the skin has become weaker than it was originally, and white hair is the weakest kind of hair.
14| Why is it that in other animals twins survive equally well whether one is female and the other male, but not in humans? Is it because in man twins are weakest of all, since man normally bears only one at a time? And for twins to occur, one female and one male, is contrary to nature in humans, so that what is most contrary to nature is also the weakest. Why is it that in horses and donkeys hair grows back over scars, but not in humans? Is it because the scar prevents it, either through its density or because it destroys the nourishment? In humans it prevents growth completely, on account of the weakness of human hair, whereas in horses it did not prevent it, but only impaired it. Why do animals have an even number of feet? Is it because in everything that moves, something must be at rest, and if the feet were odd in number this could not happen — for it was by the correspondence of the feet in opposite pairs that motion occurred. Why do animals sleep for a shorter time than they are awake, yet not continuously? Is it because not all of the residue is concocted at once? Rather, whenever some of it has been concocted, the animal, being lightened, wakes up. And those animals wake more often in which the place that concocts the residue is cold; for it stops quickly, and often, and each cessation is a waking. And it is not plausible that this happens because sleep is pleasant, merely on the ground that it appears to be a rest. For not even in that case does rest take up more time than the activities in accordance with nature; just as, even though eating is more pleasant than not eating, animals nonetheless do not spend more time eating than fasting.
15| Why is it that some animals follow their parents immediately, while others do so late, or with difficulty, or never — for example man? Is it because some quickly acquire the ability to recognize, while others acquire it late? And some are without perception of what benefits them, while others have such perception. So whichever animals have both of these — I mean both perception of what benefits them and completion of the body — follow their parents, while those that lack either one do not do this; for both being able to move and being able to perceive are required. Why does leukē, white blotching of the skin, not occur in other animals? Is it because in other animals it is a disease, whereas in humans it is natural for their skins and hairs to become mottled white? But still one might raise the difficulty of why it does not occur later in life instead, since the mottling is present from birth. Or is it because the skins of other animals are hard, while man is by nature the thinnest-skinned of all? And leukē is a discharge of breath, which in other animals is prevented from escaping the skin because of its density. Why is it that in leukē gray hairs occur, but where there are gray hairs, leukē does not always occur? Is it because hairs come from the skin, and grayness is a kind of decay of the hairs? So whenever the skin is affected, the hair that grows from it must be affected as well; but when the hair is affected, the skin need not be.
16| Why is it that some animals are fierce after giving birth — for example the dog and the pig — while others show no clear sign of it, for example woman and sheep? Is it because those that are full of residue are gentle, since in giving birth what was distressing them departs? But in those in which the removal comes from parts that were in good condition, (text breaks off) ...so that leanness produces the anger through its effect on the bodily state — just as hens are not fierce after laying, but while brooding, because of their fasting.
17| Why do eunuchs change toward the female in other respects when castrated — for they also acquire a female voice, both in pitch and in inarticulateness, and change so completely, just as castrated animals do among the other creatures — but bulls and rams, on the contrary, change in the growth of their horns, because the females of these animals are the opposite of the males in that respect? Hence some animals, when castrated, get larger horns, others smaller. But in size alone do eunuchs change toward the male, for they become larger; and this is a mark of the male, since females are smaller than males. Or is this too not a change toward the male, but toward the female? For it is not a change in every dimension, but only in length, whereas the male grows in breadth and depth as well, since that is when growth is complete. Further, as the female stands to the male, so within the female herself the maiden stands to the woman; for the one is already mature, the other not. So eunuchs change into the condition of these maidens, since their growth is in length. Hence Homer rightly says, "and height did holy Artemis give," as though, because of her own virginity, she — having that quality herself — was able to give it. Eunuchs, then, do not change toward the male in point of size, since they do not change toward the complete state; but eunuchs do gain increase in length as their one kind of size.
18| Why do eunuchs either not contract sciatica at all, or contract it less? Is it because in castration they change their nature into that of the barren? Such are the child and the woman, neither of whom contracts sciatica, except rarely a woman. Why does man emit many sounds, more than other animals, while other animals emit one, even though they do not differ within their own species? And man too has one voice, but many dialects. Why is this dialect different among humans, but not among other animals? Is it because humans utter many letters, while of the other animals some utter none, and some two or three of the consonants? And these, together with the vowels, produce a dialect. But speech is not simply signifying by voice, but by its affections — not merely that the animal is in pain or rejoices. The letters are affections of the voice. Children and beasts alike show this, for children too do not yet utter the letters. Why is man alone among the other animals subject to stammering? Is it because he is also subject to being mute, and stammering is a kind of muteness? But then again, in the stammerer this part is not even completely formed. Or is it because man has a greater share in reason, while the other animals have a greater share in mere voice? And stammering, despite its name, is not a weakness of voice, but rather an inability to run through a word as a single whole, or to run through it continuously.
19| Why is man born lame from birth more than the other animals? Is it because the legs of the other animals are strong? For four-footed animals and birds have legs that are bony and sinewy, while humans have fleshy ones; so because of this softness they are more quickly maimed in moving. Or is it because man alone among animals has many different times of birth? For some are born at seven months, some at eight, some at ten. For the other animals there is a single time of completion, without delay; but for humans there is much time spent in the process of formation in the womb, so that, since they move about while still soft, their extremities are broken more, the longer the time is. Why do eunuchs have shins that are ulcerous and diseased? Is it because women too have this, and eunuchs are womanish? Or is this merely incidental, and the cause, even in the case of women, is that the heat rushes downward? The menstrual discharge shows this. That is also why neither eunuchs nor women become hairy there, on account of their great wetness.
20| Why is it that no animal gets bladder stones except man? Is it because in beasts of burden and animals with many claws, the passages of the bladder are wide? And whatever animals do not at first, but later, bear their young alive within themselves, such as some fish, none of these have a bladder; instead this kind of sediment is compressed into their belly, as also in birds, so that it quickly passes out through the anus. But man has a bladder, and a narrow neck relative to its size. Because he has this part, then, the earthy matter is compressed into the bladder (which is also why chamber pots are discolored by it), and because of the heat of the place it is concocted together and thickened further; and it remains and grows because of the narrowness of the urinary passage. For the earthy deposits, unable to pass out easily, turn back upon one another and become a stone. Why do beasts of burden not belch, nor cattle and horned animals, nor birds? Is it because of the dryness of their belly? For the moisture is quickly used up and filtered through; but when it remains in place and becomes gaseous, belching results. In maned animals, because of the length of the neck, the breath rushes downward instead, which is why they produce sound from below most of all. Birds and horned animals do neither of these. Nor do animals that chew the cud belch, because they have many stomachs and the part called the reticulum; so the breath's passage occurs through many chambers, both upward and downward, and the moisture is used up before it can be turned into gas and produce either a belch or a sound from below.
21| Why is it that whatever animals are tame also have a wild form, while whatever are wild are not all also found tame? For men too appear wild in some places, and dogs among the Indians, and horses, and elsewhere, but lions are never tame, nor leopards, nor vipers, nor many others. Is it because it is easier for something inferior both to come into being from the start and to change into that state? For nature is not perfected straightaway at the first, but only at the end, and it is hard work to hit the mark immediately. That is why even tame animals become wild at first, more than tame, for example a child or a man who eats anything and lives by spirit alone -- but such creatures are weaker. So just as it is with the works of craft, so it is also with the works of nature. For in the case of crafts too, everything produced is at first inferior, and inferior products are more numerous, be it a bed or a cloak or anything else. And whatever is fine, it is possible to find inferior examples of it as well, but whatever is inferior is not all also fine -- for example, if one examines the works of the ancient painters and sculptors: for there was never anywhere a serious painting or statue, but they were inferior. Likewise nature too makes everything inferior, and more numerous and more often, while the serious ones are fewer, and it cannot do everything.
22| The tame is better, the wild inferior. Nature, not in its state at the very beginning, but in that toward which, I suppose (text breaks off here), it more easily makes things serious and tame. But the opposite creatures either never, or only with difficulty, and in certain places and at certain times, or at a fixed moment, or at some point in a certain mixture of the whole, do all animals become tame. The same holds also for all plants: for whatever are tame also have a wild form, but not all can be tamed; yet all the same there are, in their own region, plants specially suited to many things, so that, neglected and wild, they grow better and tamer than those cultivated in another region. Why is it that in humans the navels become large, while in other animals they are not conspicuous? Is it because in the others, since it remains inside for a long time, it withers and is drawn straight, while the whole wound swells up, which is why some navels are even rather unsightly? But man comes out incomplete, so that his navels come out moist and full of blood. And that some animals come out complete while others come out incomplete is shown by this sign: the former are able to live at once, while human infants need care.
23| Why is it that some animals mate only once, others many times, and some at a particular season of the year, others whenever it happens, man always, while wild animals do not mate often, and the wild pig only once, the domestic pig often? Is it because of feeding, warmth, and exertion? For Aphrodite thrives on plenty. Again, the same animals bear young once in one place, more often in another: for example sheep in Magnesia and in Libya bear young twice. The cause is the long duration of gestation there; for an animal does not desire mating once it is satisfied, just as full animals do not desire food. And pregnant animals desire mating less, because their purging does not occur. Why is it that among men, those who have widely-spaced teeth are for the most part short-lived? Is it because this is a sign that the bone is dense, so that the brain, being weak, does not breathe well, and so, being moist by nature, quickly putrefies? For other things too putrefy when not moved and not allowed to give off vapor. That is also why man is the hairiest of animals on the head, and why the male is longer-lived than the female, because of the sutures. But one ought to examine the case in other animals as well. And why are those who have the line across the hand running all the way through longer-lived? Is it because jointless creatures are shortest-lived, as are moisture-dwelling creatures? And if jointless creatures are short-lived, clearly the jointed ones are the opposite. Such are those in which even the parts naturally without joints are most articulated; and the inner part of the hand is the least jointed part.
24| Why is man, alone or most of all among animals, subject to becoming distorted? Is it because he alone, or most of all, is affected while still an infant, which is when it happens to all creatures to become distorted? Why is man affected by smoke more than any other animal? Is it because he weeps most of all, and being affected by smoke goes together with weeping? Why does a horse take pleasure in and desire a horse, and man a man, and in general do kindred creatures desire their kindred and their likes? For it is surely not for the same reason that every animal is fine, and desire is desire of the fine. For then the fine ought to be more pleasant. But as things are, rather, not every beauty is pleasant -- the fine (text corrupt here) and the pleasant. Nor is pleasure, or the fine's being pleasant, the same for everyone; for example, eating or drinking is more pleasant for one, and sex for another. Now why each creature, when mating with its own kind, has intercourse most fully and most pleasantly is a different problem; but that this partner is also the finest is not true. Rather, we suppose that what is pleasant for intercourse is fine, because, desiring it, we take pleasure in looking at it. And yet the same holds for the other desires as well: for the thirsty see a drink as more pleasant to look at. So whatever is fine with a view to some particular need, the thing we desire most, this seems to be most pleasant, while what is fine in its own right is no longer so. Here is a sign of this: for men too seem to us to be fine, when we look at them with a view to intercourse. Is it, then, in such a way that we also take more pleasure in looking at them than at things meant for intercourse? Nothing at all prevents this, if we should happen not to be desiring them. In the same way a drink looks finer too: for if we should happen to be thirsty, we shall see it as more pleasant.
25| Why is it that in man the front parts of the body are hairier than the back, while in four-footed animals it is the back parts that are hairier? Is it because all two-footed animals have hairier front parts? For birds are disposed in the same way as men. Or is it because nature always tends to cover the weaker parts more, and each part is weak in some particular way? Now in all four-footed animals the back parts are weaker than the front because of their position: for they are more liable to be affected by cold and heat. But in man the front parts are the weaker, and have suffered the same treatment.
26| Why does man sneeze more than any other animal? Is it because he also gets catarrh most? The cause of this is that, the hot element being around the heart and naturally tending to move upward, in the other animals its natural motion is toward the shoulders, and from there, splitting off by reflection, part of it moves toward the neck and head, part toward the spine and loins, because all these lie on the same straight line, alongside the base of the body. As the body moves in this way, it distributes the fluids evenly into these parts as well; for fluids follow the heat. That is why four-footed animals do not get much catarrh, nor do they sneeze; for sneezing is either a rush of gathered breath, when fluids are evaporating from the body more than usual, or a rush of unconcocted fluids. That is why it occurs before catarrhs, which do not happen to the other animals, because in them the motion of the heat is leveled out to front and back alike. But since man's base stands upright, like plants, it turns out that the motion of the heat toward the head is greatest and most vigorous. And moving there, it rarefies and heats the passages around the head.
27| Being in this state, they become more receptive of fluids than the passages below the heart are. So whenever it happens that they become moister than they should be and are chilled, the heat coming from outside, having nourishment and being drawn together within, grows; and as it grows it moves toward the head and the passages in it. The fluids, following along into these passages, being thin and unconcocted, fill them up and produce catarrhs, and likewise sneezes. For at the onset of catarrhs the heat, being carried up ahead of the fluid and turning the passages into breath, produces sneezes both by the expulsion of the breath and by the prior upward carrying of the fluids, which are thin and sharp. That is why, along with the sneezes of a catarrh, watery discharge is also blown out through the nose. But once all these have set out, the adjoining fluids, being in the same affected state, settle upon them and block up the passages around the head and nose; for as they become bulkier and stretch the passages, they cause the pains around the head. A sign of this is that no breath is released either outward or through them. That is why people with catarrh neither sneeze nor smell. Those who sneeze without catarrh come about through the same causes, but starting from small and slight beginnings.
28| So the fluids, gathered together with the heat and turned into vapor by it because there is little of them, fall in along the nostrils. The violence of the motion produces the noise of the breath no less than its quantity does. For when the heat is carried straight up against the brain and strikes upon it, it is reflected toward the nostrils, because the passages there stretch outward from the brain. Since, then, the motion of the breath toward the nostrils that results from this reflection is contrary to nature, it turns out to be violent; that is why it produces noises. Among the other animals, birds are the ones most subject to catarrh, because they are most similar in shape to man; but they suffer it less than man does, because most of them hold their head down, since their feeding is from the ground. Why are sea animals larger and better-nourished than land animals? Is it because the sun, by consuming what surrounds the earth, takes away its nourishment? That is why enclosed places too are better for nourishment. Sea animals, then, are free from all this. Why is it that the other animals take dry food more often than moist, while man takes moist more often than dry? Is it because man is by nature the hottest of animals? He therefore needs the most cooling.
29| Why do eunuchs not go bald? Is it because they have much brain? This happens to them because they do not have intercourse with women; for semen proceeds from the brain, down through the spine. This is also, it seems, why castrated oxen have large horns once they are castrated. The same cause seems to explain why women and children are not bald. Why can some animals nourish themselves on their own immediately after birth, while others cannot? Is it those that are shorter-lived among the ones capable of memory? That is why all such also die sooner. Why is it that man produces a moister excretion than dry, while horses and donkeys produce a drier one? Is it because these animals use more dry food, while man uses moist food rather than dry? All excretion comes from food, and more excretion from more food. So some animals use more moist food, others more dry, because some animals are by nature dry, others moist. Those that are by nature dry desire the moist more, for they are more lacking in it, and those that are by nature moist desire the dry more; for they are more lacking in that.
30| Why are birds and men, and the animals that are courageous, harder in body? Is it because spirit goes with heat? For fear is a chilling. So whatever animals have hot blood are both courageous and spirited; and blood is nourishment. And whatever growing things are watered with heat all become harder. Why do the small four-footed animals give birth to monstrosities more than the large ones do, while man, and the large animals such as horses and donkeys, do so less? Is it because these small ones are prolific — dogs, pigs, goats, and sheep — much more than the large animals, whereas of the large ones some bear only a single offspring altogether, and most of the others generally do so too? Monstrosities occur when the seeds overlap one another and become mixed together, either at the emission of the semen or in the mixing that takes place in the womb of the female. That is why birds too produce them; for they lay twin eggs. Monstrosities arise from twins whose yolk is not divided by the membrane.
31| Why is the head of humans hairier than the rest of the body, and disproportionately so, while in the other animals it is the opposite? Is it because, among the others too, some expend the excess of their nourishment into teeth, some into horns, some into hair? Those that expend it into horns have a less hairy head, since it has been used up there; those that expend it into teeth have more hair than the horned animals do, for they have a mane, but less than animals of this other kind, such as birds. For these latter also have the human pattern: what in those other animals is distributed in many places on account of its quantity, this in man is expended entirely into the head; for he has nothing else into which to expend it, nor is there so much of it that it must go everywhere. Why does man alone among animals go gray? Is it because most animals shed their hair every year, such as the horse and the ox, while some do not shed it but are short-lived, such as the sheep and others — these have hair that, as it were, does not age, and so does not go gray either? Man, however, neither sheds his hair, and is long-lived, so that with time it goes gray. Why are those in whom the parts below the navel are larger than those toward the chest short-lived and weak? Is it because the belly is cold on account of its smallness, so that it is not good at concoction but tends to produce residue? Such people are sickly.
32| Why do some animals come to be not only from each other but also spontaneously, while others come only from each other, for example man and horse? Is it, if for no other reason, because in some the time of generation is short, so that the breeding season does not extend beyond it, and it is possible for generation to occur within the change of the seasons, while in others the generation takes much longer — for they take a year or ten months — so that it is necessary (text breaks off) to come to be, or to come to be from each other. Why are the teeth of Ethiopians white, and whiter than other people's, but their nails not likewise? Is it that the nails are as they are because their skin too is black, and blacker than that of other people, and the nails grow out of the skin? But why are the teeth white? Is it because whatever the sun draws the moisture out of, without staining it, turns white — as with wax too? So the skin is stained, but the teeth are not stained; rather the moisture evaporates out of them because of the heat. Why do some animals die at once or quickly when the head is removed, while others do not? Is this what happens to whatever is bloodless and needs little nourishment? For such animals do not need nourishment quickly, nor is heat poured into them together with the moisture, without which sanguineous animals cannot live. But for these other animals it is possible to live without it; for they can live much more without breathing. The cause has been stated elsewhere.
1| Book 11: Problems Concerning the Voice Why is it hearing, above the other senses, that people are most often impaired in from birth? Is it because hearing and voice would seem to come from the same origin? Speech, being a form of voice, seems to be destroyed most easily of all, and to be brought to completion with the greatest difficulty. A sign of this is that for a long time after birth we are speechless; for at first we do not talk at all, and then, late, we begin to lisp. Because speech is easily destroyed, and both it and hearing have the same origin (for hearing too is in a sense a kind of voice, or at least something that goes along with it), hearing is destroyed most easily among the senses, and not in its own right. One can take evidence of this from the other animals too, that the origin of speech is entirely easy to destroy: none of the other animals talks except man, and even man does so only late, as has been said. Why do all deaf people speak through the nose? Is it because they are close to being mute? The mute speak through the nose, for it is by this route that their breath escapes, because their mouth is shut. And it is shut because they make no use of the tongue for voice.
2| Why are all people who are hot by nature loud-voiced? Is it because there must also be much cold air in them? For hot breath draws air to itself, and the more heat there is, the more air it draws. And loud voice arises from moving much air, and high pitch from moving it quickly; low pitch arises from moving it slowly. Why do all deaf people speak through the nose? Is it because the deaf breathe more violently? For they are close to being mute. So the passage of the nostrils is forced apart by the breath; and such people speak through the nose. Why are sounds more audible at night? Is it because there is more stillness, owing to the absence of the hottest thing? For this reason things are also generally less disturbed. For it is the sun that causes motion.
3| Why do voices seem higher-pitched from far away? At any rate, those who imitate people who are very far off and shouting speak in a high pitch, resembling those who echo, and the sound of an echo seems higher-pitched. And the echo is from far off, for it is reflected back. So then, since in sound the quick is high-pitched and the slow is low-pitched, voices ought to appear lower in pitch from far away. For again, everything in motion moves more slowly the farther it is from its starting point, and in the end falls. Is it then because those who imitate imitate with a faint voice, and the voice from far off is thin? A thin voice cannot be low-pitched, nor can something spoken small and faint be low-pitched — it must be high-pitched. Or is it not only that the imitators imitate for this reason, but that the sounds themselves actually become higher-pitched? The cause is that it is the moving air that produces the sound; and just as at first the thing that set the air in motion makes the sound, so again the air itself must do this in turn, and there must be one part moving and another being moved. That is why sound is continuous — because a moving part always hands off to a moving part, until it wastes away, which in the case of bodies corresponds to falling, when the air can no longer push — in one case the missile, in the other the air.
4| For continuous voice arises from air being pushed by air, whereas a missile is carried as a body moved by air. In the latter case, then, it is always the same body that is carried, until it falls; in the former, it is always a different portion of air. And the first, smaller portion moves faster but only a little way. That is why voices are higher-pitched and thinner from far off — for what moves faster is higher-pitched, as has also been raised as a difficulty. It is the same cause by which children and the sick speak in a high pitch, while men and the healthy speak low. The reason the voice is not noticeably becoming lower or higher in pitch to those nearby, and in general does not behave like thrown weights, is that a thrown object is a single thing always carried as the same thing, whereas sound is air being pushed by air. That is why the one falls in a single spot, while the voice spreads everywhere — as if the thrown object, while being carried, were at the same time shattered without limit, and even backward. Why do newly plastered houses echo more? Is it because reflection occurs more, owing to smoothness? They are smoother because of being unbroken and continuous. But the plaster must be taken not entirely wet but already dry; for there is no reflection from mud. For this reason plastered surfaces also echo more. Perhaps the stillness of the air also contributes something; for air moving as a mass strikes back more forcefully against what meets it.
5| Why, if someone buries a jar and empty earthenware vessels and covers them, do the rooms echo more, and likewise if there is a well or a cistern in the house? Is it because, since an echo is a reflection, the air must be gathered together in a mass and have something to be reflected from, striking upon what is dense and smooth? For this is how an echo comes about best. Now the well and the cistern provide narrowness and concentration, while the jars and earthenware vessels provide the density of what surrounds the air, so that the effect results from both. Hollow things also echo more; that is why bronze echoes most of all other materials. And there is nothing strange in the fact that they are buried; for the voice travels downward no less than elsewhere — indeed in general it seems to travel everywhere and in a circle. Why does it echo more if one buries the vessels than if one does not? Is it because, being enclosed on all sides, they receive the air into themselves and hold it more? It also happens that the blow becomes more forceful. Why does cold water poured out of the same vessel make a higher-pitched sound? Is it because its motion is faster? For it is heavier, and the faster motion makes the sound higher-pitched. Hot water, on the other hand, is made lighter both by its rarity and by its tendency to rise. Something similar is seen in the fact that burning torches, too, produce a weaker blow.
6| Why is the voice rougher in those who have gone without sleep? Is it because the body is moister on account of indigestion, and not least around the upper region, which is why there is also heaviness in the head? And since there is moisture around the windpipe, the voice must also be rougher. For the roughness is due to the unevenness, and the deepness is due to the blockage; for the passage of the air is slower. Why does the voice break most quickly after food? Is it because the region, being struck, is heated, and being heated draws in the moisture? And this moisture is more abundant and readier because of the taking of food. Why do those who weep cry out shrilly, while those who laugh cry out deeply? Is it because the former move little breath, owing to weakness, while the latter move it violently, which makes the breath travel fast? And the fast is shrill; for a thing hurled from a body under tension travels fast too. But the laugher moves it in the opposite way, loosely; the weak, by contrast, produce a shrill sound, for they move little air, and that only near the surface. Further, those who laugh let out warm breath, while those who weep — just as grief is a chilling of the region around the chest — let out colder breath. Now the warm moves much air, so that it travels slowly, while the cold moves little air. This happens with pipes too; for those who play the pipe with warmer breath play it much more deeply.
7| Why do children and the young of other animals cry out more shrilly than full-grown ones, even though shrillness consists in violence? Is it because voice is a motion of air, and the faster motion is the shriller? And a small quantity of air is moved more easily and more quickly than a large one. It is moved either by being compressed or by being separated out under the action of heat. Since inhalation is an intake of cold air, the air within us would be compressed during it; but exhalation, in which heat sets the air in motion, would produce [the] voice — for we produce voice by exhaling, not by inhaling. Now since the young are hotter than the older and have narrower passages within themselves, they would have less air within them. And since what is moved is less, and what moves it — the heat — is greater in them, the motion of the air would come about faster on both accounts; and the faster motion would be shriller-voiced, for the reasons already stated. Why do those who weep cry out shrilly, while those who laugh cry out deeply? Is it because those who weep produce their voice by straining and drawing the mouth together? By this very tension the air within them is moved fast, and by traveling through the narrow mouth it travels faster still; so on both accounts the voice becomes shrill. Those who laugh, on the other hand, laugh with the tension relaxed and with the mouth gaping open. Sending out the air broadly and slowly in this way, they naturally speak in a deep voice.
8| Why do the unproductive — for instance children, women, and old men already advanced in years, and eunuchs — cry out shrilly, while men cry out deeply? Is it that, just as a line and other thin things have a single dimension while thick things have several, so too a thin voice would have a single dimension? And it is easier both to produce and to move one thing than several. Since the beings just mentioned have weak breath, they move with it only a little air. And the least air is that which has a single dimension, which will be thin for the reasons stated; and the voice arising from it is of the same character, and a thin voice is shrill. The unproductive, then, are shrill-voiced for these reasons; but men, being strong in breath, move much air, and a large quantity, being moved slowly, produces a deep voice. For it was thinness together with fast motion that produced a shrill voice, and neither of these occurs in the case of the man.
9| Why are our voices deeper in winter? Is it because the air is thicker then, both the air within us and the air outside? And since it is thicker, the motion becomes slower, so that the voice is deeper. Further, we are more inclined to sleep in winter than in summer, and we sleep for a longer time; and coming out of sleep we are deeper-voiced. In the season, then, in which we sleep more than we are awake — and this is winter — we would be deeper-voiced than in the season of the opposite condition. For since the time between waking is short, the state produced during sleep persists close up to the time of falling asleep again. Why do people speak in a deeper voice after drinking bouts, after vomiting, and in cold weather? Is it because of the blockage of the throat brought about by phlegm? For it draws a little flux down into it; and in some cases the vomiting or the drinking, in others the season and the fullness of the body, makes the throat narrower, so that the passage of the breath becomes slower. And the slow passage also produces a deep voice.
10| Why is the deeper voice heard better from nearby, but less well from far off? Is it because the deeper voice moves more air, but not so as to reach far? From far off, then, we hear it less, because it is moved over a smaller distance; from nearby we hear it more, because more air strikes our organ of perception. The shrill voice, by contrast, is heard far off, because it is thinner, and the thin has the capacity for extension in length. One might also say that the motion producing it is faster. And this would be the case if the breath moving the air were dense yet narrow. For a small quantity of air is more easily moved (since a small quantity is moved by a narrow stream), and density produces more strokes, and these produce the sound. This can be seen in instruments: the thinner strings are shriller, other things about them being equal. Why does the voice appear shriller to those standing farther away, when shrillness consists in traveling fast, while what travels farther moves more slowly? Is it because the shrillness of a voice consists not only in moving fast, but also in the sound becoming very thin? And to those standing farther away the voice that arrives is always thinner, because of the smallness of the quantity of air being moved. For the motion dies away, and as it dies away the number ends at the one, and the body ends at a single dimension, which in a body is thinness. And it is the same with voice.
11| Why do both those who have exercised and those who are weak cry out shrilly? Is it because the weak move little air, and a small quantity travels faster than a large one, while those who have exercised move the air strongly, and air moved strongly travels faster? And what is fast in travel is shrill in voice. Why is the voice ruined in those who shout after meals? And we may observe all who train the voice — actors, chorus members, and others of this kind — making their exercises early in the morning and while fasting. Is it that for the voice to be ruined is nothing other than for the region through which the breath passes to be damaged? This is also why those with sore throats have their voices ruined — not because the breath that produces the voice becomes worse, but because the windpipe has been roughened. And this region is naturally roughened most of all by intense heat. This is also why neither those with fever nor those who have just recovered from a severe fever can sing right away; for their throat has been roughened by the heat. And it is likely that the breath arising from food is both abundant and hot; and it is reasonable that such breath, passing through, ulcerates and roughens the windpipe. And when this happens, it is reasonable that the voice is ruined.
12| Why is it that, if voice is a shaped and moving mass of air, its shape is often dissolved, yet the echo — which occurs when such air strikes something solid — is not dissolved, but we hear it clearly? Is it because this is reflection, not refraction? In this way the whole persists, and two parts of like shape arise from it; for the reflection occurs at an equal angle. That is also why the sound of the echo comes out like the original. Why is it that among the other animals the young and immature call out more shrilly than the full-grown, but calves call more deeply than full-grown cattle? Is it because in each kind the immature resembles the female of that kind? Now among cattle the females call more deeply than the males, and calves are more like the females than the males; but in the other animals it is the opposite. Why is it that when the orchestras are strewn with chaff the choruses are heard less well? Is it because, striking against the roughness rather than a smooth floor, the voice becomes less unified, and so weaker? For it is not continuous. Just as light, too, shows up more on smooth surfaces, because it is not broken up by obstructions.
13| Why is it that salt, when thrown into fire, makes a noise? Is it because salt has some moisture in it, not much, which, turned to vapor by the heat and forced out violently, splits the salt apart? And everything that is split makes a noise. Why is it that some children, before reaching the age proper for speaking clearly, utter sounds and even say things clearly, and then go back to behaving as before, until the usual time arrives? Many people think these cases are prodigies. Indeed some are even said to have spoken right at birth. Is it because, as a rule, most things that come to be come to be according to nature, which is why this happens to only a few, and by nature the corresponding parts reach completion together? That is why a child hears and speaks at the same time, and understands by hearing, and talks, and speaks clearly, all together. Yet often the same parts do not keep pace with each other: some children understand before the part by which they speak is set free for use, and in others the reverse happens. Now the ones who understand first would not converse intelligently (for they converse only in what they have heard [and repeat]); but when the right time comes for both together, they render what is according to nature. But in those in whom the sense connected with hearing becomes precisely tuned in the soul earlier — the sense by which they first set the voice in motion and produce speech — it sometimes happens, once they already understand many things, that a certain capacity and release of that part occurs, especially after some sleep (the reason being that sleep makes the body more sluggish too, and, by resting the parts, [releases them]); and if not after sleep, then after some other such change.
14| We are capable of doing many such things, which need only brief occasions; and then the part is no longer in the same state, once it happens to be disposed and released in that way; when the thought that set it in motion is still on the surface of perception, it comes back by way of hearing, and the child speaks. Often, too, tunes and phrases come over us not from deliberate choice; but if we say something the first time by choice, later we say it or sing it without choosing to, and it cannot help but come out of the mouth. It is the same with children: when this happens to come upon them, that part then settles back into its natural state, until the time comes for it to grow strong and be set free for good. Why is it that some things make a noise and move suddenly, chests for instance, when nothing perceptible is moving them? And yet what moves them must be stronger than what is moved. The same account applies to decay and old age too; for everything that is called being destroyed by time is destroyed by something imperceptible. Or is this like the case of drops of water, and of stones lifted up by things growing beneath them? For it is not the last drop that lifts or moves the thing, but the continuous process. And in this case, though it is imperceptible, the motion happens to become perceptible. In the same way, what is bounded by perceptible stretches of time also moves, and is divided into imperceptible parts, but as a whole and continuous process it produced motion and decay. And what is continuous is not in the now, but in the time that is marked off by the now.
15| Why is it that people who are yawning hear less well? Is it because a great deal of the breath going out in the yawn passes also into the ears from inside, so that the motion it produces around the hearing is noticeable even to perception — most of all right after sleep? Now sound is air, or an affection of air. So when the sound from inside strikes back, the sound from outside enters against it, and by the motion and the sound from outside the inner motion is knocked out. Why is it that people stammer more as children than as men? Is it not just as children always have less control of their hands and feet, and those who are too small cannot walk — likewise the younger cannot control the tongue either? And if they are altogether small, they cannot even speak at all, but only cry out like the animals, because they lack control. And this would apply not only to stammering but to lisping and slurring too. Now lisping consists in not controlling some letter — and not just any letter — while slurring consists in dropping something, either a letter or a syllable, and stammering comes from not being able to join one syllable quickly to another. All of these come from a kind of incapacity; for the tongue does not serve the thought. Drunk people and old people suffer this same thing too, though in all of them it happens to a lesser degree.
16| Why does the voice tremble in people who are in anxious contests and in people who are afraid? Is it because the heart shakes as the heat goes out of it? And this happens in both cases; for it occurs both to people in anxious struggle and to people who are afraid. When it shakes, the striking of the air does not happen as a single blow but as several, like the striking of loosened harp-strings. Why is it that people in anxious contests speak in a deep voice, while people who are afraid speak in a high voice? Is it because in those who are afraid the region around the heart is chilled, as the heat rushes downward, so that they move only a little air? For strength lies in heat. But in the others the heat is carried upward, as it is in people who feel shame; for people in anxious contests feel a kind of shame too. In those who feel shame the heat is carried upward toward the face — the sign of this being that they turn redder. So it melts and thickens the air by which they speak; and such air is pushed along slowly; and what is slow is deep in voice.
17| Why is the night easier for hearing than the day? Is it, as Anaxagoras says, because by day the air, heated by the sun, hisses and makes a noise, while by night it is quiet, since the heat has departed, and a thing is more audible when nothing else is making noise? Or is it that a thing is more audible through what is emptier rather than through what is full? By day the air is dense, since it is filled by light and by the sun's rays, but by night it is more rarefied, because the fire and the rays, being bodies, have departed from it. Or is it that by day bodies draw the mind toward many things, and so it is not sharply focused for hearing? And this is also because we do all our activities by day rather than by night, and our attention is bound up with those activities. Perception cut off from thought is like an imperceptible exertion — as has been said, it is the intellect that sees and the intellect that hears. At night, since sight is idle and thought is more at rest, the passage of hearing, though it is open just as it is by day and equally receptive of sounds, reports them more fully to the thought, because thought is neither active on its own account nor disturbed by sight, as it is by day.
18| Why do those who cannot beget children — for instance children, women, old men already, and eunuchs — utter a high-pitched sound, while men speak more deeply? Is it because of the weakness of the part that moves the air? For what is weak moves only a little air, and a little air is carried quickly, and what is carried quickly is high-pitched. Or is it because the first passage, through which the voice is carried, is small in those who cannot beget, so that what pushes the air out of it is little, and being little it is carried quickly through the wide upper throat? But in those in their prime and grown to manhood this passage widens, just as happens also with the testicles, so that what is pushed is also greater in amount. Passing through more slowly, then, it becomes deep. Why can those who stammer not converse quietly? Is it because they are checked in speaking by something that obstructs them? Now when the strength is not equal, nor the motion similar, one must force one's way through when nothing obstructs the motion and also when something does obstruct it. The voice is a motion; and those who use their strength utter a louder sound. So, since it is necessary to force out by violence what obstructs, it is necessary that stammerers speak more loudly. Why do people become more prone to stammering when anxious, but less so when drunk? Is it because the condition is like a stroke affecting some internal part, which they are unable to move, since it is obstructed on account of a chilling? Wine, then, being hot by nature, dissolves the chilling more, while anxiety produces it; for anxiety is a kind of fear, and fear is a chilling.
19| Why is sound heard better going from outside into houses than going from inside outward? Is it because sound coming from inside is torn apart as it travels through the open expanse, so that each part is not enough to be heard, or is heard less? Whereas sound going from outside inward, traveling into a smaller space and into still air, arrives massed together, so that being greater it is heard better. Why are stammerers melancholic? Is it because to follow one's imagination quickly is exactly what being melancholic is, and stammerers are of this sort? For in them the impulse to speak outruns their capacity, since the soul follows what appears to it too quickly. And lispers are the same way; for these people's parts are shorter. Here is a sign: people become like this when drunk, at which time they follow what appears to them most of all, and not their intellect. Why do leeks contribute to a good voice, since they also help partridges? Is it because garlic too, when boiled, smooths the throat, while leeks have a certain stickiness, and this cleanses the throat? Why do other creatures utter a higher-pitched sound the more vehement they are, while a man does so when he is weak? Is it because he moves less air, and this passes through quickly, and what is quick makes the sound high-pitched?
20| Why do people hear better when holding their breath than when breathing out? This is why in hunting men warn one another not to pant. Is it because the sense-organ moves upward as the veins are raised? For in sleepers it moves downward; that is also why sleepers breathe out more than they breathe in, and are hard of hearing. Or is it also that the blood moves upward when a person has breathed out, so that the lower parts are emptied? And people hear by means of the empty space. Or is it because breathing itself is a kind of noise, and this noise, occurring during exhalation, prevents hearing? Why do small grains of salt crackle and leap sooner, but large grains crackle and leap more loudly? Is it because the small ones split quickly — for there is not much for the fire to pass through — owing to their smallness, while the large ones split slowly, since splitting a larger thing is a greater task than splitting a small one? And the small grain makes a small sound, since the blow is small, while the larger one makes a loud sound, since the blow is great; and sound is a blow. And what is stronger leaps more, if it is struck, since it yields less. Why, if one throws the same amount of salt into a great fire, does it crackle less, or not crackle at all? Is it because it is burnt up before it can split? For it burns because its moisture is used up, but it crackles because it splits.
21| Why do those who yawn hear less well? Is it because they trap breath inside, and the trapped breath collects around the ears? Here is a sign: a noise occurs in the ears when we yawn. The trapped breath prevents hearing. Further, a kind of sound is also produced by people yawning, and this too impedes hearing. And the passages of hearing are necessarily compressed as the mouth is stretched wide apart. Since the voice is a kind of flow and has a nature that carries it upward, why is it heard better when it goes from above downward than from below upward? Is it because the voice is a kind of air mixed with moisture? Weighed down, then, by the moisture, it is carried downward and not upward; for the downward motion belongs to moisture by nature. That is why it is heard better by those below. Or does this happen only in the case of an animal's voice — since this is mixed with moisture — while what actually occurs holds for other sounds too? Just as with sight: if it strikes from above downward, it makes its reflection upward, while striking from below upward it is reflected downward — in the same way voice, which has a nature that carries it upward, when it strikes against the air facing it, cannot force its way through, since that air is greater in amount and heavier, but the air that has been set in motion, being reflected, is carried in the opposite direction, downward; that is why, pouring down, it is heard better below. What happens with an echo is of the same kind: it is a reflection of the voice in the opposite direction.
22| Why does the voice break more in the drunk than in the sober? Is it because they fill up quickly and so break their voice? Here is a sign of this: neither choruses nor actors rehearse right after a meal, but while fasting. In drunkenness, being fuller, they reasonably break their voices more. Why is it that higher-pitched sounds are heard from farther away? Is it because the high-pitched in a sound is quick, and things carried more by force move more quickly, while things carried more vehemently travel farther? Why do we hear better when we hold our breath? Is it because breathing itself supplies a certain noise? Reasonably, then, we hear better at that time, when the noise is less — and the noise is less when we hold our breath. Why does light not pass through dense bodies, although it is finer, travels farther, and moves faster, while sound does pass through? Is it because light travels in a straight line, so that if anything blocks the straight path it is shut out entirely, whereas sound travels and does not go straight, because it is breath? That is why we hear a sound coming from every direction, and not only sounds that lie in a straight line to our ears.
23| Why do people who laugh utter a deep sound, while people who weep utter a high one? Is it because a high-pitched voice comes from taut parts, and what is high-pitched is weak? Both of these belong more to those who weep; for those who weep are both more taut and weaker. If the voice is a kind of shaped air, and as it travels its shape is often dissolved, why is an echo — which occurs when this strikes against something solid — not dissolved, but heard by us clearly? Is it because it is a reflection, not a breaking-up? For this is a whole affecting a whole. Further, the affection comes from something similar; for it is reflected from the air in the hollow, not from the hollow itself. Why, when one person and when many people utter a sound together, is the resulting sound neither equal, nor does it carry farther in proportion to their number? Is it because each person pushes forward the air about himself, but not the same air as the others, except to a small extent? What happens is like what would happen if many people were throwing, yet each with a different stone, or most of them were. For in that case no missile will travel far, or not in proportion; and it is the same here, since the sound of that magnitude does not belong to one person but to many. So from nearby the voice appears great in proportion — for more missiles too will strike the same target — but from far away it no longer does.
24| Why do people in distress speak in a lower pitch, while those who are afraid speak in a higher pitch? And yet shame too is a kind of fear. Or does the affection differ greatly? For those who feel shame blush (distress is a kind of shame), while those who are afraid grow pale. It is clear, then, that in the fearful the heat fails from above, so that the breath, being weak, moves only a little air, and what is little moves quickly, and what is quick in the voice is high-pitched; but in those who feel shame the heat travels upward around the chest. A sign of this is that they become quite red. Now great power moves much air, and what is much moves slowly, and what is slow in the voice is low-pitched. Why do people become stammerers? Is the cause a chilling of the place where they speak, as it were a kind of paralysis of that part? That is also why, when warmed by wine and by speaking continuously, they string their speech together more easily. Why does man alone among the other animals become a stammerer? Is it because he alone shares in speech, while the others share only in voice? Stammerers do utter voice, but they cannot string speech together. Why do people speak in a higher pitch in winter, even when sober, but in a lower pitch in summer, even when drunk? Is it because the quicker voice is the higher-pitched one, and the voice from a taut source is quicker? And the bodies of the sober are more compact in winter than the bodies of the drunk in summer. For heat and warmth loosen the bodies.
25| Why is the voice the last of the vocal faculties to reach completion in human beings? Is it because it has the most differentiations and forms? For the other animals converse in no articulate sound, or in few. And what is most varied and has the most differentiations must necessarily be completed over the longest time. Why does sight not pass through solid bodies, while voice does pass through? Is it because sight has a single path of travel, the straight line (a sign of this is the sun's rays, and that we see only from what is directly opposite), while voice has many paths? For we hear from every direction. So when sight is prevented from issuing forth in a straight line, because the pores are not aligned with one another, it is unable to see through. But air, and voice, since it travels everywhere, passes through in every direction and is heard. In liquids, sight sees through, but voices are not heard, or scarcely, though the liquid is finer than earth — because its pores are small and close together and aligned with one another, so that sight is not prevented from traveling in a straight line. That is also why one sees through glass, since it is dense, but not through a fennel-stalk, since it is porous. Further, the pores of the one are aligned, those of the other are staggered; and it is no use for the pores to be large if they are not in a straight line. But voice is not heard through water, because the empty spaces in water are fewer than in air, so that it cannot receive nor let the voice pass through, except scarcely [or accompanied by voice].
26| For voice is a kind of air. For not everything that is more porous is more penetrable, unless its pores also fit what is passing through; so too a thing is not more able to draw together into itself, unless its pores are receptive of the bodies. And yet what is porous is soft and able to draw together into itself. But some things are prevented by the smallness of their pores, for example glass; for its parts are not drawn together, though it is more porous than the fennel-stalk, for the reason stated. And water is the same, and anything else of that kind; so this too is clear, that when the porous and the soft are the same, or close in nature, it is not the more porous that is more drawn together into itself; for the cause is the same in all cases. Why does the voice become smaller when certain sounds are removed, yet remain similar in character? Is it because that element was mixed in with them throughout? For what is mixed is not present in one part and absent in another, but everywhere. So when it is removed equally from every part, the whole comes together in like manner, so that the result must be both smaller and similar. Why do people become stammerers? Is it through heat that they are too impetuous, so that they stumble and check themselves, as those who are angry do? For these too become full of gasping breath. A great quantity of breath results. Or is it because of the boiling of the heat that they pant, because it is abundant and does not manage to get out in time for the moment of breathing? Or is it rather the opposite — a chilling, not a heating, of the place where they speak, as it were a paralysis of that part? That is also why, when warmed by wine and by speaking continuously, they string their speech together more easily.
27| Why are voices lower in winter? Is it because the air is thicker, and when it is thicker the motion is slower, so that the voice is lower? Or is it because air moves more slowly through narrow passages, and the region around the throat is constricted by both the cold and the phlegm that flows into it? Why do children and women and eunuchs and old men speak in a high pitch? Is it because the quicker motion is the higher-pitched one? Now the same amount of air is harder to move when there is more of it, so that people in their prime draw in more air along with the breath; and this, moving more slowly, produces a lower-pitched voice. But in children and eunuchs, because they have less air, the opposite happens. And the elderly tremble because they are unable to control it — just as with the weak and with children, when they take hold of a long piece of wood by one end, the other end shakes because they cannot control it. (That is also why the elderly tremble — because they can no longer control it.) The same cause must be supposed to account for the trembling of the voice in those who are in distress, afraid, or shivering with cold. For when a person has this kind of voice, and most of such affections have settled inside, what remains, being little, cannot control the voice; hence it shakes and trembles. That is also why skilled speakers who are aware that they are in distress speak quietly at first, until they settle down; for when the voice is small it is easier to control.
1| Book 12. Problems Concerning Fragrant Things Why do people perceive fragrances less when they are close to them? Is it because the emanation, when mixed with a larger volume of air, is less concentrated and so more pleasant, as with the myrrh doctors use? Or might it rather be the opposite, so that fire takes away the smell because it burns it? For the smell belongs to things being burned as incense. That is also why there is no smell right at the coals, while farther off it appears purer and very fine. Why are smells less fragrant close up than farther away, in both incense and flowers? Is it because particles of earth travel along with the smell, and these are carried down first because of their weight, so that the smell becomes pure farther away? Or is it that, neither close to the source is the flow at its greatest, nor too far away — for near the source it is not yet abundant, while far away it is dispersed?
2| For it is said that trees become fragrant wherever a rainbow has struck down upon them. Is this true, then, or false? And if true, what would be the cause of what happens? That it does not happen to all trees, nor always, is clear; for often a rainbow has occurred, yet the trees show no sign of it. And when this does occur, it does not occur in every kind of material, since it does happen on occasion — that is why it is even said. The cause must be assigned as incidental to the rainbow, especially if the rainbow is not a nature at all, but an affection of sight, bent back. It occurs, as was said, not when the material is in just any condition; for it happens neither in green trees nor in dry ones, but shepherds say that in burnt material, after the rains that come with a rainbow, the fragrance becomes noticeable — most of all where there is camel's thorn and buckthorn, and whatever plants have fragrant flowers. The cause of the fragrance is the same as in the case of the earth; for when it is thoroughly heated and scorched, whatever grows out of it smells sweet at first. For things that have been burned in some way, when they have only a little moisture, become fragrant.
3| For heat concocts this moisture. That is why, over the whole earth, the regions toward the sun smell sweeter than those toward the north. And of these, the regions toward the east smell sweeter than those toward the south, because the area around Syria and Arabia is more earthy, while Libya is sandy and lacking in moisture. For the moisture must be neither abundant—since abundant moisture is unconcocted—nor entirely absent, since then no vapor is produced. This is what happens also with newly kindled wood, and with any kind of matter such as to have a fragrance in itself. It is shown in the case of flowers, for they release their scent in this way. And it seems to happen wherever the rainbow strikes, because nothing can come about without water: for the matter, once wetted and concocted by the heat within it, releases the vapor that forms in it. Nor should the water be abundant, for too much water washes it away entirely and quenches the heat that is present there from the burning; and the rains after a rainbow are not heavy, but moderate, so to speak. And even if many rainbows occur, the water is not abundant—rather it comes often, but little each time. This is why, reasonably enough, since this happens and people see no other difference except the rainbow, they attributed the cause of the fragrance to it.
4| Why do flowers and things burned as incense smell more pleasant from a distance, but up close smell more grassy in some cases and more smoky in others? Is it because scent is a kind of heat, and fragrant things are hot, and heat is light, so that for this reason, as they pass through more distant air, the scent becomes less mixed with the accompanying scents from the leaves and from the smoke, which is a watery vapor; whereas when things are close by, what is mixed in with them smells along with whatever they are in? Why do all things smell more when they are in motion? Is it because, in motion, they fill more air than when at rest? So the scent is transmitted to our perception more quickly this way. Why do we smell things less in winter, and least of all during frosts? Is it because the air is less mobile in the cold? So the motion coming from the body that has the scent does not arrive in the same way, because of the difficulty of movement of both the emanation and the air in which it travels. Why do aromatic spices smell more pungent when burned as incense on ashes than on fire, and why do they hold their own scent longer and more strongly when burned on ashes? Is it because the scent on ashes is less concocted, and for that reason also more abundant? Fire, by quickly concocting their power, alters the scent; for concoction is an alteration of what is being concocted.
5| Why do roses whose calyx is rough smell more pleasant than those whose calyx is smooth? Is it because things smell more pleasant the more fully they have attained their own nature? The rose is by nature thorny. So the one that has more of what accords with its nature smells more pleasant. Why are the scents of both incense and flowers less fragrant up close? Is it because up close the earthy element is carried along with them, so that, being mixed in, it weakens the power of the scent, whereas at a distance the scent alone travels onward? This is also why flowers, when rubbed, lose their scent. Are scents smoke, or air, or vapor? For there is a difference, in that the one comes about by fire, while the other comes about even without it. And does something travel from our perception toward those objects, or from those objects toward our perception, always setting the neighboring air in motion? And if it flows off from the objects, they ought to diminish; and yet we see that the most fragrant things last the longest. Why do aromatic spices smell more pungent when burned as incense on ashes than on fire? Is it because the scent on ashes is less concocted, and for that reason also more abundant? A great deal of the earthy element rises up along with it, then, and becomes smoke; whereas the fire burns away their earthy element beforehand, so that the scent arrives purer and unmixed, without the smoke. This is also why flowers, when rubbed, are less fragrant: for the rubbing stirs up the earthy element too, and the slow heat does not destroy it.
1| Why are fragrant seeds and plants diuretic? Is it because they are hot and fine, and things of this kind are diuretic? For the heat present in them quickly makes things fine, and scent is not corporeal—since even things that are not fragrant, such as garlic, are diuretic because of their heat, though more given to dissolving. Fragrant seeds are hot, because scent in general comes about through heat. But foul-smelling things are unconcocted; and to be diuretic a thing must be not only hot but also easily concocted, so that as it passes down together with the fluids it makes them fine. Why do mixed wines lose their scent faster than unmixed ones? Is it because the mixed wine is weaker than the unmixed? And the weaker is displaced by everything stronger than itself. Moreover, the mixed wine is more receptive than the unmixed. And it is easier for any quality whatsoever to come to belong to a thing, and for it to take on something it did not have before. So the unmixed wine is scented, while the mixed wine is scentless. Book 13. Problems Concerning Foul-Smelling Things Why does urine become more foul-smelling the longer it stays in the body, while excrement becomes less so? Is it because excrement dries out more the longer it stays (and the dry is less prone to putrefy), whereas urine thickens, and when fresh is more similar to the drink it originally was?
2| Why do foul-smelling things not seem to smell to those who have eaten them? Is it because, since the sense of smell is connected to the mouth through the palate, the perception quickly becomes full, and one no longer perceives the internal smell in the same way (for everyone perceives it at first, but once they have taken it in, no longer, as though it had grown into them), and the external smell, being similar, is masked by the internal one? Why are flowers more foul-smelling when rubbed? Is it because the earthy element in the flower becomes mixed in with the scent?
3| Why is it that none of the animals is fragrant except the leopard (and this one even to the wild beasts themselves—for they say the beasts enjoy its scent), while as they decay animals become foul-smelling, whereas many plants, both as they decay and even more as they wither, become more fragrant? Is it because the cause of foul smell is a kind of unconcocted residue? This is also why sweat in some people and at some times is of this sort, especially in those in whom it does not always arise from illnesses. And the flatulence and belching of those who have not concocted their food are foul-smelling. The same cause applies also to what is in the flesh, and to its analogue—I mean by analogue whatever is present in other animals in place of flesh. For there too, in some animals, there is an unconcocted residue; this, then, is the cause of foul smell in living animals, and of putrefaction as they decay. This is also why fat, bones, and hair are not foul-smelling, because the one is concocted, and the others do not have moisture. Plants, on the other hand, have no residue. Or rather, they too have something of the sort, but because plants are by nature dry and hot, is it that their moisture is more easily concocted and not muddy? This is shown also by the fact that the parts of the earth that are in hot regions are fragrant—Syria and Arabia—and the fragrant things from there, because they are dry and hot; and things of this kind do not putrefy. Animals are not of this kind and hot in the same way, so that their residues are unconcocted and foul-smelling, and likewise their exhalations; and when they decay their moisture putrefies, whereas plants' does not, for they do not have it.
4| Why are foul-smelling things more foul-smelling when hot than when cooled? Is it because scent is a kind of vapor and emanation? Vapor comes about through heat, and so does emanation, for it is a kind of motion, and heat is what produces motion; cold, on the contrary, is static and contractive, and tends downward, while heat, and all scents, tend upward, because they exist in air and because their organ of perception is above, not below—for scent, by reaching the brain, produces perception.
5| Why is it that if someone eats garlic, his urine smells, but though other things have a strong smell, eating them does not make the urine smell? Is it, as some of the followers of Heraclitus say, that just as there is exhalation in the universe as a whole, so there is exhalation in the body too, which then cools again and condenses — there as moisture, here as urine — and the exhalation from the food, mixing with the exhalation from which the urine arose, produces the smell? For the smell occurs when the food changes. Or ought all the other things that have strong smells to do the same, whereas in fact they do not? Further, things that recombine out of vapor do not return to their original state — wine, for example, comes from wine, but not water from water-vapor in the same way — so that this account too is false. Rather, the truth is that only what is inflating to the lower belly among things with a strong smell is at the same time diuretic, while other things act upward, such as cabbage, and produce wind. Or perhaps such things are not diuretic at all. Garlic has these three properties together: it is diuretic, it produces wind, and this happens below. The region around the genitals and the bladder shares in the effects of such things because of its proximity, and because it is full of wind — the tension of the genitals shows this. It is clear, then, that the residue from garlic, more than from anything else of this kind, reaches the bladder together with the wind, and this, mixing in, produces the smell of the urine.
6| Why do the mouths of those who have eaten nothing, but have fasted, smell more (this is called the smell of fasting), while the mouths of those who have eaten do not, though one would expect the opposite? Is it that when the belly is emptied, the air within it becomes hotter through lack of motion and putrefies the breath and the phlegmatic residues? A sign that it becomes hotter is that fasting also produces thirst more. In those who have eaten, the smell stops because it is weaker than the smell of the food; for the heat of the food overpowers the other heat, so that nothing untoward happens. Why is the armpit the most foul-smelling of places? Is it because it is the least ventilated? Foulness of smell occurs most in such places because putrefaction arises from the stillness of the fatty matter there — or because it is unmoved and unexercised. Why do people who smell of rank sweat become more foul-smelling when they anoint themselves with perfume? Is it because this happens in many cases — for example, when sour and sweet are mixed, the whole becomes sweeter? Also, everyone becomes more foul-smelling once they sweat, and perfume is heating; so it induces sweating. Why is the smell of the breath more foul and heavier in hunchbacked and stooped people? Is it because the region around the lung is closed in and drawn back out of its straight alignment, so that it is not well-ventilated, but the moisture and the breath putrefy more, being shut in inside?
1| Why do most perfumes become foul-smelling when sweated out along with the body's sweat, while some become more pleasant, or at least no worse? Is it that those which change through motion or friction become worse, while those that do not, do the opposite? There are indeed such cases, just as among flowers, from which sweet scents are made: some, when rubbed or heated or dried, become poor, such as gillyflowers, while others remain the same, such as roses. So too among perfumes, those made from such flowers change, while others do not — hence rose-perfume changes least of all. And those perfumes appear more foul-smelling whose corresponding sweats are foul-smelling, both for this reason and because of mixing with the opposite: just as honey mixed with salt is not sweeter but less sweet. Why does everything smell more when in motion? Is it because motion fills the air with the smell? The smell is then transmitted more quickly to the sense of smell. BOOK 14. PROBLEMS CONCERNING TEMPERAMENTS Why are those who live in extremes, whether of cold or of heat, bestial in their characters and appearances? Is it for the same reason in both cases? For the best mixture is also beneficial to the intellect, while extremes derange it, and just as they distort the body, so too they distort the mixture of the intellect.
2| Why does grain in the Pontus, left in the cold, remain uncorrupted for many years? Is it because the foreign moisture is drawn off together with the heat, as happens in grapes? For in some cases this happens through cold, in others together with heat. Why do burning fevers occur more in the coldest season? Is it because the cold drives the heat back inward, in the opposite way to what happens in summer, when the inner parts become colder? Burning fever is a fever in which, while the outer parts are chilled, the inner parts exceed in heat. Why are the Ethiopians and the Egyptians bandy-legged? Is it because, just as wood is warped by drying out under heat, so too are the bodies of living creatures? Their hair shows this too: they have more curly hair, and curliness is a kind of bandy-ness in hair. Why do matings produce more females in southerly regions? Is it that the more abundant moisture thickens more slowly? In southerly regions, because of the moistness of the climate, the seed becomes moister. Why in marshy regions do wounds on the head heal quickly, while those on the shins heal only with difficulty? Is it because the moisture there is heavy, being earthy, and heavy things settle downward? So the upper parts digest well because the moisture has withdrawn downward, while the lower parts are full of much residue that putrefies easily.
3| Why do those who live in well-ventilated places age slowly, while those in hollow and marshy places age quickly? Is it that old age is a kind of putrefaction, and what is still putrefies, while what is in motion either does not putrefy at all or is less affected by it — as with water? In high places, then, because of the good ventilation, the air is in motion, but in hollow places it stays still. Further, in the former places the air is always pure and constantly renewed because of the motion, while in marshy places it stays the same.
4| Why are those who live in hot places cowardly, while those who live in cold places are courageous? Is it because nature works oppositely to place and season, since things kept in a like condition are necessarily burned up quickly? Those who are courageous are those hot by nature, and those who are cowardly are those chilled. And it happens that those living in hot places are chilled, while those living in cold places are heated in their nature. Both are large in body: those in cold places because of the innate heat within them, those in hot places because of the heat of the place — for in hot places creatures grow through the action of heat as well. But cold is condensing. Since, then, the one group has a vigorous principle of growth within themselves, and the other is not hindered by external cold, it is reasonable that both admit growth to a great extent. Those around us are less so, both because they have a lesser principle within themselves, and because those in cold places are condensed together. Why are those who live in hot places longer-lived? Is it because they have a drier nature, and the drier is less prone to putrefaction and longer-lasting, death being a kind of putrefaction? Or is it because death is a chilling of the internal heat, and everything is chilled by what surrounds it when that is colder? The surrounding air in warm places is hot, but in cold places cold, so that it destroys the heat within more quickly and more thoroughly there.
5| Why are those who live in hot places longer-lived? Is it because they preserve heat and moisture more? For death is the destruction of these. Why do we become sleepier in marshy places? Is it because we are more chilled in them, and chilling, being a kind of stillness, prepares the way for sleep, and sleep comes about through stillness? Why are those who live on ships, spending their lives on water, better-colored than those who live in marshes? Is the season and the good ventilation the cause? Water makes people sallow when it putrefies, which it suffers through lack of motion; hence people in marshes are somewhat sallow. Why do violent stifling heats occur, and more of them, in wintry regions than in warm ones? Is it on account of the moistness of the air? For from the same degree of heat water becomes hotter than air does, so that the air, too, is moister than the hot itself. Or is the air in such places not actually drier at all, but only appears so by contrast, just as the sun seems brighter coming out of a cloud, by contrast with having just been touched by shadow.
6| Why are those who live toward the south more dark-eyed? Is it that eyes are gray on account of an excess of the internal heat, and dark on account of its absence, just as Empedocles also says? Just as, then, among those living toward the north the eyes are gray because the internal heat is prevented from escaping on account of the external cold, so among those living toward the south the moisture does not escape on account of the surrounding heat, while the heat, with nothing blocking it, escapes, and the moisture left behind makes the eye dark; for through the absence of light what is left behind is murky. Or is the color in the eye assimilated to the colors of the rest of the body? Hence, since those toward the north are pale, their eyes are gray (for this color is close to pale), and since those toward the south are dark, their eyes too are dark. Why are those in hot places wiser than those in cold places? Is it for the same reason that old men are wiser than the young? For those in cold places, on account of the coldness of the place, as their nature turns back inward, become much hotter internally, so that they resemble people who are very drunk, and they are not given to inquiry, but are courageous and full of hope; while those in warm places are sober, because they are chilled. Everywhere, those who are fearful set about inquiring more than those who are confident, so that they also discover more. Or is it because this race is of longer standing, while the others perished in the flood, so that those living in cold places are like the young compared to old men, relative to those living in hot places?
1| Why are those in hot places cowardly, while those in cold places are courageous? Is it because nature stands in the opposite condition to the places and the seasons, on account of the fact that things in a like condition would quickly wear away? Now those who are hot by nature are courageous, and those who are chilled are cowardly. It happens, then, that those who live in hot places become chilled (for since their body is porous, the heat escapes outward from them), while those in cold places have had their nature heated internally, because the flesh is condensed by the external cold, and as it condenses, the heat is compressed inward. Book 15. Problems Belonging to the Study of Mathematics. Why is it that, alone among the lines that bisect rectilinear figures, the line drawn from angle to angle is called a diameter? Is it because a diameter divides in half, as its name suggests, without destroying what is measured? Now the line that divides along the composite parts (I mean the angles) will be a diameter; for it does not destroy but divides, just as those who divide up a set of military equipment do. But the line that cuts through composite parts along the sides destroys; for the rectilinear figure is composed with respect to its angles. Why is it called a diameter? Is it because it alone divides in half, as if one were to say it is a 'half-measure'? And because it alone among the bisecting lines is called by this name? Or is it because it alone divides at the joints where the figure is bent, while the other lines divide along the sides?
2| Why do all human beings, both non-Greeks and Greeks, count up to ten, and not to some other number — say two, three, four, five — and then start doubling back, one-five, two-five, as in eleven, twelve? Nor again do they stop at some point further out than ten and then double back from there? For each of the numbers is indeed the one before it plus one or two, and so on for every further one, and yet they still count by setting the boundary at ten. For they plainly do not do this by chance, and they do it always; and what holds always and for everyone is not by chance but natural. Is it because ten is a perfect number? For it has all the species of number: even, odd, square, cube, length, plane, prime, composite. Or is it because the decad is a starting point? For one and two and three and four make ten. Or is it because the moving bodies are nine? Or is it because within ten ratios four cubic numbers are produced, out of which numbers the Pythagoreans say the universe is composed? Or is it because all human beings originally had ten fingers? Having these, as it were, as counters belonging to their own number, they count other things too by this quantity. Only one tribe among the Thracians counts to four, because, like children, they are unable to remember for long, and they have no use for anything in great quantity.
3| that the earth is the center; for the shapes that appear to us are always alike. This appears to be so if one does not observe from the midpoint, but the earth would sometimes seem triangular to us, sometimes trapezoidal, sometimes of other shapes, as our midpoint, if it were possible for us to observe from those other positions. For since the earth is spherical, its center and the center of the universe will be the same. But we live on top of the earth, so that we do not observe from that center itself, but such appearances present themselves to us at a distance of half the diameter away. What, then, prevents the illusion of the shapes from persisting even as the distance becomes greater?
4| Why, when the sun moves at a constant rate in equal times, is the increase and decrease of shadows not the same? Is it because the angles formed by the rays toward the object seen, under equal arcs, come out equal? And if these, when extended, also produce rays within the triangle contained by the first ray, the object seen, and the shadow — and if the angles are equal, the line to the object seen that is farther off must necessarily be greater than the one nearer; for this we know. Let the arc, then, be divided into equal parts, however many, and let Θ be the point seen. When, then, the sun at Α, having taken in the arc up to Θ, produces some shadow at ΘΑ, the ray must necessarily fall on Α. But when it comes to Β, the ray from Β will fall within ΘΑ, and likewise again when it passes on to Γ; otherwise a straight line would meet a straight line at two points. Since, then, ΑΒ is equal to ΒΓ, the angles subtended by it at Δ will also be equal, for they are at the center. And if equal to the one at Δ, then also in the triangle —
5| — for these are vertical to those. So that, since the angle is divided into equal parts, ΔΕ will be greater than ΕΖ by ΔΘ. And likewise for the other lines produced by the rays from the arc. At the same time it is also clear that the shadow must necessarily be shortest at noon, and that the increments are then least. For the sun stands most directly over us at noon, and stifling heat occurs both through the cause stated and because there is no wind; for when it separates out the air near the earth, wind arises. If, then, this happens at the same time in both hemispheres, it stands to reason that midnight and noon should be windless.
6| Why does the sun, when it comes through four-sided openings, not produce rectilinear shapes but circles, as, for instance, through wickerwork? Is it because the outward course of our sight is a cone, and the base of a cone is a circle, so that whatever the sun's rays strike appears circular in shape? For it is necessary that the figure made by the sun should also be bounded by straight lines, if indeed the rays are straight. For whenever straight lines fall against a straight line, they produce a rectilinear figure. And this is what happens with the rays: they fall against a straight line, namely the edge of the opening through which they shine, and this edge is straight, so that the outward course of the rays will be against a straight line. But because the rays that split off from our sight toward the extremities of the straight lines are weak, what is at the corners is not seen; rather, as much of the straight line as falls within the cone produces the figure, and the rest does not, but the rays of sight escape our notice as they fall on it. For we fail to see many of the things our sight reaches, such as things in darkness. Similar to this is also the fact that a square appears many-sided when close, but if one stands farther off, it appears a circle. For since the outward course of sight is a cone, when the figure withdraws into the distance, the rays of sight that split off toward the corners, being weak and few, fail to see, as the distance becomes greater, while those that fall on the middle, being massed together and strong, persist.
7| So then, when the figure is near, sight is able to see even what is at the corners, but when it becomes farther off, it is unable to. That is also why a curved line, when drawn out to a distance, appears straight. And the moon too seems to be bounded by straight lines on the eighth day, if the rays of sight fall not along its breadth but along the line that bounds it. For when the arc is near, sight can distinguish how much nearer one part of the arc is than another part; but when it becomes distant, sight no longer perceives this, but the arc seems to it to be equally distant throughout. That is why it also appears straight.
8| Why, though the moon is spherical, do we see a straight line when it is half-moon? Is it because our sight and the circular arc that the sun produces by striking the moon come to lie in the same plane? And when this happens, the sun appeared as a straight line. For since whatever casts its rays upon a sphere must see a circle, and the moon is spherical, and the sun looks upon it, the boundary produced by the sun would be a circle. So then, whenever this circle comes to be directly opposite us, it appears whole and seems to be a full moon; but when it shifts owing to the sun's passage, its arc comes to lie along our line of sight, so that it appears straight. And the other part is curved, because a hemisphere lies directly opposite our sight. Such a thing appeared as a half-circle. For the moon is always directly opposite our sight. But when the sun falls upon it we do not see that part, and it is filled in after the eighth day from the middle outward, because the sun, passing along further, makes the circle appear to us more slanted. And the circle, positioned thus relative to our sight, comes to resemble the section of a cone. It appears crescent-shaped, whenever the sun shifts position.
9| For whenever the sun's circle comes to be at the extreme points at which the moon appears half, the arc of the circle appears as an arc. For it is no longer in a straight line with our sight, but shifts aside. And when this happens, and the circle passes through the same points as before, it must appear crescent-shaped. For a certain part of the circle is straight relative to our sight, since the earlier part is directly opposite, so that a portion of the bright part is cut off; and then likewise the extremities remain in the same place, so that it must appear crescent-shaped. And it appears more or less so because of the sun's motion. For as the sun shifts, the circle it looks upon also turns, while remaining at the same points; for it admits of being tilted through infinitely many inclinations, since it is possible to draw infinitely many great circles through the same points. Why do the sun and moon, though spherical, appear flat? Is it because, of all things whose distance is not discernible, when they are farther off or nearer they appear equally distant? So that also in the case of a single thing having parts, if it does not differ in color, the parts must appear equally distant, and what is equally distant appears level and flat—
10| Why does the sun make shadows long when rising and setting, shorter as it climbs, and shortest at midday? Is it because, on rising, it will at first make the shadow parallel to the ground, and, since the ratio is unequal, project it as though infinite, and then long; and it is always shorter because the straight line from the higher point always falls inside the previous one? Let A B be the gnomon, and let the sun be at C, then at D; the ray from C, along which C Z lies, will fall outside C E. And the shadow B E is cast when the sun is higher, and B Z when it is lowest; and the shadow is shortest when the sun is highest, namely directly overhead. Why are the shadows cast by the moon greater than those cast by the sun, when they are on the same perpendicular? Is it because the sun is higher than the moon? It is then necessary that the ray from the higher point fall inside the other. Let the gnomon be A D, the moon B, the sun C. The ray from the moon is B Z, so that the shadow will be D Z; and the ray from the sun is C E, so that the shadow will necessarily be shorter; for it will be D E.
11| Why, during eclipses of the sun, if one observes through a sieve or through leaves—such as those of a plane tree or another broad-leaved tree—or by interlacing the fingers of one hand over the other, do crescent-shaped patches of light appear on the ground? Is it because, just as when light shines through a well-cornered opening it becomes round, a cone is formed? The cause is that two cones are formed, the one from the sun to the opening, and the one from there to the ground, and they share a common apex. So then, when things stand this way, and the light is cut off in a circle from above, there will be a crescent on the ground opposite the light. For the rays come from the arc of the crescent, and the openings in the fingers or the sieve act like small apertures; that is why it becomes more evident than through large openings. But from the moon such patches do not occur, whether it is eclipsing or waxing or waning, because the beams from its extremities are not sharply defined, but it shines from its middle; and the crescent has only a small middle part.
12| Why does a parhelion occur neither when the sun is at midheaven, nor above the sun, nor below the sun, but only to the sides? Is it because a parhelion occurs when our sight is bent back toward the sun, and this depends on the state of the air on which sight is reflected, which can be neither near the sun nor far from it? For if it is near, the sun will dissolve it, while if the reflecting surface is far, sight will not be reflected back; for sight, stretched out to a small mirror at a distance, becomes weak. That is also why halos do not occur there. So then, if the reflecting surface occurs directly opposite the sun and near it, the sun will dissolve it; and if it is far, a lesser amount of sight will strike it. But if it is to the side, the mirror can stand at such a distance that it neither is dissolved by the sun nor has the returning sight rise up massed together, because it travels beneath the earth. But below the sun it does not occur, because if it is near the earth it would be dissolved by the sun, while if it is high at midheaven, our sight would be torn apart. And in general it does not occur even to the side at midheaven, because if sight travels too far beneath the earth, little of it will reach the mirror, so that on being reflected back the whole of it will be weak.
1| Why does the edge of the sun's shadow appear to tremble? It is not, surely, because the sun itself is moving — for it is impossible for it to move in contrary directions at once, and this trembling is of that sort. Moreover the transition is imperceptible, just as the sun's own motion is. Is it rather because the things in the air move? These are called motes. This will be evident in the sunbeams that come through windows, for these move even when there is no wind. Since, then, things are always passing from shadow into light and from light into shadow, the common boundary of light and shadow appears to move nearby. For in one respect they make something like a shadow, in another light, and these alternate from each side. So the shadow appears to move, though it does not itself move in this way — rather, those things do. BOOK 16. PROBLEMS CONCERNING LIFELESS THINGS. Why are the bases of bubbles white in water? And if they are set in the sun, they cast no shadow, but while the rest of the bubble casts a shadow, the base does not, but is lit all around by the sun. What is still more remarkable is that not even if a piece of wood is put into the water in the sun is it cut off by the water in this way. Is it that no shadow is formed there, but the shadow has been divided by the sun? If, then, a shadow is that which is not seen, then the bulk of it would be seen all around by the sun. But that this is impossible is shown in the works on optics; for it is not possible for even the smallest thing to be wholly seen round by the largest.
2| Why are bubbles hemispheres? Is it because they are carried upward toward the air alike in every direction, as if from a center? And this must be a hemisphere. The lower hemisphere is cut off by the plane surface of the water, in which the center lies. Why is it that with bodies of unequal depth, if one moves the lighter one, the thing thrown travels round in a circle — as happens with knucklebones weighted with lead, if one throws the lighter part turned toward oneself? Is it because the heavier part cannot travel at an equal speed with the lighter part, when thrown by the same force? Since it is necessary that it move altogether, but impossible that it move from an equal starting condition, then if the two parts moved at the same speed they would travel the same line, but since one part necessarily moves faster than the other, it must travel in a circle, since it is only in this figure that points which correspond to each other in this way traverse unequal lines in the same time.
3| Why do things falling to the ground and bouncing off make equal angles with the plane on either side of the point at which they struck the plane? Is it because everything by nature travels toward a right angle? Now things that fall onto a level surface, striking the plane along the perpendicular and the diameter, make, in bouncing off, angles of that same size, because the diameter divides equal parts; but things that fall obliquely, striking the surface not at the perpendicular but at a point above the perpendicular, are in turn driven off, thrust by the place struck, to travel in the opposite direction — round objects, since as they travel they unroll in the direction opposite to the thrust, whether their center remains still or also changes place; straight-edged objects, because the perpendicular itself, having been carried forward, is knocked out, just as happens to men whose legs are shaved from under them, and to those whose supports are snatched away. For all these fall in the opposite direction and backward. This is because the perpendicular is made equal to them, and they become airborne and are knocked forward; for it is clear that the opposite effects will occur behind it and below it, and things traveling downward would be heavier. So what is a fall for these is, for the bouncing bodies, a case of travel occurring. Neither of them, then, bounces off at a right angle, because the perpendicular divides the moving bodies' weight in half, and there cannot be several perpendiculars to the same plane cutting across each other; but this is what would happen to these bodies if, a perpendicular being formed at the point of rebound where the moving body struck the plane, that body were in turn bisected by it — so that the original perpendicular by which it was carried would necessarily be cut by it. Since, then, it will travel in the opposite direction, but will not travel at a right angle, it remains that the angle at the other side of the point where it struck the plane is acute; for the right angle is the boundary of the contrary angles.
5| Why does a cylinder, when pushed, travel in a straight line and trace straight lines with the circles that bound it, while a cone travels round in a circle, its apex remaining fixed, and traces a circle with the circle that bounds it? Both travel in a circle, but on the plane the cylinder traces straight lines while the cone traces circles, because the circles in the cone are unequal, and the larger of those around the same center always travels faster. Since all the circles in the cone travel at unequal speeds simultaneously, it follows that the outermost ones travel over the greatest place and line in the same time; hence they also travel in a circle. For all are traced by the same straight line, and while that straight line travels in a circle, not all the points on it trace an equal line in the same time, but traveling in a straight line it carries an equal line. But since all the circles of the cylinder are equal and around the same center, it follows that the points of the plane touched by them all together, as they roll, travel at equal speed because the cylinders — that is, the circles — are equal, and each one, having rolled out its own circle, arrives back at the plane simultaneously, so that the straight lines on the plane also become equal; for by their point of contact they traced them, being equal and equally fast. And the lines traced by the same line traveling in a straight direction turned out to be straight, so that by means of these the cylinder is carried in a straight line. For it makes no difference whether one drags the cylinder along the plane by the line at which it first touched the plane, or rolls it; for an equal and similar line of those on the cylinder will always be found touching the plane, whether the cylinder is dragged or rolled.
6| Why is it that the cut of scrolls, being a plane and straight cut, if one cuts along the base, becomes a straight line when unrolled, but if one cuts at a slant, becomes crooked? Is it because, the circles in the one cut lying in the same plane, it turns out that the slanted cut is not parallel to them, but is at a greater distance from it in one place and a lesser in another, so that as it is unrolled, the circles that lie in the same plane, and have their starting point in the same plane, will produce, as they unroll, the line arising from themselves? For the line produced comes from the circles that are in the same plane, so that it is also straight, being in a plane. But the line of the oblique cut, as it is unrolled — not being parallel to the first cut, but standing apart from it more in one place and less in another, because the cut stands in that relation to it — will not be in a plane, and so will not be straight either; for it is not possible for one part of a straight line to be in one plane and another part in another. Why do all magnitudes appear smaller than the whole when they are divided up? Is it because when divided they all have number, but in magnitude are less than the one? For a thing is called great in virtue of being continuous and a certain great quantity, whereas every number is greater than the number of any magnitude. Hence it is reasonable that the whole should appear greater when its parts are divided; for though these are the same things, the whole, being continuous, has more the nature of magnitude, while the parts have the nature of number.
7| Of what happens with the water-clock (klepsydra), the cause as a whole seems to be as Anaxagoras says: for the air is the cause, being trapped inside it, of the water not entering when the tube is stopped up. Yet it is not simply the cause: for even if one puts the water-clock into the water at a slant, with the tube stopped, the water still gets in. That is why the way in which it is a cause is not adequately stated by him. The cause is the air, as has been said; but this air, when pushed and moving on its own and not being forced, is naturally disposed to move in a straight line, just like the other elements. So when the water-clock is dipped at a slant, the air, staying on a straight course, goes out through the holes that are opposite the ones under the water, being pushed out by the water, and as it withdraws the water enters. But when the water-clock is dipped straight down into the water, the air, unable to withdraw straight upward because the top is blocked, stays near the first holes; for it is not its nature to be thrust into itself. A sign that motionless air is capable of keeping out the water is what happens with the water-clock itself. For if one fills the bulb itself with water, stops the tube, and turns it upside down onto the tube, the water does not travel down through the tube to the opening.
8| And when the opening is unstopped, it does not flow out at once down through the tube, but a little later, as though it were not at the mouth of the tube but only travels through it after the opening is made. But when the water-clock is full and standing upright, once the tube is unstopped it flows at once through the strainer, because the water is in contact with the strainer but not with the ends of the tube. So the water does not enter the water-clock for the reason already stated, but it goes out when the tube is unstopped, because the air inside it, moving up and down, creates a large emptying-out of the water in the water-clock. Being pushed downward and itself also inclined into it, it reasonably flows out, forcing back the air outside the water-clock, which is in motion and equal in power to the air pushing it on, but weaker than it in resistance, because, flowing as it does through the narrow tube, it flows faster and more violently, and strikes against the water. The cause of the water not flowing together when the tube is capped is that the water entering the water-clock forcibly pushes the air out of it. A sign of this is the wind and the gurgling noise that occurs in it.
9| As the water enters, forcing its way in, it falls together with the air into the tube, and just as pieces of wood squeezed in, or bronze pressed in by being wedged apart, stay in place without any other fastening until it is knocked out from the opposite side, as men knock out broken pegs in pieces of wood, so it happens here. This happens, when the tube is unstopped, because of what has already been said. So either it is reasonable that the water does not flow out for these reasons, or because the air going out is forceful and turned into wind. The noise shows that the water is drawn upward by the current of air, as happens in many other cases. Being drawn up and continuous with itself, all the water stays there, pressed by the air, until it is pushed back again by it. And with the beginning of it staying in place, the rest of the water hangs from it as one continuous whole. It is reasonable that this happens: for it belongs to the same power both to move something out of its own proper place and to hold it there, as it held it there before, only for a longer time, provided that what holds and what is held are equal in power, or that the holder is stronger — which is what happens here, since air is stronger than water in power.
10| Why are the parts of plants and animals, all those that are not instrumental parts, round — in plants the trunk and the shoots, in animals the shins, thighs, arms, chest — while nothing, whether whole or part, is triangular or many-sided? Is it, as Archytas used to say, because the proportion of the equal is present in natural motion (for all things move proportionally), and this proportion alone bends back into itself, so that it produces circles and round shapes, whenever it comes to be present? Why does roundness always occur at the extremities? Is it because nature, out of what is possible, makes everything as good and as fine as it can, and this shape is the finest, being most like itself throughout? Why, when a disk is thrown, does it at first trace a straight line, but as it slows down trace a spiral, until it falls? Is it that at first it traces a straight line because the air holds it upright equally on this side and that? Since the tendency is equal on both sides, the line it traces must also be of a kind that divides the space equally on both sides — and such a line is straight. But when it tips down to one side because of unevenness in the air surrounding it, it no longer traces an equal path on the inner and outer sides, but of necessity traces a curved one.
11| Why, with bodies whose depth is unequal, if one sets the lighter part in motion, does the thing thrown travel round in a circle — as happens with knucklebones weighted with lead, if one throws them turning the lighter part toward himself? Is it because the heavier part cannot travel at the same speed as the lighter part when thrown by the same force? Since it must move, but cannot move evenly and in a straight line, it must, in moving toward the inner part, move in a circle. For example, if some part of it were altogether motionless in the middle because of its weight, the part near the thrower would move forward, while the part beyond that would move back toward the thrower. But since the whole is in motion, while it has its weight carried in the middle, it must do this very same thing.
12| Why do moving things, when they strike against an obstacle, rebound in the direction opposite to their natural motion, and at equal angles? Is it because the thing moves not only with the motion proper to its own nature, but also with the motion produced by the one who threw it? Now the natural motion ceases when the thing comes to its own proper place (for everything comes to rest when it reaches the place to which it moves by nature); but as regards the motion that is not its own, it must still be in motion, and since it is prevented from going forward, it must go either sideways or straight back. All things rebound at equal angles because they move in the direction that the motion produced by the one who let them fly carries them; and it turns out that they move there at an acute or a right angle. Since, then, the obstacle that is struck prevents the motion in a straight line, it likewise prevents the moving body and checks its motion. Just as in mirrors, the end point of the straight line at which the line of sight arrives is where the image appears, so in the case of moving bodies, the opposite result occurs in the same way; for it is pushed off at an angle equal to the vertical angle formed. For one must conceive the angle and the motion as shifted. Once this is granted, it is clear that the rebound must occur at equal angles.
1| Book 17. Problems Concerning Living Things. Why do things of disproportionate size look larger when viewed next to each other than when viewed each by itself alone? Is it because what is proportionate is one thing, and proportion above all makes for oneness, and what is one tends to be undivided, and what is undivided is smaller, while disproportion, through its difference, makes many things? So when things are viewed by themselves, what their sizes actually are more easily escapes notice, but not when they are viewed side by side. What is undivided appears as one thing, and the viewing of it is single, because of its proportion; but what is disproportionate, being as it were many things, produces a viewing that is manifold, and it appears larger because, though one, it appears as many. For it has both the nature of magnitude, by virtue of its continuity, and the nature of number, by virtue of the unevenness of its parts; that is why, reasonably enough, having the increase that comes from both, it appears larger than what is simple and one. Why do animals and plants grow more in length? Is it because length increases three ways, breadth two ways, and depth one way? For length is the first dimension from the starting point, so that it increases both by itself alone, and again together with breadth when that comes to be, and a third time together with depth. But breadth increases twice, both by itself and together with magnitude.
2| How should we understand "earlier" and "later"? Is it as with us — the men who fought at Troy being earlier than us, and those before them earlier still, and always those further back being the earlier ones? Or, if there is some starting point and middle and end of the whole, and when someone grows old and comes to the end and turns back again to the starting point, and the things nearer the starting point are earlier — what stops us from being nearer the starting point? And if this is so, we would be the earlier ones. Just as with the heaven and the movement of each of the stars there is a kind of circle, what stops the coming-to-be and passing-away of perishable things from being of the same kind, so that these same things come to be and pass away again? This is just as they say human affairs too are a circle. Now to claim that the very same individuals, numerically, always come to be again is silly, but one might rather accept it said of the form; so that we too might be the earlier ones, and one might suppose that the order of the sequence is such as to turn back again to the starting point and make it continuous and always keep to the same pattern. For Alcmaeon says that human beings perish for this reason, that they cannot join the beginning to the end — a clever remark, if one accepts it as him speaking in outline and does not wish to press the statement for precision. If then it is a circle, and a circle has neither beginning nor end, then no one would be earlier by being nearer the starting point, neither we than they nor they than we.
1| Book 18: Problems Concerning Argument Why is it that sleep overtakes some people as soon as they begin to read, even against their will, while others, though wanting to stay awake beforehand, find that picking up the book keeps them awake...? Is it because those who have breath-like movements on account of a coldness of nature, or of melancholic humors — through which an undigested breath-like residue is produced on account of the coldness — in these people, when the thinking is in motion and does not settle on anything by fixing on it, it is knocked out by the other motion, which is a cooling one, and this is why they fall asleep the more. But when they fix their thinking on something, which is what reading does, they are moved by the heating motion, which is not knocked out by anything, so that they cannot sleep. But in those whose condition is natural, when the thinking comes to rest on one thing and does not shift about in many directions, being at its strongest, the other things too that are in that region come to a halt, and sleep is the settling-down of these. But when the intellect comes to rest and grows as it were weary, it weighs down the head, being located in it, and produces sleep. But when the soul is in motion according to nature, it does not sleep; for then it is most alive. And being awake is a cause of life more than sleeping is. Why are contentious arguments good exercise? Is it because they frequently involve winning or losing? So they immediately make people fond of victory; for those who are winning are drawn on to dispute further because they enjoy it, and those who are losing do so as intending to get their own back. And it is the same with people in other contests too; this is why, even when fighting and getting the worse of it, they are often unwilling to break off.
2| Why do people enjoy examples in speeches and arguments more than enthymemes? Is it because they enjoy both learning and learning quickly? And they learn more easily by means of examples and stories; for the things they already know are these particular cases, whereas enthymemes are demonstrations from universals, which we know less well than particulars. Further, the more witnesses there are to something, the more we believe it, and examples and stories are like testimonies; and convictions produced through witnesses are easy ones. Further, people learn what is similar with pleasure, and the example and fables show what is similar. Why do we call an orator, a general, and a moneymaker "clever," but not a flute-player or an actor? Is it because the capacity of the latter is without a view to gain (for it aims at pleasure), while that of the former is directed at gain? For a good orator, general, or moneymaker is one able to have more, and cleverness lies especially in getting the advantage. Why do people think the philosopher differs from the orator? Is it because the one deals with what injustice is, the other with how so-and-so is unjust; and the one, that so-and-so is a tyrant, the other with what tyranny is.
3| Why is it that people spend their time on the things they have chosen, even when these are trivial, more than on the more serious ones? For instance, someone who has chosen these pursuits would rather be a conjuror or a mime-actor or a pipe-player than an astronomer or an orator. Is it because some people want to engage with the most serious things, but because they do not trust themselves to be capable of it, they do not act on this for that reason? Or is it because each person chooses the things in which he thinks himself to excel? And whatever a person chooses, toward this too he will press on, devoting the greatest part of his day to it, so that he himself may turn out to be best at it. And whatever people choose from the start, and whatever they become habituated to, they are no longer even able to judge what is better; for their thinking has been corrupted by base choices.
4| Why is it that sleep overtakes some people as soon as they begin to read, even against their will, while for those who do [not] wish it, it makes them able to stay awake, when they pick up a book? Is it because those who have breath-like movements on account of a coldness of nature, or of melancholic humors — through which an undigested breath-like residue is produced on account of the coldness — in these people, when the thinking is in motion and does not settle on anything by fixing on it, the other motion is knocked out, and this is why, shifting their thinking about a great deal, they fall asleep the more; for the breath-like motion is overcome. But when they fix their thinking on something, which is what reading does, they are moved by the breath-like motion, which is not knocked out by anything, so that they cannot sleep. But in those whose condition is natural, when the thinking comes to rest on one thing and does not shift about in many directions, the other things too that are in that region come to a halt, and sleep is the settling-down of these. For when one governing thing comes to a halt, just as in a rout, the other parts too are naturally disposed to come to a halt. For by nature the light is carried upward, and the heavy downward. So when the soul is in motion according to nature, it does not sleep; for that is its condition. But when it comes to a halt and grows as it were weary, the intellect changes, and the bodily elements, going upward toward the head, produce sleep. Reading might seem to prevent sleep. But this is not on account of thinking — for the soul is at that point more determinate — but the wakefulness is on account of the shifting about, since there are also acts of thinking of the following kind that are sleep-preventing: those in which the soul searches and is at a loss, but not those in which it continuously contemplates; for the former make it indeterminate, but the latter do not.
1| Why is there no idle rambling in contentious arguments? Is it because a contentious argument is an apparent syllogism, and a syllogism proceeds in few steps; and if it is drawn out, as time passes the fallacy becomes evident, and it is possible to take back what one has conceded. Why is it that we listen with more pleasure to accounts organized around one thing than to those elaborated about many things? Is it because we attend more to, and take more pleasure in hearing, the things that are more knowable; and what is determinate is more knowable than what is indeterminate. Now the one is determinate, but the many partake of the unlimited. Why do we take pleasure in hearing things that are neither too old nor entirely new? Is it because we distrust the things far removed from us, and we take no pleasure in the things we distrust; while as for the things we still as it were perceive, we take no pleasure in hearing about these either. Book 19: Problems Concerning Musical Harmony Why do both those who are toiling and those who are enjoying themselves play the pipe? Is it so that the former may be less pained, and the latter more pleased? Why does the same person, with the same voice, carry farther when singing and shouting with others than alone? Is it because doing something, or pressing, or pushing all together does not amount to merely as many times as the number of people, but just as a line two feet long does not mark out double but something like four times as much, so things combined are more powerful in proportion than when they are divided. So when people are all together, the strength of the voice becomes one and pushes the air all at once, so that it travels many times as far; for the voice from all of them together is many times that of each single one.
2| Why is it that singers most often break their voice when singing the parhypate, no less than when singing the nete and the notes above it, and with a bigger leap? Is it because this note is the hardest of all to sing, and it is a starting-point? The difficulty is due to the tension and pressure put on the voice; and in these notes there is exertion; and what is exerting itself is more easily damaged. But why is this note difficult, while the hypate is easy, even though each involves a quarter-tone? Is it because the hypate comes with relaxation, and at the same time, after the strain of tension, it is easy to throw the voice upward again? For the same reason, it seems, the phrases said 'in relation to one note' apply to this note or to the paranete. For they require concentration and a disposition most proper to the character, directed toward the intention. But then what is the cause of doing this together with a concord? Why do people take more pleasure in hearing songs whose melodies they happen to know beforehand, than ones they do not know? Is it because the one who hits the mark is more evident, as if at a target, when they recognize what is being sung? And this is pleasant to observe. Or is it because learning is pleasant? The reason for this is that the one activity is acquiring knowledge, while the other is using it and recognizing it again. Further, the familiar is more pleasant than the unfamiliar.
3| Why is the parakataloge in songs tragic? Is it because of its unevenness? For the uneven is emotional, both in greatness of fortune and of grief. The even is less mournful. Why did the ancients, in making seven-stringed scales, retain the hypate but not the nete? Is this false (for they retained both, and removed the third string instead) or not? But rather it is because the lower string holds the force of the higher note's sound, so that the hypate rendered the answering note more than the nete would, since the high pitch is more a sign of power, while the low is easier to sound. Why does the low note hold the force of the high note's sound? Is it because the low is greater? For it resembles an obtuse angle, while the high resembles an acute angle. Why do we hear a solo song more pleasantly, if someone sings it to the accompaniment of a pipe or a lyre? And yet, sung to strings, it is the same melody in both cases. For if sameness were the reason, it ought to be even more pleasant with many pipers, being still more of the same thing. Or is it because the one hitting the mark is more evident, when singing to a pipe or a lyre? But singing to many pipers or many lyres is not more pleasant, because it obscures the song.
4| Why, if the human voice singing without words is more pleasant, is it not more pleasant when, say, humming wordlessly, but rather the pipe or the lyre is more pleasant? Or is it that even there, unless it imitates something, it is not equally pleasant? Yet nonetheless it is also on account of the function itself. For the human voice is more pleasant, but instruments are more incisive in striking a note than the mouth is. That is why it is more pleasant to listen to them than to hum. Why is an echo higher in pitch? Is it because it is diminished, becoming weaker? Why does the lower-pitched of the strings always take the melody? For if it is necessary to sing the paramese together with the mese alone, the mese still results none the less; but if one sings the mese, when both notes are needed, they do not come out bare and distinct. Is it because the low is large, and so is dominant? And the small is contained within the large; and by division, two netai arise within the hypate. Why, in the octave, does the low note become the answering note of the high, but not the high of the low? Is it because the melody belonging to both is present chiefly when it is in both, but failing that, it is in the low note, since that is the greater?
5| Why does the octave pass unnoticed, and seem to be a unison, as for instance in the phoinikion and in the human voice? For the notes that lie in the high register are not unisons with each other, but stand in proportion to one another across the octave. Is it because, just as the same note seems to be the same note, equality by proportion produces this among notes? And the equal belongs to the one. This same thing is also what deceives people in the case of pan-pipes. Why were the nomes not composed in strophes, while the other choral songs were? Is it because the nomes belonged to competitors, and since these were by then capable of imitation and of extending themselves, the song became long and manifold? For just as the words did, so too the melodies followed the imitation, always becoming different. For it is more necessary to imitate by the melody than by the words. That is why the dithyrambs too, once they became imitative, no longer have strophes, though earlier they did. The cause is that in ancient times free men themselves danced in the chorus; so it was difficult for a crowd to sing in the manner of a competitor, and so they sang set, harmonious melodies instead. For it is easier for one person to undergo many changes than for many people to do so, and easier for the competitor than for those who are preserving a fixed character. That is why they made the melodies simpler for them. And the strophic form is simple; for it is a number, and is measured by a single unit. The same cause also explains why the parts sung from the stage are not strophic, while those of the chorus are strophic; for the actor is a competitor and an imitator, but the chorus imitates less.
6| Why is the answering note more pleasant than a concord generally? Is it because it becomes more evident that the notes are in concord, than when a voice sings in accord with the concord itself? For in that case one note must necessarily merge into unison with the other, so that the two, becoming directed toward a single sound, make the other one imperceptible. Why do people not sing answering notes at the interval of a fifth? Is it because the concordant note within that concord is not the same as it is in the octave? For in the octave, the low note stands in the same proportion within the low register as the high note does within the high register; so it is, in a way, at once the same note and another note. But the notes in the fifth and the fourth do not stand this way, so that the sound of the answering note is not made apparent in them; for it is not the same note. Why is the concord of the octave alone sung together with the instrument playing the same interval? For this is the one they double at the octave, and no other. Is it because it alone is composed of answering strings, and among answering strings, if one sings the other as well, it produces the same effect? For the one string in a way carries the sound of both, so that even when only one is sung, the concord is sung within this consonance, as though both were singing; or, with one being sung and the other played on the pipe, the two are sung as though they were one. That is why it alone is turned into melody, because in it the answering strings carry the sound of a single string. (The source text is disordered at this point, interleaving the end of this sentence with the opening words of the next chapter; the sense has been reconstructed above and the next chapter's question follows in the next block.)
7| Why does this belong only to the answering strings? Is it because they alone are equally distant from the mese? This middle position, then, produces a certain likeness among the notes, and the ear seems to say both that it is the same note and that both are outermost notes. Why is it that, if someone moves the mese, after tuning the other strings, and then uses the instrument, it causes distress and sounds out of tune not only when the note struck is that of the mese, but throughout the rest of the melody as well; whereas if someone moves the lichanos or some other note, the difference is apparent only when that note itself is used? Is this reasonable? For all good melodies use the mese frequently, and all good poets return to the mese often, and if they depart from it, they quickly come back to it, but they do nothing like this with any other note. Just as, in speech, if certain connectives are removed the resulting speech is not Greek — for instance the word 'and' (te) and the word 'and' (kai) — while removing certain others causes no distress, because some words must necessarily be used often if there is to be coherent speech, while others need not be, so too, among the notes, the mese is like a connective, and especially so among fine melodies, because its note occurs within them most often of all.
8| Why is it that among singers, those who sing lower are more obviously detected than those who sing higher, if they sing off pitch? And likewise in rhythm, those who go wrong in the slower tempo are more obviously detected. Is it because the time taken by the low note is greater, and this is more perceptible? Or is it because in a greater time it affords more perception, while the low and high notes escape notice because of their speed? Why do the many, when singing, preserve the rhythm better than the few? Is it because they look more to one person, a leader, and start more slowly, so that they more easily hit the same mark? For in speed there is more room for error. Why is the highest string double the lowest? Is it first because a string plucked from its half-point and plucked whole are consonant through the octave? The same holds for pipes too: the note produced through the hole at the middle of the pipe is consonant with the note through the whole pipe, an octave apart. Further, in flutes the octave is obtained at the interval of a double ratio, and pipe-borers take it this way. [And likewise the fifth corresponds to the ratio of one and a half.] Further, those who tune panpipes stop up the wax right at the top for the lowest note, but fill the highest pipe up to its half-point. Likewise they get the fifth by the ratio of one and a half, and the fourth by the ratio of four to three. Further, in triangular harps, when the tension is made equal, the strings are consonant through the octave, one string being double the other, the other half, in length.
9| Why is it that if someone plucks the highest string and then stops it, the lowest string alone seems to echo back? Is it because the sound arising from that string is most closely akin to the note, since it is consonant with it? So because it is increased along with what is similar to it, it alone appears to sound, while the others are inaudible because of their smallness. Why is the middle note called "middle" in scales, when among eight notes there is no exact middle? Is it because in ancient times scales had seven strings, and seven has a middle? Why do most people sing sharp, off pitch toward the high side? Is it because it is easier to sing high than low? Or is it because it is worse than the low? For error is the doing of the worse thing. Why is it that hearing alone, of the objects of perception, has character? For even if a melody is without words, it still has character; but color does not, nor smell, nor flavor. Is it because hearing has, virtually, motion, which the sound sets going in us? For such motion belongs to the other senses too — color also moves sight — but it is the motion that follows upon this kind of sound that we perceive. And this motion has a resemblance both in the rhythms and in the ordering of high and low notes, though not in their blending. But a concord has no character. In the other objects of perception this is not so. And these motions are motions of action, and actions are a sign of character.
10| Why are the songs called "nomoi," that is, laws? Is it because before people knew how to write, they sang the laws, so as not to forget them, as is still the custom among the Agathyrsi? And so they gave the same name to the first of the later songs as to the first laws. Why is it that rhythms and melodies, being voice, resemble character, while flavors do not, nor colors nor smells either? Is it because they are motions, just as actions are? For the activity is already something ethical and produces character, while flavors and colors do not produce it in the same way. Why is there no choral song in tragedy in the hypodorian or hypophrygian mode? Is it because it has no antistrophe? Rather it is sung from the stage, for it is imitative. Why were the followers of Phrynichus more given to composing melodies? Is it because at that time the melodies in tragedies were many times more numerous than the metrical passages? Why is it called "through all," that is, the octave, and not, in accordance with the number, "through eight," as with "through four" and "through five"? Is it because there were seven strings anciently? Then Terpander, removing the third, added the highest string, and after this it was called "through all," not "through eight"; for there were seven.
11| Why is it more harmonious to go from the high note down to the low than from the low up to the high? Is it because the one comes to be beginning from a starting-point? For the middle note is both leader and highest of the tetrachord. But the other does not begin from a starting-point, but from an end. Or is it because the low note coming after the high is nobler and more euphonious? Why do a double octave-plus-fifth and a double fourth not make a concord, but a double octave does? Is it because it is not... (text breaks off) nor a double fourth... is, but the fourth and the fifth...
12| Why is the octave the finest concord? Is it because its ratios lie in whole terms, while the ratios of the others do not lie in whole terms? For since the highest string is double the lowest, as the highest is two, the lowest is one, and as the lowest is two, the highest is four, and so on always. But the middle note stands in the ratio of one and a half to it. For the fifth, being in the ratio of one and a half, is not in whole numbers: for as the lesser is one, the greater is that much and also half again. So that whole is not compared with whole, but a fractional part is added on. The same holds likewise in the fourth: for the ratio of four to three is such that one must cut off a portion and add on one further third of the three [it is in the ratio of four to three]. Or is it because the octave, being composed of both, is most complete, and because it is the measure of melody... throughout everything in motion the motion at the middle point is most intense, but at the beginning and the end it is gentler? And when the motion is most intense, the pitch too is higher than that of the moving thing. That is also why strings, when stretched tighter, sound a higher note: for the motion becomes quicker. But if voice is a movement of air or of something else, the pitch must become highest at the midpoint of its passage. So that if this does not happen, there could be no movement of anything.
13| Why is it that if the middle string is set in motion, the other strings too resound and sound out, but if the middle string stays still and one of the others is moved, only the one moved sounds? Is it because being in tune belongs to all of them together, and standing in a certain relation to the middle note belongs to all of them, and the ordering of each is already through that relation? So when the cause of their being in tune, the thing that holds them together, is removed, they no longer appear to hold in the same way. But when only one string is out of tune while the middle one remains, it is reasonable that the failure should be confined to that one string, since being in tune belongs to the others still. Why is it that, although the high note in voice depends on smallness and the low note on largeness (for the low, because of its bulk, is slow, while the high, because of its smallness, is quick), it is more of a task to sing high notes than low, and few can sing the upper range, and the high nomes and sharp notes are hard to sing because they are stretched taut? And yet it is less work to move a small quantity than a large one, and so too with air. Is it not the same thing to be naturally high-voiced and to sing high by effort? Rather, all things are naturally high-voiced through weakness, through being unable to move much air but only a little, and a little air travels quickly; whereas in singing high by effort, the high note is a sign of power. For what is carried forcefully is carried quickly, and so the high note is a sign of power; that is also why people in good condition are high-voiced. And it is a task to sing the upper notes; the low notes belong below.
14| Why do all people delight in rhythm and melody and, generally, in concords? Is it because we delight, in accordance with nature, in motions that accord with nature? A sign of this is that children delight in them as soon as they are born. And it is through habit that we delight in particular styles of melody. We delight in rhythm because it has a recognizable and ordered number and moves us in an ordered way; for ordered motion is by nature more akin to us than disordered motion, so that it is also more in accordance with nature. Here is a sign: by laboring and drinking and eating in an ordered way we preserve and increase our nature and our power, but by doing these things in a disordered way we destroy it and drive it out of its own state; for diseases are motions of the body that are not in accordance with its natural order. And we delight in concord because it is a blending of things standing in a ratio to one another as opposites. Now the ratio is order, and order was by nature pleasant. And everything blended is more pleasant than the unblended, especially, if it is something perceptible, when the ratio in the concord gives both extremes an equal power.
15| Why is the concordant more pleasant than the unisonous? Or is it that the antiphonal too is concordant, through the whole octave? For the antiphonal arises out of boys and young men and grown men, who stand apart in pitch as the highest string does from the lowest. Now every concord is more pleasant than a single note (why has been stated), and of these the octave is most pleasant; but the unisonous has a single note. They sing an octave apart in the octave concord because, just as in meters the feet stand to one another in a ratio, equal to equal or two to one or some other ratio, so too the notes in a concord have a ratio of motion to one another. Now in the other concords the closes of one of the two parts are incomplete, ending at the half; hence they are not equal in power. And being unequal, the difference is perceptible, as in choruses, in that at the close some sing more loudly than others. Further, it happens that the highest note has the same ending as the periods among the notes. For the second stroke of the air from the lowest note is the highest note. And though they end at the same point without producing the same effect, one common and joint result comes about, just as with those who play an accompaniment under a song; for these, even though for the rest they do not follow the pipe closely, if they end together at the same point, they please more by the ending than they distress by the differences before the ending, because what is common out of things that differ is most pleasant when it arises out of the octave. Now singing an octave apart is out of opposite voices. For these reasons they sing an octave apart in the octave concord.
16| Why is it more pleasant to listen to singers singing songs which one happens to know beforehand than if one does not know them? Is it because the one who hits the mark is more clearly recognized, as at a target, when people recognize what is being sung? And it is pleasant to observe when one recognizes. Or is it because the listener feels a kind of fellow-feeling with the one singing something familiar? For he sings along with him. And everyone sings gladly who is not doing it under some compulsion. Why does a double octave make a concord, but a double fifth or a double fourth does not? Is it because the fifth is in the ratio of three to two, and the fourth in the ratio of four to three? Now when there are two successive numbers in the ratio three to two, or two in the ratio four to three, the extremes will have no ratio to one another at all; for they will be neither superparticular numbers nor multiples of one another. But the octave, since it is in the ratio two to one — when this ratio occurs twice, the extremes will be to one another in the ratio four to one. So then, since concord belongs to notes that have a rational ratio to one another, and the notes that are a double octave apart have such a ratio to one another, while those a double fifth or double fourth apart do not, the notes a double octave apart would be concordant, but the others would not, for the reasons stated.
17| Why, if someone plucks the highest string and then damps it, does only the lowest string seem to sound on in response? Is it because the highest note, as it dies away and fades, becomes the lowest? A sign of this is that one can sing the highest note starting from the lowest; for, taking it as though this itself were the song of the highest note, they get the resemblance to it from the lowest note. And since an echo too is a kind of song, being a contact with the voice of the highest note as it dies away, and being a sound the same as the note of the lowest string, it reasonably seems, because of this resemblance, that the plucked highest string is what sets the lowest string sounding. For we know where the highest string moves when it is damped; but seeing that the lowest string itself is, in its own motion, imperceptible, and hearing a note coming from that region, we suppose that this is the string sounding — which happens to us in many cases, where we can know the exact truth neither by reasoning nor by perception. Further, if it happens that when the highest string is struck, being most taut, the bridge is set moving, there would be nothing surprising in that. And once the bridge is moved, it is not unreasonable that all the strings should be moved together and produce some sound. Now to the other strings the note of the highest string is foreign, both as it dies away and as it begins; but to the lowest string, the dying note is the same note. When this is added to the lowest string's own proper motion, it is not at all strange that the whole should seem to belong to the lowest string. And it will be a greater sound than the one common to the rest of the strings, because the others sounded as though gently pushed by the highest string, whereas the highest string sounds with the whole of its own power, being the most vigorous of them all. So it is reasonable that its secondary effect too should be stronger than that of the others, so that even small motions are stirred up, as though the lowest string itself had come to sound.
18| Why is it more pleasant than solo singing if someone sings to the accompaniment of the pipe or the lyre? Is it because everything more pleasant, when mixed with something more pleasant, becomes one thing? The pipe is more pleasant than the lyre, so that the song mixed with the pipe would be more pleasant than the song mixed with the lyre, since the blended is more pleasant than the unblended, provided one takes in the perception of both together. For wine is more pleasant than a mixture of vinegar and honey, because things blended by nature are more thoroughly blended with one another than things blended by us. For wine too is a blend of a sharp and a sweet flavor. And the so-called wine-like pomegranate juices show this as well. Now song and the pipe blend with each other because of their likeness, for both come about by breath; but the note of the lyre, since it does not come about by breath, or is less perceptible than that of the pipes, is less able to blend with the voice; and since it produces a difference perceptible to sense, it gives less pleasure, just as was said in the case of flavors. Further, the pipe conceals many of the singer's mistakes by its own sound and its resemblance to the voice, whereas the notes of the lyre, being bare and less able to blend with the voice, when observed by themselves and being clearly perceptible in their own right, make the fault of the song evident, standing over it like a straightedge. And since many faults occur in singing, the combination of both must necessarily turn out worse.
19| Why is the middle string in an octave of eight strings called the "middle," while in another set of eight there is no middle? Is it because in ancient times the modes had seven strings, and seven has a middle? Further, since among the intervals lying between the extremes only the middle is in a sense a starting point (for in any system whose parts incline toward one or the other extreme, the point lying midway is a starting point), this will be the middle. And since the extremes of a mode are the lowest note and the highest note, and midway between them lie the remaining notes, of which the one called the "middle" is the sole starting point of the other tetrachord, it is rightly called the middle. For of things lying between certain extremes, the middle alone was a starting point. Why do the many, when singing, keep the rhythm better than the few? Is it because they look more toward the one leader, and begin more slowly, so that they more easily hit the same mark together? For error becomes greater in speed. And it happens that the many attend to the leader; for if any one of them stood apart and sang on his own, standing out above the crowd, he would not shine. But among the few they stand out more; hence among themselves they compete more on their own account than in relation to the leader.
20| Why do most people sing off-key toward the sharp side? Is it because it is easier to sing sharp than flat? At any rate they sing sharper more often, and it is in this that they go wrong. Why did the ancients, when they made their scales seven-stringed, keep the hypate but not the nete? Or is it not the nete they took away, but rather the string now called paramese, along with the interval of a tone? They used the topmost note of the close-packed cluster on the sharp side as a middle note; that is why they called it the mese, the "middle." Or was it because it was the endpoint of the upper tetrachord and the starting point of the lower one, and stood in a middle position, a tone away from either extreme?
21| Why do the choruses in tragedy sing neither in the hypodorian nor in the hypophrygian mode? Is it because these harmonies have the least melody of all, and melody is what the chorus needs most? The hypophrygian has a character suited to action, which is why in the Geryone [and] the exit and the arming-scene were composed in it, while the hypodorian is grand and stately, which is why it is the most suited to lyre-song of all the harmonies. Both of these are ill-suited to a chorus, but more proper to the actors on stage. For those actors are imitators of heroes, whereas among the ancients only the leaders were heroes, and the common people were ordinary men, and it is of these that the chorus consists. That is why a mournful and quiet character and melody suits it: for the other harmonies have this human quality, but the phrygian least of all of them, since it is inspired and Bacchic. So under this mode we are acted upon in some way; and the weak are more subject to being acted upon than the capable are, which is why this mode suits choruses. But under the hypodorian and hypophrygian we act, and acting is not proper to a chorus. For the chorus is a concerned bystander who does not act: it offers only goodwill to those it is present with. Why, among the notes that make up a concord, is the softer one the lower one? Is it because melody, by its own nature, is soft and calm, but by its mixture with rhythm becomes rough and full of movement? Since the low note is soft and calm, while the high note is full of movement, then among notes carrying the same melody, the lower one would be the softer, more so within that same melody — since the melody was soft for it.
1| Why, with jars that are equal and alike, if one is empty and the other is filled to half, does the echo make a concord at the octave? Is it because the sound coming from the half-full jar becomes double that from the empty one? For how does this differ from the case of pan-pipes? The faster motion seems to be the sharper one, and in the larger vessels the air meets resistance more slowly, and in vessels of double size, by that much more, and proportionately in the others. And a wineskin of double size likewise makes a concord at the octave with the half-size one. K. Matters Concerning Shrubs and Pot-Herbs Why does brackish water suit celery, but not leek? Is it because the roots of the one are weak, and of the other strong? What is stronger is less affected. Why is it said, in wartime neither eat mint nor plant it? Is it because it cools the body? The destruction of its seed shows this. And this is opposed to courage and spiritedness, which are the same in kind. Why are some plants that have flowers fruitless, for example the cucumber, the gourd, and the pomegranate? Or are they not fruitless, but is this very thing the fruit? At any rate the flowering part is the pericarp, and the cucumber is a pericarp.
2| Why are some growing things edible only when boiled, while others are edible raw? Is it that those whose juices are not immediately fit to eat become sweeter when cooked by heat, while those whose juices are fit to eat right away are also edible raw? Why are some things boiled, others roasted? Is it because the moister ones do not need to be dried out as much, while the drier ones need no more drying than that? Everything that is boiled becomes moister and softer. But things that are less moist, if subjected to fire, become dry. Why are some things inedible, others edible? Is it on account of their juices? For whatever has, even raw, juices that are unconcocted, and does not change when subjected to fire, is inedible. But whatever has a juice that is edible yet strong, these are seasonings: for foods that have great potency in a small amount season those that are had in large amount.
3| For what reason do some plants live only until they produce seed, and then, having borne it, wither — for instance grass and the so-called pot-herbs — while others do not, but bear fruit many times? And among those that live only until seed, most are annuals, but alexanders bears its fruit in the following year, and having borne it, withers away? Or is it that all plants are at their peak only up to this point, for as long as they are at their peak with respect to their seed? Since human beings, too, grow up to the age of thirty, sometimes in bulk, sometimes in thickness. And when a plant can no longer bear, just as in that case, it withers and grows old; but this happens slowly and in due proportion. Now the reason why some plants are short-lived and others long-lived is a separate account. But since for all of them the limit is the completion of their seed, it is necessary that the short-lived ones bear fruit once or a few times, and the long-lived ones many times, so that the weakest would bear only once — which is why they must wither — and among these, some can be annuals within a single year, while others, like alexanders, bear in the following year, just as trees and shrubs do. Why, if one digs around celery down as far as the roots and packs barley-groats around it, and then puts earth on top and waters it that way, do the roots become enormous? Is it because the barley-groats, being warm and porous, retain the nourishment as a whole and do not let it escape upward, but concoct it since they are warm, so that a great deal of growth results?
4| Why, if someone buries gourds or cucumbers in the earth while they are still small, do they become larger? Is it because the winds and the sun, by drying things out, take away growth, and make bulk smaller in all cases but denser — just as with trees, both those in windy or marshy places and those in hollow, well-watered places: the latter become large and spongy, the former small and dense? So plants buried in the earth, undergoing the opposite treatment, come out the opposite way. Likewise with things placed inside containers — cucumbers put into hollow fennel-stalks or covers, and pomegranates and apples put into pots — the ones grown without resistance become large but spongy, while the small ones grow dense and firm as they grow, not against resistance. The cause is that more nourishment accumulates because it is neither breathed out nor dried away: for what covers them over prevents this from happening. Why are the seeds of pungent plants more pungent than the roots and leaves? Is it because everything comes to be out of the seed, and it is from this that the other parts are given their share, as though these qualities were already present in it, as some say — both the juices and the odors, since odors too become distinctive at the same time as all the seeds do? If, then, pungency belongs to the other parts because it comes from the seed, it stands to reason that it belongs most of all to the seed itself.
5| Why are thin radishes more pungent? Is it because the larger ones have been concocted more, on account of the time taken?
6| Why is it that the caper plant does not readily consent to grow in cultivated ground (many have tried, both transplanting roots and sowing seeds — for in some places it would be more profitable than roses), but grows especially on graves, because that is the most untrodden place? Concerning this and other such cases, one must grasp that not everything comes to be, or grows, from the same matter, but some things come to be and grow out of the destruction of other things and from a starting point, as lice and hairs on the body come to be when the nourishment is being corrupted, and when the body is continually getting worse. So just as some things in the body come to be from a residue of nourishment — that is, from indigestion — and from what nature was unable to master (the readiest of this is excreted into the bladder and the belly, while from some of it living creatures come to be, which is why these increase in old age and in diseases), so too in the earth some things come to be and grow from nourishment that has been concocted, while others come from residues and from things in a contrary condition. Farming concocts the nourishment and makes it active; from this the cultivated fruits are composed. So the things that come to be from this kind of cultivation are called cultivated, because they are benefited by craft, as though being educated; but whatever cannot be so benefited, or is composed even from what is in a contrary condition, these are wild and do not consent to grow in farmed ground. For farming, in educating them, destroys them; for they come to be out of destruction. The caper is one of these.
7| Why is it that if someone, when radishes are at their very peak in winter, cuts off the leaves and heaps earth around them and tramples it down so as to keep off the water, these become enormously thick in summer? Is it because the heaping-around is the cause of their not being destroyed, since it prevents the water from rotting them? And the nourishment which it used to send up into the shoot enters into the radish itself, so that it necessarily becomes larger, rather than sending the nourishment off by putting out other roots as side-shoots, as onions do? For onions too, if one does not pull them up within the year but lets them stand through the winter, become many times more numerous. Onions, then, are among the plants that put out side-shoots, but the radish is not, so that it necessarily becomes thick, because it takes in all the nourishment.
8| Why is it that if someone plants cucumbers or gourds around a well, and when they are ripe lowers them into the well and covers it over, they stay green throughout the year? Is it because the vapor from the water, by cooling them, prevents them from drying out and keeps them flourishing, and the screening of them from the winds too nourishes what has grown? And the cause of their persisting is that the roots, being left alone, have nourishment. Indeed if someone, once they have borne fruit, removes the shoot and cuts it off and heaps earth around the roots and tramples the ground around them, he will get early cucumbers, since the roots are able to be preserved — for otherwise there would be no cucumber from last year's plants. And these will bear fruit sooner than the ones that are sown, because the roots are far ahead of the seasonal work by nature, whereas for the sown ones this must happen first — namely that in heaping earth around them you produce warmth, so that they are preserved and put out a shoot more quickly. This is also why, if someone plants cucumber seed in winter in little baskets and waters it with warm water and carries it out into the sun and sets it by the fire, the cucumbers will be extremely early, provided that, just as it stands in the baskets, he plants it in the ground when the fitting season arrives. Why do people water at dawn, or at night, or in the late afternoon? Is it so that the sun does not use up the water? Or is it because, if the water is warm, it destroys what is being watered?
9| Why are fragrant things diuretic, both seeds and plants? Is it because they are hot and easily concocted, and such things are diuretic — for the heat present in them quickly makes fine what it acts on, and the smell is not corporeal, since even things that are not fragrant, such as garlic, are diuretic on account of their heat, though more melting than diuretic. Fragrant seeds are hot, because smell in general comes to be through a certain heat; but foul-smelling things are unconcocted. And they must be not only hot but also easily concocted, if they are to be diuretic, so that in passing down together with the fluids they may make them fine. Why do those vegetables sprout into stalk more quickly which come from older seed — say three years old or two years old — than those from fresher seed? Is it because, just as among animals what is at its peak bears seed more quickly, so too among seeds those that are excessively old have had their power dried out, while the fresh ones are weaker because they still have a residue that is not proper to them, and those in between in age are strongest, the moisture having departed — so they bear seed more quickly? And this is what sprouting into stalk is; for the seed comes from the stalk.
10| Why does rue grow finest and most abundantly if someone plants it out grafted into a fig tree? It is grafted in around the bark and plastered around with clay. Is it because the roots of rue need heat and warmth (which is why, if one puts ash around them, they benefit), and the fig tree is hot? The sap shows this too, being the sharpest of all saps, and so does its abundant smoke. The fig tree, then, has heat and moisture of the same kind as ash also has, so that if ash benefits the rue, it is necessary that it thrive most of all on the fig tree too, inasmuch as the ash does not keep flowing in, whereas what comes from the fig tree always keeps flowing in, since the fig tree's moisture is not used up. Why is it that some plants always bear a hollow stalk? Is it those which must grow something else within it? Why is it that in Attica the other fruits become sweetest, but thyme is sharpest? And yet this too is a kind of fruit... so that the things that grow there do not have much moisture. Now those things that are sweet by nature, because of the moderate amount of moisture present in them — when the sun draws off most of it, what remains is easily concocted; for it is a great task to ripen a lot, but a moderate amount is easier. So things sweet by nature become sweeter. But in fruits that are dry by nature and not sweet, what is proper to them is left behind in small quantity because of its scarcity, and this remainder is the least sweet part of all; for the sun takes away what is sweetest and lightest. These fruits, then, do not have a surplus the way the other fruits do.
11| Why do pennyroyal and lilies and onions that are hung up bloom around the solstice? Is it because unconcocted nourishment is present in them, and in winter it is not concocted on account of the cold, but around the solstice, being concocted on account of the season, growth occurs? And this growth, because it has no inflow of nourishment, quickly withers. For having no starting point and no inflow, it dries out completely — just as among the Scythians, because much snow falls, it happens that the grain stays put and then shoots up quickly.
12| Why does the onion alone bite the eyes so excessively (which is why, they say, it has this name, as making the pupil close up), while oregano does not, nor other things that are sharp? For even watercress, which bites more, does not likewise make one weep when brought near, though it does when eaten and chewed, whereas the onion does so both when brought near and when eaten. Is it because many differences attend each of the sharp things, and these produce the particular power of each? Watercress, then, because it is hotter, is more drying than productive of the melting it produces, since it does make one weep when eaten; but not when brought near, because nothing fine evaporates from it, for it is drier and hotter. Oregano and things like it are hot and dry in a mild way; but what is going to produce weeping must be biting and also moist and sticky. This is also why olive oil makes one weep, though it has a weak bite; for through stickiness and fineness, by seeping in, it produces the irritation, and the melting comes through the irritation. The onion has such a power that both its moisture and its vapor are hot and fine and sticky. So when it is brought near, because its vapor is of this kind and sends off a fine moisture along with it, it makes one weep; and when it is eaten, the exhalation passing through... Garlic is hot and sharp and has moisture, but it is not sticky; that is why it does not make one weep.
13| Why do myrtle-berries crushed in the hand seem sweeter to us than ones that have not been crushed? Is it as with grapes that have been picked, which are sweeter than grapes that have not been picked? For since the must is by nature sweet, the trodden grapes seem, as it were, to have been sweetened, since they are soaked in it through and through and on the outside as well, while the grapes still on the bunch are not sweetened. So too, in the same way, with myrtle-berries, which are sweet by nature and have their sweetness within. Just like the grapes, then, when the berry is crushed it becomes filled from its internal sweetness, and on the outside it shows through as sweeter than it was. Why is it that the smaller myrtle-berries are more without stones, and so too among dates and among grapes, where the small berries either have no stones or have smaller ones? Is it because, being less complete, they do not have anything set apart as a separate part? For the stone holds the seed as its end. And for this same reason they are also smaller, being like offshoots and incomplete. And they are less sweet than the ones that have stones, since they are less concocted, and concoction is completion. Why is it that of fruit-coverings some are more bitter near the stalk, as with cucumbers, and others near the top end, as with acorns? Is it because in the former the nourishment there is unconcocted, since it is always flowing in along the root, while the fruit is by nature dry, so that when the sweet matter is drawn away from the tip and has already been concocted, that part dries out, and what is left is the bitter part, like salt residue? And when a thing dries out further it becomes more bitter, just as olives and acorns become bitter as they age.
14| Why do some plants sprout not while they are in the ground but when they have been cut off, while others sprout as they simply lie there, such as the stalks of lilies and garlic and onions? Is it because all of them have nourishment within themselves, but no plant has it in one fixed place? [It is the surplus of nourishment, then, that causes sprouting. And this is clear: for squills and bulbs do the same thing.] (Each thing grows not simply by having nourishment, but when it has been concocted and distributed. It has the nourishment even before this,) but it grows when the season comes in which this happens, the season that concocts it — as also with crocodile eggs. But the growth is not continuous thereafter, because no further nourishment flows in. Why is it that garlic and onions turn out better the drier they are when planted, while other things turn out worse? Is it because all such plants are especially full of moisture? Planted in this dry way, then, they become well-tempered. And also because they rot less when they are dried out before being planted. Why is it that garlic and onions alone among plants sprout while just lying there? Is it because they are full of moisture and nourishment? It is the surplus of nourishment, then, that causes sprouting. And this is clear: for squills and bulbs do the same thing. Each grows when its own proper season arrives.
15| Why are plants watered with cold water sweeter than those watered with warm? Is it because heat, when shut in, becomes more brackish, just as what is more brackish is also hotter, while the sweet is its opposite, like the cold? And moisture is the nourishment for vegetables, and their flavors come from this. Why do garlic plants smell more once they have grown a stalk than when they are young? Is it because while they are still young there is much foreign moisture present in them that takes away their power, but once they have ripened, this moisture having already been separated out, they then have their own proper smell? And this smell is by nature pungent. In the same way other fruits too are more watery when they are fresh; that is why onions when younger are less pungent. Why is it that in myrtle plants that have not been preserved, the berries fall off more readily than the leaves, while in ones preserved with seaweed the leaves fall off but the berries do not? Is this how it is with unpreserved plants because of their nature? For when the berry has ripened, it is its nature to fall off. But this does not happen to plants that have been laid down, and only the moisture of the seaweed prevents the moisture within the berry from changing. The leaves, on the other hand, fall off for the opposite reason, when they dry out, and the seaweed, being salty, dries them. So the same thing does not happen to the leaves whether they are still on the myrtle plant or have been laid down with it.
16| Why do melons turn out best in marshy plains that are full of moisture, such as around Orchomenus and in Egypt? For that country seems to be a watery one. Marshy places are indeed watery, and melons themselves are rather moist plants; that is why garden-grown ones are inferior. Is it because, owing to the hardness of the soil, they are forced to be planted deep? For clayey and level ground becomes especially hard, and plants set deep turn out better. Or is it because the soil needs to be dry, on account of the plant itself being moist by nature? For in this way, being drawn in the opposite direction, it will come to a mean. Marshy ground, though wetter, when it is deep has nourishment both because of the depth of the soil and because of its location, and this nourishment is not excessive, since the soil dries out again. Why does rue make sweat foul-smelling, and so do some perfumes? Is it because whatever substances have heaviness and pungency in their smell, when these are mixed with the body's excess moisture, make the smell more foul?
17| Why do they say that rue is a remedy against the evil eye? Is it because people seem to be bewitched when they eat greedily? Or because they are suspicious of certain unpleasant persons and wary about what is offered them? At any rate, when people take something for themselves apart from the same table, sharing it out, they add the words, so that you do not cast the evil eye on me. So everyone, in a disturbed state, will take in with their food whatever liquid or solid is given them, and from these, whether being retained or being vomited up, the food is thrown into disorder along with the breath, and this produces pains and gripings. Rue, then, eaten beforehand, being by nature heating, loosens the vessel that receives the food, and the rest of the body as well. That is why the breath that has been caught inside is released. Why does marjoram thrown into must make the wine sweet? Two cups of it are thrown into the amphora. Is it because it draws out the elements that produce harshness, taking up into itself, by its dryness, the watery and lees-like matter? A sign of this is that harshness comes from these elements: for wines are less mellow if water is added, and if one lets them stand longer in their lees. And when people make wine sweet, they lay the grapes out in the sun for a long time, and the sun takes away the watery part and finishes concocting the rest. Marjoram does this same thing, for it is dry and hot, so that it reasonably has this lasting effect.
1| Why are the dark-leaved myrtles more thickly leaved than the pale-leaved myrtles? Is it because they are wilder in kind? A sign of this is that they grow in the fields and change least under cultivation. And all wild plants are more thickly leaved, because since they concoct their fruit less, the nourishment is turned instead into the leaves. BOOK 21. PROBLEMS CONCERNING BARLEY-MEAL AND BARLEY-CAKE AND SIMILAR THINGS. Why do pearl barley and flour become whiter when oil is poured on, even though oil is reddish-yellow? Is it because it is the nature of oil, when mixed with moisture, to froth up, and this frothing is whiteness? And the mixing comes about by rubbing and stirring. It mixes more readily with solid substances, and this happens in boiled dishes, which is why it also makes them whiter. Why is nourishment from wheat especially suited to the body, and more nourishing, than nourishment from barley? Is it because it has a moderate stickiness? Nourishment needs to have this quality, for it must attach and adhere to the body, and stickiness is the cause of this. But barley is crumblier, which is why well-kneaded barley-cakes are more nourishing than unkneaded ones. Why is it that with flours the first-milled portions are glossier, but with barley-meal the last-milled portions are glossier? Is it because what is parched and dry crumbles all around its edges, while what is soft gets pressed in? And in both cases the innermost part is the glossiest.
2| Why does bread look whiter when it is cold than when it is hot? Or is it for the same reason that, in a way, old olive oil is whiter than fresh oil? For water is the cause of the dark color, and there is more water in both when they are fresh; but as time passes, because it evaporates, less is left on the surface. In the case of oil, either time or the sun does the evaporating; but in the case of loaves cooling down, the heat going out has, when they are cold, already gone out, while in hot loaves it is still present. Why do unsalted loaves weigh more than salted ones, everything else about them being equal? One would expect the opposite, since salt is an addition, and salt is heavier than water. Or is it because salt dries things out? That is also why salted, preserved foods keep without rotting: the moisture, which rots under the action of heat, is used up and dried out by the salt. So in bread too the moisture is used up by the salt, and breathes out. That is also why day-old loaves are lighter than hot ones, being colder. But in unsalted loaves this moisture, being present in greater quantity, makes them heavier.
3| Why is it that cold loaves, when moistened, do not stick together if they touch one another, while hot loaves do? Is it because cold loaves, along with the vapor, give off the sticky moisture within them, and once this has gone out they do not cling (for the water with which they were moistened is rather crumbly by itself), whereas hot loaves still have some stickiness in them? So when, once they have been moistened, the vapor goes out, the heat passes through and off because of its fineness, while the sticky element, going out along with it and mixing with the moisture, makes them stick together. And mixing with the moisture makes them stick together. Why is it that, of the ground meals, barley-groats are the brightest, and of the barley-groats the last-sifted portion is brightest? Is it because the groats, being parched, break apart at the edges — which happens most to what is pounded longest — while the soft, fine flour, which is the innermost part of the wheat grain, is pressed out first? And in both cases the brightest part is the inner part. Why does barley-cake, the more it is kneaded, become harder to pass through the body, while bread becomes easier to pass? Is it because, through being kneaded hard, the dough becomes finer-grained? For that is what stickiness is like; but by the fire the moisture is drawn out of the bread on every side, so that, the moisture having been wholly removed, it becomes crumblier the more it is kneaded, because kneading makes it finer-grained, and what is crumbly is more digestible. Barley-cake, on the other hand, the more it is kneaded, becomes stickier, since the moisture is mixed in with it; and what is sticky is not easily divided. Such things are hard to digest, for what is to be digested must be divided into small parts.
4| Why does barley-cake become smaller when kneaded, while dough becomes larger? Is it because barley-groats, once moistened and kneaded, settle down through the moisture's binding, since the groats are loose and coarse-grained, while flour rises up because it is very dense? For dense things, when kneaded, are heated, and being heated and filled with air they rise up, just as flesh does. And why does dough, when put to the fire, become larger than barley-cake does? Is it because it contains moisture that has not been separated out, so that this moisture escapes when heated by the kneading; and from the heated moisture air is produced, and from more moisture more air must necessarily be produced? Why is it that, although honey is more binding than water, flour kneaded with honey-water becomes crumblier, when boiled or baked, than flour kneaded with water? Is it because water, under the action of fire, sets and solidifies [the water], while honey also causes it to solidify, but at the same time dries it out further, which is why it makes it crumblier — for crumbliness comes about through dryness?
5| Why do twice-baked loaves not become hard when they cool? Is it because wheat has within it a certain sweet, sticky juice, which is, as it were, its soul? Here is a sign: when the wheat is thoroughly dried out it is emptied of this, but when it is damp it sprouts. Since this juice is present in the flour, and most of all in the purest flour, when the flour becomes dough and is kneaded, this is what happens. Here is a sign: when boiled, dough becomes easier to pass through the body. Now when the loaf is first baked, its crumbly and light part evaporates off, along with the moisture from the bread, and the most bran-like part of the flour gets burned away. But when the dough is taken out and kneaded again, the smoothest part of the flour and the stickiest part of the moisture, being what is left, mix together more with each other, both because they have become more of that character and because of the baking; for their mixture, through the baking, becomes like a dye, so that the dough kneaded a second time becomes like flour that has been boiled. And indeed that too, once the dough has been kneaded and the finest flour and stickiest moisture have been left over, becomes, when baked, sticky and resistant to drying out; for what is sticky is hard to divide, and what is dense lets nothing pass through itself. This, then, is the moistest part, and bread is affected by fire in the way described because of it; and having moisture in it always, it does not become hard.
7| Why is it that we can go on for a long time using some foods, whether dry or moist — such as the food made from barley-groats and flour, and dry wines, and water — while we cannot with others, even though these others are more pleasant? Is it because some of the things we take in are the sort that rise to satisfy quickly and are nourishing, so that even when we have emptied ourselves, and the first food has been used up, a great capacity is still present in the body — digested as far as concerns the body's first working on it, but, as far as concerns the final stage and what happens through succession, still undigested? And most pleasant things are of this sort. For fatty, sweet, and rich foods seem most pleasant to us when we taste them, and these are all [the] nourishing and not indigestible and quick to satisfy, whatever the particular kind may be; so that their power remains present within us, provided one has been filled with them and the sensation does not quickly fade. For satisfaction does not occur only from what is present in the stomach, but also once the food has been distributed to other parts. Or is this not the only cause, but also that some things are by nature well-proportioned to us and akin to us? For all such things, because they are in accordance with nature, are more readily accepted by our bodies, while things contrary to nature are less so. Different things suit different constitutions: for example, honey is in accordance with nature for bees, so that they take only that — and yet their capacity is weak. So what is used up must not be lacking, but the quantity must be proportionate to the strength that comes from the constitution concerned. So whatever pleasant foods are of this sort appear pleasant, because they exist less in nature, but only for a short time; then they quickly satisfy us. But of the things that are in accordance with nature we always have need, so that even when we take them continuously, we are, on their account, less satisfied by them than by the most pleasant things, though satisfied by other things less.
8| Why do the same things appear pleasant to people who have grown accustomed to them, yet not pleasant to people who take them all too continuously? Habit is doing something often and continuously. Is it because habit produces in us a receptive state with respect to something, not a filling of it, while continuous consumption of something fills the appetite, and acts, so to speak, as a cause? For appetite too is something. Now states, when exercised, grow and increase, while vessels, when packed, do not become any larger. That is why habit, being a kind of exercise, increases the receptive state, whereas continuous consumption packs and fills the appetite, and once it is filled we no longer accept more, but it does not increase the appetite at all, for the reasons already stated about packing. Further, habit is pleasant not because it is always giving pleasure — for even habitual things cause pain if one does them continuously — but because it makes us accept the beginning of the activity with pleasure, and makes us able to do the same thing for a longer time than we could if we were unaccustomed to it. So in the very respect in which this too, though pleasant, causes pain, other pleasant things do so as well in that same respect; for things that occur or are consumed continuously cause pain in both cases. The cause is that we do not have unlimited receptive and productive capacities in these matters, but limited ones, which, when they meet with what is proportionate to them (for this is what is perceptible as increase when it occurs continuously), are in some cases filled, and in others become unable to function.
9| Why does dough become white when it is kneaded, while barley-cake becomes rather dark? Is it because in barley-meal the surface dries out more — as when something is hot in a moist medium, which is what produces the whiteness? Or is it because, since it has been roasted, it draws the moisture into itself, being made of larger particles? Why do barley-meal hold together better when kneaded with water than with oil, though oil is stickier? And yet the sticky is more adhesive, and oil is stickier than water. Or is it that water is thinner, so that it penetrates into everything and makes it soft, and the parts grow together more and are pressed together against one another, even though they are pressed together apart from the kneading as well? Why do loaves that have not been kneaded, and those that have been kneaded excessively, both crack apart? Is it because the unkneaded ones crack because they are not bound together — for kneading binds them, so their way is already prepared for cracking; further, they contain their moisture unmixed and in quantity. Those that have been kneaded excessively, on the other hand, are extremely dry because they have little moisture left, for when they are heated all of it comes out. So both crack because much moisture is escaping — in the unkneaded loaves it is present in large amount absolutely, in the kneaded ones it is large relative to what remains.
10| Why does the mixture become lighter than the two ingredients, the moisture and the barley-meal, were separately? Is it because when they are mixed, breath is enclosed together with them? Or is it because, under the heat present in the barley-meal, some of the water evaporates, so that the mixture becomes smaller? As for air — even if it does get mixed in, it would not make anything lighter, since air too has weight when it is in air. Why does milk, and sweet wine, taste sweeter when drunk along with barley-meal? Is it because it appears sweeter by contrast with what is not sweet — for barley-meal is not sweet? Or is it because the barley-meal lingers, carrying its sweetness with it, so that perception has a longer time in which to act? Why does the same drink seem less unmixed with wine when it is drunk with barley-meal? Is it because one thing tempers another when mixed with it? Or is it because the barley-meal blocks the drink and hides it, drawing it away into itself? Why does groats take in more water than the wheat from which such groats were made? Is it because groats is in a way flour, and flour takes in more? For indeed the resulting bulk is greater than that of the wheat — since the material within the wheat has been packed tight, and what is packed less tight makes room for more. This is also because both flour and groats have heat in them, and what is hot both draws in moisture more and, by evaporating, uses it up.
11| Why does flour, when kneaded, increase in size much more, proportionally, than barley-meal does? Is it because the one takes in much water, the other little? And why does it take in more? It is more reasonable that barley-meal should — for it has been roasted, while flour has not; and what has been roasted is drier. Or is it rather because flour undergoes more kneading? The cause of this is that it is made of smaller particles. So then, in whatever proportion it is, by its fineness, more capable, in that same proportion it takes in water. For it uses water as glue, just as Empedocles too transferred the term in his Physics when he spoke of "gluing barley-meal with water." And for this reason it uses up a great deal. And why does dough, once it has been baked, become larger than barley-cake does? Is it because it contains moisture that is not separated out, so that when it is heated the moisture escapes without turning into breath, and is unable to escape as it does in barley-cake, because of the density of the dough — for what is made of smaller particles is dense — [therefore] it lifts the mass and produces the bulk? Further, it also contains more moisture, from which, when it is heated, breath is produced; and from more, more must necessarily be produced. Why do those who work at processing grain — those who work with barley become pale and afflicted with catarrh, while those who work with wheat stay in good bodily condition? Is it because wheat is more easily digested than barley, and that is also why its effluvia are as they are?
1| Why does bread become harder if one bakes it, but more moist up to a point if one merely warms it through? Is it because when it is baked its moisture departs — so it becomes harder — whereas when it is only warmed, the moisture, which had solidified, is dissolved by the fire, and so the loaves become more moist? Why does flour, when it cools, pack down less, while barley-meal packs down more? Is it because what is made of small particles leaves no gap unfilled, and heavy things, under pressure, hold a greater quantity in the same space? Barley-meal, then, is coarse-grained; when it cools it becomes smaller in bulk, so that the smaller amount compresses the larger amount. Flour, on the other hand, is already made of small particles, so it does not cool for this reason, but rather so that it may be lighter and not be packed down by the pressure — for flour is by nature heavier than barley-meal. Book 22. Problems Concerning Fruit-Season. Why, when we eat the same fruits later rather than earlier, does the bulk of our fullness not turn out proportional? Is it because fruit is much heavier than grain-foods? The figs show this, if they are eaten last, for they are the last to be vomited up. So if they are eaten first, their weight carries them downward and so opens up room above, making it easy to take in the bulk of the grain-food. But if the grain-food goes in first, since it is not carried downward, it quickly takes up the empty space above.
2| Why, though sweet things are more akin to us than pungent things, are we filled more quickly by sweet things? One would reasonably expect the opposite — for it was reasonable that we should be filled less by what is akin to us. Or is it because the vessel from which we are filled does not fill up quickly in the same way as the thing that is being nourished? Rather, sometimes the stomach is full, as with people who are thirsty, while the thirst is no less than before. For it is not because the stomach is full that we stop being thirsty, but because each part of the body has drawn to itself what is proper to it, and when those parts have taken in enough, then we stop being thirsty. And it is the same with hunger. Why are we filled more quickly by sweet things than by pungent things? Is it because our desire is satisfied more quickly by sweet things? Is it that, just as the stomach is filled, so too are we filled by sweet things? That is not agreed; but it should be said that our appetite is satisfied more quickly by them. Is it because appetite, speaking simply, is a lack, present whenever we no longer have nourishment, or have only a little? Now pungent things are not nourishing — they contain little nourishment but much residue. It is reasonable, then, that we seek to eat many of these, and do not fill our appetite for them, because we still need further nourishment while these foods do not supply it. Sweet things, on the other hand, are all nourishment, and the body takes in a great deal of nourishment even from a small quantity of them. So when it has taken in a great deal of nourishment, it can no longer go on eating, because it cannot bear more. It is reasonable, then, that we are filled more quickly by sweet things.
3| Why do fruit-rinds and meats, and such things generally, remain unspoiled in skins when the skins are blown up very tight, and likewise things kept in vessels sealed exactly tight? Is it because everything that is moved rots, while what is full is unmoved — for it is impossible for anything to move without a void, and these things are full? Why does wine taste bitter when drunk after spoiled fruit-rinds? Is it because this kind of spoilage carries bitterness with it? So what lingers on the tongue, mixing with the drink and spreading through it, makes the drink bitter. But the same thing, eaten by itself, seems less bitter, because such a flavor touches many parts and is distributed into small portions. Why should dessert-fruits be eaten? Is it for the sake of drinking, so as to have enough to drink? For one should drink not only for the thirst caused by the grain-food, but also after the meal. Why do roasted nuts become worse once they have cooled, and bread too, and acorns, and many things of this kind, while becoming better again once reheated? Is it because when they cool their flavor has congealed, and when warmed through again it is dissolved once more? And the pleasure comes from the flavor.
4| Why is it that after the enjoyment of autumn fruit, such as figs and things of that kind, one needs to drink either unmixed wine or water on top of it? Yet these are opposites. Is it because the fruit is both hot and moist on account of its coming-to-be? For it contains much fire and much moisture, so that through the fire the juice produces a kind of boiling inside, which is what unfermented must produces outside. The other tree-fruits have this power to a lesser degree. And the abundance of moisture produces indigestion. Now water, on account of its coldness, quenches the boiling, while wine, on account of its heat, does so for the most part; for just as fire sometimes takes away the strength of fire, if the second fire is smaller. But wine is more concocting through its heat than through its moisture, and by its weight it overpowers the risings-up of the boiling. Why is it that among dried figs the sweetest are those split in two, and neither the many-times-split ones nor the unsplit ones? Is it because from the many-split ones most of the sweetness has evaporated and dried out along with the moisture, while in the closed-up ones there is more of the watery element because they have not given off vapor? But the ones split, though not into many pieces, are free of both of these conditions.
5| Why do figs become harder when they are cooled in the kiln, if they are cooled while still in the kiln, than if they are taken out and then cooled? Is it because in the kiln all the moisture is evaporated off by the heat, whereas outside the surrounding air, by cooling them, prevents the moisture from going out and condensing? For it evaporates more inside. And dry things are hard, while moist things are soft. Why do wine and water appear sweeter alongside astringent things, as when one eats acorns or myrtle-berries or something of that kind in between? Is this reasonable, just as in other cases too? For everything appears more itself alongside its opposite, and the flavors of opposites are in a way opposed to each other. Or is it because, as in the case of things being dyed, the tongue is first worked upon by the astringent things and its pores are opened, so that the sweet passes through more? For indeed people first soak things that are to be dyed in astringent substances for this very reason, so that being worked upon beforehand they receive the dye more readily. Why do sweet things seem less sweet when they are hot than when they have been cooled? Is it because two perceptions occur for both at once, so that the perception of the heat drives out the other? Or is it because the unfermented must is itself also hot, so that it is, as it were, fire added to fire? The heat, then, hinders the perception. Or is it because fire takes away the powers of all things, being something that sets in motion? So while they are hot they are nearer to changing, but once cooled they have come to rest.
1| Why is it that chaff concocts hard things, yet what has been concocted does not itself rot? Is it because chaff is both hot and absorbent? By its heat, then, it concocts; and by being absorbent it takes up the rotting fluid, which is why it does not rot. Why do figs, being soft and sweet, damage the teeth? Is it because, on account of their stickiness, they cling to the gums, and because they are soft they slip in between the teeth into the spaces between them, and produce decay quickly since they are hot? But perhaps it is also, quickly, on account of the hardness of the little seeds; in the working of these the teeth suffer quickly. BOOK 23. PROBLEMS CONCERNING SALT WATER AND THE SEA. Why does the wave not break into foam on the deep open seas, but on shallow and short waters? Is it because a small body of water in motion is divided by the wind more than a large one?
2| Why do the waves sometimes travel ahead of the winds? Is it because, at the point where the wind begins, the sea, having first been pushed, always does the same thing to the water next to it? Hence, since the sea is continuous, it is as though a single continuous blow occurs for all of it at once. And this happens in one time, so that it turns out the first part and the last part are moved at the same moment. Air does not undergo this, because it is not a single continuous body, in that it receives many collisions from every direction, which often hinder the first and most vigorous motion; and they do not produce this effect in the sea, because the sea is heavier and harder to move than air. Why do ships seem to be more heavily laden in the harbor than on the open sea, and why do they run faster from the open sea toward land than from land toward the open sea? Is it because the greater volume of water pushes back more, arising from the smaller volume, while in the smaller volume the ship has sunk down more because it more easily overcomes it? For the water pushes upward from below. In the harbor, then, the sea is shallow, but on the open sea it is deep. So the ship will seem to be carrying more in the harbor, and it will move with more difficulty because it has sunk down more and the water pushes back less. On the open sea the opposites of these hold.
3| Why is it that, when something is thrown into a wave-tossed sea, such as an anchor, a calm occurs? Is it because the sea comes to a stop around the moving object, and along with it air is carried down together, which, being carried straight down and drawn in there, drags along with it the thing that from the side was moving the sea? Now the surge of the sea does not occur from above downward but on the surface; and when this ceases, a calm occurs. Further, the sea, coming together into the space parted by the moving object, produces a whirl. And the whirl is carried in a circle. Since a straight line touches a circle at a point, and the waves are carried along a slanting straight line, it would follow that they touch the outermost part of the whirl at a point, both for the reasons stated and because of the whirl's motion, or else, as it approaches, they are pushed away by it. And since the place at the whirl itself is without waves, it turns out that a calm occurs at its breaking-point, because the air, having gone down together with the object carried down, is carried back up and, pushing the sea upward, makes it bubble up, as it were; for a bubble is of liquid pushed up from below by air. And every bubble is smooth and calm. There are signs of what has been said: for the sea at the place where the object was carried down becomes elevated above the sea around it a little later.
4| Why is it that sometimes ships running on the sea in calm weather are swallowed up and disappear, so that not even wreckage floats back up? Is it because, when a cavernous place in the earth beneath the sea breaks open, the sea follows down into it together with the motion of the wind, both into the sea and inward? And likewise, being carried in every direction, it is carried in a circle downward. And this is a whirlpool. What happens in the strait around Messina happens for this reason, on account of the current (for the whirlpools arise from this), and it is swallowed into the depths both for these reasons, and because the sea there is deep and the land is hollowed out with caverns far underneath. The whirlpools, then, forcing their way, carry things into these caverns; hence the wreckage does not float back up there. And the current arises whenever, the earlier wind having stopped, a contrary wind blows against the sea which is still flowing in the direction of the earlier wind, especially when a south wind blows against it. For the currents, blowing against each other, are squeezed out sideways just as in rivers, and whirlpools arise. And the origin of the motion is carried spiraling, being strong from above. Since, then, it cannot rush off to the side (for the currents push against each other), it is necessarily pushed into the depths, so that whatever is caught by the whirlpool is necessarily carried down together with it. This is why ships are made to point upward as they go down; for indeed a case is recorded of a ship once being swallowed standing upright.
5| Why is the sea whiter in the Black Sea than in the Aegean? Is it because of the reflection of sight that occurs from the sea into the air? For the air around the Black Sea is thick and white, so that the surface of the sea also appears that way, while the air over the Aegean is deep blue, because it is clear far into the distance, so that the sea too, shining back, appears that way. Or is it because all lakes are whiter than the sea? And the Black Sea is lake-like because many rivers flow into it. Lakes are whiter than both the sea and rivers: painters, at any rate, paint rivers pale yellow but the sea deep blue. Or is it because sight passes quickly through fresh water and is not reflected toward the air, whereas from the sea it is not so? For sight is not reflected upward, because the water is not smooth, but going downward it grows weary; that is why the sea appears dark. But in lake-like places, since the fresh water lies on the surface and the salt water below, sight does not pass through but is reflected back toward the light; that is why the surface of such water appears white.
6| Why is the sea less cold than fresh water, and salt water less cold than sweet water? Is it because the sea is denser and more of a body? Such things are cooled less, just as they are heated more, since through their density they are more able to conserve heat. Or is it because the sea is oilier? That is also why it does not extinguish flame; and likewise with other things. And what is oilier is hotter. Or is it because the sea contains much earth, so that it is drier? And what is drier is hotter. Why is the sea, though thicker, easier to see through than fresh water? For fresh water is finer than salt water. Or is fineness not the cause, but rather that the straight channels in it are most numerous and largest? Fresh water is dense on account of the fineness of its parts, while salt water has large gaps in it. Or is it because the sea is purer? For it contains no earth, since the sand, being heavy, settles to the bottom; but fresh waters are earthy, and being carried along in between, quickly become muddied. Why is the sea easier to see through in northerly weather than in southerly? Or is it because the sea has color in calm weather? For an oily element is present in the salty liquid; and there is a sign of this — oil is extracted from it in hot weather. So when the weather is fair and the sea is warmer on account of its lightness, this oily substance floats up and blooms on the surface. In northerly weather it does so less, because of the cold. Now water is easier to see through than oil, for oil has color, whereas water, being colorless and letting things show through it, makes the reflected image clearer.
7| Why do people who have bathed in the sea dry faster, although sea water is heavier than fresh water? Is it because the sea is thicker and earthy? Having little moisture in it, then, it dries faster. Why are waves signs of wind? Is it because they are signs of wind that is going to come? For wind is a compacting of air. Or do they arise because something is always being pushed forward? What does the pushing is wind that is not yet continuous but only beginning. The first wave, as it were, dies away beforehand, but another pushes this one forward and brings on another density and then itself dies away. So it is clear that, once what is pushed forward is already present, what causes the motion will also come; for this is what a wind does when it is beginning. Why does the wave fall before the wind? Is it because the blowing wind and the sea's waving do not stop at the same time, but the sea stops later, and it is possible for the wind that caused the motion to have died away before it becomes perceptible? So the wave is not really prior to the wind, but one goes unnoticed and the other does not. Or is it not the case that winds blow everywhere at once, but rather blow first from where their source is? At the same time it blows there, it also moves the nearby sea, and this in turn moves the sea next to it; and in this way it would be possible for the wave to fall before the wind is perceived. For the motion that is faster than the wind or the sea is caused by the sea, not by the wind.
8| Why are people better able to swim in the sea than in rivers? Is it because a swimmer always swims by bracing himself against the water, and we are able to brace ourselves better against something more bodily, and sea water is more bodily than river water? For it is thicker and more able to push back against us. Why can people stay afloat for a longer time in the sea than in a river? Is it because river water is fine? Being finer, it seeps in more and so chokes a person more. Why does the sea burn, while fresh water does not? Or does fresh water also burn, but the sea extinguishes fire less because it is oilier? A sign that it is oilier: oil is extracted from salt. Or is it also that the channels of sea water are less able to fit close around the fire because they are thicker, and all the more so, since salt is present in it as well? Just as the dry is less able to extinguish than the moist, so too the dry is proportionally more able to burn, and one thing more than another according to how much nearer it is to the hot; and the sea is drier than fresh water, and both these properties belong to it more.
9| Why does no cold breath come off the sea at dawn, but it does come off rivers? Is it because the sea lies in open spaces, while rivers lie in narrow ones? So the breeze from the sea is scattered over a large space, so that it is weak, while the breeze from rivers travels in a mass and is stronger, and so it reasonably appears colder. Or is this not the cause, but rather that rivers are cold while the sea is neither hot nor cold? A breeze, an exhalation, arises when liquids are being heated or cooled; for whichever of these it undergoes, it turns into vapor, and as the water turns into vapor, the air that forms travels, and this is the breeze. So what comes off cold things is reasonably cold, while what breathes off things that are very hot cools as it goes and becomes cold. Now one would find that rivers are all cold, while the sea is neither very cold nor very hot; so what breathes off it is not cold, because the sea is not cold, nor does it cool quickly, because the sea is not very hot. Why do the waves settle more slowly in larger open seas than in shallow ones? Is it because everything that has undergone much motion settles more slowly than what has undergone little? And in large open seas the ebb tide is greater than in shallow ones. So there is nothing unreasonable in the greater motion settling more slowly.
10| Why is salt water, when cold, not drinkable, but becomes more drinkable when heated, and also when it is hot and then cooled again? Is it because it is the nature of a thing to change from one contrary into the other? Fresh water is the opposite of salt water; and when it is heated, the salt water is boiled off, while when it is cooled, the salt settles out. Why are the waters near the sea generally sweet rather than salty? Is it because they become sweeter by being filtered, and water nearer the sea is filtered more? Why is salt water not free-flowing? Is it because what is heavy tends to remain still, and salt water is heavy? That is also why only hot salt waters flow freely — for they have a lightness in them that overcomes the heaviness due to their saltiness, since what is hot is lighter. Further, free-flowing waters are filtered through the earth, and as they are continually being filtered, what is thickest and heaviest settles out the most, while what is light and pure is separated out; for what is salty is heavy, and what is sweet is light. That is why free-flowing waters are sweet. And the same cause explains why salt water, when set in motion and changed about, becomes sweeter: it becomes lighter and weaker through the motion.
11| Why is it that in Libya, if someone digs near the sea, the water is at first drinkable, but then quickly becomes salty, while in other places this happens less? Is it because the water that first exists in the place, and has been concocted by the earth, is fresh, but when time passes, the sea, seeping in gradually, makes it saltier, since the fresh water is no longer being renewed? Whereas in other places either there is no such seepage, or there is a great deal of water, because the place does not dry out. Why does salt water melt salt faster than fresh water does? Is it because melting is a matter of being divided by moisture or heat entering in, so as to become liquid? Now things do not melt either what is altogether unable to enter, or what enters in such a way as not to make contact. And what passes through easily melts only with difficulty, whereas what presses in forcibly divides most quickly. Now the particles that are too large in bulk do not enter at all, for they exceed the size of the pores; but the smaller particles pass through without touching. Fresh water is fine-grained, while salt water is coarser, so that fresh water, passing through easily because of its fineness, melts salt only with difficulty, while salt water does enter, but divides less because its particles are larger — yet it presses in more forcibly, and so acts more quickly.
12| Why does water appear less white when it is in motion, as also with a ripple? This is why Homer, of the wind beginning, says the sea grows dark beneath it. Is it for two reasons: because, when sight is close by, sight passes through more readily when the water is at rest, but when it is in motion, sight does not travel straight through — and what is transparent appears white? For that through which sight does not pass, he says, is dark. This is also why the air appears dark from far off, but white close up, and of the sea, the part close by is white, but the part far off is deep blue and dark. And from far off, since sight is in a way in motion, and because sight is reflected back all at once, if it is at rest facing the light it can do so, but when it is in motion it cannot. Why is it that on the deep seas the wave does not break into foam, but on shallow ones it does? Is it because the small quantity of water carried along is divided by the air more than a large quantity is? This is why it shatters more when it strikes. So in deep water a great quantity is in motion, but in shallow water only a little. Why do places toward the south have saltier waters? Is it because the sea, being pushed by the south wind, is driven under the land and mixed in?
13| Why does the salty part of water float more on top of sweet wine than on dry wine? Is it because the sweet wine has more earth in it, as does a raisin? Or is it because sweet wine is heavier and thicker, so that it mixes less, and not mixing, the salt water sits on top? Why does it sit on top at all, being earthy? For its natural motion is downward. Is it because the sweet wine has more earth in it? Or is it on account of heat, as with salt? For it is like an efflorescence. Or is there another cause? For if this is not the reason, and it also happens more with sweet wine, that is not unreasonable, since sweet wine is hottest. Why do the waves sometimes arrive before the winds? Is it because they also end later? For the first breath of wind, as it were, dissolves itself into the wave it has pushed forward; and what arrives is not the very first thing pushed, but the pushing is always passed on to what is next in line.
14| Why do shores with more waves often become as firm and hard as though they had been paved? And a shore exposed to waves is firm, while one further off is loose. Is it because small sand is not thrown far by the wave, but larger grains are thrown farther? Just as with throwing by hand, it is not the smallest thing that can be thrown farthest. Then, as many grains are churned together, the smallest ones falling in pack it tight. And the wave's motion, as it subsides, levels the ground, but no longer stirs it up. So then, because the smallest grains cannot leap far, the shore near the water is composed of very fine particles; and because the motion happens repeatedly, it becomes continuous as the sand keeps falling, until it fits closely together; and because of the last wave it is leveled flat, and the gently moving moisture cements it together. But the sand far off, being dry, stays apart, and is made of larger pebbles, and is not leveled.
15| Why is the upper part of the sea saltier and warmer than the water in the depths? And likewise in freshwater wells, the water at the surface is saltier than the water at depth — yet one would expect the opposite, since salt water is heavier. Is it because the sun and the air are always drawing up the lightest part from moisture? And the fresher part is always lighter, and is drawn off more from the places nearer the surface. So it is necessary that both from the sea's surface and from fresh water, what remains behind, from which the light part has been drawn up, is saltier than what has none, or less, of the sweet part drawn from it. This is also why the upper waters are warmer, for salt water is warmer than fresh. This is also why some of the followers of Heraclitus say that from fresh water, when it dries and solidifies, stones and earth are formed, while from the sea the sun draws up vapor. Why is the sea sweeter near the land? Is it because it is more in motion there? And salt water, when in motion, becomes sweeter. Or is it because the water is also saltier in the depths, and the parts near the land are less deep? This is also why waters near deep drop-offs are salty and not sweet in the same way. The cause of this is that salt water, being heavy, tends more to sink into the depths.
16| Why does the sea alone among waters burn, while fresh and river waters do not? Is it because it contains much earth? The salt shows this. Or is it because it is oily? The oil that settles out in salt shows this. Why does sand not form in lakes, or form less than in the sea and rivers? Is it because rocks form in the sea, and the ground there is most burned out by the sun? And sand is rock rubbed down into small and very fine particles. It is rubbed down by the battering of the waves. But in lakes clean rocks do not form in the same way, nor are they broken up in the same way, because waves do not occur there in the same way. In rivers it happens more, because rivers carry earth down and break up rocks by battering them.
17| Why is it that, when a lake either subsides or becomes dry, the grain in the plain is more scorched by frost? Is it because the moisture in the lake, evaporating, warms the air with its vapor, so that it makes the frosts fewer and weaker than in hollow and marshy places nearby? Or is it that, as is said, the cold begins from the earth and creeps in unnoticed — so that, when the lake is dry, the cold, falling over a greater area, freezes and scorches more? And in such regions the cold arises from below, as indeed it seems to. And yet the earth is warm in winter; but because it is moist, the warmth at the surface of the earth is chilled. For the moisture is neither so deep that it fails to be cooled, on account of the heat present in moist things, nor so slight that it has no effect, on account of the earth being soaked through. So it is, in a sense, on account of its being chilled, that it happens that one walks and dwells as if on ice. Why is the sea salty and bitter? Is it because there are several flavors present in the sea? For the salty and the bitter appear together.
18| Why do shells and stones in the sea become round? Is it because, being worn away all around in the same way, their extremities come into a round shape? For the extremity of a round thing is uniform, and the sea, moving on every side alike, wears them away uniformly. Why is it that in some places, if one digs near the sea, the water is at first drinkable, but then becomes salty? Is it because it is water of the sea itself, filtering under the earth? It is reasonable, then, that the first water is sweet; for the sweet is lighter than the salty, and the sea has some sweetness in it, which, when mixed with the earth, rises more to the surface. The salty part, on the other hand, is carried down because of its weight and because it is cutting. Whether, then, it is in this way, or whether sweet water flows to the sea through channels from the mainland, it is reasonable that it should be on the surface of the sea, where it mixes with it. But once the passages are opened up, later on, because of its abundance, the salty water prevails and makes everything of that kind. For it happens that, when the upper passages are blocked, the water flowing in seeks another route, but once they are opened, all of it is carried there, just as with the veins of the body.
19| Why is the sea, although heavier than fresh water, more transparent? Is it because it is oilier? For oil poured on top makes water more transparent, and since the sea has fat in it, it is reasonable that it should be more transparent. Or is it not the case that everything lighter is also more transparent? For oil itself is lighter than water, but not more transparent. Or is it not actually more transparent, but only appears so? For fresh water comes from the earth or from streams, and the spring sends up earth along with the water, so that, the streams not being pure, they carry down earth and mud with them. This, then, is the cause of its being less transparent. Why do those who swim in the sea become loose-bodied? For if it is because they exert themselves, then those who run on the wheel also exert themselves strenuously and are not made slack. Is it, rather, that not every exertion produces slackening, but only that which does not produce a wasting away? Time spent in the sea, and in general, seems to make people more prone to hunger and loose-bodied; for the vapor rising from it is hot and dry.
1| Why does every lake, if it is fresh, both wash and cleanse clothes? For the sweet washes, while the bitter cleanses, and it is not possible to have both at once. Or is it not by being bitter that anything cleanses, but rather stickiness that is what cleanses? That is why the extremities of animals and whatever is mucous are of this kind, so that even among bitter things, those that share in this stickiness cleanse. Now in this particular lake it happens that, of its natron-like power, the bitter part has been burned away, while the fatty and sticky part remains. By this, then, it cleanses, and it washes by means of its fresh water. Why does the calm part of the sea appear white, while the surging part appears black? Is it because what is less clearly seen appears darker? And what is in motion is seen less clearly than what is at rest. Or is it because what lets light show through appears white, and what does not appears black? And what is in motion lets light show through less. BOOK 24. PROBLEMS CONCERNING HOT WATERS. Why is hot water, if people have been anointed with oil, less hot when poured over them, even though the oil itself is hot? Is it because the oil, by smoothing the skin, makes it slippery, so that the water penetrates less? Why does the water in wells become hot after midday in summer? Is it because by that time the heat has already gained mastery over the air? For before midday the heat is still dissolving and checking the cold; it has not yet, at the same moment, both ceased and gained mastery, but only once time has passed.
2| Why does water, though sometimes becoming hotter than flame, not burn wood, whereas flame does burn it? Is it because flame is fine-particled, and so is the breath that comes from it, while water is coarse-particled, so that it does not penetrate in? Flame, and what comes off burning coals, penetrates because of its fineness and dissolves the wood. Why does boiling water not melt things, while the stomach does? Is it because the heat in the stomach enters because of its fineness, while water does not enter because of its thickness? Or is it because moisture in general prevents things from melting? For nothing melts while in a liquid. But in the stomach, the moisture, as it withdraws down into the bladder, dissolves things in this way. Why does the bottom of a vessel not burn while water is in it and boiling — indeed people can carry it while holding it by the bottom — but once the water is removed, it does burn? Is it because the heat generated at the bottom is quenched by the water? That is also why things that are meltable do not melt, unless a shock strikes them.
3| Why does water not boil over in winter in the same way as in summer, not only when it is heated to the same degree, but even when it is hotter, and heated more, and to an equal or greater degree still? Is it because boiling-over is the rising up of bubbles? Now the water itself is heated then no less than it would be apart from the cold, but the bubbles cannot rise in the same way, because the surrounding air is cold; rather, being compressed by the cold, they rise smaller in size, and, cut off by the air, they quickly collapse, so that they become fewer both in bulk and in number in winter, and the opposite happens in summer. Boiling-over occurs because of the abundance and size of the foam. Why does hot water wrinkle the skin, while fire, though hot, does not? Is it because fire produces breath, so that it swells the skin? For the skin is stretched taut, and a wrinkle is a folding. Why are the bottoms of vessels, while the water is being heated, hotter as long as the water is still cold? Is it because, while the water is still cold, the heat is shut in and turns back inward, being prevented from going out, but once the water inside has been thoroughly heated, it no longer holds it in, but lets it pass through, and as the fire becomes less, the bottom becomes colder — just as with bathhouses? For these too are hotter in winter than in summer, because the heat is shut in more in winter than in summer, since the surrounding air is cold.
4| Why does boiling water not spatter out, while pea soup and lentil soup do? And yet water is lighter than these, and light things are more easily thrown far. Silver does the same thing, too, when it is being refined; that is why the men who do the skimming in the silver-refinery profit by it, for by skimming together what is scattered about they collect the residue. Is it because what produces the spattering-out is the heat evaporating and forcing out whatever resists its motion according to its nature? Water, then, because of its lightness and fineness, does not force its way out violently, so that a large amount of heat does not gather in it, but before it can be massed together, whatever heat has just arrived breaks through and escapes. But things that have body in themselves, such as gruels or silver, having much of the bodily element by reason of their weight, and pushing back against the heat because it forces its way out violently, are flung off in globules wherever the heat manages to prevail; for it does not pass through, because of their density, but is held back until it is thrown off by the heat flowing in afterward. And what occurs is a blow, not a push, because the heat travels quickly from below upward.
5| Why do things soaked in hot water for a short time swell up, while things soaked for a long time collapse and become wrinkled? Is it because heat turns what is congealed into liquid, and liquid into vapor, and it rarefies what is dense? So the heat, warming the congealed matter at first, makes it more liquid, and by turning the liquid into vapor and dispersing it, it makes the bulk swell. But when the surrounding heat acts more strongly, it rarefies further, so that the vapor breathes out, and the liquid, drying up, makes the bulk collapse. As things collapse, the surrounding skin of everything wrinkles. And wherever this happens unevenly, that is where it becomes wrinkled. Why do stones form more from hot water than from cold? Is it that a stone forms by the failing of moisture, and moisture fails more under heat than under cold, so that petrifaction occurs on account of the heat — just as Empedocles too says that rocks and stones and hot springs come to be? Or does heat itself petrify, and things are also turned to stone by cold, because the excess of frost, using up the moisture, hardens them? This is clear, then, from the case of excess, and so also in the simple case. Why, when someone holds a foot in hot water, does it seem less hot while it stays still, but hotter once it is moved? Is it as with the body too — when someone runs in a breeze, the air standing in front of him is always cooler, but as he presses further into it he perceives it more?
6| Why do hot things cool faster in the sun than in the shade? Is it because the lesser heat is destroyed by the greater? Or is it that in the shade the cold standing around presses on the heat within and does not let it go out — which is just what the cold does to the dying when it pours in on them: it shuts the heat in and prevents it from leaving; and in general, in winter, the inner parts of everything turn out hotter. But in the sun, since nothing blocks it, the heat is carried off and departs faster. Why is water warmed by the sun for bathing not healthier? Is it because it cools again, and further because it makes the body shiver? Or does it do this too, but even if one bathes in it often, it is still unwholesome? For heat in general is concocting and drying, while cold is astringent, so that both do some good. That is why both cold water and water heated by fire are useful for bathing; but water heated by the sun, on account of the weakness of its heat, does neither of these, but rather moistens, like the light of the moon.
7| Why is water heated by the sun not good? Is it because things that are cooling make one shiver? Why are the hot springs at Magnesia and at Atarneus drinkable? Is it because a greater quantity of water flows in upon the hot water as it flows away, and its saltiness disappears while its heat remains? Why did the hot springs at Magnesia stop being hot, while the water remained salty? Is it that a greater quantity of foreign cold water was at the same time poured onto the springs, and quenched the heat within? And the earth was salty but not hot, on account of the quantity of water pouring in. So something similar happened as with water filtered through ash: for this too, being filtered through heat, cools that heat down, and itself becomes cold, and is salty and bitter on account of the ash. But since the water flowing in was foreign, for a different reason the heat present in the earth prevailed over the coldness of the water, because of its small quantity, and the springs became hot again. Why are hot waters generally salty? Is it because most of them are filtered through earth that is alum-like — their smell shows this — and burnt? And the ash of everything is salty and smells of sulfur. That is why it burns things through, just as lightning does. So many hot springs arise from the strike of lightning.
1| Why are hot baths sacred? Is it because they arise from the most sacred things, sulfur and lightning? Problems Concerning Air. Why do limbs shut inside inflated wineskins cause pain? Is it because of the pressure of the air? For just as the air does not yield to those pressing the skin from outside, but pushes back, so too the air presses on whatever is caught inside it. Or is it because the air is held by force and compressed? Straining outward on every side in accordance with its nature, it then presses hard against the body caught within it.
2| Why, in the marshes beside rivers, do the creatures called "bull-bellowers" occur, which are said in myth to be bulls sacred to the god? The sound that occurs is like the voice of a bull, so that cows are affected on hearing it just as if a bull were bellowing. Is it because this occurs in rivers that pool into marshes, or in marshes that stand stagnant, or are checked by the sea, or that release their air more all at once — is it in such places that this happens? The cause is that hollows form in the earth. So the water, being churned in this way — since there is a current within such a pooling — pushes the air out through a narrow opening into a wider hollow, just as if someone made a noise at the mouth of an empty jar, it becomes like a bellow; for in cattle too the bellowing comes about because of this shape. And the shapes of the hollows, being uneven, produce many strange sounds besides, since if one removes the base of a jar and rubs it, pulling in and out through the bottom — if one rubs through the binding — it makes a noise, so that wild animals flee, whenever orchard-keepers construct this device. Why is air not wet, though it touches water? For of other things, nothing that touches water fails to become wet. Is it because their outer surfaces meet together, and the plane surface of each is not a distinct one? Now other things are heavier, but air does not sink below the water's surface. So it touches the water, because nothing lies between them, but it is not wetted, because it is always above the water.
3| Why does calm, fine weather occur especially at midnight and at midday? Is it because calm is a standing-still of the air, and it stands still especially when the air is either mastering or being mastered, while it moves when the two are fighting? Now it masters especially at midnight, and is mastered at midday; for at one time the sun is farthest away, and at the other nearest. Further, winds begin either around dawn or around sunset, and the one from dawn ceases when it is mastered, while the one from sunset ceases when it stops mastering. So it turns out that some winds cease at midday, and others at midnight. Why, when dawn is just breaking and it is already early morning, is it colder than at night, although the sun is nearer to us then? Is it because toward daybreak dew and frost fall, and these are cold; so it is as if the whole region were sprinkled with cold moisture, and a general chilling results? Why does the region of the Black Sea have both the greatest cold and the greatest stifling heat? Is it on account of the thickness of its air? For in winter the air cannot be thoroughly warmed through, while in summer, once it is heated, it burns because of its thickness. And the same cause explains why marshy places are cold in winter but hot in summer. Or is it because of the sun's course? For in winter the sun is far off, and in summer it is near.
4| Why is the sky clearer at night than by day? Is the sun the cause of both wind and disturbance? For these come about when some motion has occurred, and the cause of that motion is heat. So when heat is not present, everything is at rest, more so than when the sun is rising — the opposite case. And as to why this clearness is perhaps never found coming from the mainland: it is because where there is the most motion, there a thing would least remain and hold together, since what is forming is not uniform and does not prevail. In winter, then, the sea is such a place of motion, and in summer, the land.
5| Why is it that when liquid is poured out into wineskins, the wine-jar does not only take in the liquid together with the skins, but also takes in something extra? Is it because air is present within the liquid? This air, then, when it is inside the jar, cannot be squeezed out because of the size of the jar; for it is harder to press anything out of a larger thing, whether liquid or breath, than out of a smaller — as with sponges. But when the liquid is divided up into small portions, the air is squeezed out of the skin along with what is in it, so that the place the air occupied becomes empty. That is why the jar takes in the skins and, further, still more liquid. And this happens more with wine, because there is more air present in wine than in water. Similar to this is the fact that the same vessel can take ash and water together in a quantity greater than each poured in separately would occupy. For the ash evidently has many empty spaces within it. Being finer, then, the water works its way through more and packs the ash down, so that it becomes compressed — and this is because the packing occurs part by part (for a thing is packed more tightly when it is packed a little at a time than when packed all at once), and as this happens the ash settles further down;
6| and at the same time the ash also takes the liquid into itself, because it has hollow spaces. And the ash, being hot when thrown into the water, cuts through it and turns it into vapor. And the same thing happens whether the water is poured in first and the ash falls in afterward, or the reverse — so that the water too would have hollow spaces and empty gaps within itself. Or is it not the water that receives the ash, but the ash that receives the water? For it is reasonable that what is finer in its parts is what enters in. This is also clear from experience. For when the ash is sprinkled in, the rest of the water flows together toward the spot where it is sprinkled — whereas the opposite ought to happen, if it were the water that was doing the receiving. Or does this not happen if the water is poured in first and thoroughly fills the space? But if anything at all is then added, it overflows. And if it once overflows and the ash then falls on top, this result does occur — for it was the ash that was doing the receiving. The same thing explains why pits do not take back the earth that was dug out of them: it seems that some air has taken possession of the space beforehand, and this is why they do not receive it. Why does air, although thicker than light, pass through solid bodies? Is it because light travels only in a straight line — which is why sight cannot see through porous things, such as pumice stone, since the pores in it do not line up, though it can see through glass — whereas air is not blocked, because what it passes through need not run in a straight line?
7| Why does air become cold from contact with water, but not thoroughly wet, even if one blows very hard into the water so as to make it churn — while the fact that it is cold is shown by its shifting away, for it cools things coming from the water? Is it because air is naturally disposed to be both cold and hot, so that it changes, to the touch, whatever it comes in contact with, but it is never made wet, because it is lighter? And it never goes down into the depth of the water, but always keeps to the surface, even if forced downward — and the water itself moves further down still, so that the air never goes down into the depth. Why does the air that rises up out of bubbles come out dry? Is it because the liquid does not stay on it, but the water slides off? And what remains on the bubble is too little to make it wet. Why does air not become saturated, but water does? For even when it is turned into air, it is still wet. Is it because it is not the case, just as it is not the case with stone either? For not everything is capable of being saturated, but only what is sticky or wet. ...or is it because air travels upward? For a wineskin, when empty, travels downward, but when it is inflated, it stays up, because the air carries it upward. But if air lightens things and prevents them from moving downward, why do things become heavier when inflated? And how is it that at one time, when a thing is heavier, it stays up, but when it becomes lighter, it moves down?
8| Why does air ...not travel upward? For if winds arise from air being set in motion by heat, and fire is naturally disposed to travel upward, then the wind too ought to have gone upward, given that both what moves it goes upward and what is moved is naturally disposed to travel in that same way. But as it is, wind evidently makes its motion slantwise. Why is the air from the east colder than that from the west? Is it because the one is nearer to midnight, the other to midday? Midday is the hottest time because it is nearest to the sun, while midnight is colder for the opposite reason. Why are nights more stifling than days during heat waves? Is it because of the absence of wind? For the etesian winds and their forerunners blow less at night. Why do things in wineskins not rot, when the skins are inflated, and likewise things in sealed containers? Is it because things rot when they are in motion, while everything that is full is motionless, and these things are full? Why is there more cold when the sky is clear than when it is overcast, given that the stars and the heavens are hot? Is it because in clear weather nothing holds back the vapor, but it disperses, whereas when it is overcast the vapor is held back? And the same holds for north winds versus south winds, and for the same reason: for the south wind draws such vapor along, while the north wind pushes it away. And vapor evidently rises more in north winds than in south winds, and more in winter than in summer. Or is this due to some dissimilarity? Or is it because vapor occurs when something hot is being cooled?
9| Why is a smaller volume of air hotter than a larger one? For confined spaces are warmer. Is it because the larger volume moves more, and motion produces cold? A sign of this is that hot things grow cold when set in motion. Why do water and earth rot, but air and fire do not? Is it because everything that rots becomes extremely hot, and nothing is hotter than fire? Or is it because a thing must first be cooled, whereas fire is always hot, and air is full of fire? Nothing rots while hot, but only once it has been cooled; earth, water, and air all become both hot and cold. Why are overcast days warmer than clear ones? Is it, as the ancients used to say, because the stars are cold? Or is that altogether absurd, and is it rather because vapor rises? It should also be noted that dew and frost form when there is no wind. So when the sky is clear, the heat disperses out, and it is this that draws up the moisture, so that the air is cold; that is why moisture given off from the heat forms dew. But when the sky is overcast, the heat is held back, so that neither dew nor frost forms when it is overcast. So the heat, remaining down near the earth, produces the warmth.
1| Why does the air stir back and forth in the upper parts of houses, especially in calm weather? Is it because air, in its composition, is full of empty spaces? So when it begins to flow inward, the air already in the room yields and contracts. As this happens, over time the air outside becomes fuller of empty space, and comes to occupy a great deal of room. Into this space, then, the air from the room falls, being close by, and is carried into this space because it hangs there and the nature of the void cannot resist it. And as this happens in many parts of the outside air at once, the neighboring air follows it because of the way they face each other; then, as a great deal flows in from outside, the inner region becomes full of empty space, and the outer region denser, and the flow again passes from inside to outside. And these movements keep alternating. Book 26. Problems Concerning Winds.
2| Why is the caecias the only wind that draws the clouds toward itself? Is it because it blows from higher regions? For the regions toward the east are higher than those toward the west. A sign of this is the size and depth of the sea toward the west. Blowing as it does from above, against the opposite direction, it makes, in its course, a line whose concave side faces the earth. Striking, as has been said, the western regions of the earth, and contracting the clouds because of the shape of this line, by the rebound from there it pushes them back toward itself. It alone of the other winds does this, because for the rest the regions from which they come are either higher or lie opposite, so that the motion from below happens to occur toward them in a straight line, the course having its convex side toward the earth, with the result that no rebound of the wind occurs, because a course that does not have its concave side toward the earth has, as the end of its motion, air in which there are no clouds near the earth; and for the less concave winds, and for the apeliotes, the reason is that it is not moist. So, since it does not condense clouds, it is less evident that it is doing what it does.
3| Why do north winds occur as seasonal (etesian) winds, but not south winds? Or do south winds occur too, but not continuously, because the source of the south wind is far from us, while we live under the north? Further, the etesian north winds blow when the air is settled (for they blow in summer), while south winds blow in spring, when conditions in the air are less settled. Besides this, the south wind is moist, and the region above is alien to moisture; hence the moist matter forming within it is quickly dissolved. And moist things wander, so that, not staying in the same place, it shifts along with itself the motion of the air too. And when the motion is not in the same place, it happens that other winds arise; for wind is motion of air. Why does the south wind blow after frost? Is it because frost occurs when concoction is taking place, and after the concoction and the purging the change is to the opposite? And the south wind is opposite to the north. For the same reason the south wind blows after snow as well. In general, snow, hail, rain, and every such purging is a sign of concoction. Hence too, after rain and storms of that kind, the winds die down.
4| Why do the reversing winds blow? Is it for the same reason that tidal straits flow back? For up to a point both the sea and the air are carried along in the flow; then, when it meets resistance and the land-breezes can no longer advance further, because they do not have a strong source of motion and carrying, it gives back again in the opposite direction. Why do the reversing winds come from the sea? Is it because the sea is near? Or because the reversing wind is opposite to the land-breeze, and the reversing wind is, as it were, a turning-back of the land-breeze? The land-breeze is the wind that arises from the land toward the sea, and the reversing wind is the ebb-flow of this. So it must come from the sea. [Or is the sea the cause] because the air that has flowed collects into the sea? And the cause of its not gathering instead into the land, and of its bending back as it departs, is that the sea lies in a hollow; and air, like water, always flows into the most hollow place. Why do storm-squalls die out sooner once rain has occurred? Is it because the cavities of the cloud, in which the source of the wind is formed, collapse once rain has occurred?
5| Why are not the same winds rain-bringing everywhere? Is it because the same winds do not everywhere blow against mountains, but different winds lie opposite different mountains? For where winds flow with difficulty against a rising slope, there the clouds settle more, at the point where the wind is no longer able to push them further forward. And settling there and being compressed, they burst. Why are clear sunsets a sign of fair weather, and disturbed sunsets a sign of storm? Is it because storm occurs when the air is condensing and thickening? So when the sun prevails, it separates the air out and makes it clear, but when it is overpowered, it makes it clouded. If, then, the condensation is strong, storm occurs immediately, by day; but if it is weaker, and not altogether overpowered, what is condensing is pushed out toward sunset. And it stays there because the air around the earth is thickest in winter. The rest of the air also quickly condenses, because it has a starting point and a support to receive and gather what is coming in, just as happens at daybreak; for just as in a rout, when one man stands his ground the others also stay, so too with the air. Hence clouding-over sometimes happens quickly and suddenly. So when sunsets are disturbed, it is a strong sign that the sun has not overpowered the condensation, though opposing it for a long time, so that it is reasonable that more should condense. And it is less alarming when this happens after a storm has already occurred than when it happens out of fair weather. For in the former case it seems to be, as it were, a remnant of something, while in the latter it is the beginning of a condensation.
6| Why is it said, "never has a north wind by night reached a third daylight"? Is it because winds from the north are weak when they occur by night? For it is a sign that the air set in motion is not much. The sign is that it blew at a time when there was little heat present; and little heat set little air in motion. And all such things come to an end within three days, the least of them within the first triad, so this wind too ends within that span. Why does the north wind blow more often than the south? Is it because the north wind, being neighbor to the inhabited world, does not go unnoticed even when short-lived (for it is present as soon as it blows), while the south wind often does not reach us at all, because it blows from far off? Why does the south wind blow less after winter nights than after winter days? Is it because even by night the sun is near the region toward the south, and the nights there are warmer than the days are toward the north? So a great deal of air is set in motion, no less than by day; but the warmer days hinder it from blowing more, by drying up the moisture.
7| Why does the south wind blow at the rising of the Dog-star, and does this happen in an orderly way, as with other things? Is it because the lower regions are hot, the sun being far off, so that much vapor arises? And indeed many winds would blow then, were it not for the etesian winds. As it is, these prevent it — or is it rather because the weather gives signs at the setting or rising of every star, and not least at this one? And it is clear that winds occur most of all at this rising and after it. And since it is stifling then, it is reasonable that the hottest winds should be set in motion at that time; and the south wind is hot. And since it is most usual to change from opposites into opposites, and before the Dog-star the forerunner winds that blow are north winds, it is reasonable that after the Dog-star the south wind blows, since the sky gives its sign at the risings of the stars. And to give a sign is to produce a change in the air; and all winds change into their opposites or into the winds on the right. And since the north wind changes into the winds on the right, it would remain for it to change into the south wind. The fifteenth day after the winter solstice is also a day of south wind, because the solstice is a kind of starting point, and the sun most sets in motion the air that belongs to it at that time, and at this solstice the sun is toward the south. So just as, by setting in motion the air from the east, it stirs up east winds, so too, by setting in motion the air from the south, it stirs up south winds. It does not produce this effect immediately from the solstice, because the changes it makes then are very slight, but on the fifteenth day, because that span of time is proportionate to the first appearance of the change; for the period mentioned is the most clearly marked part of the whole.
8| Why is it especially in the time of Orion that the days are variable and the winds untimely? Is it because in a period of change everything is always most indefinite, and Orion rises at the beginning of autumn but sets in winter, so that, because a single season has not yet become established, but one is coming into being while the other is ceasing, for this reason the winds too must necessarily be unsettled, because the winds from each of the two seasons pull both ways at once? And indeed Orion is called difficult both at its setting and at its rising, because of the indefiniteness of the season; for it must necessarily be turbulent and irregular. Why does the north wind by night stop on the third day? Is it because it starts from a small and weak beginning, and the third day is critical? Or is it because its outflow is sudden, as with squalls, so that its cessation too is quick? Why do north winds blow more often than the other winds? Is it because the inhabited world lies exposed to this quarter, which is high, outside the tropics, and full of snow, which never leaves some of its mountains? So it is chiefly from the melting of what has frozen that wind is often produced. And this is the north wind, the wind that comes from the regions toward the Bear.
9| Why do south winds blow in winter, at the beginning of spring, and at the end of autumn, and why are they wave-raising and gathered together, and, for the people in Libya, just as cold as north winds are here? Is it because, when the sun is near, the winds must necessarily be set in motion? And the sun in winter moves toward the south, and warms the region as spring is beginning and as autumn is ending, while in summer it moves toward the north and leaves those regions behind. And the wind is hot because it mixes with the air over Libya, which is hot; and because of this the summer, falling upon the sea, makes it swell with great waves and turn southerly. Why is the south wind foul-smelling? Is it because it makes bodies moist and hot, and such bodies decay most readily? But south winds off the sea are good for plants, since they reach the plants from the sea. And this is the cause for the Thriasian plain in Attica, because the wind arrives there cooled. Blight arises from moisture that is hot, but foreign to the plant. Why does wind generally arise before eclipses — a wind at dusk before eclipses at midnight, and a wind at midnight before eclipses at dawn? Is it because the heat from the moon grows dim as its course draws near the point at which the eclipse will occur? So, as the air, which had been held in check and was still, is released, it moves again and wind arises, and the later the eclipse, the later this wind occurs.
10| Why is the south wind not rainy at its beginning but at its ending? Is it because it gathers the air together from far off? And the rain is produced when the air is condensed, and it is condensed later than the wind begins. Or is it because at its beginning the air is still hot, from having come from such a source, but as time passes it cools and condenses more into water? Why is the south wind clear when it is small, but cloudy and longer-lasting when it is great? Is it, as some say, because of its origin — if it starts from a smaller source it is clear, but if it sets out from a larger one it is cloudy? Or is it because it is small at its beginning, so that it pushes little air, but toward its end it tends to become great? This is also why they have the saying: south wind at its beginning, north wind at its ending. Why do the winds set out from the east in winter but from the west as well in summer? Is it because, when the sun no longer dominates, the air, being released, flows? So, as the sun sets, it leaves clouds behind, from which the west winds come; and whatever it draws along toward those who live in the lower hemisphere becomes, for them, a morning wind. And the opposite happens when it sets in the lower part: it will make west winds for them, and here a morning wind arises from the air that follows it. This is also why, if it happens to catch up with another wind, the wind grows greater as it rises, because it has added to itself.
11| Why do dogs find scent trails least of all when the west wind is blowing? Is it because this wind confuses them most, being the most continuous of the winds and blowing especially close along the ground? Why, when stars shoot across the sky, is this a sign of wind? Is it because they are carried along by the wind, and the wind arises there before it reaches us? This is also why, from whatever region the stars are seen moving, the wind arises from that same region. Why does the west wind bring the largest clouds of all the winds? Is it because it blows from the open sea and along the sea's whole length? So it gathers clouds from a great expanse. Why are the winds greatest at their ending? Is it because, when they blow out all at once, little of the hot element remains?
12| Why, if the southwest wind blows around the equinox, does rain result? Is it because, in whatever region of the universe the sun is, it sets the winds from that region in motion? This is also why the shifting of the winds follows the sun's course. And since the equinox is the boundary between winter and summer, whenever it happens that the sun, at what appears to us as the equinox, has actually passed beyond, or has not yet reached, the precise boundary, and is more on the wintry side, it follows that the winds from that quarter blow, the first of which is the southwest wind, which is by nature moist. And when the sun is more in the wintry part of the universe, and sets the winds in it in motion, the effects of winter result; and rain is one of these. Further, since the equinox is, as it were, an even balance between winter and summer, if anything at all is added to either side, it makes the tilt clearly noticeable, just as with scales that are in balance. Since, then, the southwest wind belongs to the wintry rank and is by nature moist, its addition at the equinox produces a tilt toward winter, and rain; for rain is the weather-effect most proper to that wind.
13| Why are the south wind and the southeast wind, though hotter than their opposites — the north wind and the west wind respectively — more rain-bringing? And yet it is through cold that water is produced from air. For it is not because the north wind pushes clouds away from there that clouds form here; for the west wind and the southeast wind both drive clouds away in the same way (since they are alike oblique to the sun's path), and so do all the other winds, from wherever they blow. Is it because the cold gathers back inward more, when the heat is more outward? Or is it partly also because of the region from which they blow, that those winds are clear? For indeed the southeast wind comes from the dawn quarter, and this country lies toward the west, as does the west wind. But it is also because the air, having been heated first, like water too, cools most quickly and most completely. So the air from the southeast wind travels from the east while hot, and that from the south wind travels from midday. So when they arrive at a colder region they quickly freeze and condense into water. And the southeast wind produces rain more, because it carries the air more directly from the sun, and the air is correspondingly hot. And the south wind is rain-bringing at its ending, because the air first carried from the sea is cold, while the last of it, being thoroughly heated, is brought from the land. Or is this not the only cause, but also that the south wind grows greater as it ends? This is also why the proverb applies to it at its beginning too. And greater winds are colder; so they freeze the clouds later. Or is it for this reason that it is more rain-bringing at its beginning?
14| Why do winds dry things out, though they are cold? Is it because the colder winds cause evaporation? But why more than the sun does? Is it because they carry the vapor away, while the sun leaves it behind? So the sun moistens more but dries less. Why does the northeast wind alone, of all the winds, draw the clouds toward itself, as the proverb also says, drawing a cloud to itself like the northeast wind? For the other winds, wherever they blow from, push clouds back there instead. Is the cause that the opposite wind is blowing at the same time? But this would not have gone unnoticed; rather, wind naturally travels along the line of a circle. So the other winds blow around the earth, but the concave side of this wind's circle faces toward the heavens and not toward the earth, so that, blowing toward its own point of origin, it draws the clouds to itself.
15| Why doesn't a cold breeze blow off the sea at dawn, while one does off rivers? Is it because the sea lies in open regions, while rivers lie in narrow ones? So the breeze from the sea scatters over a large area, so that it is weak, while the breeze from rivers travels as a mass and is stronger; that is why it more plausibly appears cold. Or is this not the cause, but rather that rivers are cold, while the sea is neither hot nor cold? A breeze, an exhalation, arises from things being heated or being cooled: whichever of these a thing undergoes, it is turned into vapor, and when the water is turned into vapor, the air that results is carried along, and this is the breeze. So what comes off cold things plausibly blows cold, while what comes off very hot things cools as it blows and becomes cold. Now one would find that rivers are all cold, while the sea is neither very cold nor very hot. So what blows off it is not cold, because the sea is not very cold, nor does it cool quickly, because the sea is not very hot.
16| Why does the west wind seem to be the mildest and most pleasant of the winds, as indeed Homer says of it in the Elysian plain, "but always the breezes of the west wind blow through it"? Is it, first, because it has a blend of air? For it is neither hot, like the winds from the south and the east, nor cold, like the wind from the north, but stands midway between the cold and hot winds; and bordering on both, it shares in the power of each, and that is why it is well-tempered and blows especially in spring. Further, winds shift around either to their opposites or to the right. So, blowing after the north wind (since that quarter is on the right), it is well thought of, the way a mild thing is welcomed after a harsh one. And at the same time, when winter has run its course, fair weather tends for the most part to follow. And the north wind is a wintry wind. [And the east wind, since it lies midway between the hot and cold winds, shares less in them. For the east wind, in blowing, sets in motion the winds from the south (since that is the direction of its shift), but in moving them it does not mix with them. The west wind, by contrast, is itself set in motion by the south winds, and in blowing sets in motion the north winds; for it is here that the cycle of the winds comes to an end. That is why, having in itself the end of some winds and the beginning of others, it is rightly pleasant, and is thought to be so.]
17| Why does the south wind blow at the rising of the Dog Star? Is it because it gives a sign at the setting or rising of all the stars, and not least at this one? Clearly winds arise especially at this time and after it. And since the season is stifling, the winds set in motion at it are naturally the hottest; and the south wind is hot. And since—a period of time. Why does the west wind blow toward evening, but not in the morning? Is the sun, in rising and setting, the cause, for the most part, of the winds? For when it heats the air, which is moist, and concocts it and separates it out, it separates it into wind; and if the air is already windy, it is turned into wind still more by the sun. Now when the sun is at its rising, it is far from the region of the west wind, since that blows from the setting; but when the sun is already near its setting, then the wind has been completely separated out. And from midday toward evening the conditions are most proportionate for heating and separating it out. For these same reasons the east wind too begins to blow in the morning: since the air above the earth has been made moist during the night and, because of its weight, has settled close to the earth, the sun at dawn, in separating this air out, first sets in motion the air in its own region. And the wind that comes from the direction of the rising sun is for this reason called the east wind.
18| Why, as the sun rises, do the winds both increase and fall off? Is it because wind is a motion either of the air or of moisture that has been drawn up? When this moisture is small in amount, it is quickly used up by the sun, so that no wind arises; but when it is greater, it is set in motion more once the sun has risen, since the sun is a principle of motions. Why does the west wind blow toward evening? Is it that all winds arise from the sun dispersing moisture? For what was previously condensed, when the power of heat draws near, it kindles into wind. Now the west wind blows from the west. It reasonably arises toward evening, then, since that is when the sun reaches its region. And the north and south winds blow most often for this reason: that a thing overpowered by its opposite is least able to persist against it in a straight line, but rather from the side. So the south and north winds blow from the regions on either side of the sun's course, while the other winds blow more from directly opposite it.
19| Does wind travel from some source, as water does, such that it cannot be carried higher than that source, or not? And does it come from a single point, or from a more extended region? There are some respects in which winds resemble what is observed to happen with waters as well: water, when it is carried down a slope, flows faster than when it lies stagnant on a level, even surface. Winds are similar: on peaks and heights the air is always in motion, while in hollows it often lies still and there is no wind at all. Further, on very high mountains winds do not occur, as on Athos and other mountains of that kind. Here is a sign: whatever offerings those sacrificing in the previous year leave behind, they say are found still there, undisturbed, the following year. It is clear, then, that the movement of wind, like that of water, comes from some source. So it can no longer make its way upward beyond that source. This, then, is why this happens on high places. The same would hold for water as well: for neither a raging torrent of water nor an extraordinary wind is observed to occur on high places.
20| Why is it that when the south wind blows the sea turns deep blue, but when the north wind blows it turns dark? Is it because the north wind disturbs the sea less, and everything less disturbed appears dark? Why do south winds, when they blow lightly, not produce cloud-cover [or massing of cloud], but when they become strong they do produce cloud-cover? Is it because when blowing lightly they are not able to make many clouds? So they hold sway over only a small region. But when they become strong, they drive along many clouds, and that is why they are thought to bring on cloud more. Why is the north wind strong at its onset but weak as it dies down, while the south wind is weak at its onset but strong as it dies down? Is it because the north wind is near us, while the south wind is far off? The north wind, then, as soon as it begins, is immediately upon us, while the beginning of the south wind, since it has a long distance to travel, gets dispersed, and only a small part of its first onset reaches us; and of its ending, we perceive the one wind's but not at all the other's. So it is reasonable that the one dies down weak (since the ending of everything is weak), while the other does not seem to: for we no longer perceive its ending at all. Why is it that where there are gulfs, backing winds occur, but where there are open seas, they do not? Is it because a wind flowing into gulfs is not so much scattered, but is carried along mostly as a mass, whereas in open waters, from the start, the land-breezes are immediately more scattered, and when they do flow, they undergo the same thing, because there is room to rush off in many directions? For a backing wind is a bending-back of a land-breeze.
21| Why is it said, "at the beginning of the south wind and the ending of the north wind"? Is it because the north wind, since we dwell close under it and our habitation lies toward the north, blows strongly at once? For it is present as soon as it begins. Hence it blows pleasantly as it dies down, since then it blows weakly. But the south wind, because it comes from far off, arrives greater later. Why do people feel heavier and more feeble in south winds? Is it because a great deal of moisture arises from a little, being melted by the warmth, and moist air, though light, becomes heavy? Then their strength grows slack. Why are people hungrier in north winds than in south winds? Is it because the north winds are colder? Why does the south wind not blow along Egypt itself near the sea, not even for as much as a day and a night's journey, while above Memphis, at a distance of a day and a night's journey, it blows strongly; and toward the west it does not blow for about two days and nights' journey, while toward the east the southwest winds blow? Is it because Egypt is hollow in its lower parts? Hence the wind passes over it, while the regions further up and further off are higher.
22| Why is the south wind small at its beginning but grows greater as it dies down, while the north wind does the opposite—hence the proverb that it is well to sail at the beginning of the south wind and the ending of the north wind? Is it because we dwell more toward the north than toward the south, and the north wind blows from the north, the south wind from the south? It is reasonable, then, that the north wind, being violent from the start, presses more upon the nearby regions, and afterward its violence shifts toward those farther off. The south wind, on the contrary, presses at its beginning upon those who dwell toward the south, but when it has passed by, it blows strongly upon those toward the north. Why is it said, "if the south wind summons the north wind, a storm comes at once"? Is it because the south wind is of such a kind as to gather clouds and much water together? So whenever, this condition prevailing, the north wind blows in addition, since much matter is available to it, it congeals it and makes a storm. Hence it is said, "if the north wind seizes upon mud, a storm comes at once." For mud, and water in general, arises from the south wind either most of all or most often. Why does the north wind fall quickly upon the south wind, but the south wind does not fall quickly upon the north wind? Is it because for the one the arrival is from nearby, but for the other from far off? For our habitation is toward the north.
24| Why are winds cold, though they arise from a stirring caused by what is hot? Is it not the case that motion caused by heat is not in every way hot, unless it comes about in a certain manner? Rather, if it falls all at once, the very thing that releases the heat burns. But if it comes through a narrow passage and little by little, the motion itself is hot, but the air moved by it, being whatever it happened to be beforehand, produces a motion of that same kind—just as with the body. For people say that we breathe out hot and cold from the same source, but this is not true; rather, what goes out is always hot. A sign of this is that if you bring your hand close, it appears so. But its manner of release differs. For if we breathe it out with mouth wide open, through a large opening, it appears hot because we perceive the breath itself; but if through a narrow opening, becoming more forceful, it pushes the neighboring air, and that pushes the air next to it in turn. Since that air is cold, its motion too becomes cold. Perhaps the same thing happens in the case of winds as well: the first motion is through a narrow passage; then that air moves on, and other air flows in besides. This is why winds are hot in summer but cold in winter, because in each case the pre-existing air is of that kind. Since it is clear that the air is not carried in this direction either by being moved of itself or by being mastered by the heat—clear not only from this, but also because, if the heat present in greater amount warmed the winds, it would be carried upward. For that is the nature of fire, while what is cold is naturally carried downward. But winds move sideways, reasonably so; for since the one force drives them upward and the other downward, and neither prevails, and they cannot remain still, it is reasonable that their motion becomes oblique.
25| Why are south winds cold in Libya, just as north winds are among us? Is it, first, because in the one case the origins of the winds are nearer to us, and in the other nearer to them? For if, as we said, winds arise through a narrow passage, they will be colder for those nearer to their source, on account of the intensity of the motion; for as it proceeds further off, it disperses. Hence among us too the north winds are cold, because we are nearer to them and dwell altogether close to the north. Why are dry south winds, those not accompanied by rain, feverish? Is it because they produce in bodies a foreign hot moisture? For they are moist and hot by nature, and this is what is feverish; for fever arises from an excess of both of these together. So whenever they blow under the sun's influence without rain, they hold this character; but whenever they blow together with rain, the rain cools them down. Why do the etesian winds always blow at the same season and in the same numbers? And why do they die down as the day ends, and not blow during the night? Is this because the melting snow stops being melted by the sun toward evening and during the night? And in general they blow when the sun begins to prevail over and dissolve the ice toward the north. So at the beginning of this the forerunner winds blow, but once it is already being dissolved, the etesian winds blow.
26| Why is the west wind the smoothest of the winds, and cold, and blows especially in two seasons, spring and autumn, and toward evening of the day, and especially over land? Is it cold because it blows from the sea and from open plains? It is less cold than the north wind because it blows from water turned into wind rather than from snow; but it is cold because it blows after winter, when the sun has only just begun to prevail, and in autumn, when the sun no longer prevails—for it does not, as on land, linger to hold the heat, but wanders because it travels over moisture. And it is uniform for the same reason; for it does not blow from mountains, nor from something melting by force, but flows easily as if through a channel. For the regions toward the north and south are mountainous, but toward the west there is neither mountain nor land, only the Atlantic sea, so that it is carried over the sea. And it blows toward evening of the day because of its location; for then the sun draws near to that region. And it stops during the night because the sun's motion then ceases. Why, when the east wind blows, do all things appear larger—is it because it makes the air most murky?
28| Why do the winds blow early, from the dawn, in winter, but in the evening, from the west, in summer? Or is it that what happens to us in summer happens in winter to those who inhabit the opposite hemisphere of the earth, while for us in winter the winds blow early and from the dawn because the air, being thoroughly moist during the night, is separated out and set in motion in the morning by the sun—first the air nearest to the sun? The sun does this even before sunrise; that is why breezes blow no less before sunrise. Since, then, the sun draws moisture to itself and, before sunrise in winter, sets in motion the air near us, which is moist, it is clear that it would likewise draw moisture to itself when it is in the lower hemisphere, and evening for them is what dawn is for us. So it would follow that the air drawn to itself by the sun before sunrise from us becomes, for those below, a west wind, and blows in the evening. And what happens to us in our winter corresponds, for them, to their dawn; and what happens in our summer corresponds, for us, to evening. For when it is summer with us, it is winter there, and our evening is their dawn. At that time breezes happen to blow from the east for them, but west winds for us, for the same reasons as stated. In summer, east winds do not blow at dawn, because the sun rises upon air that is still drier with us, since only a little time has passed since it set; and west winds do not blow in the evening in winter, because in the lower hemisphere there are no east winds at that hour either, for the reasons stated—so that it is the sun drawing the moisture to itself that produces our west wind.
29| Why does the west wind seem to be the mildest and most pleasant of the winds? Is it because it lies on the border between the hot and the cold winds, and, being neighbor to both, shares in the power of each? That is why it is well-tempered. The east wind shares in this less, though it too lies in the middle of the same winds; for when the east wind blows it sets the winds toward the south in motion (for that is the direction of its shift), but in setting them in motion it does not mix with them. The west wind, however, is itself set in motion by the south winds, and in blowing it sets the north winds in motion; for the cycle of the winds ends there. Since, then, it has in itself the end of the one set and the beginning of the other, it is with good reason pleasant, and is thought to be so.
30| Why are different winds rain-bringing in different places—for instance in Attica and the islands the Hellespontian, in the Hellespont the north wind, and likewise in Cyrene, but around Lesbos the south wind? Is it that wherever there is a gathering of clouds, there is rain? For it is there that the condensation collects, wherever it has somewhere to settle. That is why it rains more in the mountains than where the mass of cloud can pass on through; for when hemmed in it is condensed, and this must happen. And it rains more in calm weather. In the Hellespont, then, the north wind drives together many clouds from above, but toward Attica and the islands the Hellespontian wind does so, having them as it were as material; for most clouds gather round from the north wind. Around Lesbos the southeast and south winds, bringing many clouds from the open sea, drive them against the land. The same holds in the other cases too. Why is it said: never fear a cloud from the mainland, but from the sea, in winter; in summer, though, from the black mainland? Is it because in winter the sea is warmer, so that if anything has formed there, it clearly has formed from a strong source—for it would have been dissolved, since the place is warm? In summer, on the other hand, the sea is cold, and so are the winds off the sea, while the land is warm, so that if anything is carried from the land, it has formed from a greater source—for it would have been dissolved, had it been weak.
31| Why is it that in Arcadia, though it is high country, the winds are no colder than elsewhere, but when there is no wind and the sky is overcast it is cold, as in flat marshy regions? Is it because Arcadia too becomes like marshy country—for it has no outlets for its waters to the sea, and that is why there are many chasms there? So whenever there is wind, it fans away the exhalation from the earth, which is cold, while the winds themselves are not cold, because they strike in from the sea; but in calm weather the vapor rising from the standing water produces the cold. Why is it that, if the wind begins to blow at dawn, it tends to blow all day long? Is it because the motion is most vigorous when the sun is just beginning, and so, being of this kind, it extends further? A sign of this is that the formation is strong. Why is the north wind bright by day but drops at night? Is it because it arises from frozen rain, whenever this is drawn up as vapor by the sun's action? It drops at night because the process of generation is not the same, but works in the opposite way; for it breathes out at night, and less by day.
1| Why, when spider-webs are carried about in quantity, are they a sign of wind? Is it because the spider works in calm weather, and the webs are carried because the air, being chilled, contracts toward the earth, and chilling is the beginning of winter—so the carrying of the webs is a sign? Or is it that after rains and storms the mass-carrying of webs occurs, because the spiders have been working during the calm weather, since they are not seen working in winter, this being a thing they cannot bear the cold for; and being carried by the wind, they get unspooled a great deal. And after rains, winds generally tend to arise. Why are strong north winds in winter cloudy in cold regions, but clear outside them? Is it because they are at once cold and strong, and colder the nearer they are, so that they freeze the clouds before they can drive them off; and once frozen, the clouds remain, because of their weight? Farther out, the north winds work more by their strength than by their cold. BOOK 27. PROBLEMS CONCERNING FEAR AND COURAGE Why do those who are afraid tremble? Is it on account of the chilling? For the heat fails and contracts inward; that is also why, in many people, the bowels are loosened.
2| Why, then, do some also grow thirsty, as those about to be punished do? For one would not expect this, if they are being chilled. Or is it that the chilling and the heat are not in the same place, but the one is on the surface, from which the heat withdraws, while the other is within, so that it heats up the inner region? A sign of this is precisely the loosening of the bowels. Since, then, the governing region is being dried out, thirst results. This seems similar to what happens to those with ague, who feel thirsty at the same time as they shiver; for there too it is not the same region that is chilled and heated.
3| Why is it that in fits of anger, when the heat gathers inward, people are hot through and bold, but in fear the opposite happens? Is it that the heat does not gather in the same place—rather, in those who are angry it gathers around the heart, which is why they are also bold and flushed and full of breath, the motion being upward—while in those who are afraid the blood and the heat flee downward together, which is also why the bowels are loosened? Since even the throbbing of the heart is not alike in the two cases, but in the one it is, as it were, due to the withdrawal of heat, rapid and pricking, while in the other it is as though more heat were gathering; that is also why people speak, not badly but fittingly, of anger boiling up and being stirred and disturbed, and all such expressions. Is it, then, for this same reason that thirst occurs, since indeed dry spitting and stammering and the like come about through the rising of breath together with heat? And thirst too clearly arises when the body is being heated. How, then, is the same region dried out in both cases—the region by which we come to thirst—both in the frightened man and in the angry man? It is because fear too is thirst-producing, as those in flight show.
4| For nowhere else do people thirst like this. And so too do those in great anguish; that is why they rinse their mouths and sip a little, as the actor Parmenon used to do. Or is it that these people do not feel thirst at all, but a dryness that comes from the blood's having fled, which is also why they turn pale? A sign of this is that they do not drink much, but only gulp a little. Those in a rout, by contrast, thirst along with exertion. That is also why those who are about to be punished thirst; and there is nothing strange in this. In warfare some even of the brave, once they are drawn up for battle, tremble without being beside themselves, but while remaining confident; and their custom is to whip the body with a flat rod, or, failing that, to warm themselves by rubbing with their hands. It appears, then, that because of the sharpness and rush of the heat there is a kind of disturbing irregularity throughout the body.
5| Why are brave men, for the most part, fond of wine? Is it because brave men are hot, and their heat is concentrated about the chest? For it is there too that fear shows itself, arising as a kind of chilling. Hence in some the region about the heart cools less and stays put, while in others it leaps as it is chilled. Those, then, who have a lung full of blood have it hot, as if they were already wine-flushed, so that the mental image of the terrible does not chill them. Such men are also fond of drinking; for the desire for drink arises because of the heat of this part (this has been discussed elsewhere), and so does the desire for whatever stops that heat. Now wine is hot by nature, but it stops thirst better than water does, and especially in the same people; the reason for this has been given elsewhere. That is also why both those with pneumonia and the mad alike desire wine, even though in the one case the lung is hot because of feverish heat, and in the other because of disturbance. Since, then, the same people are generally, by their natural type, both thirsty and brave, and since thirsty people desire wine, and such people are fond of drinking, it is necessary that these natures generally accompany one another. That is also why the wine-flushed are braver than those who are not.
6| Why do cities honor courage above all, though it is not the best of the virtues? Is it because they are continually either making war or being warred upon, and courage is the most useful virtue in both cases? For they honor not the best things absolutely, but the things best for themselves. Why do the frightened tremble most of all in voice, hands, and lower lip? Is it because the affection is a failing of heat from the upper regions? That is also why they turn pale. It is because the voice comes from the chest that it trembles, since that by which it is moved is being chilled. The hands likewise tremble, for they are attached to the chest. But the lower lip, and not the upper, hangs down in the direction it naturally inclines; whereas for the lower lip to be drawn upward is against nature, and it is kept still up there only by the heat; when this heat is withdrawn because of chilling, the lip trembles. And in fits of anger too, for the same reason, the lip hangs loose. This is clear in the case of children, for in them the heat runs together toward the heart. Why do the frightened tremble, especially in voice, in the hands, and in the lower lip of the body? Is it because the heat departs from this region, in which the voice resides? And the lip and the hands tremble because they are the most easily moved parts and have the least blood. And they release their bile while drawing their genitals upward; they release the bile because the heat descending melts it away, and they draw the genitals up because the fear comes from outside; so the flight is toward the opposite direction.
7| Why do the frightened both thirst and shiver with cold? These are opposite affections. Is it that they shiver as they are chilled, but thirst as they are heated? Because in fear the heat and the moisture alike fail from the upper regions. The color of the face and the bowels show this: the face turns pale, and the bowels are sometimes loosened; the shivering, then, comes about because heat fails from the upper regions, and the thirst because of the moisture. Since both fear and pain are a kind of distress, why do those in pain cry out, while those in fear fall silent? Is it that those in pain hold their breath (which is why it comes out all at once, together with a cry, when it does escape), whereas in the frightened the body has been chilled and the heat has been carried downward, and it is heat that produces breath? Wherever, then, the heat has been carried most, there it also produces breath. That is also why the frightened break wind. The voice is a movement of breath somehow upward and occurring through certain passages. The reason those in pain hold their breath is that we all, by nature, as soon as we suffer, use without reasoning the aids that are innate in us, just as the other animals do too; for some defend themselves with horns, some with teeth, some with claws. And against pains, all or most of them, heat is a help. This is what holding the breath produces; for it heats and concocts the pain, drawing the heat together inside by means of the breath.
8| Why in the frightened are the bowels loosened and do they feel the need to urinate? Is it that the heat within us is like a living creature? This, then, flees whatever it fears. Since the fears from anguish and the like come from outside, and travel from the upper regions to the lower and from the surface to the interior, the regions about the belly and the bladder, being heated, are loosened, and this makes them ready to void. For dill and wormwood, and whatever is diuretic, are also heating. Likewise the drugs that act on the bowels are heating in the lower region; and some of these dissolve only what has been brought in, while others also produce a further melting, as garlic does with urine. The heat that gathers into these regions from the surface produces the same effect in such cases. Why do the frightened draw their genitals up? For one would expect the opposite, since the heat of the frightened gathers into this region, so that the parts should relax. Or is it that almost all the frightened are, as it were, in a state of shivering? Since the heat has failed from the surface, they contract. That is also why those in dreadful terror make a buzzing sound. The surface skin of those who shiver also seems to contract, since the heat has been driven out; that is also why they get goosebumps. The scrotum too is drawn up, and the testicles are pulled along with it as it contracts. This is seen to happen more quickly in sexual matters; for fear expels, and in many of those in great anguish or great fear the emission of seed is set in motion together with it.
1| BOOK 28. PROBLEMS CONCERNING TEMPERANCE AND INTEMPERANCE, AND CONTINENCE AND INCONTINENCE Why do some people fall ill when, having grown accustomed to living intemperately, they then live a life that is not intemperate? For example, Dionysius the tyrant, when during the siege he stopped drinking for a short time, immediately fell into consumption, until he changed back again to drunkenness. Is it that habit is a great thing for each of us, for it already becomes a kind of nature? Just as a fish would fare badly living continuously in air, or a man in water, so too those who change their habits find it hard to be rid of them, and returning again to their accustomed ways becomes for them a kind of salvation, as if it were a return to their natural condition. Further, such people also become subject to wasting away, being accustomed to use their own particular food in abundance; for when they do not receive their accustomed food, they are affected as if they were receiving no food at all. Moreover, when the residues are mixed with abundant food they disappear, but when they alone are present they rise to the surface and are carried to the eyes or the lung; whereas when food is taken in, these residues, being blended together, become watery and harmless. In those who live intemperately, once they have for a time given up their accustomed way of life, the residues become more numerous, because much unassimilated matter is present in them from their former way of life; and as this is melted by the innate heat, like a great mass of snow, copious discharges come to occur.
2| Why do we speak of lack of self-control only with respect to two senses, namely touch and taste? Is it because of the pleasures that arise from these for us and for the other animals as well? Since these pleasures are shared with the other animals, they are the least honorable, and this is why they alone, or most of all, are subject to reproach. So we blame the person who is mastered by them and say he is uncontrolled and self-indulgent, because he is mastered by the worst pleasures. Why are people said to lack self-control only with respect to appetites, when there is also a lack of self-control with respect to anger? Is it because the uncontrolled person is one who acts against reason, and lack of self-control is a being led against reason, while appetites, one might say, are for the most part against reason, whereas fits of anger occur with reason present — not as though reason commanded them, but as though reason had pointed out the insult or its cause? Why do we look for self-restraint and moderation especially in the young and the rich, but justice especially in the poor? Is it because a person is admired more for abstaining from the very thing he most needs than for abstaining from its opposite? So the poor man needs abundance, while the young and rich man needs enjoyment.
3| Why do we bear thirst less well than hunger? Is it because it is more painful? A sign of its being more painful is that it is more pleasant for a thirsty man to drink than for a hungry man to eat, and what is opposite to the pleasant is more painful. Or is it because what is hot needs moisture more than what is dry needs the substance by which we live? Or is it because thirst is a desire for two things, drink and nourishment, while hunger is a desire for one thing only, nourishment? Why do we hold out less well against thirst than against hunger? Is it because we suffer more pain? A sign of the pain is that the pleasure of relief is more intense. Further, the thirsty person is in want of two things, nourishment and cooling (for drink supplies both), while the hungry person is in want of only one.
4| Why are people who indulge to excess in the pleasure of touch or taste called uncontrolled? For both those who are self-indulgent about sexual matters and those who are self-indulgent about the enjoyments of food are called this. Now among the pleasures connected with food, in some cases the pleasant sensation is in the tongue, in others in the throat, which is why Philoxenus prayed to have the gullet of a crane. But those who indulge in sight and hearing are not called this. Is it because the pleasures arising from these two are shared by us with the other animals? Since they are shared, they are the least honorable, and are most of all, or alone, subject to reproach, so that we blame the person who is mastered by them and call him uncontrolled and self-indulgent because he is mastered by the worst pleasures. Now since there are five senses, the other animals take pleasure only from the two just mentioned, and with respect to the others either they take no pleasure at all, or this happens to them only incidentally. For an animal that sees or smells rejoices because it is getting some enjoyment from it; and once it has had its fill, such things are no longer pleasant to it, just as the smell of preserved fish is not pleasant to us once we have had enough of eating. But when we are in want, such things are pleasant. The scent of the rose, however, is always pleasant.
1| Why do people hold back their laughter less when acquaintances are present? Is it because when something is strongly stirred up it is easily set in motion? And the goodwill of those present makes what is said seem more laughable, so that it sets off the motion. BOOK 29. PROBLEMS CONCERNING JUSTICE AND INJUSTICE Why is it that, although the wrongdoing is greater when someone damages a greater good, and honor is a greater good than money, injustice in matters of money nevertheless seems worse, and unjust people are thought to be unjust especially with regard to money? Is it because people choose money over honor, and money is the most common thing of all, while honor belongs to few, and the use of it occurs only rarely?
2| Why is it more terrible to withhold a deposit than a loan? Is it because it is shameful to wrong a friend? Now the person who withholds a deposit wrongs a friend, for no one entrusts a deposit to someone he does not trust. But the person to whom the loan belongs is not a friend, for one does not lend to a friend, if he is a friend, but gives outright. Or is it because the wrongdoing is greater? For in addition to the loss, he also violates the trust for the sake of which, if for no other reason, one ought to abstain from wrongdoing. Further, it is base not to requite like with like: the one party gave as to a friend, but the other took the deposit away as from an enemy, whereas the lender did not give as a friend. Further, in the one case the giving is for the sake of safekeeping and return, in the other for the sake of profit as well; and we are less indignant at a loss if we were angling for gain, as fishermen are over their bait, for there the risk is evident beforehand. Further, it is generally people who are being plotted against and who are unfortunate who make deposits, while it is people who are well off who lend; and it is more terrible to wrong the unfortunate person than the fortunate one. Why do some courts vote more by the evidence of family relation than by wills? Is it because it is not possible to lie falsely about one's family, but only to declare what actually is the case, whereas many wills have already been proven false?
3| Why is poverty found among decent people rather than among base ones? Is it because, hated and driven out by everyone, it takes refuge with the reasonable, thinking that it will find safety and endurance especially among them? For if it went to wicked men, they would not remain in the same condition but would turn to stealing or plundering, and once this happened poverty would no longer be present among them. Or is it because poverty thinks that decent people would make the best use of it, and would be least likely to treat it with outrage? So just as people place deposits of money with decent men, in the same way poverty arranges things on its own behalf. Or is it because, being female, it is more helpless, and so needs decent men? Or is it because, being itself an evil, it would not go to what is evil — for if it chose what is evil, it would be altogether incurable? Why are acts of injustice not proportionately greater in the case of words as in other cases — for instance, a man who reveals a small secret would not necessarily reveal one that must not be told at all, whereas a man who betrays one person will also betray a city, just as the man who steals an obol will also steal a talent? Is it because in some cases a lesser injustice results from a greater one only because of an inability to do more?
4| Why is it more shameful to defraud someone of a small deposit than to default after borrowing a large sum? Is it because the man who withholds a deposit deceives the person who took him to be decent? Or is it because the man who would do the one would also do the other? Why is man, who has the largest share of education of all animals, the most unjust of all? Is it because he has the largest share of reasoning? So he has examined pleasures and happiness most of all, and these do not exist without injustice. Why is wealth generally found more among base people than among decent ones? Is it because, being blind in its judgment, it cannot discern or choose the best? Why has it been thought more just to come to the aid of the dead than of the living? Is it because the living would be able to help themselves, but the dead man can no longer do so? Why is it that a man who spends time with a healthy person becomes no healthier himself, nor does he gain anything toward the states of being strong or beautiful, but a man who spends time with a just, moderate, and good person does gain something toward these states? Is it because the former qualities cannot be imitated by the soul, while the latter can? For a person is good in respect of his soul, but healthy in respect of his body; so he becomes accustomed to feeling pleasure and pain correctly. But the person who spends time with a healthy man does not gain this, for being healthy does not consist in feeling pleasure or not feeling it about certain things; none of these things produces health.
5| Why is it more terrible to kill a woman than a man, even though the male is by nature better than the female? Is it because the woman is weaker, so that she does less wrong? Or is it because it is not manly to press one's advantage against something much weaker? Why do they give the defendant the position on the right in court? Is it because they wish to equalize the sides? Since the prosecutor has the advantage, they give the position to the defendant. Then again, defendants generally keep watch for themselves, and watchfulness is exercised toward the right, if the defendant occupies the position on the right.
6| Why is it that when the votes appear equal for both the defendant and the prosecutor, the defendant wins? Is it because the defendant, in the contest, has heard only what he must defend himself against, and must produce his witnesses to counter the charges laid against him, if they are going to be of any help? But it is not easy for someone to divine in advance everything for which he must prepare witnesses or some other proof that he is doing no wrong. The prosecutor, on the other hand, can do as he wishes: even before summoning the case to trial he can set the matter in motion, and once he has already summoned it, he can fabricate whatever plausible charge he wishes and accuse the defendant with it. Seeing the defendant at a disadvantage in all these respects, then, the lawgiver added to the defendant's side whatever the jurors are divided about. But one may also see it this way. People who are in a state of fear leave out many things they ought to have said or done, and defendants, as it happens, are generally in greater danger than prosecutors; so if they leave out things they ought to have said, and yet still come out equal with what is just, it is clear that if they had not left anything out, they would have won outright. Further, each of us would rather vote to acquit a wrongdoer, holding that he is not guilty, than vote to convict an innocent man, holding that he is guilty — for instance, if someone is on trial for enslavement or for homicide.
7| For when the charges brought against a person actually hold, we would rather acquit than convict when they do not hold. For whenever a matter is in doubt, the lesser of the wrongs must be chosen. For it is a terrible thing to condemn a slave as though he were free; but it is far more terrible when someone condemns a free man as though he were a slave. Further, if one person happens to be bringing a charge and another is disputing it over some possession, we do not think it right straightaway to hand the thing over to the accuser, but rather that the possessor should keep enjoying it until judgment is given. In the same way, too, in the case of larger numbers: whenever the number of those asserting that a wrong has been done is equal to the number of those not agreeing, just as when at the start one party made the accusation and the other denied it, we do not think the lawgiver ought to add weight to the accuser's side, but rather that the defendant should have authority, until the wrongdoer has some superiority. Likewise too in the case of jurors: since when the votes are made equal there is no superiority on either side, the lawgiver let things remain as they stood. Further, for the more serious wrongs the penalties too are severe, so that for those who convict unjustly and do not recognize it, there is no opportunity to correct the matter once it is taken;
8| but for those who acquit contrary to what is fitting, if they do so cautiously enough that the man will never again do wrong at all, what great error would the jurors have committed in acquitting such a man of a capital charge? But if he should do wrong afterward, one might think he deserves to be punished now for both offenses. Or is it because it belongs to a more unjust man to commit those wrongs which are less likely to be falsely charged against him? For doing wrong comes about through anger, through fear, through desire, and through many other causes, and not only from premeditation; but bringing a false charge is, for the most part, a matter of premeditation. So then, since the votes have come out equal, and since bringing a false charge is itself an act of wrongdoing on the part of the accuser and the defendant a wrong done to him, once the unjust accuser has been judged base, the lawgiver has assigned the victory to the defendant. We ourselves are disposed in just this way toward our household slaves: whenever we suspect that they have done something wrong and have nothing precise to go on, but nevertheless suppose that they have done it, we do not go straight to punishing them; and if we are no more able to investigate further, we drop the charge. Further, the one who does wrong from premeditation does a greater wrong than the one who does not act from premeditation. Now the man who brings malicious accusations always does wrong from premeditation, while the man who does some other wrong finds himself doing wrong sometimes out of necessity, sometimes out of ignorance, and sometimes as it happens to fall out.
9| Whenever the votes turn out equal, the prosecutor has been judged by half of the jurors to have done wrong from premeditation, while the defendant has been judged by the other half, in turn, to have done wrong, yet not from premeditation. So then, since the prosecutor has been judged to have done a greater wrong than the defendant, the lawgiver reasonably judged that the one doing the lesser wrong should win. Further, the man who does wrong while not supposing that the one he wrongs fails to notice it, and does wrong all the same, is always more unjust than the one who supposes he goes unnoticed. For the man who brings a false accusation against someone does not suppose that the person he is maliciously prosecuting fails to notice it, whereas those who commit some other wrong generally attempt their wrongdoing supposing that the one they wrong does not notice; so that prosecutors might be judged more unjust than defendants.
10| Why is it that if someone steals from a bathhouse, or from a wrestling school, or from the marketplace, or from some such place, he is punished with death, but if someone steals from a private house, he pays back double the value of the stolen goods? Is it because in houses it is possible to guard one's property in some fashion or other — for the wall is strong and there are locks, and all the household slaves in the house are concerned to see that the contents are kept safe? But in the bathhouse, and in places that are held in common in the way the bathhouse is, it is easy for anyone who wishes to do mischief; for those who set down their belongings have nothing sturdy to protect them but their own eye, so that the moment someone looks away, the thing is already at the mercy of the thief. That is why the lawgiver, judging that people are not adequate guardians of themselves in such places, set the law over them, threatening severely that they will not go on living if they appropriate what belongs to others. Further, in the case of a house, it is up to the owner whom he admits, and he need not bring in anyone he does not trust; but the man who has set something down in the bathhouse cannot prevent anyone at all from entering, nor, once someone has entered and stripped, prevent him from laying his own garment down anywhere but beside a thief;
11| but, though he would not wish it, the thief's clothing and the clothing of the man who is about to lose his own lie mixed together in the same place. That is why the lawgiver has not come to the aid, with excessively severe penalties, of the man who has willingly let the thief in and has thereby himself made a mistake, but is plainly imposing great penalties on thieves against those who share, out of necessity, in the entry to the bathhouse and in that intermingling. Further, those who steal in places that are open in this way to anyone who wishes to enter become conspicuous to everyone, because they are exposed; so that even after they get away with it, they no longer care to seem decent for the sake of any future gain, on the ground that it is pointless for them to pretend to those who have found them out that they are decent people — so they go on being openly wicked from then on. But those who become known to only one person try to persuade the others by paying back something, so that this person will not expose them; and so they would not be wholly wicked all the way through — for which reason the lawgiver made the penalties lighter for them. Further, among wrongs, those that occur in the most public gatherings and assemblies bring the greatest shame on the city, just as good order in public affairs brings by far the greatest honor; for through occasions of this sort people become most conspicuous, both to themselves and to others.
12| It follows, then, that the man who has lost something is not the only one harmed by such an act privately, but reproach also falls on the city. That is why the lawgiver punished the thief with heavier penalties than those who take something from a house. Further, the man who loses something from his house happens to be in such a place that it is easy for him, having suffered nothing and been mocked by no one, to bear the misfortune while remaining at home. But for the man stripped bare, not only is the departure itself an ordeal, but on top of that he is generally mocked by others as well, which is far more distressing than the loss itself. That is why the lawgiver set down heavier penalties for them. Further, they plainly have made many other laws similar to these: for instance, if someone speaks ill of a magistrate, the penalties are great, but if of a private citizen, there is none. And rightly so; for the lawgiver holds that in that case the man who speaks abusively is not only doing wrong to the magistrate, but also committing outrage against the city. In the same way, too, the man who steals in the harbor not only harms the private individual, but also brings shame on the city. And likewise in other cases as well, wherever we come together in common. Why is it that in the lawcourts, if the votes of the two litigants come out equal, the defendant wins? Is it because the defendant has suffered nothing at the hands of the prosecutor, and, being on equal terms, was already bound to win?
1| Why is the penalty for theft death, while for outrage — though it is a greater injustice — the penalty is an assessment of what one should suffer or pay? Is it because committing outrage is a human affection, and all people share in it more or less, whereas stealing is not among the necessary things? And because a man who undertakes to steal would also choose to commit outrage. Problems Concerning Practical Wisdom, Intellect, and Wisdom
2| Why is it that all those who have become outstanding men, whether in philosophy or statesmanship or poetry or the arts, are evidently melancholic, and some of them so much so that they are actually seized by the ailments that come from black bile, as is said of the heroes in the case of Heracles? For he too seems to have been of this nature, which is why the ancients named the ailments of epileptics after him, calling it the sacred disease. His derangement concerning his children, and the eruption of sores that occurred before his disappearance on Oeta, show this; for this too happens to many people from black bile. It happened to Lysander the Spartan as well, that these sores appeared before his death. Then too there is the case of Ajax and Bellerophon, of whom the one became completely deranged, while the other sought out desolate places, which is why Homer wrote as follows: 'But when he too became hateful to all the gods, then indeed he wandered alone over the Aleian plain, eating out his own heart, avoiding the path of men.' And many other heroes too are evidently affected in the same way as these. Among later men, Empedocles and Plato and Socrates, and many other notable figures. And further, most of those concerned with poetry.
3| For many such men develop bodily ailments from this sort of mixture, while in others their nature is clearly inclined toward these affections. In any case, all of them, so to speak, are simply of this nature, as has been said. We must grasp the cause, then, taking up an example first. For wine, when drunk in quantity, seems above all to produce men of the sort we say the melancholic are, and to produce very many different characters when drunk — for example irritable men, men warm to their fellows, men prone to pity, reckless men; but by nature none of them are so. One could see that it produces every sort of character by observing how it changes those who drink it, by degrees; for taking hold of men who are cold and silent while sober, a little more of it drunk makes them more talkative, still more makes them eloquent and confident, and as they go further toward action, reckless, and drunk still more, given to outrage, then frenzied, and drunk to excess it slackens them and makes them foolish, like those who have been epileptic from childhood, or those excessively given over to melancholy. So then, just as one man changes his character by drinking and using some quantity of wine, so, character for character, there are men who are permanently each of these kinds. For whatever a man is now while drunk, another is that way by nature — one talkative, another agitated, another quick to tears;
4| for wine makes some men weep as well, which is why Homer too wrote it, and says of himself: 'weeping copiously, weighed down with wine.' Men also sometimes become full of pity, and savage, and silent; for some, again, fall completely silent, especially those melancholics who are prone to derangement. Wine also makes men affectionate; a sign of this is that a man who is drinking is led on even to kiss with his mouth people whom, sober, not one man would kiss, either because of their looks or because of their age. Wine, then, makes a man exceptional for not a long time, but only a short one, whereas nature does so always, for as long as one lives; for some men become bold, others silent, others full of pity, others cowardly, by nature. So it is clear that wine and each person's nature produce character through the same cause; for they accomplish everything by regulating it through heat. Now both the humor and the mixture of black bile are full of breath; which is why the doctors say that flatulent affections and hypochondriac ailments are melancholic. And wine too has a flatulent power. For this reason wine and the melancholic mixture are alike in nature. That wine is full of breath is shown by its foam;
5| for oil, though hot, produces no foam, while wine produces much, and dark wine more than white, because it is hotter and more substantial. And for this reason wine makes men inclined to sex, and Dionysus and Aphrodite are rightly said to belong together, and most melancholics are lustful. For the sexual act too is a matter of breath. A sign of this is the male organ, in that it makes a rapid increase from being small, because it is inflated with breath. And further, even before boys are able to emit seed, a certain pleasure already occurs in them, when, being near the age of puberty, they rub their genitals out of self-indulgence; and this evidently happens because breath passes out through the passages through which the fluid is later carried. And it becomes evident that the outpouring of seed in intercourse, and its ejection, occur because breath is pushing it out. So it is reasonable that, among foods and drinks, those are aphrodisiac which fill the region around the genitals with breath. This is why dark wine, no less than anything, produces men of the sort melancholics are — full of breath. This is evident in some cases; for most melancholics are hard-fleshed, and their veins stand out prominently; and the cause of this is not the quantity of blood, but of breath. But as for why not all melancholics are hard-fleshed, nor all dark-complexioned, but rather those of worse humor are, that is another discussion;
6| but as to the matter we set out from the beginning to discuss — that this melancholic humor is mixed directly into a person's nature from the start — it is a mixture of hot and cold; for nature is composed out of these two. This is why black bile becomes both hottest and coldest. For it is natural for the same thing to undergo both of these states — just as water, though cold, nevertheless, if sufficiently heated, as when boiling, is hotter than flame itself, and stone and iron, once made red-hot, become hotter than a burning coal, though they are cold by nature. This has been discussed more clearly in the treatise on fire. So too black bile, which is cold by nature and not superficially so, when it is in this state as described, if it exceeds the proper amount in the body, produces apoplexies, or torpors, or fits of despondency, or fears; but if it is overheated, it produces cheerfulness accompanied by song, and derangements, and eruptions of sores, and other such things. Now in most people, when this arises from their daily food, it makes no difference at all to their character, but produces only some melancholic ailment. But those in whose nature such a mixture has been constituted from the start become, straightaway, of every sort of character, each according to his own mixture;
7| for example, those in whom it is present in large quantity and cold become sluggish and foolish, while those in whom it is present in very large quantity and hot become frenzied and gifted by nature and given to erotic passion and easily moved to anger and desire, and some are also more talkative. And many, because this heat is close to the seat of the intellect, are seized by frenzied or inspired conditions, which is how all the Sibyls and the Bacides and the divinely inspired come to be, whenever they arise not from disease but from a natural mixture. Maracus of Syracuse was even a better poet when he was out of his mind. But those in whom the excessive heat blooms up toward the mean are melancholic, but more prudent, and less eccentric, and superior to others in many respects — some in education, some in the arts, some in statesmanship. And this state also makes a great difference in the face of dangers, since it sometimes makes many men inconsistent in their fears. For depending on how their body happens to stand with respect to this mixture at a given time, they differ from themselves. And the melancholic mixture, just as it makes men inconsistent in their illnesses, is itself inconsistent as well; for at one time it is cold, like water, and at another time hot.
8| So that when something frightening is reported, if the mixture happens to be rather cold, it produces cowardice; for the fear has already prepared the way, and the fear chills. Those who are excessively fearful show this, for they tremble. But if the mixture is rather hot, the fear settles it into the mean, and keeps it there and unaffected. The same holds for the despondencies we feel from day to day; for often we are so disposed as to feel pain, and we could not say over what; and at other times we feel cheerful, and it is not clear over what either. These conditions, and the ones spoken of long ago, occur in some small degree in everyone; for in everyone there is some admixture of this power. But those in whom it goes deep are already people whose characters are of a certain quality. For just as people come to differ in appearance not by having a face but by the face being of a certain quality — some fine, some ugly, some having nothing out of the ordinary, these last being of a middling nature — so too those who partake only slightly of this mixture are of a middling character, while those who partake of it abundantly are already unlike the many. For if the state is extremely intense, they are excessively melancholic; but if they are mixed in some measure, they are exceptional.
9| If they neglect themselves, they tend, in different people, toward melancholic disorders affecting different parts of the body; and in some it gives warning signs of epilepsy, in others of apoplexy, in others of severe fits of despondency or fears, in others of excessive boldness, as happened, for instance, to Archelaus the king of Macedon. The nourishment of this power is the mixture, however it stands with respect to cold and heat. For when it is colder than the occasion requires it produces irrational despondencies; that is why hangings occur especially among the young, and sometimes among older people too. Many also destroy themselves after bouts of drunkenness. But some melancholics pass their time despondently as a result of drinking; for the heat from the wine extinguishes the natural heat. Now the heat around the region with which we think and hope makes us cheerful. And this is why everyone is eager to drink to the point of drunkenness — because a great deal of wine makes everyone full of hope, just as youth does children; for old age is prone to despair, while youth is full of hope. But there are a few who, while drinking, are seized by fits of despondency, through the same cause that afflicts some after drinking bouts. So those in whom the despondencies arise as the heat is gradually wasting away are more prone to hang themselves.
10| That is why the young or the very old are more prone to hang themselves; for old age wastes the heat away, and in the young the condition is natural, the very wasting-away of heat being itself natural to them. But those in whom the heat is suddenly extinguished mostly kill themselves in some other, sudden way, so that everyone is astonished, because they gave no sign of it beforehand. So the mixture that comes from the black bile, when it becomes colder, as has been said, produces despondencies of every kind, but when it is hotter, cheerfulness. That is why children are more cheerful and old men more despondent; for the former are hot, the latter cold, since old age is a kind of chilling. And it happens that the heat is suddenly extinguished by external causes as well, just as things that have been set on fire are extinguished contrary to their nature — a coal, for instance, when water is poured on it. That is why some kill themselves as a result of drunkenness; for the heat from wine is imported from outside, and when it is extinguished this condition results. And after sexual intercourse most people become more despondent, but those who discharge a great deal of residue along with the seed become more cheerful; for they are relieved of an excess of residue, breath, and heat. The others, however, are often more despondent, since they are chilled by having had intercourse, because something of what was sufficient for them has been taken away; and this is shown by the fact that the discharge was not copious.
11| To sum it up, then: because the power of the black bile is uneven, melancholics are uneven; for it becomes at times extremely cold, at times extremely hot. And because it shapes character (for hot and cold are the most character-shaping of the things in us), just as wine mixed into the body in greater or lesser amount makes our character of a certain quality, so does this. Both are of the nature of breath — both wine and black bile. And since it is possible for this unevenness to be well-tempered and to be in a good condition somehow, being hotter where it needs to be, and again colder, or the opposite, on account of having an excess, all melancholics are exceptional, not on account of disease, but on account of their nature. Why is it that with respect to some branches of knowledge we say we have a state, but with respect to others we do not? Is it that we are said to have a state in respect of those in which we are capable of discovery? For discovering comes from a state. Why is man the most intelligent of the animals? Is it because he has the smallest head in proportion to his body? Or because his head is smallest in an uneven way? For it is on this account that he is also small-headed, and among men themselves those of this kind are more intelligent than the large-headed.
12| Why does a road seem to us to be longer when we walk it without knowing how long it is, than when we know, other things being assumed to be equal? Is it because to know how long it is, is to know a number? For the unlimited and the uncountable are the same thing, and the unlimited is always greater than the determinate. Just as, then, if one knew that it was of such-and-such a length, it would necessarily be finite, so, if one does not know how long it is, the soul reasons falsely as though by conversion, and the road appears to be unlimited, since the quantitative is determinate and the determinate is quantitative. So whenever it does not appear determinate, it will seem to be as it were unlimited, because what is naturally determinate, if it is not determinate, is unlimited; and what appears not to be determinate must in some way appear to be endless.
13| Why do we have more intelligence as we grow older, yet learn more quickly when we are younger? Is it because god has given us two instruments within ourselves, with which we are to make use of the instruments outside us — to the body a hand, to the soul an intellect? For intellect too is among the things in us by nature, existing as it were as an instrument; whereas the other branches of knowledge and crafts belong to things made by us, while intellect belongs to things that are by nature. Just as, then, we do not use the hand best as soon as we are born, but only when nature has brought it to completion (for as our age advances the hand becomes most able to accomplish its own work), in the same way intellect too, being among the things that are by nature, comes to us not immediately but especially in old age, and is then most fully completed, unless it is maimed by something, just like the other things that exist by nature. And intellect comes to us later than the power of the hands, because the instruments of intellect are also later than those of the hand. For the instrument of intellect is knowledge (for knowledge is useful to it, just as pipes are to a pipe-player), while the hands have many instruments that are by nature; and nature itself is prior to knowledge, as are the things produced by nature. And things whose instruments are prior are also likely to have their powers arise in us earlier; for it is by using these instruments that we acquire a state, and each thing's instrument stands to it in a similar way — and conversely, as the instruments stand to one another, so do the powers stand to one another. Intellect, then, for this reason comes to be present in us more fully when we are older. But we learn more quickly when we are younger because we do not yet know anything. Once we know something, we are no longer equally able to learn. And we are able to retain, just as we also remember better the things we happen to meet first thing in the morning; then, as the day goes on, we no longer remember as well, because we have met with many things.
14| Why should we trust man more than any other animal? Is it as Plato answered Neocles, that man alone among the animals knows how to count? Or because he alone believes in gods? Or because he is the most imitative of all? For it is because of this that he is able to learn. Why do we feel no pleasure in contemplating or hoping that the triangle has its interior angles equal to two right angles, nor in any of the other such facts, except in the act of contemplation itself — and this pleasure is the same whether the angles turned out equal to three right angles or more? But when we won at Olympia, and about the sea-battle at Salamis, we feel pleasure both in remembering these things and in hoping for such things again, but not their opposites — [or] is it because in such cases we feel pleasure as at things that have happened or that exist, whereas with things that hold by nature it is the pleasure of contemplation according to truth, as it stands, that alone produces pleasure in us, while for actions it is the pleasure that comes from what results from them? Since actions are unlike one another, the outcomes that result from them turn out in some cases painful, in others pleasant; and we avoid and pursue everything according to pleasure and pain.
15| Why do doctors carry on their work only up to the point of health? For the doctor makes the patient thin, then from this dries him out, then produces health, and then stops there. Is it because it is not possible for anything else to come from this state? Or, if it is possible, does it belong to another science, and will there be someone who produces something else out of health? If indeed a state comes to be out of contraries and out of intermediate states, it is clear that the patient is sick, or too dry or too moist or something of this kind. So the doctor produces the change starting from a state less severely cold, and brings the patient all the way to being warm in this way and dry or moist in that way, passing over from the contraries, or from the intermediate state, until he arrives at being in that very condition which constituted health; and from this state nothing else naturally arises except the intermediate state. Now the one who possesses the craft is able to produce the reverse. For just as he brought the patient to health, he is able to undo it and take it away again — yet this is not what the craft is for. For the craft always aims at the better. So neither another science nor this same science will produce something else out of health; for nothing would come to be except the contrary of health, if indeed it were the same science governing both. So too in the case of a house, the same craft would produce nothing that is its contrary; there is no other craft that will produce something out of it, except as a part of the process — as, for instance, the leather-worker's craft makes a shoe out of a piece cut for it. For from each of the two states, the outcome comes about in two ways, either by combining or by destroying.
16| Why do people think the philosopher differs from the rhetorician? Is it because the philosopher spends his time on the forms themselves of things, while the rhetorician spends his on the things that participate in them — for example, the one asks what injustice is, the other how such-and-such a man is unjust; and the one asks what tyranny is, the other what sort of man the tyrant is. Why are performers of the Dionysiac art generally base? Is it because they share least in the wisdom that comes through reasoned argument, since the greater part of their life is spent on the necessary crafts, and because the greater part of their life is spent in lack of self-control, and some of it also in poverty? Both of these tend to produce baseness.
17| Why did those who established the games from the beginning set out a prize for contests of the body, but set none for wisdom? Is it because the judges of matters concerning the intellect ought reasonably to be no worse than the competitors, or even better? But if those who excel most in wisdom had to compete and a prize had been set out for it, they would have found themselves at a loss for judges. In the case of athletic contests, it is within anyone's competence to judge, by watching with his eyes alone. Furthermore, the one who set things up from the beginning did not wish to propose to the Greeks a contest of a kind out of which factions and great enmities were bound to arise. For instance, when someone is either rejected or admitted to one of the bodily contests, people do not take it altogether hard, nor do they fall into enmity with the judges — but over being judged more or less intelligent or more or less base, they grow angriest and most indignant of all. Such a thing tends to produce faction and baseness. Further, the prize of a contest ought to be better than the contest itself. In the case of athletic contests, the prize is more desirable and better than the contest; but what prize could be better than wisdom? Why does man especially think and act in opposite directions? Is it because the same knowledge covers contraries? Or is it because intellect ranges over many things, while desire is of one thing? Man, then, for the most part lives by intellect, while the beasts live by desire, spirit, and appetite.
18| Why do some prudent men go on acquiring things without ever using them? Is it because they act out of habit? Or because of the pleasure that lies in hoping? ... that perception and thought operate through the soul's being at rest — which indeed knowledge too seems to be, since it brings the soul to a standstill; for when the soul is being moved and carried about, it is possible neither to perceive nor to think. This is why children, the drunk, and the mad lack understanding: because of the quantity of heat present in them, the greatest and most violent motion occurs in them, and once this subsides they become more sensible, since when the thought is undisturbed they are better able to master it. Those, too, who dream in sleep do so insofar as the thought comes to rest, and just to the extent that it is at rest — for it is precisely in sleep that the soul is most in motion. For when the heat withdraws from the rest of the body into the region within, it is then that the greatest and most violent motion occurs — not, as most people suppose, that the soul is then at rest and by itself, especially when a person sees no dream at all. What happens is the opposite: because the soul is in the greatest motion and is not at rest even slightly, it is unable to think either. And it stands to reason that it is in the greatest motion precisely when a person sleeps most pleasantly, since it is then above all that the greatest amount of heat gathers into the inner region. And here is a further sign that the soul, while in motion, is unable to think — not only while awake but even in sleep:
1| for in the sleep that follows the taking of food, dreams are least likely to be seen; and it is precisely then that the soul happens to be most in motion, on account of the food that has been brought into it. And a dream occurs whenever sleep comes upon people while they are thinking and setting things before their eyes; this is why we see above all the things that we are doing, or are about to do, or wish to do, for it is about these above all that reasonings and images arise most often. And better people for this reason see better dreams, because even while awake they think about better things, whereas those in a worse condition, either in thought or in body, see worse ones. For the body's condition too contributes to the imagery of dreams, since in the sick person the settled dispositions of thought are also poor, and further, because of the disturbance present in the body, the soul is unable to be at rest. Melancholics for this reason start up suddenly in their sleep, because, there being more heat than is fitting, the soul is in motion beyond what is moderate, and since the motion is more violent, they are unable to sleep. Problems Concerning the Eyes Why, when we rub the eye, do we stop sneezing? Is it because a passage for the moisture opens up in this way? For the eye weeps after rubbing, and sneezing occurs on account of an excess of moisture. Or is it because the lesser heat is destroyed by the greater? The eye, when rubbed, takes on more heat than that in the nose. This is why, too, if one rubs the nose itself, the sneezing stops.
2| Why do people see more precisely with one eye than with two? Is it because with two eyes there come to be more motions, as happens with people who squint? So the motion is not one, whereas with a single eye it is simple. That is why they see less precisely with two. Why do people, when angry, most flush at the eyes, but when ashamed, at the ears? Is it because in shame the parts around the face grow cold (for shame lives in the eyes), so that they cannot look one in the face? And fear is a kind of cold in that region too. But the back changes into the opposite state from the front. The ears lie opposite the front; that is why people flush most there when ashamed. And in itching, the help rushes to the part that is more perceptive and more capable of motion, as though it were being wronged; for in frightened people the blood most fails to reach that part. Why, when one eye is covered, does the other stare more fixedly? Is it because the principles of the eyes are suspended from the same source? So when one eye moves, the common principle moves too, and when it moves, the other eye moves as well. So when one eye is taken out of use, the motion set going in the common source moves the other, so that it is able to stare more fixedly.
3| Why are people blind from birth not bald? Is it because it is an excess of moisture in the region around the head that damages the eyes? That is why physicians, in cases of eye-fluxes, cauterize the veins around the temples, thereby thickening the passages of the fluids, and scrape the head, cutting through the skin on it. Since, then, it is the residue forming in the head that damages the eyes, this same residue, were it to accumulate there from birth in greater quantity, would prevent them from occurring at all — but since hair grows out of residues, and this residue is present in great quantity from birth in the heads of the blind, it is reasonable that they are not bald. Why do people with protruding eyes suffer more from smoke? Is it because whatever projects is struck first and fastest?
4| Why can we turn both our eyes together to the right, and to the left, and toward the nose, and turn one eye alone either to the left or to the right, but are unable to turn one to the right and the other to the left at the same time? And likewise for down and up: for we can move them together to the same place, but not separately. Is it because the eyes, though two, are nonetheless bound together from a single source? Now with all such things, when one extremity moves, the other must follow to the same place, since for the one extremity the other extremity is its starting point. If, then, it is impossible for one thing to move in opposite directions at once, it is also impossible for the eyes to do so. For the extremities would be moving in opposite directions if one moved up and the other down, and the shared starting-point would have to follow both, which is impossible. Squinting occurs in the eyes because the eyeballs have a starting-point, and are able to turn as far as up and down and to the side. So whenever the eyes, holding themselves in a like position relative to one another, and taking their direction of sight midway between moving up and down, and to the side, from the same point relative to themselves, they are then free of squint and most fixed in position;
5| but those which take their direction of sight from the same point, though free of squint, differ from one another. Yet in those who cast their gaze upward, part of the black is hidden and the white shows, as with people about to have a fit; others turn to the side, as maniacs do, and others toward the nostrils, as with tragic masks and with sour-tempered people — for such a gaze looks brooding. As for those whose eyeballs, whether positioned unlike one another, take their direction of sight from the same point, or positioned alike, do not take it from the same point — these people are cross-eyed; that is why they peer from under their brows and draw their eyes together. For they are trying to bring the eyeball into the same configuration; so they let one eye be and reshape the other. For if the lines of sight are not set at the very same point, the eyes must be crossed. For just as, for people who press a finger under the eye, [the one thing] appears double (since in their case too the starting-point has been shifted), the same happens for these people as well. So if the eye is moved upward, the boundary of the field of sight comes to lie below, and if downward, the boundary comes to lie above. In a single eye that is being shifted, what is seen appears, for these reasons, to move up or down, because the direction of sight moves too; but it does not appear double unless there are two separate directions of sight, and this is what causes squinting.
6| Such is the squint that occurs in a person with one weak eye, so that two images appear; but the squint that occurs by position happens because the eye is not set along the middle of the socket. Why do the shortsighted write small letters? For it seems strange that people who do not see sharply should perform a task belonging to people who see sharply. Is it that small things appear large if they are close, and shortsighted people write bringing the page close? Or is it because they write while drawing their eyelids together? For owing to the weakness of their sight, if they write with their eyes wide open, the sight is scattered and sees dimly, whereas drawn together in this way it strikes its object as a compact mass; and making the angle of vision small, it of necessity makes them write small. Why do some people, after an attack of ophthalmia, see more sharply? Is it because their eyes have been cleared out? For often the density on the outside blocks the sight, and this is dissolved once tears have flowed. That is why what stings is beneficial, such as onion, while the other kind is harmful, such as marjoram. Why are people less affected when using a single eye? Is it because the soul is affected less, so that the affection is smaller? Why do things appear double to people who cross their fingers? Is it because the motion from each eye does not arrive at the same point? So the soul, just as it thinks seeing twice is seeing two things, thinks the same in the case of the fingers crossed over one another: the one thing seems two, as though a single thing were touched twice.
7| Why do the perceptions on the right not differ from those on the left, though in everything else the right is superior? Is it owing to habit, because we are accustomed from the start to perceive equally with both? And the right seems to differ by habit, since people who are trained become ambidextrous. Or is it because perceiving is a kind of being acted upon, and the right differs by being more capable of acting and less liable to be acted upon than the left? Why is the right superior in everything else, but the senses are alike? Is it because in the senses we are trained equally on both sides by habit? Further, perceiving is a kind of being acted upon, whereas the superiority of the right lies in acting, not in being acted upon. Why is exercise disadvantageous for sharpness of sight? Is it because exercise dries out the eye, just as it does the rest of the body? And dryness hardens all skin, including the skin over the pupil. That is why the elderly do not see sharply: for old people's skin is hard, and wrinkled as well, so that the sight is covered over.
8| Why do shortsighted people, though they do not see sharply, write small letters? And yet to make out something small belongs to a person who sees sharply. Is it because, their sight being weak, they draw their eyelids together into a narrow slit? For sight going out as a compact mass sees better, whereas with the eye wide open it is scattered. So because of their weakness they draw the eyelid together into a narrow slit, but because they see out of a narrow slit they see a small extent; and whatever extent they see, that much they also write. Why do the shortsighted see by drawing their eyelids together? Is it owing to the weakness of their sight — just as people who bring their hand close for things far off, so too they bring their eyelids close for near things, as though using a hand? They do this so that the sight may go out more as a compact mass, going out through a smaller opening, and not be scattered by going out at once from an eye wide open; for the more compact sight sees a greater extent.
9| Why is it that when we move the eye to the side, one thing does not appear as two? Is it because the starting-point remains on the same line? Two appear when the line changes upward or downward, but moving sideways makes no difference unless it moves upward at the same time. Why, then, does it happen with sight that one thing appears as two if the eyes are set in some particular way relative to each other, but with the other senses it does not happen? Or does it in fact happen with touch too, one thing appearing as two through the crossing-over of the fingers? But it does not happen with the other senses, because they do not perceive things extended outward, nor as two. And this happens [because of] this, which is also why it happens with the fingers, for touch here imitates sight. Why is it that the left side of the rest of the body is weaker, but not so with the eyes — rather, they see equally sharply? Is it because the right parts differ in being more capable of acting, while in being acted upon they do not differ? And seeing is a case of being acted upon.
10| Why is it that we are put in a worse condition by staring intently at other things, but in a better condition by staring at green, grass-like things, such as vegetables and things like them? Is it because we are least able to stare at white and black — for both harm the sight — while colors of this kind occupy a mean between the two? Hence, since the sight is only moderately affected, we are not overtaxed by it, and are put in a better condition. Perhaps, too, just as with our bodies we are worse off from exerting ourselves too violently, while the mean disposes us best, the same holds for sight in the same way. For in staring at solid objects we tax the sight, while with fluid ones, since nothing obstructs it, we do not overtax it. But green things are solid in a moderate degree, and there is enough fluidity in them; hence they do no harm, and they compel the sight to remain fixed on them because the blend of the color is well-proportioned relative to the sight. Why is it that we see other things better with both eyes, but see straight lines of writing better by bringing one eye close to the letters? Is it because both lines of sight, when they converge, produce confusion, as those concerned with optics say, but when we look with one eye, the sight is directed toward a straight line, as toward a ruler, and so what is straight appears more clearly?
11| Why does smoke sting the eyes more than other things do? Is it because they alone are weakest? For the internal parts of the body are always weakest. A sign of this is that vinegar and each of the pungent things do not sting the outer flesh, but do sting the inner, because that is the most porous part of the body and has the most passages; for the visual rays issue out through certain passages, so that whatever is most stinging drops away from the flesh onto the inner part. The same is true of onion, and of whatever else stings the eyes. Oil does so most of all the fluids, because it has the finest particles; being such, it penetrates through the passages, whereas vinegar acts as a remedy for the rest of the flesh. Why is it that the eye alone of the body, though it is weakest, does not feel cold? Is it because the eye is fatty, and has no flesh at all? And things of this kind do not feel cold. It is not, at any rate, because sight is fire that it does not feel cold, for the fire it consists of is not of the kind that produces heat.
12| Why are tears warm if we shed them weeping, but cold if we shed them from straining the eyes? Is it because what is unconcocted is cold, and what has been concocted is warm? And softness in general always comes from lack of concoction, and in those who strain their eyes the tear is unconcocted; hence it is cold. This is also why physicians think that cold sweats are a sign of serious illness, while warm ones are, on the contrary, signs of recovery. For when the residue is copious, the internal heat cannot concoct it, so that it must be cold; but when it is scanty, the heat masters it. And illnesses arise out of residues. Why is it that, though the parts on the right are more easily moved, the left eye contracts more than the right? Is it because everything on the left is more fluid than on the right, and the more fluid parts are naturally more prone to contract? And besides, the eye is able to bring more effect to bear on the right, since the left eye can also act by itself.
13| Why is it that both the short-sighted person and the old person, though each is affected by a certain weakness of the eyes, behave oppositely — the one brings the object close if he wants to see it, the other holds it far away? Is it because the weakness that attends them is not alike? For the old person is unable to see the object itself; wherever his sight happens to converge, he draws the thing he is viewing away, precisely because he is thereby going to see it best; and it converges at a distance. The short-sighted person sees the object itself, but can no longer judge which parts of what is seen are concave and which are convex, and is deceived about these. Concavities and convexities are judged chiefly by the play of light. From a distance, then, he cannot make out by the light how it falls upon the visible object; from close up it is more evident to him. Why is it that of animals a human being alone, or most of all, has his eyes turned askew? Is it because a human being alone, or most of all, becomes subject to epileptic seizure in youth, which is also when the eyes come to be turned askew in all who are affected? Why do humans alone of the other animals have their eyes turned askew? Is it because the distance between the eyes is least in humans, and they lie on a straight line, so that any lack of proper alignment becomes very conspicuous? Or is it because in other animals the eyes are more uniformly one color, whereas if the eye were a single color throughout, there would be no distortion visible? Or is it because humans alone in their kind become subject to epileptic seizures, and the seizure, when it occurs, produces a distortion, just as it does in other parts of the body too? But in some the distortion comes on quite late, namely in those whose affliction is late in onset.
1| Why do we see better toward a lamp or toward the sun if we hold the hand up in front of the light? Is it because the light falling from the sun or the lamp directly onto our sight makes it weaker through excess? For excess destroys both the sight and things akin to it. But when the light is shut off by the hand, it does not harm the sight, while the object seen is nonetheless equally in the light. Hence the sight acts more effectively, and the object seen is seen no less well. Why do the hand and the foot have a difference with respect to [the] right and left, but the eye and the ear do not? Is it because the pure elements are undifferentiated, while the difference lies in things composed out of the elements? And these senses arise from a pure element, sight from fire, and hearing from air. Book 32. Problems Concerning the Ears
2| Why is it that the ears, though the bloodless-most part of the face, blush the most when people feel shame? Is it because foreign fluid naturally tends to travel most of all into what is empty, so that when it is dissolved by the heat that arises in those who feel shame, it collects into these parts? Or is it because they are situated over the temples, into which fluid gathers most of all? And when people feel shame, the fluidity travels into the face; hence they blush there too. Of the face, the ears have the least depth, and are by nature the warmest and best-colored, provided they are not so far removed from the body's heat as to be affected by cold. Hence they are the best-colored of the parts in the face. So that when the heat is dispersed, being present chiefly at the surface in these parts, it makes them red. Why do the ears burst in the sea for divers? Is it because, in holding the breath, it is forced by being filled up? But if this were the cause, the same should happen in air too. Is it rather because what does not yield is cut through more quickly, and by something harder rather than something soft? What is inflated, then, yields less. But the ears, as has been said, are inflated by the breath being held in, so that the water, being harder than air, cuts through as it strikes against them. Why do divers bind sponges around their ears? Is it so that the sea, coming on with force, may not burst the ears? For in this way it does not happen, as it does when they are left uncovered and full.
3| Why is the wax in the ears bitter? Is it because sweat is putrid? So it is salty and putrid. And what is putrid is salty and bitter. Why do sponge-divers slit their ears and their nostrils? Is it so that they may breathe more easily? For it seems to be by this route that the breath goes out. They also cut open the region for the sake of easy breathing; for they say that they suffer more in difficulty of breathing from not being able to send the breath out through the usual passage, and that when they, as it were, discharge it, they are relieved. It would be strange, then, if they could not get relief for the sake of cooling by respiration; rather, this seems to be more a matter of necessity. Or is it reasonable that the distress should be greater in those who hold it in, since they become swollen and distended? And there does appear to be a certain automatic movement of the breath outward; whether also inward must be considered. It does appear to be so. For in the same way people arrange breathing for divers by lowering a cauldron; for this does not fill up with water but keeps the air in, since it is lowered by force; for anything upright, if tilted, lets the water flow in. Why do some people cough when they scratch their ears? Is it because hearing operates through the same channel as the lung and the windpipe? A sign of this is that people become deaf and dumb together. So when the passage is heated by the rubbing, moisture is drawn down from the effort of the rubbing to the windpipe, and this produces the cough.
4| Why does the left ear, as a rule, heal together faster when it has been pierced? For this reason women, too, call one of the ears male and the other female. Is it because the left parts are more moist and warm, and such parts heal together most readily? For this reason healing together also occurs in green plants; and the wounds of the young heal together more than those of the old. A sign that the left parts are more moist and altogether more feminine is this fact itself. Why do the tips of the ears turn red in those who feel shame, while in those who feel anger it is the eyes? Is it because shame is a kind of cooling in the eyes accompanied by fear, so that the heat naturally leaves the eyes? And when it withdraws, it moves to the place best able to receive it. Such a place is the tips of the ears, for the rest of the ear is bony. But in those who are angry the heat returns. It becomes most visible in the eyes because of their white color. Why does the ringing in the ears stop if someone makes a noise? Is it because the greater sound drives out the lesser? Why, if water is poured into the ear, is oil poured in after it, when the moisture already present cannot get out through another liquid? Is it because the oil comes to lie on the surface of the water, and because of its stickiness the water is held by it as the oil goes out, so that the water goes out along with it? Or is it so that the ear, having become slippery, lets the water out? For the oil, being smooth, makes things slip out.
5| Why do the ears of divers burst less if they first pour oil into their ears? Has the cause of the ears bursting been stated earlier, while the oil poured into the ears makes the seawater that comes afterward slip off, just as happens on the outside of the body with people who have been anointed? And as it slips off it does not deliver a blow to the inside of the ear, and so it does not burst it. Why, though the ears have no blood, do those who feel shame blush most in them? Is it because each thing moves most readily into the emptiest part of each region? And it seems that in one who feels shame, the warm blood moves upward. So it makes the emptiest part blush. The same thing happens in the case of the cheeks too. Further, it is also because the skin stretched over them is thinnest there, so it shows through it most of all. Why does no one scratch his ear while yawning? Is it because when a person yawns, the membrane through which he hears is also blown up? A sign of this is that people hear least of all while yawning. For the breath, just as through the mouth, also travels inward into the ears and pushes the membrane outward and prevents the sound from entering. If, then, one touches the organ of hearing while it is in this state, so as to scratch it, he would do the greatest harm; for the blow lands against something resisting, and not against something yielding, as the breath does. It is clear that the skin and the membrane stand apart from the solid parts. So this is what does the most damage in this way, and it could cause a wound.
1| Problems Concerning the Nostril Why does sneezing stop hiccups, but not stop belching? Is it because the two conditions do not belong to the same region, but belching is an affection of the belly, while hiccups are a cooling and an indigestion of breath and moisture around the lung? Now the regions around the brain communicate with the lung, as with the ears. This is clear, for people become deaf and dumb together, and the diseases of the ear shift over into affections of the lung. And in some people, when they scratch the ear, coughs arise. That the region around the part that sneezes, namely the nose, communicates with the lung is shown by the fact that respiration is shared between them. So a person sneezes when this region is heated; and because the lower region, where the hiccup is, is affected along with it, and heat concocts, therefore vinegar stops hiccups, and so does holding the breath, if the hiccup is mild. For the breath held back grows hot, so that in sneezing too, the counter-holding of the breath that occurs does this, and the expulsion happens in its own proper way, and from the upper region; for it is impossible to sneeze without breathing out. So the onset bursts the breath that has been shut in, and this is what produces the hiccup.
2| Why does a person sneeze less if, when about to sneeze, he rubs his eye? Is it because what produces the sneeze is a certain heat, and the rubbing produces a heat which, because the region by which he sneezes is close to the eyes, makes the other heat disappear, just as a smaller fire is quenched by a greater one? Why do people, as a rule, sneeze twice, and not once or many times? Is it because there are two nostrils? So each of the two small vessels through which the breath flows is split into two. Why do people sneeze more when they look at the sun? Is it because it moves them by heating, just as when they touch things with feathers? For both do the same thing; by heating through motion they produce breath more quickly out of the moisture. The exit of this is a sneeze.
3| Why does sneezing stop hiccups, and so does holding the breath, and so does vinegar? Is it because sneezing is a counter-shift of the breath below, just as purges applied above act on the belly below? And breath-holding stops mild hiccups because the small onset of breath moving upward, just as in the case of coughing, if one holds it back, is stopped-so here too it has been drawn down and stifled and forced together with the rest. And vinegar stops it because the surrounding moisture, which prevents belching, is turned into breath by the heat. For belching occurs when the moisture in the upper cavity is turned into breath and concocted, while hiccup occurs when superfluous breath is held back by moisture around the region of breath. For this breath, making an onset and being unable to break through, produces a spasm, and this spasm is called hiccup. And for this reason people who have chilled take hiccups, because the cold makes the moisture condense out of the breath that is still present; and as the rest is enclosed around it, it leaps, and the motion of this is the hiccup. Why, when blood flows from the nostrils, do we sometimes pour cold water even onto the face? Is it because the heat shifts inward in response? So if blood happens to be on the surface, the water rather moistens it away.
4| Why do we consider sneezing to be a god, but not coughing or a runny nose? Is it because it comes from the most divine of the parts around us, the head, from which reasoning proceeds? Or is it because the other conditions arise from people who are ill, but this one does not? Why do we stop sneezing when we rub the eye? Is it because a release of the moisture occurs by this means? For the eye waters after rubbing, and sneezing is due to an abundance of moisture. Or is it because the lesser heat is destroyed by the greater, and the eye, once rubbed, takes on more heat than that in the nose? For these reasons, then, if one rubs the nose itself, the sneezing also stops.
5| Why is it that the exits of the other winds, such as breaking wind and belching, are not sacred, but that of sneezing is sacred? Is it because, there being three regions, the head, the chest, and the lower belly, the head is the most divine? Wind from the lower belly is flatulence, wind from the upper region is a belch, and wind from the head is a sneeze. Because the region is the most sacred, then, the wind that comes from there is also revered as sacred. Or is it rather that all these winds signal that the regions named are for the most part in a good condition? For when the passages are not opening, the wind passing through relieves them, so that a sneeze relieves the region around the head, showing that it is healthy and able to concoct. For when the heat in the head overpowers the moisture, the wind then becomes a sneeze. That is also why people test the dying with a sneezing-drug, on the ground that those unable to undergo this are past saving. So they revere sneezing as sacred because it is a sign of health in the best and most sacred region, and take it as a good omen.
6| Why does man sneeze more than the other animals? Is it because he has wide passages, through which the wind and its rush enter? For when these fill with wind, sneezing occurs. And that his passages are wide is shown by the fact that he has the poorest sense of smell of all the animals; for narrow passages are more exact. If, then, into wide passages the moisture enters more abundantly and more often — and it is the vaporizing of this moisture that produces the sneeze — and men have passages of this kind more than any other animal, then it is reasonable that men would sneeze most often; and among men, those with the smallest nostrils would be expected to sneeze most, since the heated moisture can quickly get out once it has turned to wind, whereas in the others it cools first because of the greater length of the passage. Why are sneezes that occur from midnight to midday not favorable, while those from midday to midnight are? Is it because a sneeze is thought rather to check people at the beginning, at the outset of a thing? That is why, whenever a sneeze is going to occur to people just beginning something, we are especially deterred from acting. Now dawn [and] the period from midnight is a kind of beginning; that is why we are wary of sneezing then, for fear we may check something that has been set in motion. But toward evening and up to midnight is a kind of ending, and the opposite of the other; so that in the opposite case the same thing is to be chosen.
7| Why do old people sneeze with difficulty? Is it because the passages through which the wind travels have collapsed together? Or is it because, no longer being able to draw the upper regions easily, they then force the wind out downward instead? Why does hiccuping stop if a person holds their breath? Is it because hiccuping arises from chilling (which is also why those who are afraid or shivering with cold hiccup), and the breath, when held back, heats the internal region? Why do the deaf speak through their nostrils for the most part? Is it because their lungs are in a diseased condition? For this is what deafness is: a filling-up of the region of the lungs. So the voice is not carried easily, but just as the breath of those who are short of breath or panting from weakness comes out in a rush, so too does their voice. It is forced out, then, through the nostrils as well. And being forced out, it produces the sound by friction. For speech through the nose comes about when the upper part of the nose, at the point where it is pierced through into the roof of the mouth, becomes hollow; for it resounds like a bell, since the part below is narrow.
8| Why alone does sneezing not happen to us when we are asleep, while practically everything else happens when we are awake? Is it because a sneeze occurs also from some heat that has moved the region from which it arises — which is also why we turn our faces up toward the sun when we want to sneeze — or is it that, while we sleep, the heat inside redistributes itself? That is also why the lower parts of sleepers become warm, and the abundant breath there is the cause of our having erotic dreams. It is reasonable, then, that we do not sneeze; for once the heat from the head — which is naturally what moves the moisture there, the removal of which produces the sneeze — has departed, it is reasonable that the resulting affection should not occur. But people break wind and belch, rather than sneeze, more when asleep than when awake, because, the region around the belly being heated more during sleep, the moisture around it turns into wind more, and being turned into wind it is carried to the nearest regions. For there it is also pushed along together by the wind that arises during sleep, since a sleeping person is more retentive than expulsive of breath, and so he also draws the heat together inside. And a person who holds the breath in pushes it downward; for downward motion is against nature for the breath, which is also why it is hard to hold the breath in. And the same cause is responsible for our sleeping. For since waking is a kind of motion, and this motion occurs in our sense organs especially when we are awake, it is clear that if we were at rest we would also be asleep. And since fire is what moves the parts within us, and this, during sleep, redistributes itself inward, leaving the region around the head where the sense organ is, our sense organs would then be most at rest — and this would be the cause of sleeping.
9| Why do people shiver after sneezing and after urinating? Is it because in both cases the veins are emptied of the warm air previously present in them, and once they are emptied, other air, colder than what was previously in the veins, enters from outside; and air of this kind, entering, causes shivering? Why do sneezes stop hiccups? Is it because hiccup does not come, as belching does, from the belly that receives food, but from the breath, and it occurs especially from chilling — from a chill, or grief, or medication — occurring especially in the upper region? For that region, being naturally warm, when it is chilled does not release all its breath at once, but produces something like bubbles; that is why holding the breath makes it stop (for the region is warmed up again), and so does vinegar applied, being warming. Now since the heat comes about from warmth arising also from the brain, the upper regions being pierced through into the lung, and the lung being warm, both the holding-back before the sneeze and the downward striking-through from above dissolve the affection. Why are people with tightly curled hair, and those whose hair is twisted, generally rather snub-nosed? Is it because, if curliness consists in thickness, and thickness goes together with hardness, and blood that is hard is hot, and heat does not produce residue, while bone comes from residue, and cartilage is a kind of bone, it is then reasonable that there should be a deficiency of that part? A sign of this is that all children are snub-nosed.
1| 34. PROBLEMS CONCERNING THE MOUTH AND WHAT IS IN IT Why are those who have sparsely-set teeth not long-lived? Is it because long-lived creatures have more teeth, as for instance males have more than females — men more than women, rams more than ewes? Those with sparse teeth, then, seem to be, as it were, in the position of having fewer teeth. Why do the teeth, though stronger than flesh, nonetheless feel cold more? Is it because they are attached to passages in which the small amount of heat present, being quickly overpowered by the cold, produces the pain? Why do the teeth feel cold more than heat, while flesh is the opposite? Is it because flesh belongs to the middle range and is well-tempered, while the teeth are cold, so that they are more sensitive to their opposite? Or is it because they consist of fine passages, in which the heat present is small, so that they are quickly affected by their opposite; whereas flesh is warm, so that it is not affected at all by cold, but quickly perceives heat — for it is as though fire were coming upon fire?
2| Why is the tongue a sign of many things? For it shows fevers in acute diseases, and whether hailstone-like nodules are present in the body; and the tongues of dappled sheep are themselves dappled. Is it because the tongue is receptive of moisture, and lies close upon the lung, which is the source of fevers? Everything becomes many-colored on account of the many-colored character of the fluids; and a thing is dyed first by that through which it is first filtered; and the tongue is such a thing. And the hailstone-like nodules collect there because it is spongy; for a nodule of this kind is like an undigested pimple within the body. Why does the tongue never taste itself as sweet, but as bitter and salty and sour? Is it because these tastes are forms of corruption, and the tongue does not perceive its own natural state? Why does the tongue have as many colors as the skin has? Is it because the tongue is simply one part like any other external part of the body, only it happens to be enclosed within? And because the skin is thin there, even a slight variegation shows through. Or is it because water is what makes colors change, and the tongue is affected more than anything else by what one drinks?
3| Why do people breathe out from the mouth both hot and cold air? For when they blow, the breath is cold, but when they pant with open mouth, it is hot. A sign that the breath is in fact heated is this: if one brings one's hand close to the mouth in either case, the air, once set in motion, feels cold; but the one who blows sets the air in motion not all at once, but through the narrow opening of the mouth; so by exhaling only a little, he sets a great quantity of the outside air in motion, and within that quantity the heat coming from his mouth does not show, because it is so small a part of it. But the one who pants exhales all at once; that is why it feels hot. For panting differs from blowing in its concentration; panting is an exhalation done all at once. Why, if people exhale forcefully and all at once, are they unable to exhale again right away? The same holds for inhaling too; for they cannot do either one twice in succession. Is it because the one is a kind of expulsion and the other a contraction of a space, and each of these can only go on so far? It is clear, then, that the two must occur alternately, and that it is impossible to do either one twice in a row. Why, given that the passage by which food and drink go through is different from the one by which we breathe, do we choke if we swallow too large a mouthful? There is nothing strange in this; for we choke all the more not only if something falls into this passage, but even if it is simply blocked. These two passages run alongside one another, the one by which we take in food and the one by which we breathe. So when a larger mouthful falls in, it also blocks the breathing passage, so that there is no way out for the breath.
4| Why are those whose crease runs all the way across the palm of the hand the longest-lived? Is it because unjointed things are short-lived and weak? A sign of the weakness is found in the young, and a sign of the short life is found in creatures full of moisture. It is clear, then, that jointed things are the opposite. And such creatures are those in which even the parts that are by nature unjointed are, as far as possible, jointed. And of the hand, the inner surface is the least jointed part of all. Why, in prolonged breathing, does the belly collapse when one draws the breath in, and fill out when one breathes out? It would seem plausible for the opposite to happen. Is it because, in those who are breathing in, the belly, being pressed down by the ribs, appears to bulge outward, the way a bellows does? Why do we breathe? Is it because, just as moisture is dissolved into breath, so too breath is dissolved into fire? So when the natural heat turns a large quantity of the breath into fire, it produces pain, and also swelling in the passages of the body; and this is why we drive the fire out; and as the passages collapse and are chilled, pains arise again; so we draw the breath in once more. Then, once we have opened the passages of the body and given them relief, the fire arises again, and again, in pain, we send it out, and we go on doing this continuously — just as we also blink, when the tissue around the eye is chilled and dried out. And so too, when we walk, we attend with our mind to the walking, our thought steering it — though the text here trails off incomplete. In this same way, then, we manage the business of breathing as well: contriving to draw the air in, we breathe, and then draw it in again.
1| BOOK 35. PROBLEMS CONCERNING THE OBJECTS OF TOUCH Why do we shudder more when someone else touches us in a certain way than when we touch ourselves in the same way? Is it because touch is more perceptive of what belongs to another than of what belongs to oneself? For what is organically continuous with us is imperceptible to itself. And what happens secretly and suddenly is more frightening, and fear is a kind of chilling; and another person's touch, as opposed to one's own, has both of these features. And in general, each thing is by nature affected either more, or only, by something else rather than by itself — as also happens in the case of being tickled. Why are the armpits and the soles of the feet ticklish? Is it because of the thinness of the skin there? And also because touch is unfamiliar there, as it is likewise with the ear? Why do we not all shudder at the same things? Is it because we do not all take pleasure in the same things either, just as we do not all feel pain at the same things? In the same way, then, we do not shudder at the same things; for shuddering is a certain kind of chilling. That is why some shudder when cloth is scraped between the teeth, others when a saw is being sharpened or drawn, others when pumice is being cut, and others when a donkey grinds a millstone.
2| Why, though summer is hot and winter cold, do people's bodies feel colder to the touch in summer than in winter? Is it because sweat and moisture chill the body, and this happens in summer but not in winter? Or is it because heat and cold exchange places in a manner opposite to the season, and heat flees inward in summer — which is also why it releases sweat — whereas in winter it shuts the cold out and the body gives off vapor, just as the earth does? Why does the hair on the skin bristle? Is it that, when the skin contracts, the hairs naturally stand up? And the skin contracts both from shivering and from other affections. Why does no one tickle himself? Is it because a person is also less ticklish when touched by another if he senses it beforehand, and more ticklish if he does not see it coming? So he will be least ticklish of all when he does not fail to notice that this is happening to him. Now laughter is a kind of derangement and deception. That is why people laugh when struck in the midriff; for it is not just any place that makes them laugh. And what is done in secret is deceptive. This is why laughter both occurs and, from one's own doing, does not occur.
3| Why is it that we are most ticklish on the lips? Is it because what is tickled must not be far from the organ of perception? And the lips lie especially close to that region. This is also why the lips are ticklish among the regions around the head, since they are well-fleshed, and are therefore the most easily moved of all. Why is it that, if someone scratches the region around the armpits, people burst out laughing, but not if he scratches some other place? Or again, why do people sneeze when they scratch their nostrils with a feather? Is it because there are places containing small veins, which, when they are either chilled or affected in the opposite way, either grow moist, or are dissolved from moisture into breath? Just as, if one presses the veins in the neck, people fall asleep. Now pleasure is a kind of warmth; and when more breath arises within us from this warmth, we release it all at once, outward. In the same way, too, in the case of sneezing, by warming the passage with the feather and scratching it, we dissolve the moisture into breath; and once it has become more, we drive it out. Why do we often shudder after eating? Is it because the cold things entering the body at the outset overpower the natural heat, rather than being overpowered by it? Why does an object rolled crosswise between the fingers appear to be two things? Is it because we are touching it with two organs of perception? For when the hand is held in its natural position, it is not possible for both inner surfaces of the fingers to touch it as a single thing at once.
1| Book 36. Problems Concerning the Face Why do people make images of the face? Is it because this shows what sort of people they are, or because it is the part most easily recognized? Why do people sweat from the face most of all, though it has the least flesh? p. Is it because things that are moist and porous sweat most readily, and the head is such, since it has the greatest amount of moisture proper to itself? The veins stretching out from there show this, and so do the discharges that come from it, and the brain is moist, and its passages are many; a sign of this is the hair, which shows that there are many passages reaching to the outside. So the sweat does not come from the lower parts but arises from the head. That is why people sweat there, and the forehead sweats first of all, since it lies lowest of the upper parts. And moisture flows downward, not upward. Why do pimples occur in the face most of all? Is it because that region is porous and holds moisture? A sign of this is both the growth of hair there and the power of the senses located there; and a pimple is like an eruption of some unconcocted moisture. [book 37] Book 37. Problems Concerning the Whole Body Why is it that although the body is always in a state of flux, and an efflux is constantly occurring from its residues, the body is not made lighter unless one sweats? Is it because the excretion that occurs is smaller? For when it changes from liquid into air it becomes greater from less, since what is separated out becomes more in bulk, so that the excretion takes a longer time.
2| But why is this so? Is it because the exit is through narrower passages? For what is viscous and sticky is excreted together with the liquid because of its admixture with it, but it cannot be excreted together with breath alone. And it is this viscous matter above all that causes distress. That is why vomiting relieves one more than sweating does, because it draws this substance out along with it, being thicker and more bodily in nature. Or is it also because this region, where the viscous and sticky matter is, is far from the flesh, so that it is a task to move it out, whereas it is near to the stomach cavity? For it either arises in the stomach or near it; that is also why it is otherwise hard to expel.
3| Why does rubbing the body make it fleshy? Is it because heat is the most productive of growth of all things in the body? For where heat is present, the bulks of things become greater, because it is always in motion and tends to move upward and to turn the liquids within us into breath, which is what happens in rubbing; but when heat is lacking, the body wastes and diminishes. Or is it because the flesh becomes more bulky than the nourishment on account of the heat? For everything hot draws moisture to itself, and the nourishment that is distributed into the flesh is moist, and the flesh receives the nourishment better because of its looseness; for becoming more porous it is better able to receive it, like a sponge. Now rubbing makes the flesh well-aerated and porous, and prevents congestions from forming in the body. And when this does not happen, wastings away do not occur either; for both undernourishments and wastings arise from things that have collected together. Bodies that become better-aerated, more porous, and more even are likely to grow in bulk more, since they become both more receptive of nourishment and more able to release excretions, because it is not proper for health to make the flesh dense, but rather to make it porous. For just as a city is healthy when it is well-aired, and a place well-aired (which is also why the sea is healthy), so too a body that is well-aired is healthier than one in the opposite condition.
4| For it is necessary either that nothing at all be present, or that one get rid of it as quickly as possible; and the body must be in such a state that as soon as it takes in the residue it excretes it, and that it be always in motion and never at rest. For what remains stationary putrefies, just as water that is not in motion does; and putrefying it produces disease; but what is excreted departs before it is corrupted. This, then, does not occur when the flesh is dense (for the passages are, as it were, blocked up), but it does occur when the flesh is porous. That is why one should not walk about naked in the sun (for the flesh contracts and becomes thoroughly stripped of its substance; for the moisture within remains, but the moisture on the surface departs by evaporation, just as roasted meats have more moisture within them than boiled ones do), nor should one walk about with the chest bared in the sun (for the sun takes away from the best-built parts of the body that which least needs to be taken away), but rather one should dry out the inner parts. From there, then, because it is far off, it is not possible to draw off sweat except with exertion; but from these outer parts, because they are readily accessible, it is easy to use up the moisture. Why is it that when we have been chilled we burn and feel pain more from the same degree of heat? Is it because, through its density, the flesh confines the heat that strikes it? That is why lead is hotter than wool. Or is it that the passage of the heat becomes forcible because the body has been made rigid by cold?
1| Why do dry rubbings make the flesh solid? Is it because, as the heat arises through the rubbing, the moisture is used up? In addition to this, the flesh becomes denser as it is rubbed; and everything that undergoes a great deal of rubbing becomes dense and solid. One can observe this in many cases: for dough, or clay, or anything else of this sort, if you pour water on it and work it, remains liquid and sloshing, but if you apply more rubbing to it, it quickly becomes dense and solid and sticky. Why do rubbings produce more flesh than running does? Is it because running chills the flesh all around and makes it unreceptive of nourishment, since some parts are shaken downward while others, as a great deal of the natural heat is expended, are thinned out completely and separated off into breath? But the palm, through rubbing, makes the flesh porous and receptive of nourishment. And the touch from outside, opposing the flow of matter through its compression, holds it together more, and produces a rebound of the flesh. Book 38. Problems Concerning Color Why does the sun whiten wax and oil, but blacken the flesh? Is it because it whitens the former by drawing off the water from them (for moisture is by nature black, because of the mixture of earthy matter [in the water]), whereas it scorches the flesh?
2| Why are fishermen and purple-fishers, and in general those who work at sea, red-haired? Is it because the sea is hot and dry because of its brininess? Such a quality makes hair red, just as lye and orpiment do. Or is it that their outer parts become hotter, while their inner parts are chilled all around, because, as they are constantly wetted, their surrounding parts are always being dried out by the sun? And since these parts undergo this, their hair, being dried out, becomes thin and turns red. And all people who live toward the north are red-haired and thin-haired. Why do runs taken in a cloak, and the anointing of oil onto a cloak, produce a poor complexion, while running naked produces a good complexion? Is it because good ventilation produces a good complexion, while stifling produces the opposite? For because the moisture on the surface is heated together with the body and is not cooled, it produces a poor complexion. Both do the same thing, sweating in a cloak and anointing oneself before putting on a cloak: the heat is shut in. But running naked produces a good complexion for the opposite reason, because the air cools the excretions as they collect and lets the body breathe through. Further, the oil, being moist and fine, when smeared on and blocking the passages, allows neither the moisture and breath from the body to flow outward, nor the outside air to enter within. That is why the moist residues, stifled within the body and putrefying, produce a poor complexion.
3| Why does good breathing produce a good complexion? Is it because bad coloring is a kind of putrefaction of the skin? Now this happens when the moisture on the surface is also hot. And it turns out that the skin also becomes sallow, if the heat is not cooled and does not breathe off. Why are those who sweat from exercise well-colored right away, while athletes are poorly colored? Is it because under moderate exertion the heat is kindled and rises to the surface, while under a great deal of exertion it is driven out along with the sweat and the breath, the body being made porous by the exertion? So when the heat rises to the surface, people become well-colored, just as those who are growing warm or who are ashamed; but when the heat leaves entirely, they become poorly colored. Now ordinary people exercise moderately, but athletes exercise a great deal. Why are those who sit still burned more by the sun than those who exercise? Is it because those who are in motion are, as it were, fanned by a current of air because they set the air in motion, while those who are sitting do not experience this? Why does the sun scorch, but fire does not? Is it because the sun is finer, and is more able to penetrate into the flesh? Fire, even if it does scorch, only affects the color on the surface — what are called blisters — but does not penetrate within.
4| Why does fire not make things black, while the sun does — yet fire blackens a tile, while the sun does not? Is it that each does not act in the same way, but rather the sun by scorching blackens the surface color, while fire coats the tile with what rises from it as soot? And this is a fine ash, produced when coals are broken apart and burned at the same time. As for human beings, the sun blackens them but fire does not, because the heat of the sun is gentle and, because of the fineness of its particles, is able to burn the skin itself; so that because it does not touch the flesh it causes no pain, but because it burns it produces blackness. Fire, on the other hand, either does not touch the flesh or passes right through it, since things burned by fire also become black — but it does not burn only that surface where the color is. Why do people become blacker as they grow old? Is it because everything that putrefies becomes blacker, except mold? And this — old age — is a kind of decay. Further, since blood becomes blacker as it dries out, it is reasonable that older people should be blacker, since this is what naturally gives our bodies their color. Why is it that, in the working of grain crops, those who deal with barley become poorly colored and afflicted with catarrh, while those who deal with wheat are in good bodily condition? Is it because wheat is more easily digested than barley, and so are its exhalations as well?
5| Why does the sun whiten oil, but blacken flesh? Is it because it draws off from the oil its earthy element? For this earthy element was the black part, just as it is with wine. But it blackens flesh because it burns it; for everything earthy, when burned, becomes entirely black.
1| ON THE COSMOS, TO ALEXANDER. Often, Alexander, philosophy has seemed to me to be something truly divine and superhuman, and most of all in this: that although it alone, soaring aloft to the contemplation of the universe, was eager to know the truth in these matters, and though everything else shrank back from it because of its height and its magnitude, philosophy did not fear the undertaking, nor did it judge itself unworthy of the finest things, but considered the study of them to be most akin to itself and most fitting for it. For since it was not possible for the body to arrive at the heavenly region and, leaving the earth behind, to survey that heavenly place at close range, as once the foolish Aloadae schemed to do, the soul at least, through philosophy, taking the intellect as its guide, made the crossing and traveled abroad, finding a road that costs no weariness, and by thought brought into concord things separated from one another by the greatest distances of place, recognizing with ease, I think, the things akin to it, and with the soul's divine eye grasping the divine things, and prophesying to human beings. This it experienced because, so far as it was able, it wished to share ungrudgingly with everyone the things it held precious. For this reason one might pity for their smallness of soul those who have gone to great pains to describe for us the nature of a single place, or the shape of a single city, or the size of a river, or the beauty of a mountain -- as some have already done, some telling of Ossa, others of Nysa, others of the Corycian cave, others of whatever particular thing happened to come their way -- struck with astonishment at some chance thing and thinking greatly of themselves over a trivial piece of observation.
2| This is what happens to them because they have never beheld the greater things -- I mean the cosmos, and the greatest things within the cosmos. For if they had genuinely turned their attention to these, they would never have marveled at anything else, but everything else would have appeared small to them and worth nothing beside the surpassing greatness of these. Let us, then, speak of these matters, and, so far as it is attainable, let us discourse on divine things concerning them all -- how each has its nature, its position, and its motion. And I think it is fitting for you too, being the best of rulers, to pursue the study of the greatest things, and to think nothing small worthy of philosophy, but to welcome the best of men with gifts of this kind.
3| The cosmos, then, is a system composed of heaven and earth and the natures contained within them. But cosmos is also spoken of in another sense, as the order and arrangement of the universe, kept safe by the gods and through the gods. Of this, the middle -- motionless and fixed -- is occupied by the life-bearing earth, which is both hearth and mother of every kind of living thing. Everything above it is entirely and in every direction bounded; the uppermost part of it, the dwelling-place of the gods, has been named heaven. Being full of divine bodies, which we are accustomed to call stars, moving with an everlasting motion, the whole of it dances together with them in a single revolution and circle, without ceasing, through eternity. Since the whole of heaven and the cosmos is spherical and, as I said, moves continuously, there are necessarily two motionless points, opposite each other, just as with a sphere turned on a lathe -- solid points remaining fixed and holding the sphere together, about which the whole cosmos moves. The cosmos, then, turns in a circle, and these points are called poles; and if we should conceive a straight line joining them, which some call the axis, it will be the diameter of the cosmos, having the earth as its midpoint and the two poles as its ends. Of these motionless poles, the one is always visible, being above the summit in the northern region, and is called the arctic pole;
4| the other is always hidden beneath the earth, in the southern region, and is called the antarctic pole. The substance of heaven and of the stars we call aether -- not, as some suppose, because it burns, being fiery (they are mistaken about a power that is very largely free of fire), but because it always runs in circular motion, being an element distinct from the other four, unmixed and divine. Of the stars contained within it, the fixed stars revolve together with the whole of heaven, keeping the same positions; among them the middle circle, called the zodiac, girds the heaven obliquely through the tropics, and is divided part by part into the regions of the twelve signs. But the planets, being wandering stars, are not so constituted as to move at the same speed either as the fixed stars or as one another, but move in different circles from each other, so that one of them is nearer the earth and another higher up. The number of the fixed stars is beyond human discovery, even though they move on a single surface, that of the whole of heaven; but the planets, summed up, come to seven parts, and are set in that many circles arranged one after another, so that the higher one is always greater than the one below it, and the seven are contained within one another, while all of them together are enclosed by the sphere of the fixed stars. Continuous with this in position is the circle called that of Phaenon, that is, of Cronus; next after it, the one called that of Phaethon, that is, of Zeus; then the fiery one, named after Heracles and Ares; next, Stilbon, which some call sacred to Hermes, others to Apollo;
5| after this, the star of Phosphorus, which some call that of Aphrodite, others of Hera; then that of the sun, and last of all, that of the moon, bounded all the way to the earth. The aether contains within it both the divine bodies and the order of their motion. After the aethereal and divine nature, which we declare to be ordered, and moreover unchanging, unalterable, and unaffected, there is continuous with it the nature that throughout is affected and changeable, and, to say it all at once, perishable and subject to decay. Of this itself, the first part is the fine-particled and flame-like substance, set on fire by the aethereal nature because of that nature's magnitude and the swiftness of its motion; and in this fiery region, called disordered, meteors dart across, flames are hurled, and beams and pits and what are called comets take their stand and are often extinguished. Next after this the air is spread out beneath, being murky and frost-like in its nature; but being lit up and at the same time heated through by motion, it becomes brighter and warm. In this region too, which is itself of the affected sort of power and undergoes change in every way, clouds gather and rains crash down, and snows and frosts and hailstorms, and gusts of winds and whirlwinds, and further, thunders and lightnings and the falling of thunderbolts and the colliding masses of countless dark clouds.
6| Next after the aerial nature, earth and sea are fixed in place, teeming with plants and animals, with springs and rivers, some of them winding across the land, others discharging into the sea. It is adorned besides with countless green growths, with lofty mountains and deep-wooded forests, and with cities, which that wise creature man has founded, and with islands in the sea, and with continents. Common opinion has divided the inhabited world into islands and continents, not knowing that the whole of it too is a single island, flowed around by the sea called Atlantic. It is likely that many other islands lie facing this one at a distance across the water, some larger than it, some smaller, but all of them, except this one, invisible to us; for what our islands are in relation to those seas, this inhabited world is in relation to the Atlantic Ocean, and many other such worlds are in relation to the whole sea; for these too are, in a sense, great islands, washed round by great oceans. The whole nature of the wet element, floating on top, growing up over certain patches of the earth called inhabited lands, would come next after the aerial nature above all. After this, in the depths, at the very middle of the cosmos, the whole earth, packed together and compressed, has been made to stand fast, motionless and unshaken;
7| And this is the whole of the cosmos that we call the lower region. These five elements, then, lying spherically in five regions, with the lesser always surrounded by the greater (I mean earth in water, water in air, air in fire, and fire in aether), constitute the whole cosmos, and the whole upper region it has shown to be the dwelling-place of gods, the lower the dwelling-place of creatures of a day. Now of this lower region itself, one part is wet, which we are accustomed to call rivers and springs and seas, and the other is dry, which we name earth, continents, and islands. Of the islands some are large, such as this entire inhabited world, as it has been called, and many others besides, encircled by great open seas, while others are smaller, and visible to us as lying within. Of these the notable ones are Sicily, Sardinia, Corsica, Crete, Euboea, Cyprus, and Lesbos; the lesser ones are named, some the Sporades, some the Cyclades, and some by other names. The open sea outside the inhabited world is called the Atlantic and Ocean, and it flows around us. On the western side, opening through a narrow strait at what are called the Pillars of Heracles, it makes its inflow into the inner sea as into a harbor, and then, gradually widening, spreads out, taking in great gulfs joined to one another, in places narrowing again to constricted necks, in places widening once more.
8| First, then, it is said to form a gulf on the right as one sails in through the Pillars of Heracles, in two places, into what are called the Syrtes, of which they call one the Great and the other the Small; on the other side it no longer forms gulfs in the same way but makes three seas, the Sardinian, the so-called Gallic, and the Adriatic, and next to these, running crosswise, the Sicilian, and after this the Cretan, and continuous with this on the one side the Egyptian, the Pamphylian, and the Syrian, and on the other the Aegean and the Myrtoan. Opposite to those named, being the most many-parted of all, lies the Pontus, whose innermost part is called Maeotis, while its outer part opens, toward the Hellespont, into what is called the Propontis. Again, toward the risings of the sun, Ocean flowing in, having opened up the Indian and Persian gulfs, reveals the Red Sea as continuous, having divided it off. On the other horn, running through a narrow and elongated neck, it widens out again, bounding Hyrcania and the Caspian; and the region above this, beyond Lake Maeotis, is a deep one. Then little by little, above the Scythians and Celtica, it constricts the inhabited world, toward the Gallic gulf and the aforementioned Pillars of Heracles, outside of which Ocean flows around the earth.
9| In this Ocean there happen to be two very great islands, called the British Isles, Albion and Ierne, larger than those spoken of before, lying beyond the Celts. Not smaller than these are Taprobane, beyond the Indians, lying obliquely with respect to the inhabited world, and the one called Phebol, lying off the Arabian gulf. And no small number of small islands crown in a circle, around the British Isles and Iberia, this inhabited world, which we have called an island; its breadth, at the deepest part of the continent, is a little short of forty thousand stades, as those who have studied geography well say, and its length is about seventy thousand. It is divided into Europe, Asia, and Libya. Europe, then, is that whose boundaries in a circle are the Pillars of Heracles, the innermost parts of the Pontus, and the Hyrcanian Sea, at which point the narrowest isthmus extends to the Pontus; but some have named the river Tanais as the boundary from the isthmus. Asia is that which extends from the aforementioned isthmus, of the Pontus and the Hyrcanian Sea, as far as the other isthmus, which lies between the Arabian gulf and the inner sea, being bounded by this sea and by the encircling Ocean; but some set the boundary of Asia as running from the Tanais as far as the mouths of the Nile.
10| Libya is that from the Arabian isthmus to the Pillars of Heracles; but some say it runs from the Nile to those same Pillars. As for Egypt, which is surrounded by the mouths of the Nile, some attach it to Asia, others to Libya; and as for the islands, some make them a separate category, others assign them always to the neighboring divisions. Such, then, is the account we have given of the nature and position of land and sea, of what we are accustomed to call the inhabited world.
11| Let us now speak of the most notable affections in it and around it, summing up only what is necessary. For two exhalations, so to call them, are continually carried up from it into the air above us, fine in their parts and altogether invisible, except perhaps at dawn; and there are also those carried up through rivers and springs, which are observed directly. Of these, the one is dry and smoky, flowing off from the earth, the other moist and vaporous, exhaled from the wet nature. From this latter come mists and dews and forms of frost, clouds and rains and snows and hailstorms, while from the dry exhalation come winds and differences of winds, thunders and lightnings and fiery whirlwinds and thunderbolts and the other things that are akin to these. Mist is a vaporous exhalation unproductive of water, thicker than air but rarer than cloud; it comes about either at the beginning of a cloud or as a remnant of one. Opposed to it, as they say, and in fact so, is clear sky, which is nothing other than air free of cloud and free of mist. Dew is moisture carried down in fine composition out of clear sky, ice is a mass of water congealed out of clear sky, hoarfrost is congealed dew, and rime is half-congealed dew.
12| A cloud is a vaporous thickness drawn together, productive of water. Rain comes about by the squeezing-out of a cloud that has become well thickened, and it has as many differences as the compression of the cloud has degrees; for when the compression is gentle it scatters soft drops, and when it is forceful, coarser ones — and this we call a downpour, larger and continuous masses of drops than rain, borne down upon the earth. Snow comes about through the breaking-off of clouds that have been condensed, checked before their change into water; the breaking produces the frothy and whitish quality, while the freezing-together of the moisture within, not yet melted or made rare, produces the coldness. When this comes down violently and in a mass it is called a snowstorm. Hail comes about when a snowstorm is compacted, and its weight, from the packing, gains a swifter descent; and according to the sizes of the fragments broken off, the masses become larger and the falls more violent. These things, then, naturally result together from the moist exhalation. From the dry exhalation, when it is driven by cold so as to flow, wind arises; for this is nothing but a great quantity of air flowing and massed together, which is also called breath. Breath is also spoken of in another sense, as that which pervades plants and animals and all things, an animate and generative substance, about which it is not necessary to speak now.
13| The breaths that blow in air we call winds, and the exhalations carried out of moisture we call breezes. Of the winds, those that blow from moistened ground are called land-winds, and those that rush out of gulfs, gulf-winds; and analogous to these are those from rivers and lakes. Those that come about through the bursting of a cloud, effecting a dissolution of its thickness within themselves, are called storm-winds; and when water bursts out with them all at once, they are called rain-squalls. Those that blow continuously from the east are called Euros, those from the north Boreas, those from the west Zephyrs, and those from the south Notos. Of the easterly winds, the one blowing from the region of the summer sunrise is called Caecias, the one from the region of the equinoctial sunrise Apeliotes, and the one from the region of the winter sunrise Eurus. And of the opposite, westerly winds, the one from the summer sunset is called Argestes, which some call Olympias and others Iapyx; the one from the equinoctial sunset is Zephyrus, and the one from the winter sunset is Lips. And of the north winds, properly speaking, the one next to Caecias is called Boreas, the one next after it, blowing from the pole along the meridian, is Aparctias, and the one next to Argestes is Thrascias, which some call Caecias.
14| And among the south winds, the one blowing from the invisible pole, opposite to the north wind, is called notos; euronotos is the one between eurus and notos; and the one on the other side, between lips and notos, some call libonotos and others libophoenix. Of the winds, some are straight-blowing, namely those that blow forward continuously in a straight line, while others are recoiling, like the one called caecias. And some prevail in winter, as the south winds do, while others prevail in summer, as the so-called etesian winds do, which contain a mixture of winds blowing from the north and of west winds; and the so-called ornithiai, being certain spring winds, are north winds by kind. As for the violent blasts, a squall (kataigis) is a wind striking suddenly from above, a gale (thyella) is a violent wind that leaps upon one suddenly, a hurricane (lailaps) and a whirlwind (strobilos) are wind coiling from below upward, and an exhalation of earth (anaphysema) is wind carried upward as it rises from some depth or fissure; and when it is carried along coiling in great quantity, it is an earth-storm-cloud (chthonios prester). Wind coiled up within a cloud that is thick and moist, and forcibly bursting through it from without and rending the continuous compressions of the cloud, produces a great rumbling and crashing, called thunder, just as when wind is driven violently through water.
15| At the bursting of the cloud, the wind, set on fire and flashing, is called lightning; and this in fact reaches us before the thunder, though it occurs after it, since what is audible is by nature outstripped by what is visible — the one being seen even from far off, the other only when it draws near to the hearing — and especially since the one is the swiftest of existing things, I mean what is fiery, while the other, being airy, is less swift, arriving at the hearing only in the striking. What has flashed, being set ablaze, and running violently down to the earth, is called a thunderbolt; and if it is half-fiery, but otherwise violent and concentrated, it is a prester; and if it is entirely without fire, it is a typhon. Each of these, when it strikes down into the earth, is named a skeptos. Among thunderbolts, the sooty ones are called psoloeis, the swiftly darting ones argetes, the ones moving in a line-like course helikiai, and skeptoi are all those that strike down upon something. To sum up the appearances in the air: some occur by reflection, others by actual substance. By reflection are rainbows and rods and things of that kind; by actual substance are gleams (sela), and shooting stars, and comets, and things resembling these. A rainbow, then, is the reflection of a segment of the sun or moon, seen as an appearance in a moist, hollow, and continuous cloud, as in a mirror, along the circumference of a circle.
16| A rod is a straight reflection of a rainbow. A halo is the reflected radiance surrounding the brightness of a star; and it differs from a rainbow in that the rainbow appears opposite the sun and moon, while the halo appears in a circle around any star whatever. A gleam (selas) is the sudden kindling of fire, massed together, in the air. Of gleams, some are hurled like darts and some remain fixed. The dart-throwing kind is the generation of fire from friction, as it moves swiftly through the air and, because of its speed, presents the appearance of length; the fixed kind is an elongated extension without motion, and is, as it were, a flowing of a star; and when it spreads out on one side it is called a comet. Often, of these gleams, some persist for a longer time, while others are extinguished at once. Many other kinds of appearances are also observed, called torches (lampades), beams (dokides), jars (pithoi), and pits (bothynoi), named thus from their resemblance to these things. And of these, some are seen in the west, some in the east, some shining on both sides, but rarely in the north or south. All are unstable; for none of these has ever been recorded as remaining permanently visible. Such, then, are the phenomena of the air. But the earth also contains within itself, just as it contains springs of water, so too springs of wind and of fire.
17| Of these, some are invisible, being beneath the earth, but many have vents and outbursts, as at Lipara and Etna and the islands of Aeolus; and some also frequently flow like a river, and hurl up red-hot masses of stone. Some of these, being underground near springs of water, heat them, and cause some of the streams to issue lukewarm, others boiling hot, others of a well-tempered mixture. Likewise many mouths of winds too are opened in many places of the earth, of which some make those who approach them possessed, others make them waste away, others utter oracles, as those at Delphi and Lebadeia; while others destroy entirely, as the one in Phrygia. Often too a kindred wind of temperate quality, thrust aside within the earth into its inmost caverns, being driven out of its own proper places, shakes together many parts of the earth. And often, becoming abundant from outside, it is coiled up and shut in within the hollows of the earth, and, being denied a way out, shakes the earth violently as it seeks an outlet for itself, and produces this affection which we are accustomed to call an earthquake. Of earthquakes, those that shake sideways, inclining at acute angles, are called tilting quakes (epiklintai); those that hurl up and down at right angles are called upheaving quakes (brastai); those that produce subsidences into hollow places are called chasm-quakes (chasmatiai);
18| and those that open chasms and tear open the earth are called rending quakes (rhektai). Of these, some also throw up wind besides, others rocks, others mud, and others reveal springs that did not exist before. Some overturn things with a single thrust, and these are called pushers (ostai). Others toss things up and, by inclinations first to one side then the other and by tossings, continually right what is being shaken, and these are called tremblers (palmatiai), producing an affection like a shivering. There also occur bellowing quakes (mykētiai), which shake the earth along with a roar. And often a bellowing of the earth occurs without any earthquake, when the wind is not sufficient to shake the earth, but, being coiled up within it, is beaten about with the violence of a surging noise. The winds that enter in are also given a compact body by the hidden moisture within the earth. Analogous events to these occur also in the sea; for chasms of the sea occur, and frequent recessions, and onrushes of waves, sometimes involving a repelling backwash, sometimes only a forward thrust, as is recorded concerning Helice and Bura. Often, too, outbursts of fire occur in the sea, and gushings-up of springs, and outflows of rivers, and growths of trees, and currents and eddies analogous to those of winds, some in the middle of the open sea, others in straits and channels.
19| And many ebb-tides and risings of waves are said always to accompany the circuit of the moon, at certain fixed times. To sum up the whole matter: as the elements are mingled with one another, in air and earth and sea, resemblances of these affections naturally arise, bringing to the parts destructions and generations, while preserving the whole indestructible and ungenerated.
20| And yet someone has wondered how, if the cosmos is composed of opposite principles — I mean of dry and wet, cold and hot — it has not long ago been destroyed and perished, just as if some people were to wonder how a city continues to hold together though composed of opposite classes of people — I mean poor and rich, young and old, weak and strong, base and good. They do not know that this was the most wonderful thing about political concord, namely that it produces out of many a single and similar disposition out of dissimilar elements, receiving every nature and every fortune. And perhaps nature too longs for opposites, and produces concord out of these, not out of similars, just as, of course, it brought the male together with the female and not each with its own kind, and joined the first concord through opposites, not through similars. And art too seems, in imitating nature, to do this: for painting, by mixing together the natures of white and black, yellow and red colors, produces images that are in harmony with their models; and music, by mixing high and low, long and short notes in different voices, produces a single harmony; and grammar, by forming a blending of vowel and consonant letters, constructs the whole of its art out of them.
21| This same thing was also what was said by Heraclitus the obscure: “you would join together wholes and not-wholes, that which is being brought together and that which is being brought apart, that which is in harmony and that which is in discord; and out of all things one, and out of one all things.” So too, then, the constitution of the whole — I mean of heaven and earth and the entire cosmos — was arranged into a single harmony through the blending of the most opposite principles: for dry mixed with wet, hot with cold, heavy with light, and straight with curved, and the single power that pervades all things arranged the whole earth and sea, the aether and sun and moon and the whole heaven, out of things unmixed and different in kind — air and earth and fire and water — fashioning the entire cosmos and marking it off by a single spherical surface, compelling the most opposite natures within it to come to agreement with one another, and out of these contriving safety for the whole. The cause of this is the agreement of the elements, and the cause of the agreement is their equal apportionment and the fact that none of them has more power than another; for heavy things maintain an equal counterpoise against light things, and hot things against their opposite, nature teaching us in the case of greater things that equality is in some way preservative of concord, and concord is preservative of the cosmos that begets all things and is most beautiful.
22| For what nature could be superior to this one? For whatever one might name would be a part of it. And everything fine takes its name from this, and so does what is orderly, said to have been ‘set in order’ from the word ‘cosmos.’ And what among particular things could be made equal to the order and motion in the heavens of the stars, the sun and the moon, moving in the most exact measures from one age to another? And what freedom from falsehood could be like that which the beautiful and fruitful seasons of the whole preserve, bringing on summers and winters in due order, and days and nights, toward the completion of the month and the year? And indeed this same heaven is greatest in magnitude, swiftest in motion, brightest in radiance, and in power ageless and imperishable. This is what has separated out the natures of creatures of the sea and of land and of air, and has measured out their lives by its own motions. From this all living things draw breath and possess soul. From this too the surprising upheavals are brought to completion in due order — winds of every kind clashing together, thunderbolts falling from heaven, extraordinary storms breaking out. And through these the moisture that is squeezed out and the fiery element that is exhaled bring the whole into concord and settle it.
23| The earth too, luxuriant with plants of every kind, overflowing with streams and thronged about with living creatures, bringing forth all things in their season and nourishing them and receiving them back, bearing countless forms and experiences, likewise preserves its ageless nature, even though it is shaken by earthquakes and flooded by inundations, and set ablaze in parts by conflagrations. All these things seem to happen to it for its good, providing safety through the ages: for when it is shaken, the incursions of winds rush out through the fissures, providing outlets for breath, as has been said above; and when it is purified, all its diseased matter is washed away by rains, and when it is blown round by breezes, both the regions below it and those above it are made pure. And indeed flames fatten what is frost-bound, and frosts relieve the flames. And of particular things, some come into being, some are at their peak, and some perish; and comings-into-being check destructions, and destructions lighten the burden of comings-into-being. And a single safety, brought to completion out of all things through to the end, as they take one another’s place in turn, now prevailing and now being overcome, keeps the whole imperishable through the ages.
24| It remains, then, to speak in summary about the cause that holds the whole together, in the same manner as about the other matters; for it would be a fault, in speaking about the cosmos, even if not with exactness, still at least for the purpose of outline instruction, to leave aside what is most authoritative in the cosmos. There is, then, an ancient account, ancestral to all human beings, that all things are constituted from god and through god for us, and that no nature is by itself self-sufficient, if deprived of the safety that comes from him. For this reason some of the ancients too were led to say that all these things that appear to us through the eyes and through hearing and every perception are full of gods, laying down an account fitting for the divine power, though not indeed fitting for its substance. For god is truly the savior of all things and the begetter of whatever is brought to completion in this cosmos in whatever way, yet he does not undergo the toil of a creature that labors and works with its own hands, but employs an unwearying power, through which he prevails even over things that seem to be far off. He himself, then, has obtained the highest and first seat, and for this reason has been named ‘the highest,’ and, according to the poet, is established at the topmost peak of the whole heaven; and the body nearest to him enjoys his power most of all, in a certain way, and then the one after that, and so on in succession as far as the regions about us.
25| For this reason earth and the things upon earth, being at the greatest distance from the benefit that comes from god, seem to be weak and ill-matched and full of much disturbance; nonetheless, insofar as the divine is by nature such as to reach through to everything, the things about us are affected in a like manner; and the things above us, according to whether they are nearer to or farther from god, partake more or less of benefit. It is better, then, to suppose — and this is both fitting and most in keeping with god — that the power situated in heaven becomes the cause of safety even for the things that stand at the greatest distance, so far as that can be said, and indeed for all things together, rather than that, passing through and going about, it works with its own hands, in a place where it is neither fine nor seemly, the things upon earth. For this does not befit even human commanders — to preside in person over every chance task, such as, for a commander of an army or a city or a household, to tie up a bundle of bedding, or to perform any meaner task, which not even the least slave would do in the case of the great king; but rather, as is recorded of Cambyses and Xerxes and Darius, the outward show was arranged magnificently to a height of dignity and preeminence. For the king himself, as the account goes, was established at Susa or Ecbatana, invisible to all, occupying a marvelous royal house and enclosure gleaming with gold and amber and ivory;
26| and there were many gates in succession, and forecourts kept apart from one another by many stades, fortified with bronze doors and great walls; and outside these the first and most approved men were stationed in order — some about the king himself, spearmen and attendants, others as guards of each enclosure, called gatekeepers and ‘listeners,’ so that the king himself, called master and god, might see everything and hear everything. And apart from these there were established others as stewards of revenues, and generals of wars and of hunts, and receivers of gifts, and each of the rest as overseers of works according to need. And the entire rule of Asia, bounded by the Hellespont on the side toward the west and by the Indus on the side toward the east, had been divided by nation among generals and satraps and kings who were slaves of the great king, and day-runners and lookouts and messengers and watchers of beacon-fires. So great was the order, and especially that of the beacon-fires, blazing in succession to one another from the ends of the empire as far as Susa and Ecbatana, that the king knew on the very same day everything that was newly done in Asia. One must suppose, then, that the preeminence of the great king falls as far short of that of the god who holds the cosmos together as the preeminence of that god falls short of the meanest and weakest creature — so that if it would have been unseemly for Xerxes himself to be thought to do and accomplish everything he wished with his own hands, presiding over it in person, it would be far more unbecoming for god;
27| It is more solemn and more fitting that he himself should be seated in the highest region, while his power, extending through the whole cosmos, moves the sun and moon and turns the whole heaven around, and becomes the cause of preservation for the things on earth. For he has no need of contrivance and of service from others, as our own rulers need many hands because of their weakness; rather this was the most divine thing of all, to bring about, with ease and by a single simple motion, forms of every kind — just as, of course, great craftsmen do, producing through the release of a single mechanism many and varied effects. In the same way puppeteers, by pulling a single cord, make the animal's neck move, and its hand, and its shoulder, and its eye, and sometimes all the parts together, with a certain rhythm. So too the divine nature, from some simple motion of the first thing, gives its power to the things next in order, and from those again to the things farther off, until it has passed through the whole; for one thing, moved by another, itself in turn moved yet another, all in order, each acting according to its own particular constitution, though the path is not the same for all, but different and various, and for some even opposite — even though the first impulse, as it were, into motion was a single one. It is as if one were to throw a sphere and a cube and a cone and a cylinder together out of a bag:
28| each of them will move according to its own particular shape. Or as if one held in one's arms a water animal and a land animal and a winged animal together, and released them: clearly the swimming one will leap and swim off to its own habitat, the land animal will crawl off to its own haunts and pastures, and the aerial one, lifted from the earth, will depart flying aloft — one single first cause rendering to each its own proper ease. So it is with the cosmos as well. For through the simple revolution of the whole heaven, which is bounded by day and night, different courses come about for all things, even though they are contained within a single sphere, some moving faster and some more slowly, according to the lengths of their intervals and the particular constitutions of each. For the moon completes its own circuit in a month, waxing and waning and dwindling; the sun in a year, along with those that run an equal course with it, the Morning Star and the one called Hermes; the one called Pyroeis in twice that time; the one of Zeus in six times that; and last, the one called of Kronos in two and a half times the one below it. A single harmony arises out of all of them, as they sing and dance together in a chorus through the heaven, coming from one thing and ending in one thing — the whole rightly named 'cosmos' (order) and not disorder.
29| Just as in a chorus, when the leader gives the starting note, the whole chorus joins in, of men, and sometimes of women too, blending one melodious harmony out of different voices, some higher and some lower — so it is with the god who governs the whole. For at the signal given from above by the one who might fittingly be called the leader of the chorus, the stars and the whole heaven are moved continually, while the all-radiant sun travels two courses: in the one, marking off day and night by his rising and setting; in the other, bringing on the four seasons of the year, moving forward toward the north and back again toward the south. Rains come in their season, and winds and dews, and the phenomena that occur in the surrounding air, all through the first and primordial cause. Following upon these come the flowing of rivers, the swelling of the sea, the sprouting of trees, the ripening of fruits, the births of animals, and the nurture, prime, and decline of all things, the particular constitution of each thing also contributing to these, as I said. So whenever the leader and begetter of all things, invisible to anything but reasoning, gives his signal to every nature that moves between heaven and earth, the whole of it moves continuously in circles and within its own bounds, now vanishing, now appearing, bringing to light countless forms and then hiding them again, from a single origin.
30| What happens here closely resembles what happens especially in times of war, whenever the trumpet gives its signal to the camp. For then, each man on hearing the sound takes some action of his own: one takes up his shield, another puts on his breastplate, another fits on greaves or helmet or belt; one bridles his horse, another mounts a two-horse chariot, another passes along the watchword. At once the company commander takes his place at the head of his company, the battalion commander at the head of his battalion, the cavalryman on the wing, the light-armed soldier runs out to his own post; and all things are set whirling under a single signaler, according to the command of the general who holds the power. So too one must think about the universe. For when all things are roused by a single impulse, their own proper actions come about, and this impulse is invisible and unseen. This is in no way an obstacle either to that power's acting or to our believing it. For the soul too, through which we live and have households and cities, though invisible, is seen through its very works. For the whole order of life is discovered, arranged, and held together by it — the plowing and planting of the earth, the inventions of craft, the use of laws, the ordering of the constitution, deeds done at home, war fought beyond the borders, and peace.
31| These are the things one must think about god as well — that in power he is strongest, in beauty most fitting, in life immortal, in virtue mightiest; because, although he has become invisible to every mortal nature, he is seen from his very works. For the phenomena — all those that occur through the air, and those on earth, and those in water — could truly be said to be the works of the god who holds the cosmos together. From him, according to the natural philosopher Empedocles, come 'all things that were, and are, and shall be hereafter — trees sprang up, and men and women, beasts and birds and fish reared in the waters.'
32| It really is apt, though the image is a lesser one, to compare the cosmos to the so-called keystones in arches: stones set in the middle which, by their binding into the structure on either side, keep the whole shape of the arch in harmony, in order, and motionless. They also say that the sculptor Phidias, when fashioning the Athena on the Acropolis, impressed his own face in the middle of her shield and bound it to the statue by some hidden craftsmanship, so that necessarily, if anyone wished to remove it, he would have to loosen and destroy the whole statue. This, then, is the relation god has to the cosmos: he holds together the harmony and preservation of the whole — except that he is not in the middle, where the earth and this murky region are, but above, standing pure in a pure place, which we rightly call 'heaven' (ouranos), from being the boundary (horos) of the things above, and 'Olympus,' as being wholly bright and separated from all gloom and disorderly motion, of the kind that occurs among us through storm and the violence of winds — just as the poet Homer said: 'to Olympus, where they say the seat of the gods is ever secure. It is not shaken by winds, nor ever wetted by rain, nor does snow come near it, but the clear air is spread cloudless, and a white radiance runs over it.'
33| The whole of life bears witness to this too, in that it assigns the upper region to god. For all human beings raise their hands toward heaven when they make their prayers. It is in this sense that the line has rightly been proclaimed, "And Zeus obtained wide heaven, in the upper air and the clouds." This is also why the most honored of perceptible things occupy that same region — the stars, the sun, and the moon. And this is why the heavenly bodies alone, of all things, have been set in order so as always to preserve the same arrangement, and have never been altered or shifted from it, unlike the things on earth, which, being changeable, have undergone many transformations and disturbances. For violent earthquakes have before now torn open many parts of the earth, and extraordinary rains have burst forth and caused floods, and the advance and retreat of waves have often turned mainlands into sea and seas into mainland, and the force of winds and hurricanes has sometimes overturned whole cities, and there have been conflagrations and flames — some coming down from heaven, as they say happened once in the time of Phaethon, which burned up the regions toward the dawn, others bursting up and blowing out of the earth toward the west, as when the craters on Etna broke open and swept across the land like a torrent. It was there that the divine power showed exceptional honor to a family of pious men, who were overtaken by the stream because they were carrying their aged parents on their shoulders to save them.
34| for as the river of fire came near them it split apart, and turned the blaze aside, one part this way and one that, and kept the young men unharmed together with their parents. And, to put it generally, what a helmsman is on a ship, a charioteer in a chariot, a chorus-leader in a chorus, law in a city, a commander in an army, this god is in the cosmos — except that for the others ruling is toilsome, full of exertion and full of care, while for him it is free of pain and effort and detached from every bodily weakness. For established in a place that is unmoved, he moves and carries around everything, wherever he wishes and however, into different shapes and natures — just as, indeed, the law of a city too, being itself unmoved, resident in the souls of those who observe it, administers everything that concerns the constitution. For clearly it is in obedience to it that the magistrates go out to their offices, the thesmothetae to the courts assigned to them, councillors and assemblymen to the sessions that belong to them, and one man walks to the town hall to be fed at public expense, another to the judges to make his defense, another to the prison to die. And there arise as well the customary public feasts and the yearly festivals, sacrifices to the gods and honors paid to heroes and libations for the dead;
35| and other things, carried out by other people under a single command or lawful authority, preserve in truth the intention of the one who established them; and the city all at once is full of incense-smoke, and all at once full of paeans and of groans. This is how we must think of things in the case of the greater city as well — I mean this cosmos. For god is our law, impartial, admitting no correction and no alteration, and better, I think, and more secure than the laws inscribed on the public tablets. And as he leads, ever in motion and in harmony, the whole ordered system of heaven and earth is administered, apportioned according to all the natures through their own proper seeds into plants and animals, by genus and by species. For there are vines and palms and persea-trees and sweet figs and olives, as the poet says, and others that bear no fruit but supply other uses — planes and pines and box-trees, alder and poplar and fragrant cypress, and those that bear a sweet fruit of autumn but one otherwise hard to store — pear-trees and pomegranates and apple-trees splendid with their fruit; and of the animals, both the wild and the tame, those that feed in the air, on the earth, and in the water, come into being and reach their prime and perish, obeying the ordinances of god; for "for every creeping thing ranges the earth for pasture," as Heraclitus says.
36| Being one, he is called by many names, named after all the effects which he himself continually brings about anew. We call him both Zen and Dia, using the two names side by side, as if we were to say "the one through whom we live." He is said to be the child of Kronos and of time, extending from an age without limit into another age; he is called Lightener and Thunderer and Clear-Sky and Sky-Dweller and Bolt-Hurler and Rain-Giver, from the rains and thunderbolts and the rest. And indeed he is named Giver-of-Fruits from the fruits, and Guardian-of-Cities from the cities; and Ancestral, Household, Kindred, and Paternal from his sharing in these; Comrade and Friend and Guest-Protector and War-God and Bringer-of-Trophies, Purifier and Avenger-of-Bloodshed and Protector-of-Suppliants and Gracious-One, as the poets say, and truly Savior and Liberator; and, to say it all in one word, Heavenly and Earthly, being named after every nature and every fortune, since he himself is the cause of all things. This is why it has rightly been said as well, in the Orphic writings: "Zeus was born first, Zeus of the bright bolt is last; Zeus is the head, Zeus the middle; from Zeus all things are made. Zeus is the foundation of earth and of starry heaven. Zeus was born male, Zeus came to be an immortal bride. Zeus is the breath of all things, Zeus is the force of untiring fire. Zeus is the root of the sea, Zeus is the sun and the moon. Zeus is king, Zeus the ruler of all, of the bright bolt; for having hidden all things away, he brought them back again into the joyful light out of his sacred heart, working his mighty deeds."
37| And I think that Necessity too is said to be nothing other than this god — being, as it were, an unconquerable substance; and he is called Fate because he strings things together and proceeds without hindrance; and Destiny because all things have been bounded and nothing among the things that are is unlimited; and Portion, from having been divided; and Nemesis, from the apportionment made to each; and Adrasteia, being a cause that by nature cannot be escaped; and Aisa, from his always being. The matters concerning the Fates and the spindle incline in something like this direction too. For the Fates are three, divided according to the times, and of the spindle's thread one part is already spun out, one part is yet to come, and one part is being turned even now; and one of the Fates has been assigned to what has already happened — Atropos, since all things past are unturnable — and to what is to come, Lachesis, since the allotment that accords with nature remains in store for all things, and to what is present, Clotho, who completes and spins for each thing what belongs to it. And the story, too, is brought to its conclusion not without order. All these things are nothing other than god, just as the noble Plato also says. God, then, as the old account has it, holding the beginning and the end and the middle of all things that are, proceeds in a straight line, completing his course according to nature; and justice always follows with him, the avenger of those who fall short of the divine law — a partnership in which whoever is to be happy ought, from the very beginning, straightaway to have his share, being thereby blessed and happy.
1| [section 1] Wonder attaches to those things that happen in accordance with nature, whenever the cause is unknown, and to those that happen contrary to nature, when they come about through craft for man's advantage. For in many cases nature acts in a way opposed to what is useful to us; for nature always keeps to the same way and acts simply, while what is useful changes in many ways. [section 2] So whenever something must be done contrary to nature, the difficulty of it raises a puzzle and calls for craft. That is why we call the part of craft that comes to the aid of such puzzles a device. For as the poet Antiphon put it, so it is: by craft we master things by which we are overcome by nature. [section 3] Such are the cases in which the lesser masters the greater, and things having a small inclination move great weights, and pretty much everything we call mechanical problems. These are neither entirely the same as natural problems, nor altogether separate from them, but are common to both mathematical and natural inquiry: the how of it is made clear through mathematics, but the matter it concerns is made clear through natural science. [section 4] Among the puzzles contained in this class are those concerning the lever. For it seems strange that a great weight should be moved by a small force, and that too along with a greater weight besides; for the very weight that one cannot move without a lever, that same weight, once one has further taken on the weight of the lever as well, one moves more quickly.
2| [section 5] Of all such things, the circle holds the starting point of the cause. And this has come about reasonably; for it is nothing strange that something wonderful should come about from something more wonderful still, but the most wonderful thing of all is that opposites should come to be together. Now the circle is composed of just such things: for straightaway it is generated both from something moving and something remaining at rest, and the natures of these are opposite to one another. [section 6] So that here too, on inspection, one may wonder the less at the opposite properties that occur in connection with it. First, in the line that encloses the circle, though it has no breadth, opposites are in a way displayed together: the concave and the convex. These stand apart from one another in the way that the great and the small do; for the mean between the latter pair is the equal, and between the former, the straight. [section 7] Hence, when they change into one another, Hence, when they change into one another, the great and the small must first become equal before passing to either extreme, and the line must become straight, when it changes from convex to concave, or again from this back to convex and curved. This, then, is one of the strange things about the circle; a second is that it moves with opposite motions at the same time: for it moves at once into the place in front and into the place behind. [section 8] The line that traces out the circle is in the same condition: for from the place where it begins, its endpoint comes again to this same place; for as it moves continuously, its last point in turn arrives first, so that it is also clear that it has moved on from there.
3| [section 9] Hence, as has been said before, it is nothing strange that the circle should be the starting point of all these wonders. Now the phenomena concerning the balance are traced back to the circle, those concerning the lever to the balance, and pretty much all the rest of the phenomena concerning mechanical motions to the lever. [section 10] Further, because, there being a single line from the center, none of the points on it travels at the same speed as any other, but the point further from the fixed endpoint always travels faster, many of the wonders concerning the motions of circles come about; about these it will become clear in the problems that follow. [section 11] And because the circle moves with opposite motions at the same time — one endpoint of the diameter, the point A, moving forward, and the other, the point B, moving backward — some construct devices so that, from a single motion, many opposite circles move at once, like the little wheels of bronze and iron that people have made and dedicated in temples. [section 12]
4| For if there were, touching the circle on which A B lies, another circle on which C D lies, then, as the diameter of the circle on which A B lies moves forward, C D will move backward on the circle on which A lies, since the diameter is moving about the same point. The circle on which C D lies will therefore move in the opposite direction to the one on which A B lies, and this circle in turn will move the next one, on which E F lies, in the opposite direction to itself, for the same cause. [section 13] And in the same way, even if there are more circles than this, they will do the same though only one is set in motion. Taking hold, then, of this nature that belongs to the circle, craftsmen construct an instrument that hides its starting principle, so that only the wonder of the device is apparent, while the cause remains unclear. [section 1] First, then, the phenomena concerning the balance raise a puzzle: for what cause are the larger balances more accurate than the smaller ones? The starting point of this is: why, in a circle, does the line further from the center, moving with the same force as one nearer, travel faster than the smaller one? For 'faster' is said in two ways: for we say a thing is faster both if it traverses an equal distance in less time, and if it traverses a greater distance in equal time.
5| [section 2] Now the greater line, in equal time, describes a greater circle; for the outer is greater than the inner. The cause of this is that the point tracing out the circle moves with two motions at once. Now whenever something moves in some fixed ratio, what is moving must move along a straight line, and this line becomes the diagonal of the figure formed by the lines composed in that ratio. [section 3] For let the ratio in which the moving thing moves be that which A B has to A C; and let A C be carried toward B, and let A B be carried down toward G C; and let A have been carried to D, and the line A B to E. If, then, in the motion the ratio was that which A B has to A C, then A D must also have this same ratio to A E. [section 4] The small quadrilateral is therefore similar, in point of ratio, to the larger one, so that they also have the same diagonal, and A will fall on F. In just the same way it will be shown wherever the motion is divided; for the point will always be on the diagonal. It is clear, then, that what moves along the diagonal under two motions must move in the ratio of the sides.
6| [section 5] For if it moved in some other ratio, it would not travel along the diagonal. And if it moves with two motions in no fixed ratio at all, for any length of time, it is impossible for its motion to be a straight line. For suppose it is straight. Then, with this line set as diagonal, and the sides filled in to complete the figure, what is moving must be carried in the ratio of the sides; for this has been shown before. [section 6] Hence what moves in no fixed ratio, for no length of time, will not produce a straight line. For if it is carried in some ratio for some time, then for that time its motion must be a straight line, because of what has been said. So it becomes circular, given that it moves with two motions in no fixed ratio for any length of time. [section 7] That the point tracing out the circle, then, moves with two motions at once is clear from this, and also from the fact that the point moving in a straight line arrives at the perpendicular, so that this line, drawn from the center, is again a perpendicular. Let there be a circle A B C, and let the endpoint B be carried toward D; at some point it arrives at C. Now if it were moving in the ratio which B D has to D C, it would travel along the diameter B C. [section 8] But as it is, since it moves in no fixed ratio, it travels along the arc B E C. And if, of two things moving under the same force, one is deflected more and the other less, it is reasonable that the one deflected more should move more slowly than the one deflected less; and this is what appears to happen with the greater and the lesser of the lines drawn from the center that trace out the circles.
7| [section 9] Because the endpoint of the shorter radius is closer to the point that stays fixed than the endpoint of the longer one, and is, as it were, dragged back in the opposite direction, the endpoint of the shorter radius moves more slowly toward the middle. Now this happens with every line describing a circle: it moves in accordance with nature along the circumference, but contrary to nature toward the side and toward the center. [section 10] And the shorter radius always moves more contrary to nature; for because it is closer to the center that drags it back, it is more overpowered. That the shorter of the lines drawn from the center that describe the circles moves more contrary to nature than the longer one is clear from the following. [section 11] Let there be a circle on which lie Β, Γ, Δ, Ε, and within it another, smaller circle on which lie Χ, Ν, Μ, Ξ, about the same center Α; and let the diameters be drawn out — in the larger circle, ΓΔ and ΒΕ, and in the smaller, ΧΝΞ — and let the oblong figure ΔΨΡΓ be completed. [section 12] If, then, the line ΑΒ, in describing a circle, comes back to the same point from which it set out, namely to ΑΕ, clearly it moves back toward itself. Likewise ΑΧ will also come back to ΑΧ. But ΑΧ moves more slowly than ΑΒ, as has been said, because the deflection becomes greater and ΑΧ is dragged back more.
8| [section 13] Let ΑΘΗ be drawn, and from Θ let ΘΖ be drawn perpendicular to ΑΒ within the circle; and again from Θ let ΘΩ be drawn parallel to ΑΒ, and ΩΥ perpendicular to ΑΒ, and also ΗΚ. Now the lines ΩΥ and ΘΖ are equal. Therefore ΒΥ is less than ΧΖ; for equal straight lines set at right angles to the diameter in unequal circles cut off a smaller segment of the diameter in the larger circles, and ΩΥ is equal to ΘΖ. [section 14] In the time in which ΑΘ has traveled ΧΘ, in that same time, in the larger circle, the endpoint of ΒΑ has traveled more than ΒΩ. For the motion in accordance with nature is equal, but the motion contrary to nature is less — that is, ΒΥ compared with ΖΧ. And it must be proportional: as the natural motion is to the natural motion, so the motion contrary to nature is to the motion contrary to nature. [section 15] Therefore it has traversed a greater arc, ΗΒ, than ΩΒ. And it is necessary that it has traversed ΗΒ in this time; for that is where it will be, when the ratio of the contrary-to-nature motion to the natural motion comes out proportional in both cases. If, then, the natural motion is greater in the larger circle, the contrary-to-nature motion would also more likely coincide there in only this one way, so that Β would have traveled ΒΗ to the point marked Χ.
9| [section 16] For here the center comes to coincide with the point Β in accordance with nature (since this is the perpendicular from ΗΚ), while contrary to nature it moves toward ΚΒ. And ΗΚ is to ΚΒ as ΘΖ is to ΖΧ. This is clear if ΒΧ is joined to ΗΘ. But if, when Β had been carried, ΗΒ turns out to be less or greater, then the ratio of the natural motion to the contrary-to-nature motion will not be the same or proportional in both cases. [section 17] The reason, then, why under the same force the point farther from the center moves faster is clear from what has been said; and why the larger scales are more accurate than the smaller ones is also clear from this. For the cord becomes the center (since it stays fixed), while the lines from the center run to each side of the balance-pan. [section 18] From the same weight, then, the end of the balance-pan must necessarily move faster the farther it is from the cord; and in small scales the weights placed on them are sometimes not perceptible to the senses, while in large scales they are perceptible — for nothing prevents a smaller amount of movement in the one case than is visible to sight.
10| [section 19] On the large balance-pan the same weight produces a visible amount of movement. Some things are visible in both cases, but much more so in the larger, because the amount of the tilt produced by the same weight is much greater in the larger scales. [section 20] And this is why dealers in purple dye cheat when they set up their scales — by not placing the cord in the middle, and by pouring lead into one side of the beam, or by making the part of the wood near the root lean toward whichever side they wish, or, if the wood has a knot, using that; for the part of the wood where the root is — or where a knot is, since a knot is a kind of root — is heavier. [section 1] Why is it that if the cord is above, then when the weight is removed after the balance has tilted downward, the beam rises again, but if the support is from below, it does not rise again but stays where it is? Is it because, when the cord is above, the part of the beam beyond the perpendicular becomes more than half? For the cord is a perpendicular. [section 2] So the greater part must necessarily tilt downward, until the line that bisects the beam comes to coincide with the perpendicular itself, once the weight is placed on the part of the beam that has been drawn up. Let ΒΓ be a straight beam, and ΑΔ the cord. If this is extended downward, the perpendicular will be ΑΔΜ.
11| [section 3] If, then, the weight is placed at Β, Β will be at the point Ε and Γ at the point Ζ, so that the line bisecting the beam, which was at first ΔΜ, the perpendicular itself, will, once the weight is placed on it, become ΔΘ; so that, of the beam ΕΖ, the part outside the perpendicular ΑΒ, namely ΦΠ, is more than half. [section 4] If, then, the weight is removed from Ε, Ζ must necessarily move downward, for it is less than Ε. Now if the cord is above, the beam rises again for this reason. But if the support is from below, it does the opposite; for the lower part of the beam becomes more than half of what the perpendicular divides off, so that it does not rise again — for the part that is raised up is lighter. [section 5] Let ΝΞ be the straight beam, and ΚΛΜ the perpendicular. ΝΞ is then bisected. When a weight is placed at Ν, Ν will be at the point Ο, Ξ at the point Ρ, and ΚΛ at the point ΑΘ, so that ΚΟ is greater than ΛΡ by ΘΚΛ. And so, once the weight is removed, it must necessarily stay where it is; for the excess of the half at Κ lies on it like a weight.
12| [section 1] Why is it that small forces move great weights by means of the lever — as was said also at the beginning — once the weight of the lever itself is added in? It is easier to move a smaller weight, and the weight is smaller without the lever. Or is it because the cause is the lever, [being] a kind of beam that has its cord below and is divided into unequal parts? For the fulcrum takes the place of the cord; for both of these stay fixed, like the center. [section 2] Since the longer of the lines from the center is moved faster by an equal weight, and there are three things involved in the lever — the fulcrum (the cord and center), and two weights, the one moving and the one moved — then as the weight moved is to the weight moving, so, inversely, is the length to the length. And always, the farther it is from the fulcrum, the more easily it will move the weight. [section 3] The cause is the one stated before, that the point farther from the center describes a greater circle. So from the same force they move it more; the point applying the motion will be positioned farther from the fulcrum. Let ΑΒ be the lever, Γ the weight, Δ the point applying the motion, Ε the fulcrum, Η the point to which Δ moves in applying the motion, Γ the point moved, and Κ the weight.
13| [section 1] Why do the oarsmen amidships move the ship most? Is it because the oar is a lever? For the thole-pin becomes the fulcrum (since it stays fixed), the weight is the sea, which the oar pushes against, and the one moving the lever is the sailor. [section 2] Now a mover always moves a greater weight the further he is from the fulcrum; for in this way the distance from the center becomes greater, and the thole-pin, being the fulcrum, is the center. In the middle of the ship the greater part of the oar is inside; for the ship is widest there, so that a greater portion of the oar on both sides can be inside the ship at each rail. [section 3] The ship is moved, then, because when the oar is braced against the sea, the inner end of the oar moves forward, and the ship, being fastened to the thole-pin, moves forward together with it, at the point where the end of the oar is. [section 4] For where the oar cuts the most sea, there it is necessarily pushed forward the most; and it cuts the most sea where the greatest portion of the oar is from the thole-pin. This is why the oarsmen amidships move the ship most; for amidships the portion of the oar from the thole-pin to the inner end is greatest.
14| [section 1] Why does the rudder, though small and set at the very end of the ship, have such power that great masses of ships are moved by a small tiller and the strength of one man, and that a gentle strength? Is it because the rudder too is a lever, and the helmsman works it as a lever? Where it is fitted to the ship, it becomes the fulcrum, and the whole rudder is the lever, the sea is the weight, and the helmsman is the mover. [section 2] But the rudder does not take hold of the sea broadside, as the oar does. For it does not move the ship forward, but tilts it as it moves, taking the sea obliquely. For since the sea is the weight, the rudder, bracing against it, tilts the ship in the opposite direction. For the fulcrum turns to the opposite side, and the sea is on the inside; the fulcrum turns to the outside. [section 3] The ship follows this because it is bound to it. Now the oar, pushing the weight broadside and being pushed back by it in turn, drives the ship straight ahead; but the rudder, since it sits obliquely, produces a motion to the side, this way or that. [section 4] It is placed at the end and not in the middle because it is easiest to move a moving thing by moving it from its end. For the foremost part is carried fastest, because, just as in things carried along the motion slackens at the end, so too in a continuous body the motion is weakest at the end.
15| [section 5] And if it is weakest, it is easy to deflect. For these reasons, then, the rudder is at the stern, and also because there, when a small motion occurs, a much greater interval results at the extremity, because the same angle, when it stands upon a greater base, subtends more, the greater the sides containing it are. [section 6] From this it is also clear for what cause the ship moves forward more than the blade of the oar does; for the same magnitude, moved by the same force, advances further in air than in water. Let AB be the oar, let C be the thole-pin, let A be the part on the ship, the beginning of the oar, and let B be the part in the sea. [section 7] If now A has shifted to where D is, B will not be where E is; for BE is equal to AD. It would then have shifted an equal amount. But it was less. It will then be where Z or where H is. Therefore it is along AB, and not merely at C, and from below. For BZ is less than AD, so that ΘZ is also less than DΘ; for the triangles are similar.
16| [section 8] The middle point too, the point C, will have shifted; for it moves to the opposite side from that of the extremity B in the sea, in the direction that the extremity A on the ship did not move, where D is. So the ship will be shifted, and to the place to which the beginning of the oar is carried. [section 9] The rudder does the same thing, except that it contributes nothing to forward motion for the ship, as was said above, but only pushes the stern to one side or the other; for in this way the prow turns to the opposite side. [section 10] Now where the rudder is attached, one must conceive of something like a midpoint of the moving body, just as the thole-pin is for the oar; and the midpoint gives way in the direction the tiller is shifted. If one draws it inward, the stern too shifts that way; but the prow turns to the opposite side; for while the prow remains in the same place, the whole ship has shifted. [section 1] Why do ships, the higher the yard-arm is, sail faster with the same sail and the same wind? Is it because the mast becomes a lever, the mast-step in which it is fixed becomes the fulcrum, that which the weight must move is the ship, and that which moves it is the wind in the sail? And if, the farther off the fulcrum is, the more easily and quickly the same force moves the same weight, then the yard-arm, being raised higher, makes the sail farther from the mast-step, which is the fulcrum.
17| [section 1] Why, when they wish to run before a wind that is not fully favorable, do they furl the part of the sail toward the helmsman, and, making a foot's width of the part toward the prow, let that stand? Is it because the rudder cannot pull against a great deal of wind, but can against a little, which is the part they take in? [section 2] Now the wind drives the ship forward, but the rudder brings it into a favorable course, pulling against the sea and working it as a lever. At the same time the sailors too fight against the wind, for they lean their bodies to the opposite side. Why are round and circular shapes more easily moved? A circle can be made to roll in three ways: either about its rim, with the center shifting along with it, as the wheel of a wagon rolls; or about the center alone, the center remaining fixed, as pulley-wheels do; or along a plane, the center remaining fixed, as the potter's wheel rolls. [section 2] Such things move fastest, both because they touch the plane at only a small point, as the circle does at a single point, and because they do not strike against anything; for the angle stands clear of the ground. And further, whatever body it meets, it again touches this only at a small point. But if it were rectilinear, it would touch the plane over a length with its straight side.
18| [section 3] Further, in whatever direction it inclines toward the weight, in that direction the mover moves it. For when the diameter of the circle is perpendicular to the plane, the circle touching the plane at a point, the diameter divides the weight equally on both sides; but when it moves, at once more weight falls on the side toward which it moves, as if inclining that way. [section 4] Hence it is more easily moved by whatever pushes it forward; for whatever a thing inclines toward, it is easily moved in that direction, just as it is hard to move in the direction opposite to its inclination. Further, some say that even the line of the circle is always in motion, like things that remain at rest, because of mutual resistance, as is the case also with larger circles relative to smaller ones. [section 5] For larger circles are moved faster by an equal force, and move weights faster, because the angle of the larger circle has some inclination relative to that of the smaller, which is as diameter to diameter. But indeed every circle is larger relative to some other, smaller one; for the smaller circles are unlimited in number. [section 6] And if a circle also has an inclination relative to another, and is equally easily moved, then a circle, and the things moved by a circle, would also have another inclination, even if it does not touch the plane at its rim but along the plane, or as pulley-wheels do; for in this condition too they are moved most easily and move the weight. Or it is not by touching and striking little by little, but for some other cause.
19| [section 7] This is the point made earlier, that the circle is composed of two motions, so that one of them always has a tendency present in it, and those who move it always move it as something already in motion, whenever they move it along the circumference in any way at all. For they move it while it is already in motion: the mover pushes its motion sideways, while the circle itself moves along the diameter. [section 1] Why do we move things carried and hauled by means of larger circles more easily and more quickly? For example, larger pulley-wheels move loads more easily than smaller ones, and rollers likewise. Is it because, the larger the line from the center is, the more space it traverses in an equal time, so that, given an equal weight bearing on it, it will produce the same effect — just as we said that larger scale-beams are more accurate than smaller ones? For the cord is the center, and the parts of the beam on either side of the cord are the lines from the center. [section 1] Why does the scale-beam move more easily when it carries no weight than when it has weight; and likewise a wheel or anything else of the sort, the heavier and larger one more easily than the smaller and lighter? Is it because what is heavy is hard to move not only in the contrary direction, but also sideways? For it is difficult to move it against its tendency, but easy in the direction toward which it tends; and toward the side it has no tendency at all.
20| [section 1] Why are loads carried more easily on rollers than on wagons, though some wagons have large wheels and others small? Is it because on rollers the load meets no obstruction, whereas on wagons it meets the axle and is obstructed by it? For it presses on the axle both from above and from the sides. [section 2] What is on rollers moves by virtue of two things, the ground lying beneath and the weight lying on top; for at both these points the circle rolls and, as it moves, is pushed forward. [section 1] Why are missiles carried farther when thrown from a sling than from the hand? And yet the thrower has more control with the hand than when he lets the weight hang loose in a sling. And further, thrown this way he sets two weights in motion, that of the sling and that of the missile, but the other way only the missile. [section 2] Is it because in the sling the thrower throws the missile while it is already in motion — for he swings it round in a circle many times before he lets it go — whereas from the hand the starting point is from rest? And everything is easier to move when already in motion than when at rest. [section 3]
21| Is it for this reason, and also because in slinging the hand becomes the center, and the sling is the line from the center; and the greater the line from the center is, the faster the motion? Whereas the throw from the hand alone, compared with the sling, covers a short line. [section 1] Why do the larger pegs turn more easily around the same crossbar than the smaller ones, and why do the same capstans, the thinner ones, turn more easily under the same force than the thicker? Is it because the capstan and the crossbar are the center, and the parts standing out from them are the lines from the center? [section 2] The circumferences of larger circles move faster and cover more ground under the same force than those of smaller ones; for under the same force the point farther from the center shifts more quickly. This is why, for the crossbar, they make instruments for the pegs, with which they turn them more easily; while in slender capstans the part sticking out beyond the wood becomes greater, and this becomes the line from the center. [section 1] Why is a piece of wood of the same size broken more easily over the knee if one grips it holding the ends at equal distances and breaks it, than if it is held close by the knee; and why, if one has braced it against the ground and stepped on it with the foot, is it broken more easily when the hand works far off than close by? Is it because in the one case the knee is the center, in the other the foot? And the farther a thing is from the center, the more easily the whole of it moves; and it must move in order to be broken.
22| [section 1] Why are the stones on beaches, called pebbles, round, when the stones and shells they were originally made of are long? Is it because the parts farther from the middle move faster in their motions? For the middle becomes the center, and the distance from it becomes the line from the center. And a greater line from the center, moved through an equal motion, always traces a greater circle. [section 2] And what covers a greater distance in an equal time moves faster. And things moving faster strike more violently from an equal distance. And things that strike harder are themselves struck harder in return. So the parts farther from the middle must always be broken off more; and by undergoing this they must become round. [section 3] And for pebbles, because of the motion of the sea, since they move along with the sea, it happens that they are always in motion and, as they roll, keep striking against things. And this must happen most of all to their projecting ends. [section 1] Why do wooden beams become weaker the longer they are, and bend more when lifted, even if the short one — say two cubits — is thin, while the hundred-cubit one is thick? Is it because, in the lifting of the beam, its length turns into a lever, having both a weight and a fulcrum? For the first part of it, which the hand lifts, becomes a kind of fulcrum, and the part at the far end becomes the weight.
23| [section 2] So the longer the part beyond the fulcrum is, the more it must bend; for the farther a part is from the fulcrum, the more it must bend. The ends of the lever must therefore be lifted. If, then, the lever is one that bends, it must bend more as it is lifted. This is what happens with long beams; but in short ones the far end lies close to the fulcrum that stays at rest. [section 1] Why is it that the wedge, though small, splits apart great weights and masses of bodies, and produces powerful pressure? Is it because the wedge is two levers set opposite each other, each having both a weight and a fulcrum, which it either draws up or presses down? Further, the motion of the blow makes great the weight that strikes and sets it moving; and because what is in motion sets something else in motion, it has still more force by reason of its speed. [section 2] And though it is small, great forces attend it, and so it goes unnoticed that it produces motion out of proportion to its size. Let the wedge be ABΓ, and let the thing being wedged apart be ΔΕΗΖ. Then AB becomes a lever, the weight being that below Β, and the fulcrum ΖΔ. Opposite to this is the lever ΒΓ. And ΑΓ, as it cuts, makes use of each of these as a lever; for it draws Β up.
24| [section 1] Why is it that, if someone makes two pulley-blocks on two pieces of wood set facing each other, and passes a rope around them in a circle, with the tie fastened to one of the pieces of wood while the other is fixed or attached by way of the pulleys, then if one pulls at the free end of the rope, great weights are drawn along, even though the pulling force is small? [section 2] Is it because the same weight is raised by a smaller force if it is levered up than if it is lifted by hand? And the pulley does the same thing as the lever, so that a single one will pull more easily, and from a single pull by hand it will draw up something much heavier than the hand alone would. And this is what the two pulley-wheels do, lifting with more than double the effect. [section 3] For the second pulley draws even less than it would if it drew by itself alone, when the rope is passed onto it from the other; for the other has already made the weight even smaller for it. And so, if the rope is passed over still more pulleys, even with a few pulley-blocks a great difference results, so that if the first draws four minas of the weight, by the last a much smaller amount is drawn. [section 4] And in building works they move great weights easily this way; for they transfer the pull from one pulley to another, and again from that one to capstans and levers; and this has the same effect as using many pulleys.
25| [section 1] Why is it that if someone places a large axe on the wood, with a heavy load on top of it, it does not split the wood to any degree worth mentioning; but if someone lifts the axe and strikes with it, it splits the wood, even though the striking implement has much less weight than the one lying on top and pressing down? Is it because everything produces its effect by motion, and the heavy thing gets the motion proper to its weight more when it is moving than when it is at rest? [section 2] Now when it lies on top, it does not move with the motion of its weight; but when it is carried, it has both this motion and the motion of the striker. Further, the axe becomes a wedge; and a wedge, though small, forces great things apart, because it is composed of two levers arranged opposite each other in contrary fashion. [section 1] Why do steelyards lift great weights from a small suspension-point, though the whole beam is unevenly balanced? For on the side where the weight is placed, only the pan hangs, while on the other side there is only the beam. Is it because the beam happens to be at once a balance and a lever? For it is a balance insofar as each of the cords becomes the fulcrum-point of the beam. [section 2] So on one side it has a pan, while on the other, in place of a pan, it has the sliding weight, which rests on the beam — just as if someone were to take the other pan together with its counterweight and place it at the end of the first pan; for it is clear that it draws down as much weight as is placed in the other pan.
26| [section 3] And so that the single beam may serve as many balances, many such cords are set along such a beam, of which each one, on the side toward the sliding weight, marks the midpoint of the beam; and the counterweight moves an equal distance from each of the cords in succession, so that one can measure how much weight the thing placed in the pan draws — so that one can know, when the beam stands level, from which cord the pan carries how much weight, as has been said. [section 4] In general this is a balance, having one pan in which the weight stands, and another, in which stands the counterweight on the beam. That is why the beam is, on the other side, a sliding weight. Being of this kind, it is many balances, as many as there are cords. [section 5] The cord nearer to the pan and to the weight standing in it always draws a greater weight, because the whole beam becomes an inverted lever — for each cord, being above, is the fulcrum, and the weight is that which is in the pan — and the longer the length of the lever from the fulcrum, the more easily it moves there, but here it produces a hanging load, and holds up the weight of the beam against the sliding weight.
27| [section 1] Why do doctors extract teeth more easily by adding the weight of the tooth-forceps than with the bare hand alone? Is it because the tooth slips more easily through the hand than out of the forceps? Or does the iron slip more than the hand, and fail to grip the tooth all the way round, since the flesh of the fingers, being soft, both clings better and fits round it more closely? [section 2] But rather it is because the tooth-forceps are two opposed levers, having a single fulcrum at the joint of the pincers; they use the instrument, then, because it is easier to move the tooth for extraction. [section 3] For let one end of the forceps, at which is A, and the other, at which is B, be that which does the extracting; let the one lever be AΔZ, and the other lever BΓE; let the fulcrum be ΓΘΔ; let the tooth be at the point of junction; and let this be the weight. Taking hold, then, at each of BZ together, one moves it. And once it has been moved, one draws it out more easily than with the hand. [section 1] Why do people crack nuts easily without a blow, using instruments made for cracking them? For much of the force of impact and violence is removed there. Moreover, crushing with something hard and heavy would break it faster than with a wooden and light instrument.
28| [section 2] Is it rather because in this way the nut is squeezed on both sides at once by two levers, and heavy things are easily split by the lever? For the instrument is composed of two levers, having the same fulcrum, the joint at which is A. [section 3] It is then as if two levers had been shot out from this point, by whose motion, toward the ends at Γ and Δ, EZ are brought together easily from a small force; so whatever the weight would have done in a blow, the greater force does — namely EΓ and ZΔ, being levers; for by the raising they are lifted in opposite directions, and by pressing they crack what is at K. [section 4] For this very reason, too, the nearer K is to A, the faster it is crushed; for the further the lever is from the fulcrum, the more easily it moves, and moves more, for the same amount of force. A, then, is the fulcrum, ΔAZ is a lever, and so is ΓAE. [section 5] The nearer K is, then, to the angle at A, the nearer it comes to the junction at A — and this is the fulcrum. It is necessary, then, that, from the same force bringing Z and E together, they be raised more. So that, since the raising is in opposite directions, the pressing must be greater; and what is pressed more is broken faster.
29| [section 1] Why is it that, when two points at both ends of a rhombus undergo two motions, neither of them traverses an equal straight line, but one traverses a line many times the other? The same reasoning also explains why the point moving along the side traverses a distance less than the side. For the one point traverses the shorter diagonal, the other the longer side, and the one moves with a single motion, the other with two motions. [section 2] For let A be carried along AB toward B, and B toward Δ, at the same speed; and let AB itself also be carried along AΓ, parallel to ΓΔ, at the same speed as these. Then A must be carried along the diagonal AΔ, and B along BΓ, and each must have traversed its line in the same time that AB traverses the side Γ. [section 3] For let A have traversed AE, and AB have traversed AZ; and let ZH be drawn out parallel to AB, and let the figure be completed from E. The completed figure, then, is similar to the whole. AZ is therefore equal to AE, so that A has been carried along the side AE. And AB will have traversed AZ. It will therefore be on the diagonal, at the point Θ.
30| [section 4] And it is always necessary that it be carried along the diagonal. And at the same time the side AB traverses the side AΓ, and A traverses the diagonal AΔ. In the same way it will be shown that B too is carried along the diagonal AΓ. For BE is equal to BH. When the figure is completed from H, then, the interior is similar to the whole. [section 5] And B will be on the diagonal at the junction of the sides, and at the same time the side traverses the side, and B traverses the diagonal BΓ. At the same time, then, B traverses a distance many times that of AB, and the side traverses the shorter side, though moving at the same speed, and the side has traversed more than A, though moving with a single motion. [section 6] For the more acute the rhombus becomes, the shorter the diagonal becomes, and BΓ becomes greater, and the side becomes less than BΓ. For it would be absurd, as was said, that what moves with two motions should sometimes move more slowly than what moves with one, and that, given two points of equal speed, one should traverse a greater distance than the other. [section 7] The reason is that, for the point moving from the obtuse angle, the two motions — the one it moves with itself, and the one by which it is carried along by the side — turn out to be nearly opposite; while for the point moving from the acute angle, it happens that they are carried in the same direction. For the motion of the side runs together with the motion along the diagonal; and the more one makes the one angle more acute and the other more obtuse, the motion from the obtuse angle will be slower, and the motion from the acute angle faster.
31| [section 8] For some motions become more opposite because the angle becomes more obtuse, while others become more in the same direction because the lines converge. For B is carried nearly in the same direction under both motions; so the one motion is borne along together with the other, and the more acute the angle becomes, the more this is so. [section 9] But with A it is the opposite: A itself is carried toward B, while the side carries it along toward D. And the more obtuse the angle is, the more opposite the motions become; for the line becomes straighter. And if it became entirely straight, the motions would be completely opposite. But the side, moving with a single motion, is hindered by nothing. It is therefore reasonable that it traverses the greater distance. [section 1] The question is raised why the greater circle unrolls a line equal to that of the lesser circle, when they are set about the same center. But when they roll separately, the lines they trace stand to one another as their sizes stand to one another. [section 2] Further, though both have one and the same center, sometimes the line along which they roll turns out as great as the one the lesser circle by itself rolls out, and sometimes as great as that of the greater. That the greater circle, moving by itself, rolls out a greater line is clear.
32| [section 3] For the arc belonging to each circle's own diameter seems, to perception, to be an angle — that of the greater circle a greater one, that of the lesser a lesser one — so that the lines along which the circles were rolled will, to perception, stand in this same ratio to one another. [section 4] But it is also clear that they roll out an equal line when they are set about the same center; and thus it turns out sometimes equal to the line the greater circle rolls out, sometimes less. [section 5] Let the greater circle be the one on DZG, the lesser the one on EHB, and let A be the center of both; and let the line the greater unrolls by itself be ZI, and the line the lesser unrolls by itself be HK, equal to AZ. [section 6] If, then, I move the lesser circle, I move the same center, A, and let the greater be fitted onto it. So when AB becomes perpendicular to HK, at the same time AG also becomes perpendicular to ZL, so that HK will always have traversed a line equal to the arc HB, and ZL a line equal to the arc ZG.
33| [section 7] If the fourth part unrolls an equal line, it is clear that the whole circle too will unroll a line equal to that of the whole circle, so that when the line BH reaches K, the arc ZG will also be at ZA, and the whole circle will have been unrolled. Likewise too if I move the greater circle, having fitted the lesser onto it, with the same center, then at the same moment as AG, AB will be perpendicular and at right angles, the one to ZI, the other to HTh. [section 8] So that when the one has traversed a line equal to HTh, and the other one equal to ZI, and ZA again becomes perpendicular to ZL, and AG again perpendicular, they will be, as at the start, at Th and I. And this happens without any halt occurring for the greater relative to the lesser, so that it should remain for some time at the same point; for both move continuously in both cases. [section 9] Since the lesser circle skips no point, it is absurd that the greater should traverse a line equal to that of the lesser, and the lesser one equal to that of the greater. Further, since the moving center always has a single motion, it is astonishing that it should sometimes unroll the greater line, sometimes the lesser.
34| [section 10] For the same thing, moving at the same speed, is naturally suited to traverse an equal distance; and it moves at the same speed in both cases. The following must be taken as a starting point concerning their cause: that the same and equal power moves one magnitude more slowly, and another magnitude more quickly. [section 11] If, then, there were something not naturally suited to move by itself, and if this at the same time also moves the thing that is naturally suited to move, it will be moved more slowly than if it were moved by itself alone. And if it is naturally suited to move, but nothing is moved along with it, it will be in the same condition. And indeed it is impossible for it to be moved more than the thing moving it; for it is not moved with its own motion, but with that of the mover. [section 12] Let there be a circle, the greater being A, the lesser being B. If the lesser pushes the greater, without the greater itself rolling, it is clear that the greater traverses as much of the straight line as it was pushed by the lesser. And it was pushed exactly as much as the lesser was moved. They have therefore traversed an equal amount of the straight line. [section 13] It is necessary, then, that even if the lesser, in rolling, pushes the greater, the greater is rolled together with the push exactly as much as the lesser was rolled, provided that it itself is not moved at all by its own motion. For the thing moved by another must have been moved exactly as much as that other moved it. But the circle moved the same thing by this much, both around a circle and by a foot's length (let this be the amount it was moved), and so the greater circle too was moved by this much.
35| [section 14] Likewise, too, if the greater moves the lesser, the lesser will have been moved just as much as the greater. Now each of the two, moved by itself, moves either fast or slowly, as it naturally does; but at the same speed it at once unrolls the line the greater is naturally suited to unroll. This is exactly what creates the puzzle: that they no longer behave the same way once they are fitted together. [section 15] But the solution is this: if the one is moved by the other, it is not moved with the motion natural to it, nor with its own motion. For it makes no difference whether one puts one circle around the other and fits them together, or attaches either one to the other; for likewise, when the one moves and the other is moved by it, however much the one moves it, by just that much will the other be moved. [section 16] So when one moves a thing merely attached to it or hung from it, it does not always make it roll; but when the two are set about the same center, the one is of necessity always rolled by the other. But nonetheless the one is not moved with its own motion, but just as if it had no motion of its own. And even if it does have one but does not use it, the same result follows. [section 17] So when the greater moves the lesser, bound to it, the lesser is moved exactly as far as the greater; and when the lesser moves, again the greater is moved exactly as far as the lesser. But when separated, each moves itself, on its own. And as for the fact that, though the center is the same and moving at the same speed, they turn out to traverse unequal lines, the one who raises the puzzle reasons fallaciously, in a sophistical manner.
36| [section 18] For the center is indeed the same for both, but only accidentally, as one thing can be both musical and pale; for what it is to be the center is not the same for each of the two circles. So when the mover is the lesser circle, it is that circle's center and starting point; when it is the greater, it is the greater's. It is therefore not, without qualification, the same thing that moves; it is so only in a qualified sense. [section 1] Why do they make beds with sides in a two-to-one ratio, one side six feet and a little more, the other three? And why do they string them not along the diagonal? Is it that they make them this size so that they are proportioned to bodies? For made this way the sides come out in a two-to-one ratio, four cubits in length and two cubits in width. [section 2] They string it not along the diagonal but from opposite sides, so that the wood is torn apart less; for wood splits most readily by nature when divided that way, and suffers most when pulled in that direction. Further, since the cords must be able to bear the weight, they will suffer less when the weight is placed on cords running obliquely than on ones running crosswise. And further, less cord is used up this way. [section 3] Let AZHI be the bed, and let ZH be bisected at B. Then the holes in ZB and in ZA are equal in number. For the sides too are equal; for the whole ZH is double ZA. They string it as has been described: from A to B, then to G, then to D, then to Th, then to E.
37| [section 4] And so it continues always, until they come round to another angle; for two angles hold the ends of the cord. The cords are equal at the bends, AB and BΓ equal to ΓΔ and ΔΘ. And the other such cases are the same, since the same proof holds: for AB is equal to EΘ, since the sides of the figure BHKA are equal, and the holes are spaced equally apart. [section 5] And BH is equal to KA; for angle B is equal to angle H. For in equal figures, one is exterior, the other interior; and B is half a right angle, since ZB is equal to ZA, and the angle at Z is right. And angle B is equal to the angle at H, since the angle at Z is right, because the oblong is a double-length figure and is folded at its middle. [section 6] So that AΓ is equal to EH. And KΘ is equal to this, for it is parallel. So that BΓ is equal to KΘ. And ΓE is equal to ΔΘ. In the same way the other cords are shown to be such that the two at the bends are equal to the two others. So it is clear that of cords the size of AB there are four such in the bed frame; and however many holes there are in the side ZH, there are half as many in the half ZB.
38| [section 7] So in the half of the bed there are as many lengths of cord as there are in BA, and as many in number as there are holes in BH. This is no different from saying as many as are in AZ and BZ together. But if the cords are stretched along the diagonal, as they are in the bed ABΓΔ, the halves are not as many as the two sides together, AZ and ZH, but equal to as many as the holes there are in ZB and ZA. But AZ and BZ, being two, are greater than AB. So the cord too is greater by as much as the two sides together are greater than the diagonal. [section 1] Why is it harder to carry long pieces of wood on the shoulder from the end than from the middle, when the weight is the same? Is it because, when the wood sways, the end hinders the carrying, pulling back against the motion the more as it sways? Or is it that, even if it bends not at all and is not of great length, it is still harder to carry from the end? But is it rather because it is also easier to lift from the end than from the middle, and for the same reason it is also easy to carry it that way? [section 2]
39| The cause is that when it is lifted from the middle, the two ends are always lightening each other, and the one part is helping to lift the other well. For the middle becomes like a pivot-point, at which the one lifting or carrying holds it. Each of the two ends is therefore raised upward as the other inclines downward. [section 3] But when it is lifted or carried from the end, this does not happen; rather the whole weight inclines toward one point in the middle, the point toward which it is lifted or carried. Let the middle be at A, the ends B and Γ. When it is lifted or carried at A, then B, inclining downward, lifts Γ upward, and Γ, inclining downward, lifts B upward; and they do this while being lifted upward together. [section 1] Why, when the weight is the same, is it harder to carry a piece that is very long on the shoulder, even if one carries it at the middle, than if it were shorter? It was said earlier that the swaying is not the cause; but now the swaying is the cause. For when it is longer, the ends sway more, so that it would necessarily be harder for the one carrying it as well. [section 2]
40| The cause of its swaying more is that, the motion being the same, the ends shift their position more, the longer the piece of wood is. For the shoulder is the center-point, at which A is (since this stays fixed), and AB and AΓ are the lines drawn from the center. The greater the line from the center — whether AB or AΓ — the greater the distance it shifts. This has been shown earlier. [section 1] Why do they build well-sweeps at wells in this way, adding weight to the pole in the form of lead, given that the bucket itself has weight, both when it is empty and when it is full? Is it because, the work being divided into two stages (for one must dip it down and then draw it up), it turns out that lowering it empty is easy, but raising it full is hard? [section 2] It therefore pays to have the lowering be a little slower in exchange for greatly lightening the weight for the one drawing it up. This, then, is what the lead or the stone fixed at the end of the sweep-pole does. For to the one lowering it, the weight becomes greater than if he only had to lower the bucket empty; but when it is full, the lead draws it up, or whatever weight has been fixed there. So both tasks become easier for him than they would be for someone without it.
41| [section 1] Why, when two men carry an equal weight on a piece of wood or something of the kind, are they not pressed on equally unless the weight is at the middle, but rather more, the nearer it is to one of the carriers? Is it because, things being so, the wood becomes a lever, the weight becomes the fulcrum, the carrier nearer to the weight becomes the thing that is moved, and the other carrier becomes the one who moves it? [section 2] For the further one is from the weight, the more easily one moves it, and the more one presses the other one downward, as though the weight resting on the wood were pushing back and had become a fulcrum. But when the weight is set in the middle, neither carrier becomes any more a weight to the other, nor moves the other, but each becomes an equal weight to the other in the same way. [section 1] Why do all those who stand up make the shin form an acute angle with the thigh as they rise, and the torso form an acute angle with the thigh? If they do not, they cannot stand up. Is it because equality is everywhere the cause of rest, and the right angle belongs to equality and produces a stable stance? For this reason too, bodies move toward angles similar to the curvature of the earth.
42| [section 2] Not that the body will also be at right angles to the plane. Or is it rather because the one standing up becomes upright, and it is necessary for the one who stands to be perpendicular to the ground? If, then, he is going to be at a right angle to it, and this means having the head directly over the feet, then this must come about precisely at the moment he stands up. Now when he is seated, he has his head and his feet parallel, and not on one straight line. [section 3] Let the head be A, the torso AB, the thigh BΓ, the shin ΓΔ. For one seated in this position, the torso [on which AB lies] is at right angles to the thigh, and the thigh is at right angles to the shin. So that, remaining in this position, it is impossible to stand up. It is necessary to incline the shin and bring the feet under the head. [section 4] This will happen if ΓΔ comes to lie along ΓZ, and at the same time it will turn out that he stands up and has his head and his feet on one and the same straight line. And ΓZ makes an acute angle with BΓ. [section 1] Why is what is already moving moved more easily than what is at rest — for instance, people draw wagons that are already moving faster than they get them started? Is it because it is hardest of all to move a weight that is moving in the opposite direction? For this takes something away from the power of the one who moves it, however much faster he may be; for the thrust of the mover, when thrust against, necessarily becomes slower.
43| [section 2] Second, this also holds if it is at rest; for what is at rest resists as well. And a thing moving in the same direction as what pushes it produces an effect just as if someone increased the force and speed of the mover; for whatever it would have suffered at the hands of that mover, it now does itself, moving forward along its path. [section 1] Why do things that are thrown stop being carried along? Is it when the force that released them gives out, or because of being pulled back, or because of their downward inclination, if this proves stronger than the force that threw them? Or is it absurd to raise these puzzles at all, having let go of the starting principle? [section 1] Why does something travel with a motion that is not its own, when the one who released it neither follows it nor goes on pushing it? Or is it clear that the first mover made a second thing such as to push in turn, and this a third; and it stops when the thing pushing the moving object can no longer act so as to push it, and when the weight of the moving thing inclines downward more than the forward force of the pusher. [section 1] Why do things thrown travel far neither when they are too small nor when they are too large, but must bear a certain proportion to the thrower? Is it because what is thrown and pushed must press back against the point from which it is pushed? And what yields not at all, because of its size, or presses back not at all, because of its weakness, produces neither a throw nor a push.
44| [section 2] So then, what greatly exceeds the force of the pusher yields not at all, and what is far weaker presses back not at all. Or is it rather because the thing carried travels only so far as it stirs the air to a certain depth? And what is not moved at all could not move anything either. Now it turns out that both cases share this in common: what is extremely large and what is extremely small are, in effect, both as if unmoved; for the one moves the air only as a single mass, while the other is not moved at all. [section 1] Why do all things carried along in swirling water end up being carried to the center? Is it because the thing carried has magnitude, so that it lies within two circles, a smaller one and a larger one, each of its extremities belonging to one of them? So the larger circle, because it travels faster, spins the object around and pushes it sideways into the smaller one. [section 2] And since the thing carried also has breadth, this smaller circle in turn does the same thing, and pushes it further inward, until it arrives at the center. And there it stays, because the thing carried stands in the same relation to all the circles on account of the center; for the center is equally distant from each of the circles.
45| [section 3] Or is it because, in the case of things whose motion the swirling of the water does not overpower on account of their size, but which exceed it in weight relative to the speed of the circle, these must lag behind and be carried more slowly? And the smaller circle is carried more slowly; for the large circle completes the same turn in an equal time as the small one, when they are about the same center. [section 4] So the object must necessarily lag behind into the smaller circle, until it arrives at the center. And as for the things whose motion the current overpowers at first, when that force slackens it will produce the same effect. For the speed must overpower the weight directly in the one case and differently in the other, so that everything is continually left behind toward the inner circle; for what is not overpowered must move either inward or outward. [section 5] Now then, it is impossible for what is not overpowered to be carried along within the very circle in which it is. And it is even less possible in the outer circle, for the motion of the outer circle is faster. It remains, then, that what is not overpowered shifts into the inner circle. And each thing continually advances further toward not being overpowered. And since arriving at the center puts an end to being moved, and only the center remains at rest, everything must therefore collect together at this point.
1| THE TRANSLATOR'S PROLOGUE TO ARISTOTLE'S ON PLANTS [part prol] [section 1] IN the ever-green meadow of Aristotelian philosophy many other tablets too have grown up alongside the noble plants, all-bearing to those of us who contemplate them, and pouring out abundant fruits to those who put them to use. [section 2] And among the others there was also the book on plants — itself a plant of good growth, small indeed, but rich with many graces, and greeting the lovers of learning with the finest yield: I mean not only our own people, the truly eminent, the men unrivaled in learning and wisdom and understanding, the Ausonians, but also those of the Italian nation, and not these alone, but also all such as the land of the fortunate Arabs is known to nurture, and the Indians as well. [section 3] For the Stagirite, that supreme philosopher, cast into philosophers everywhere, wherever they might be, a strong longing for his own writings. But this plant, I do not know how, has suffered among us not only a withering, or perhaps some change for the worse, the sort of thing time is wont to do, but even an uprooting from the very stock and a turning away into non-being, as though it had never once seen a gardener, not even if it had come forth into the light.
2| [section 4] The Italian too underwent the same fate, being deprived of this treasure for a long time along with us. It was known to the Arabs alone, and they alone enjoyed its fruits without stint. [section 5] But then a certain man, Celtic by birth, who had advanced so far in the wisdom of the Italians as to yield first place to none, then, thinking this achievement small, great though it was, unless he by himself, and after the Latin, should also acquire the knowledge of the Arabs and cultivate that finest disposition, gave himself wholly to the task, and wished to bring his purpose to completion and in every way to attain what he desired. [section 6] Accordingly he set out for foreign parts, made use of Arab teachers, and, matching diligence to natural gift, gained, they say, so full a share of learning as to be able to carry over the writings of the Arabs to the Italians and those of the Italians to the Arabs. This man, then, among certain other works, also translated this book on plants, and transplanted from the meadows of Arabic learning, into the Italian nurseries, whatever was there of noble growth. [section 7] The Italian accordingly rejoiced in this and boasted greatly; for he prides himself above all others on his devotion to the Aristotelian books, and he gloried in this treasure no less than that famous Xerxes gloried in the plane tree under which he was shaded and which he decked with gold. I too came to desire this plant — it is a long time now since — for to me discourse is the most valuable of all things in the world.
3| [section 8] I longed to be filled with its fruits, to arrive at a settled possession of its thoughts. Hope beguiled my desire, and hope in turn was succeeded by prayer. But for a long while my desire went unfulfilled, hope remained mere hope; yet my prayer grew more intense. But what does the all-complete cause of all good things, transcending completion and prior to it, do? It grants stillness to desire, an end to hope, and to prayer the fulfillment of its petition. [section 9] For a certain Italian, appearing to us suddenly from somewhere, possessed of ample learning and knowledge in letters, came up to us, greeted us graciously, spoke words of friendship, and then placed in our hands the very book we longed for. I rejoiced as at a windfall gain. I received the book with eagerness. [section 10] I gave myself wholly to it, gathered up carefully the thought laid up within it, and, as though in a mirror, from its very first starting-line I recognized Aristotle and the Aristotelians' refutations directed against the philosophers of old. [section 11] I judged, by the arguments themselves, that it would be a wrong — to the arguments themselves and to their lovers — and I took care not to be written down as a grudging soul, if, having sufficient grace from above for the task, I did not translate it into the Greek tongue and show it to be numbered among the rest of the Aristotelian tablets.
4| [section 12] So then, with God's help, I completed the task, and set forth the book for the common enjoyment of those who till this ground, though I found much difficulty and confusion of terms because of the frequent changes of translation — from our tongue into that of the Italians, from there into Arabic, and again from Arabic into Italian, and from these at last into our own. [section 13] For, so far as this book is concerned, the Stagirite did not appear two-faced, after the manner of that much-talked-of Itanus, whom a thin tradition brings down to our time, but many-shaped, after the manner of Proteus of Pharos. [section 14] Since every tablet, when carried over from one language into another, proceeds either word for word or sense for sense, and the latter, having clarity, falls short of exactness, while the former, and prior, method, though possessing exactness, ends in obscurity, we, following this safer and less censurable course, as we have done also in other tablets, hold fast to exactness. [section 15] But so that we should not seem to be giving ground to obscurity, which we have recognized as an utter vice in discourse, wherever anything harsh and unpleasant arose from obscurity, we have given it relief by certain further explanations and scholarly annotations, and have led the travelers of reason by the hand out of the hard and rough way onto the smooth and broad one, and to him who is above us we have rendered thanks and, as is fitting, acknowledgment in return.
1| [section 16] For this is what the only wise and powerful God, according to the divine apostle, demands of us who are under his hand. For what else does he need from us, he who says of himself through one of the prophets, "I fill heaven and earth," and whose is the inhabited world and its fullness, according to David, and with whom every field is adorned with plants of every kind? [section 1] LIFE is found in animals and in plants. But in animals it is manifest and evident, while in plants it is hidden and not apparent. To establish it, then, a great deal of inquiry must necessarily come first. For the question stands open whether or not plants have soul, and a capacity for desire, pain, pleasure, and discrimination. [section 2] Anaxagoras and Empedocles say that plants are moved by desire, and they affirm that plants perceive and feel pain and pleasure. Of these, Anaxagoras said that plants are even animals, and feel pleasure and pain, taking this as shown by the shedding of leaves and by growth, while Empedocles held that in them the sexes are commingled. [section 3]
2| Likewise Plato too said that plants desire only, on account of the strong compulsion of the nutritive capacity. If this should be established, it will be consistent that they also really feel pleasure and pain and perceive. And if this is established along with their desiring, it will be consistent even though they are always recovered by sleep and roused by wakings. [section 4] Likewise, if we should inquire whether they have breath and a kind proceeding from mixture, or the contrary, we would create much doubt about this and a long inquiry. It is fitting to pass over such questions and not to spend time on researches into particulars that are not easily disposed of. [section 5] Those who said that plants have souls did so because they observed that plants are generated, are nourished and grow, become young and put forth green shoots, and are dissolved by old age, since nothing without soul has these things in common with plants. And because plants have these characteristics, they believed likewise that plants are also held fast by desire. But let us follow first the things that are evident, and then the things that are hidden. [section 6] We say, then, that if a thing is nourished, it already also desires, and it takes pleasure in satiety, but feels pain when it hungers; and these states do not occur except along with perception. Hence the aim of this man wanders in a way that is remarkable, yet not contemptible, since he supposed that plants both perceive and desire.
3| [section 7] Anaxagoras, Democritus, and Empedocles said that plants have both intellect and knowledge. We, rejecting such views as worthless, take our stand on the sound account. We say, then, that plants have neither appetite nor perception. For appetite does not exist except from perception, and the end of our will turns back toward perception. [section 8] We do not find, then, in such things perception, nor a limb that perceives, nor any likeness of one, nor a distinct form, nor anything consequent on this, nor local motion, nor a path toward some object of perception, nor any sign by which we might judge these things to have perception, of the kind by which we know that they are nourished and grow. [section 9] Nor is this established on our part except because we understand the nutritive and growth-capacities to be parts of the soul. Whenever, then, we find such a plant having some part of soul of this kind in itself, we necessarily understand it also to have a soul; but when it is deprived of perception, it is not proper to conclude that it must therefore be incapable of perception — for perception is a cause of the illumination of life.
4| [section 10] The nutritive capacity is a cause of the growth of some living thing. These distinctions arise at this point, because it is hard to grasp, within the same subject, some mean between life and its privation. Someone might say that, since the plant is alive, we should therefore already call it also an animal. Not at all. [section 11] For it is hard to understand how to assign the governance of the plant to the governance of the soul of the animal. For the reason we deny that plants are alive in this sense is that they do not perceive. And indeed there are also some animals deprived of knowledge. [section 12] Since nature, in destroying the life of the animal in death, again preserves this same life within its own kind through generation, it is altogether inconsistent for us to posit some further mean between the ensouled and the unensouled. But we know that shellfish, too, are animals deprived of knowledge, because they are at once plants and animals. [section 13] Perception alone, then, is the cause by which these things are called animals. For genera give names and definitions to their proper species, and species give names to their proper individuals. And the genus must derive from one common cause present in the many, and not from many causes.
5| [section 14] The account of the cause by which the genus is established is not known to just anyone. Again, there are animals deprived of the female sex, others that do not reproduce, others that have no motion; and there are others of different colors, and some that produce offspring unlike themselves, and others that grow up out of the earth or out of trees. [section 15] What, then, is the principle in the soul of the animal? What else could it be but the noble living being that travels around the heaven — the sun, the stars, and the planets — things set apart from the perplexity bound up in these lower things, and which are indeed also unaffected? For perception is an affection of the things that perceive. [section 16] We should also recognize that plants do not have motion from themselves; for they are fixed in the earth, and the earth is unmoved. Let us reason out, then, from where life could come to it, so that we might make it too capable of perception. For these things do not share one common feature. We say that the common cause of the life of animals is perception. This is what produces the distinction between life and death. [section 17] But since the heaven has a governance nobler and more worthy than our own governance, it has been set apart from these things. It is necessary, then, that the perfect animal and the deficient one have something in common; and this is the aim of life. By the privation of this, then, everyone must withdraw from applying such names, because there is no mean.
6| [section 18] Life is a mean; for the unensouled has no soul, nor any part of one. The plant is not among the things deprived of soul, because in it there is some part of soul; but it is not an animal, because there is no perception in it either. It passes gradually out of life into non-life, as do particular things generally. [section 19] We can also put it differently: that the plant is ensouled, and we do not say it is unensouled. But if it has soul, we do not thereby say that it already has some perception too. For a thing that is nourished does not exist without soul. And every animal has soul. But the plant is an incomplete thing. Again, the animal has distinct limbs, the plant indistinct ones. [section 20] It has matter proper to motion, which it has within itself. Again, we can say that plants have soul, because soul is what generates motions within them. But appetite, and motion from place to place, exist only in accordance with perception. Again, drawing in nourishment comes from a natural principle, and this very thing is what is common to animal and plant.
7| [section 21] There will be no concern at all here for perception in the drawing in of nourishment, because everything that is nourished needs, in its proper nourishment, two qualities — I mean heat and cold; and for this reason it needs nourishment that is moist as well as dry; and heat and cold are found in foods both dry and moist. [section 22] None of these natures is separated from what shares in it. For this reason, too, nourishment was from the first made continuous with the thing nourished, right up to the very hour of its destruction; and both animal and plant must make use of it in the way appropriate to each of them. [section 1] Let us investigate, then, this point too, which came before it in our discussion — concerning the appetite of the plant, its motion, and its own soul, and whether anything is given off from the plant itself, so far as breath is concerned. For Anaxagoras said that plants also have breath. But how could this be, when we find many animals that have no breath, and again we find precisely that plants neither sleep nor wake? [section 2] For waking is nothing but a disposition of perception, and sleeping nothing but a weakness of it; and neither of these is found in a thing that is nourished at all hours according to a single governance, but does not perceive in its own nature.
8| [section 3] For when the animal is nourished, what happens? A vapor rises from the food up to its head, and from this it altogether falls asleep; and when the vapor that rises to the head is used up, then it wakes. In some animals this vapor is abundant, and so they sleep little for a time. [section 4] Drowsiness is a checking of motion, and this checking is, in turn, the rest of a thing in motion. But what most of all, and properly, must be investigated in this science is what Empedocles said — namely, whether there is found in plants a female sex and a male sex, and whether there is a form blended from these two sexes. [section 5] We say, then, that the male, when it generates, generates into something else, and the two are separated from one another. [section 6] Since, then, it is found in plants that plants have a male sex and a female sex, and that in every case the male is rougher, harder, and more bristling, while the female is weaker and bears more fruit, we must again inquire whether these two sexes are found blended together at once in plants, as Empedocles said,
9| [section 7] But I do not suppose the matter stands this way. For things that are blended must first be simple in themselves, and the male must exist in its own right and the female in its own right, and only from there be mixed together. But there will be no blending except through the proper generation belonging to each. [section 8] Now it has been found that in plants a blending exists prior to the blending we are discussing, one which must be both the active and the passive cause at one and the same time; but a union of maleness and femaleness is not found joined together in any one plant. If this were so, the plant would perhaps be more complete than the animal. [section 9] And how could this be, given that the animal needs nothing external for its own generation, while the plant needs the seasons of the year for this? For it needs the sun and good temperature and, still more, the air; and it needs these things most of all at the season of its sprouting. [section 10] There is also one principle of the plant's nourishment, from the earth, and again a different principle of its generation, from the sun. Anaxagoras too said that the moisture of plants comes from the earth, and for this reason he said to Lechineus that the earth is the mother of plants, and the sun their father.
10| [section 11] But we ought to set out the blending of the male and female in plants not in this way but in some other manner — namely, that the seed of the plant is like the pregnancy of an animal, which is a mixture of male and female. [section 12] And just as in eggs, when a chick comes to be, its nourishment too comes from there, right up to the very time of its completion and its own emergence, and then the female brings the chick forth at a single moment — so too with the seed of the plant. [section 13] Empedocles, again, said that although plants do not beget offspring in the way animals do offspring, because what is begotten is begotten only from the nature of the seed, and what remains of it at the outset becomes nourishment for the root, and the thing begotten moves itself at once by itself — nevertheless we ought to suppose the same, even in the mixing of male and female plants, as in the case of animals: that the mixture of plants too occurs under some governance. But in animals, when they mate, the kinds mix, and the powers of the kinds, which were previously separate, mix as well, and from these two there comes forth one single thing; and this does not happen in plants.
11| [section 14] For it is not the case that, when the kinds mix, their powers afterward become separate again. If indeed nature mixed the male with the female, it did well to proceed thus, because we find no activity in plants beyond the production of fruit. [section 15] For there is no animal separated from the female except at the seasons when they do not mate. This is because of its many activities and its many kinds of knowledge. [section 16] There are some who suppose plants to be complete, and that the delight of their life lies in the two powers they possess — namely, the nourishment fit for feeding them, and the length of their own existence and of the season when their life buds and bears fruit, and their youth turns back toward them, and nothing superfluous arises in them. [section 17] The plant has no need of sleep, for many reasons: because the plant lies fixed in the earth and is bound by it, and has no motion in itself, nor any definite boundary marked off among its own parts, nor does it have perception, nor self-chosen motion, nor a complete soul; rather it has, more properly, a part of a part of soul.
12| [section 18] And the plant was not made except for the sake of the animal, while the animal was not made for the sake of the plant. And again, if someone should say that the plant needs cheap and poor nourishment, and that although it needs such nourishment, it is nevertheless for the most part firm and continuous and not easily corrupted, and that from this it follows that the plant has something better than the animal, and therefore lifeless things must be nobler than ensouled things — [section 19] but the work of the animal is better than every work of the plant. Besides, we find in the animal all the powers that are in the plant, and many others besides, but not the reverse. Empedocles said again that plants have their generation in a world diminished and not complete as regards its fulfillment, and that when this is completed, no animal is generated. [section 20] But this account is discordant, because the world is whole and continuous, and has never at any time ceased to generate animals and plants and every other kind of form. In each species of plant there is a natural heat and moisture, and when this is used up, the plants grow weak and age and waste away and dry out. And some call this destruction, others do not.
13| [section 1] Some plants have some moisture in them, as resin, as gum, as myrrh, as frankincense, and as Arabian gum. Again, some trees have bonds and veins and a hollow and stocks and bark and marrow within. And some consist for the most part of bark. [section 2] And in some the fruit is under the bark, that is, within the bark and the stock. And some parts of the tree are simple, such as the sap found in them and the bonds and the veins; others are composite from these, such as branches and twigs and leaves. And we do not find all of these present in every plant. [section 3] For some plants have both these and other parts as well — twigs, leaves, branches, flowers, and buds, and a bark surrounding the fruit. And just as in animals there are uniform members, so too in plants. [section 4] And each of the parts of the plant is composite, resembling the members of an animal; and the bark of the plant is naturally like the skin of an animal, and the bonds in turn are like the sinews of an animal.
14| [section 5] Likewise too the rest of what is in it. And some of the parts are divided, in a sense, through unlike parts, others through like parts, as for example in the case of clay: for this is divided in one way through earth alone, and in another way through the elements. So too the lung and the flesh are divided in a primary way, and flesh and lung are parts of these; but they are divided in another way through the elements as well. [section 6] Likewise too the roots of plants. Except that a hand is not divided into another hand, nor a root into another root, nor leaves into other leaves. In these roots, then, and in the leaves themselves, is the composition. Again, some fruits are composed of few parts, others of many parts, as in the case of olives. [section 7] For these have bark, flesh, something shell-like, seed, and fruit. Some also have coverings. And all seeds consist of two barks. [section 8] These, then, are the parts of plants that we have mentioned; and the height of the present discussion is to define these parts of plants, their coverings, and their differentiae — which is very difficult, and especially difficult is defining their substance and their color and the season of their persistence and the constrictions that befall them, and the fact that plants have no dispositions of soul, nor any disposition equal to a disposition of soul.
15| [section 9] If, then, we were to set the parts of the soul in correspondence with the parts of the plant, the account would be drawn out at great length, and perhaps we would not even be able to carry it through, since the parts of plants are distinguished by great differences when we enumerate them. For the part of any given thing belongs to its own genus and to its own substance. [section 10] And when some species of plant is generated, it remains in its proper condition, unless it falls away from that proper condition through some temporal weakness and burdensome affliction. Now of the flowers and fruits and leaves found on plants, some are present in every year, while others are not so and do not persist, like the bark, and like some body that falls away from the thing that sheds it for some cause. [section 11] These do not remain on the plant, because parts of it often fall away that are not clearly demarcated, as hairs fall from human beings, and nails. Except that hairs are generated either in the very parts from which they fell, or elsewhere, outside them. And it has already become clear that the parts of the plant are not clearly demarcated, whether they are or not, but only indeterminate.
16| [section 12] But it would be shameful for us to say that certain things, after which the animal grows and is completed along with them, are not parts of it, while things corresponding to leaves and all such things found on the plant are parts, even though such parts of the animal are not clearly demarcated, and even though they fall away little by little, as the antlers of the deer, and the manes of some animals, and the hair of others, which indeed hide themselves during the winter season in holes and burrow under the earth, even though such an affection is similar to the shedding found in plants. [section 13] We ought, then, to speak about the matters we investigated earlier, and to begin enumerating the proper parts of plants and their common parts, and the differences among these. We say, then, that among the parts of plants there is a great difference in respect of abundance and scarcity, in respect of largeness and smallness, in respect of strength and weakness. [section 14] This is because the sap found in large trees is in some of them like milk, as in the fig tree, in some it is like liquid pitch, as the sap that drips from the vine, and in some it is primordial, as in marjoram and in the plant called opigais and in others.
17| [section 15] Again, there is a plant that has dry parts, another that has moist parts, and so on for other such cases. And there is the plant that has parts distinguished from one another, neither alike nor equal. And some plants have parts alike but not equal; some have parts equal but not alike. [section 16] And note too that there is no fixed place assigned in these matters. The differences among plants are well recognized in their own proper parts; and likewise their shapes are recognized from color, from looseness of texture, from density, from roughness, and from all the other attributes that belong to them in respect of equality, of natural growth, of differentiation, of largeness, of smallness. These, then, are of this sort, and they have many differences besides, as we said before. [section 1] Again, of plants, some bear fruit above their own leaves, others below the leaves. And in some the fruit hangs from the plant's own trunk, in others from the root, as with the plants in Egypt called pearl-plants. In some the fruits are in the middle of the plant. And in some the fruits and the leaves and the stalks are not clearly distinguished from one another.
18| [section 2] And in some plants the leaves are alike to one another, in others not. And some have equal branches, others not such. And the parts we have named are present in all trees, undergoing growth and increase — the root, the shoots, the trunks, and the branches; and these are compared to the limbs of human beings that contain all the other limbs. [section 3] And the root mediates between the plant and its nourishment, and we call it not only a root but also the cause of life; for it supplies life to plants. And the trunk is what alone arises from the earth, and it is comparable to the age of a human being; the shoots are what spring up from the root of the tree, while the branches are what grow up above the shoots. [section 4] But these are not found in all plants. And again, of the plants that have branches, some are continuous, others are not, but rather grow anew from year to year. And again there are plants that have neither branches nor leaves, as mushrooms and the like. [section 5] The branches that are generated in trees, and the bark and the trunks and the pith, are generated from nothing other than the sap itself of the trees. And some call this pith found in trees the womb, others the entrails, others the heart. And these, along with the veins and the flesh of the whole tree, are formed from the four elements.
19| [section 6] And often certain parts are found suited to generating leaves and flowers. And some short shoots are suited to generating flowers, as in willows. And some trees generate both flowers and fruits, and all the other things that are generated from seed, and whatever encloses them. [section 7] And again, of plants, some are trees, others are between trees and herbs; and these are called shrubs. And some are herbs, others are vegetables. Nearly all plants, then, fall under names of these sorts. [section 8] Again, there are trees that have a trunk from their own root, and on these many branches are generated, as in figs and olives; some do not. Again there are other plants, as we said, between trees and small herbs, called shrubs, having many branches at their roots, as the plants called chaste-trees and brambles. [section 9] Vegetables are those that have many trunks from a single root and many branches, as rue, cabbages, and the like. And there are also herbs that do not have a trunk from their own root, but bear leaves directly.
20| [section 10] And some are generated and wither within a single year, as wheat and similar things, others do not. But we cannot know all these things except through reasonings and examples and outline descriptions. Again there are herbs that incline to two extremes, as the herb called royal vegetable. [section 11] There are others called at once both herbs and vegetables; and there are certain others which, when first generated, appear in the shape of an ear of grain, but afterward become trees, as the Arabian bentelloi and the plant called sunflower. [section 12] Myrtle, apple, pear, and the rest of the similar trees are included in this genus, of which many branches are also useless, growing up from their roots. And for this reason it is fitting to make further distinctions among these, so that they may serve for example and reasoning; for we ought not to search out definitions in every case. [section 13] Again, of plants, some are domesticated, some are of the garden, and others wild. In this way we call pears and other such kinds of plants wild, because they do not arise from agricultural care. Again, of plants, some produce fruit, others do not, as willows and certain kinds of oaks.
21| [section 14] And some plants produce oil, and some do not. And some produce leaves, and some do not. And some shed their leaves, and some do not. And some grow branches, and some do not. So there is much to say about the difference among plants in size and smallness, in beauty and shapelessness, in the goodness and badness of their fruits. [section 15] Again, wild trees bear fruit more than cultivated ones do, yet the fruits of cultivated trees are better than those of wild ones. And some plants are produced in dry places, some in the sea; and some in rivers, others in the Red Sea; and some are large in some places and small in others. [section 16] And some are produced on the banks of rivers, some in marshes. And of those produced in dry places, some grow in the mountains, some in the plains. And some live in the driest places, as those in the land of the Ethiopians, and there they grow better than they do elsewhere. [section 17] And some live in high places, some in low ones. And some live in wet places, some in dry ones, and some in both, as the willow. So plants vary greatly with the difference of place, and from this one must also come to understand their differences.
22| [section 1] Again, some plants are fixed to the earth and do not like to be separated from it, but some are transplanted to better places. Likewise, some fruits are better in this place than in another. And of some plants the leaves are hard, of some smooth; and of some split, as those of vines and fig trees, of some not; and of others split a great deal, as those of the pine. [section 2] Some plants consist wholly of bark serving as a mediator. And some have joints, as reeds do, and some do not. And some have thorns, as brambles do, and some are without thorns. And some have many branches, as the wild mulberry does, and some do not. [section 3] And some have a further difference, in that shoots grow out from them while from others they do not; and this comes from nothing else but the difference among their roots. Some have a single root, as the squill does; this grows from the ground and advances sparsely, because it spreads out below, and as it proceeds it is further set apart by the sun, for when the sun strikes it, it grows.
23| [section 4] This same plant also draws up its shoots from below. Again, of the juices found in fruits, some are drinkable and some are not; drinkable are those of grapes and pomegranates and many others, undrinkable those of other plants. [section 5] And of some they are oily, as those of the olive, the pine, and the walnut, and of some they are not. And of some sweet and honey-like, as of dates and figs; and of some hot and pungent, as of marjoram and mustard; and of some bitter, as of wormwood and centaury. Again, of fruits some are composite, made up of flesh and seeds and husks, as cucumbers are, and some of juice and seeds, as pomegranates are. [section 6] And some have their rind outside and their flesh inside, and some have the stone inside and the flesh outside. Some are such that the seed and the covering that wraps it come into being at the same time, as with the fruits of dates and almonds; of some this is not so. [section 7] And some fruits are edible, and inedible only by accident; and some fruits are inedible to us but edible to others, as henbane and hellebore are poison to men but food to quails. Again, some fruits are in cases, as the seeds of the bean; some are in a covering and husk like a kind of woven fabric, as is found in wheat and the rest.
24| [section 8] And some are set in flesh, as the fruits of dates are; some are as if in little dwellings, as acorns are; and others are in many little dwellings and husks and shells, as walnuts are. [section 9] And some ripen quickly, as the fruits of the mulberry and the cherry do; some slowly, as all wild fruits do, or most of them. And some plants bring forth leaves and fruits quickly, some slowly; and of these, some hold on through the winter before they ripen. [section 10] And again the colors of the leaves and fruits, and of the woven coverings that lie upon them, so to speak, are very different, for some plants are green throughout their own whole extent, and some incline toward blackness, some toward whiteness, and some toward redness, on account of the heat that sets ablaze the air mingled with that near the ground. [section 11] Again, the shapes of fruits, when they are wild, occupy different positions, for not all fruits are angular, nor do all run along a straight line. [section 1] Again, of aromatic trees, of some the root is aromatic, of some the bark, of some the wood; of others the parts are wholly aromatic, as with balsam. Again, of trees, some are produced from seed, some by themselves.
25| [section 2] And again, some are pulled up by their roots and transplanted, some from the trunk, some from branches, or from seed. And some by themselves extend little by little, and some into the earth. And some are planted into trees, as grafted plants are. Grafting like onto like is the better practice. [section 3] But there is also another kind of correspondence, by which unlike things come together very well, as apples with pears. Among like things, as fig into fig and vine into vine and almond into almond, [section 4] there is also another kind of grafting among other, different kinds, as wormwood into wild wormwood, and cultivated olive into wild olive, and mulberry into many trees. Again, of trees, both wild and cultivated, every plant does not produce seed like the seed from which each of them grew up. [section 5] For some produce better seed, some worse. And from some bad seeds good trees come forth, as those from a small almond and a sour pomegranate. Again, of some trees, if their seed becomes weak, they fail to become good, as pines and date-palms do.
26| [section 6] Good trees do not easily come forth from bad seed, nor bad trees from good seed. But for a good thing to come from a bad one, and the reverse, is often found among animals. Again, a tree whose bark is very hard becomes barren; but if its root is split and a stone is set into the split, it becomes fruitful. [section 7] And among date-palms, if leaves or catkins or bark of the male date-palm are joined together with the leaves of the female, so that they are somehow brought into contact, the fruits ripen quickly, and their falling is also prevented. The male is distinguished from the female in that its leaves sprout first, and they are smaller than those of the female; but also by its fragrance. [section 8] Elsewhere this comes about from one of these causes, or from all of them. And perhaps too, if a wind carries something of the male's fragrance over to the female, the fruits ripen in this way as well, just as when the leaves of the male hang suspended over the female. [section 9] Likewise wild fig trees, spread out into the ground, contribute much to cultivated fig trees. Wild pomegranate blossoms contribute to olives, when they are planted together.
27| [section 1] Again, some plants change, so they say, into another species, as the walnut does when it grows old. They say too that pennyroyal changes into mint, and that wild rue, cut and planted by the sea, may become water-mint. They say too that wheat and flax change into another species. [section 2] And the poisonous plant that grows in Persia, when transplanted into Egypt or Palestine, becomes edible. Likewise the almond and the pomegranate change, through cultivation, from their own inferior condition into something better. [section 3] Now pomegranates improve when pig dung is put in around their roots, and when they are watered with sweet, cold water; almonds improve when pegs are driven into them and much gum is thereby made to run out of them. And many wild plants become garden plants through this kind of technique. [section 4] Place and cultivation contribute a great deal to these things, and even more the season of the year, which planters need above all. Again, most plants are planted in spring, few in winter and autumn, and fewest of all in summer after the rising of the Dog Star. [section 5]
28| Such planting occurs in few places, and never occurs except sparingly, as in Rome at this season. In Egypt, planting occurs only once a year. Again, some plants put out leaves from their own roots, some from their own gum, some from their own wood. [section 6] And some grow close to the ground, some far from it, some in between. And some bear fruit once a year, others many times, but their fruits do not ripen and remain unripe. [section 7] And some trees are fruitful over many years, as fig trees are; others bear fruit in one year, and in the next recover themselves, as olive trees do, putting out many branches, by which they are also covered over. And some plants are more fruitful in old age, while others, on the contrary, bear fruit more in youth, as almonds, pear trees, and black poplars do. [section 8] The difference between wild and garden plants is distinguished by male and female, once each of them has been recognized through the particular marks found in them: that the male is denser, harder, and has more branches, is less moist, and comes to ripeness more quickly, and has leaves and shoots that are different. The female has less of these.
29| [section 9] We must, then, once we have grasped these things, go on to consider how we might come to know the trees in their own right and the genera in their own right. And likewise concerning plants, how we might understand what the ancients said. How? [section 10] If we examine carefully the books they wrote, and are able to search out the marrow of them by a synoptic inquiry, and come to recognize the oily plants and the plants that have only seed, and those that furnish help, and the medicinal ones, and the destructive ones. And likewise the trees along with the plants. [section 11]
30| To learn their causes as well, we ought to inquire into their generation: how some are generated in some places and not in others; further, their plantings and their roots, and the differences of their juices and their odors and their sap and their gum, and the goodness and badness of each, and their durability — how the fruits of some persist while those of others do not, and for what cause some rot quickly and others slowly — and to inquire also into the peculiar properties of plants, and especially of their roots; and how the fruits of some soften while those of others do not; and how some arouse desire, others sleep, and others even destroy, and many other differences; and how the fruits of some produce milk while others do not. B. The tree has three capacities: the first from the genus of earth, the second from the genus of water, the third from the genus of fire. For from earth comes the growth of the plant, from water its solidification, from fire the unification of the plant's solidification. And we see many of these things also in shelled things.
1| [section 2] For in these there are three things: clay, from which shell-like brick comes to be; second, water, which is what solidifies shell-like things; third, fire, which draws its parts together, until through it its generation is completed. The manifestation, then, of the whole unification of these things comes from fire, because there is a certain porousness present in shell-like things in their own several parts. [section 3] And whenever fire mixes these together, the matter of the moisture is brought to completion, and the parts of the clay are cemented together, and dryness advances into the place of the moisture. And because of this dominance, concoction follows in every animal and plant and in metals. For concoction occurs wherever moisture and heat proceed together toward their own proper limit. [section 4] This is evident in the concoction of stone and of metals; but in the animal and the plant it is not so, because their parts are not compacted together into one as they are in stones, and because from these a certain flowing-off proceeds, whereas from stones and metals no flowing-off, or any kind of sweat, issues. [section 5] For their parts are not porous, and hence nothing goes out from them, as excretions go out from the animal and the plant, nor does any other outflow occur from porousness. For where there is no porousness, nothing whatever goes out from it. For this reason it is solid, and it is not its nature to grow into anything.
2| [section 6] For what is naturally suited to grow needs a place in which it may spread out and be bounded. But stones and shells and things of this kind are always in the same state; they neither grow nor extend. Again, in plants there is a second kind of motion, namely attraction, which is a capacity drawing moisture up from the earth. [section 7] And in this attraction there is a motion which arrives at a place, and concoction is in a way brought to completion; and because of this, for the most part small plants are generated in the space of a single hour of a single day. This is not so in animals; for in animals the matter exists by itself and is divided up. Nor does concoction occur in them except above all in use. [section 8] The matter of the plant, however, is close to this, and for this reason its generation is quicker. And that which is finer in it, rather than the dense, is what is generated and grows. For the dense requires capacities of many kinds, both because of the difference of its own proper shape and because of the length of its parts in relation to one another. [section 9] And hence the generation of the plant, too, is quicker, on account of the fineness of one part relative to another, and its completion is faster. The parts of plants are for the most part porous, because their heat draws the moisture toward the extremities of the plants. And the nourishing matter is dispersed into all their parts; and what is in excess is poured out.
3| [section 10] Just as in bathhouses heat draws up moisture and turns it into vapor, and this vapor, being made light, when it becomes excessive changes into droplets, so too in animals and in plants the residues rise from the lower parts to the upper, and descend from the upper parts to the lower. In the same way the rivers that run beneath the earth are generated from the mountains. For their matter is the rains; and when the waters increase and are confined within a narrow space, an excessive vapor is produced from them, which, because of the pressure within, splits the earth; and so springs and rivers appear that were not visible before but happened to be hidden away. [section 1] We have set out the causes of the generation of springs and rivers in our book on meteorology, in which we also spoke about earthquakes—that these often reveal springs and rivers that were not visible before, as when the earth is split open by the rising vapor. And we often find that springs and rivers are joined together when an earthquake occurs. [section 2] But this does not happen to the plant, because air is present in the looseness of its parts, and here too is a sign of this: an earthquake does not naturally occur in sandy places, but in places that are dense and hard, of the sort found where there is water and mountains.
4| [section 3] For indeed an earthquake occurs in these places because the water is solid and the stones are solid; but it belongs to the nature of hot, dry air to rise on account of its lightness. So when the parts of this air come together and gain the upper hand, they press together the place, and from this a violent exhalation issues out of it. [section 4] But if the place were loose, the exhalation would not issue out in this way, but as happens in the case of sand. For an exhalation issues out from there too, but little by little; and because of this no earthquake occurs. In general, then, in no solid body does this happen—I mean the air issuing out little by little. [section 5] For when the parts of this air are gathered together they are able to split the earth, and this is the cause of earthquake in solid bodies. In the parts of plants and animals no earthquake occurs, but in all other things, and most often in shelled things and in glass and the rest of the metals. [section 6] For in whatever body there is much looseness, it is customary for the exhalation to rise as well; for the air lightens it. And we often see this when we throw gold or something else heavy into water, and it sinks at once; and again when we throw in a piece of wood that is loose-textured or small, it floats and does not sink.
5| [section 7] Hence it is not on account of leaves that a piece of wood which is often submerged fails to sink, nor on account of what lies beneath it being heavy, but because the one is solid and dense, and the other loose; and what is loose does not sink at all. [section 8] Ebony and things similar to it do sink, because in these the looseness is slight, and there is no air in them able to lighten them. They sink because their parts are extremely dense and solid. But all oil and all leaves float on top of water. [section 9] And this we can now demonstrate. For we know that there is moisture and heat in these things, and it is the nature of the moist to be joined to the parts of water; and heat causes the moist to be drawn upward, just as follows in the season of spring. And it is also the nature of water to lift everything up to its own surface, as far as the surface of the air, so that it makes it rise. [section 10] But water does not go beyond its own surface; for the whole surface of water is one together with the surface of air. And because of this oil also rises up above water. There are also certain stones that float on top of water, because of the void alone in them being greater than the parts within them, and because the space occupied by air is greater than the space occupied by the body of earth.
6| [section 11] For it is the nature of water to stand above earth, and it is the nature of air to stand above water. The nature, then, of the air enclosed within the stone rises up above the water, and joins itself to the whole mass of air; for each thing draws to itself what is akin and like to it, and the nature of the part follows along with the whole to which it is joined. [section 12] If, then, there is some light piece of pumice, half of it will sink in the water, while the rest will float, because in it the air is greater than the remaining body of the stone. Because of this all trees are heavier than such stones. Stones that occur in waters arise from the violent clashing together of waters. [section 13] For first foam is produced, then it congeals in this way like a kind of fatty milk; and when the water is rubbed against the sand, the sand somehow gathers together the fatty substance of the foam, and the dryness of the sea, together with excessive saltiness, dries it out; and so the parts of the sand are drawn together, and over the length of time they become stones. [section 14] The proof that the sea produces sand by itself is this: not all earth is sweet; so when some water stands in it, the air is prevented from altering it,
7| [section 15] and further, as the enclosed water lingers in the place, since the air cannot make it like itself (for the earthy parts, which are salty, prevail within the water itself), it is necessary that, warmed further, little by little it makes the two into an inherent clay. [section 16] But this cannot happen in sweet waters because of their sweetness and their fineness, but it happens in salty waters, because in these the dryness of the earth prevails, and either it changes the water into its own form, or it does this near itself, and each of the two is altered. [section 17] And the hardness of the earth, hardening the residue of the water in accordance with the power of its own compaction, divides the clay into its own small parts; and because of this the earth that lies near the sea becomes sandy. So too the plains, which have nothing to cover them from the sun, are also far removed from sweet water. [section 18] For the sun dries out the sweet parts of the moisture, and what remains is what belongs to the kind of earth. And because the sun lingers in this uncovered place, the parts of the clay are separated from one another, and from this sand is produced. A sign of this is that in such a place, if we dig deep, we find inherent clay, and this is the root of sand.
8| [section 19] Sand is not produced except accidentally. This happens because there is a lingering of the sun's motion, as we said, and a remoteness from sweet water. In the same way one must think about the saltiness of the waters of the sea. For the root of all waters is sweet, and saltiness does not come about in it otherwise than in the manner stated. [section 20] And this is a perceptible sign that earth lies beneath water, and water lies above of necessity and by nature. And from this it has come about, more properly, that water is an element rather than earth. Some have held that the element is that which is the most abundant of all waters; and the water of the sea is the most abundant, and for this reason it has been judged to be the element of all waters. [section 21] Water by nature stands above earth and is finer than it. And because of this we have shown that sweet water is altogether lighter than salty water. But let us also take, as an example, two equal vessels, and let us put in them sweet water and salty water. After this let us take an egg, and let us put it in the sweet water, and it will sink at once.
9| [section 22] After this let us set it also in salt water, and it will float on top and rise above the surface of such water, because the parts of this water are not separated apart as the parts of sweet water are. For the parts of the latter, because of their thinness, are not able to bear weight, while the parts of the former, because of their thickness, are able to; and this is why what is placed on it does not sink down. [section 23] In this way, naturally, in the Dead Sea no animal either sinks or is born; for dryness rules in it, and in everything that is close to the character of earth. It is apparent, then, from this that thick water lies below what is not thick. For the thick is of the genus of earth, while the thin and rarefied is of the genus of air. [section 24] And for this reason sweet water surpasses all waters; for it exists further from earth. We already know, then, that the water furthest from earth is the natural one. And we have shown that sweet water lies above sea water. And that this is natural has become clear and necessary by the sign stated.
10| [section 25] Salt is generated in standing waters, in which the sweet becomes salty. But the saltiness of earth exceeds that saltiness. For in the former, air remains enclosed, but not in the latter. And for this reason that body is not of earth, sharing in some sweetness in every way, even if this kind is from water, which comes out of the earth itself like sweat. [section 1] In addition to these things we ought to know that plants and species too do not exist except from composition, and not from simple matter, but just as saltness comes from the water of the sea and from the substance of the sand. [section 2] For the vapors that rise, when they are compacted together, are able to comprehend together the cause of the existence of plants; for air falls down from there, and moistens the place with dew, and from it, through the power of the stars, the forms of seeds come forth. [section 3] Water is the necessary matter, even if there is a differentia within the genus of water. For what rises up is nothing other than sweet water; but the salty is heavy, and does not rise up together with the sweet. What surpasses this in rising is the thinner part of the water.
11| [section 4] This, then, if it is drawn up by the air, is thinned and rises further, and from this springs and rivers come to be in the mountains, and run for a great distance. And a sign of this is the blood that rises to the brain. For just as something rises from foods together with the vapor, so too into all waters, [section 5] For indeed something of the salty water also rises up together with that which the heat has dried out, into the form of air, which lies exactly above all sweet water and salt water. We have often found an example of this account in bathhouses. [section 6] For when heat takes hold of salt water, it thins its parts, and a vapor rises, which was in the floor of the bathhouse, and the dense parts of the saltiness withdraw together with the natural moisture (for they are not of the genus of air), so as to follow the vapor, which proceeds upward one after another. [section 7] When, then, many of them have proceeded, the ceiling is pressed down, and from this the sweet water is gathered together and compacted and turns and drips down. And so in all salt bathhouses there is sweet water. Therefore the plants that grow in salty waters ought not to have abundance, because of the dryness.
12| [section 8] For indeed a plant needs two things, I mean matter and place, fitted to its own nature. When, then, these two things are present together, the plant advances. But when we find matter that is furthest from good temperament, it is in vain; for being in a place that is not well-tempered is an obstacle to existing. [section 9] Again, in general we do not find a plant in snow, except that sometimes we see a plant appearing in it, and certain animals, and especially worms. For these are generated in the snow, and mullein, and all bitter plants. But snow does not seek to bring this about, unless some cause also is joined together in it. [section 10] And this is that snow sometimes comes down like smoke, and wind compacts it together and air constricts it. Yet a certain rarefaction also occurs in its parts; for in these a warm part of air is retained, and from it also a putrefied water remains. [section 11] When, then, the enclosed air becomes of greater breadth and the sun is present, the compressed air in the snow is broken apart, and the putrefied moisture appears, which also compacts together with the heat of the sun; and thus certain plants grow,
13| [section 12] But if the place is covered over, plants do not come to be in it except without leaves; for the good temperament of the earth, which is akin to it, has withdrawn from it. Whence flowers and leaves mixed in with small plants are found in places purely tempered through air and water; but in other places not of this kind the flowers and leaves of the plants that occur in snow are scarce. [section 13] Likewise in many places that are salty and dry, for the most part no plant appears. For these places are far from good temperament; for the earth is diminished, from which moisture and heat are far away, which come about through sweet water. And sometimes sweet earth becomes dead, and then plants are not quickly generated in it. [section 14] But in hot places, where there is sweet water and much heat, digestion comes about beforehand from two parts, from the disposition of the place together also with the air present in it. And the digestion of the air comes from the heat of the sun in that place. From this, mountains too draw up moisture, and the heat of the air also helps them.
14| [section 15] Digestion also hastens this along; and for this reason plants for the most part grow on mountains. But in sands, as we said before, saltiness prevails, and there remain in the parts of the sand rarefactions similar to one another. [section 16] The sun, then, does not have the power to complete and secure continuity of substance in them. For this reason plants for the most part do not come to be in them; and if they do come to be, they are not according to their own distinct species, but according to species similar to one another. [section 1] The plants that are generated on the surface of water are generated in no other way than through the thickness of the water. For when heat touches water, which above has no way of being moved, then something resembling a cloud comes forth upon it, and holds a little air, and such moisture putrefies, and the heat, which extends over the face of the water, draws it up, and from this a plant comes to be. [section 2] It has no root, because a root is fixed in the parts of the earth, having divided parts. Again, it has no leaves either, because it is far from good temperament, and its parts also are not compacted together. But this plant is generated something like a resemblance of leaves, and is called "feather-plant."
15| [section 3] As for the remaining plants that are in the earth, since the parts of the earth are compacted together, the parts of these too are necessarily of this kind. At any rate, the plants that are compacted from the earth come to be from decompositions in a moist and smoky place. [section 4] For the decompositions hold air within them; and when the rains and winds increase, the sun makes them show themselves, and it hastens them to dry out and be compacted, and the dryness of the earth produces their roots; and from this come plants, mushrooms, truffles, and things of this kind. [section 5] All these things come to be, reasonably, in warm places, since the heat concocts the water in the inner parts of the earth, the sun holds it there, and an exhalation comes to be, and from this the alteration into a plant occurs. Likewise in all places that are for the most part warm, the completion of the plant is fulfilled. [section 6] Cold places, even if they too sometimes produce the same result, do so from the opposite cause. For the cold air presses the warm air down below and compacts its parts together, and the place undergoes a kind of boiling together with the moisture present in it; when, then, the excess moisture has dried out, the place splits open, and plants come out of it.
16| [section 7] In sweet-water places, where the water does not happen to separate out for long, whenever the air enclosed in the earth dries out and the moisture of the water compacts together, and this same air remains within the water, plants come out — such as the medicinal water-lily, and many other species of small plants, which are indeed generated in this manner. [section 8] But they are not far-extending, because their roots lie shallow in the earth. Likewise in places where hot water runs, plants are often generated, because the heat of the water draws up fresh exhalations onto the earth, while the cold nature of the water's moisture remains below, [section 9] and the air within this moisture is compacted together. And when the heat of the air has been concocted, in this too a plant is generated again, but not otherwise, unless over a long span of time. [section 10] The small plants that appear in sulfurous places come to be when winds blow sharply and produce a counter-blast and strike against each other, and the air within them is stirred up and the place is heated and fire comes to be from this, and after this what is deep down — orpiment — is generated, which descends from the sediment of the air, and draws fire together with decomposition (for this is what orpiment is); for then plants come to be from this.
17| [section 11] These do not put forth many leaves, as we showed earlier, because good mixture is far removed from them. But whatever plant bears something nourishing grows in places that are warm, light, and high, and more so in the third and fourth climate zone; and again, whatever tree produces something close to nourishing grows in places that are high and cold. [section 12] And for this reason the species multiply in such places, on account of the drawing-up of moisture and the good mixture from the sun's heat in the winter days. Likewise, natural clay quickly brings forth rich plants; for the compacting of its moisture occurs in sweet-water places, as we said before. [section 1] Again, the plant that is generated in solid stones comes about over a long time. For the air enclosed within these forces its way up, and finding no exit because of the strength of the stones, it turns back on itself and heats itself, and it draws up the moisture left behind in the stones, and an exhalation comes out together with moisture, along with the breaking-down of the smallest parts within the stones. [section 2]
18| For it is often the case with stones that the sun helps them through its own concoction. And thus a plant is generated from them. But it does not rise up unless it is near earth or moisture. For the plant's substance needs earth, water, and air. Let the plant, then, be considered thus: if it is near the sun, it is generated quickly; but if the sun is toward its setting, it is slow. [section 3] Again, in a plant where water dominates, it does not allow air to rise, and for this reason the plant is not nourished. Likewise, when dryness prevails, the natural heat turns back to the extremities, and it stops up the plant's passages through which the pores run; and for this reason the plant is not nourished. [section 1] In a general account, every plant needs four things: a determinate seed, a fitting place, water in due measure, and air of the right kind. When, then, all these are brought together, a plant is generated and grows; but when these withdraw, the plant too weakens with their withdrawal. [section 2] Again, the plant that grows on high mountains, if it forms a species, will be more readily available and better suited for medicinal use; but fruit that is harder to digest does not, for the most part, nourish. Places far removed from the sun are not productive of many kinds of plants,
19| [section 3] Likewise, if the sun in its motion adds length to the day and overpowers the moisture, the plant does not have the power to put forth leaves and fruits. But what should we think about the plants generated in watery places? In these, when the water is still, something like mud comes to be, and there is no power in the air to give support to the parts of the water. [section 4] For this air itself is held within the inner parts of the earth, and it prevents the thickness of the water from rising up. [section 5] If, then, wind should sweep into that place and the earth is drawn tight, and the enclosed air presses itself together, and the wind compacts the moisture, plants will come forth from this moisture that do not differ much from one another in species and shape, on account of the persistence and thickness of the water and the heat of the sun from above. [section 6] Again, concerning the plants that are in moist places, whose surface appears greenish to the eye of the earth, I say that in that place the porosity is slight. [section 7]
20| When, then, the sun falling upon it stirs the moisture in that place, and heats the place by the motion that results and by the heat enclosed within the inner parts of the earth — which indeed does not happen in places where the plant has nothing from which it might grow — and the moisture is diffused through its own extension, a vapor comes to be above the earth like a greenish web, and from this a plant is generated that has no leaves, belonging to the kind of plant that appears on the surface of water. [section 8] It is larger than that one, because it is close to the earth, even though it cannot rise up and extend itself further. Often, too, another plant is generated within plants that is not of the same species or the same likeness, without a root. [section 9] This is set in motion as follows: whenever a plant of many thorns stirs itself in rich water, its parts open up, and the sun draws up the decompositions within it, and produces concoction in it, and by its own nature supplies help to the decomposed place with well-tempered heat, and from this the plant grows, so that threads seem to extend throughout it entirely. [section 10]
21| And this is peculiar to plants that have many thorns. It is then that the plant called mercury (linozostis) is produced, and those like it. All plants — whatever grows above the earth and in the earth — proceed from some one of these five: seed, moisture from water, a suitable place, air, and planting. And these five are, one might say, the roots of plants. [section 1] The productiveness of trees follows in three ways: for they bring forth their fruit either before the leaves, or together with the leaves, or after the leaves. There is, moreover, a plant that has neither root nor leaves; and there is also one that bears a stem without fruit and without leaves, as the plant called goldylocks or chrysitis. [section 2] But the plants that bring forth their fruit before their leaves have great richness of moisture. For when the heat naturally present in the plant is extended, its concoction is also quickened; it grows strong and seethes in the branches of the plant, and it prevents the sap from rising up out of it; and from this fruits and leaves come forth. [section 3]
22| In the plants that put forth their leaves more quickly, what must we understand? The conditions of the moisture are many. Whenever, then, the sun's heat begins to scatter the parts of the water, the sun draws the parts of the moisture upward, and ripening is delayed, because the concoction of the fruit occurs only when there is a compacting; and the leaves come before the fruits because of the drawing-on of the abundant moisture. [section 4] Often, too, richness happens to them, whenever the moisture in the plant undergoes concoction and a dense vapor rises up from it, and the air together with the sun draws it up; for then, out of that moisture, richness and fruit and leaves all come forth in a single emission. The wise men of old maintained that all leaves are fruits. [section 5] It must be understood, then, that whenever the moisture is so great that it is neither ripened nor compacted, because of the loosening that comes from the air and the eagerness of the sun's drawing from above, then this moisture, in which no concoction has been worked, is changed into leaves; and these have no other purpose than the drawing-off of the moisture, and to serve also as coverings for the fruits against the violence of the sun.
23| [section 6] It is not necessary, then, that the leaves be like the fruits in the same way; for the sap that rises up, once altered, is what the leaves are, as we have said. The judgment is the same, too, in the case of olive trees, which are often deprived of their own fruit. [section 7] For whenever nature brings about concoction, what has not been ripened by the heat rises up first, on account of its fineness. This moisture, then, is the leaves, and the concoction is the flower. And when the concoction is completed in the second year, fruits are generated, and the matter comes out to its completion according to the place assigned to it within them. [section 8] Thorns likewise belong to the genus of plants, though not to the same nature. I say, then, that there is looseness of texture in the plant, and at the origin of its nature there is concoction, and cold moisture rises up, and with it a slight separation, passing through that looseness of texture. The sun, then, makes this compact, and from this the thorns arise. [section 9] For this reason their shape, too, is pyramid-like; for their base begins thick and proceeds to a slender point. This happens because the air, extending itself little by little through the plant, increases its parts along with the intensification of its matter. In this same way every tree or plant whose top is pyramid-shaped comes to be.
24| [section 1] The greening color must be a thing most common among trees. For we see that, just as whiteness is common within, so greenness is common without. And this is because they make use of matter that is nearer to completion, that is, more thoroughly concocted. [section 2] It is necessary, then, that there be greenness in all plants, because the materials draw and loosen the wood of the tree, and the heat works a slight concoction, and some moisture remains there, which shows on the outside; and this is the greenness that is in plants, unless the concoction becomes greater. It ought to be intermediate in power between the leaves and the wood. [section 3] Greenness is not destroyed, so long as there is moisture in it that belongs to the genus of earth. From both of these, then, the green color arises. A sign of this is that the bark of a tree, when the tree dries out, turns black, while within it remains white. In trees, then, between these two colors, a green color arises on their surface. [section 4] Of the shape of plants there are three kinds: some grow upward, some downward, some in between. Those that extend upward have this cause: their nature shows itself in the pith, and it draws the heat, and compresses within itself the air that is in its loose parts.
25| [section 5] They take a pyramid shape just as fire takes a pyramid shape in its own fuel and rises lightly upward. But those that extend downward — their pores become compacted. For when concoction occurs, then the matter of the moisture, in which the pith is, becomes dense. From this, what is fine passes upward, but the moisture turns back toward those lower parts, for its own weight moves it there. Those plants that are intermediate between the two are disposed as follows. [section 6] The moisture is made fine, because the nature of its good temperament borders closely on concoction, and the pores are intermediate, and the matter extends both upward and downward. [section 7] The first concoction occurs beneath the plant, and the second in the pith, which comes forth from the earth but is also present in the middle of the plant; and after these the division occurs, which follows from the second concoction, not from the first. [section 8] The third concoction is in the animal; for this concoction occurs only through the division of the nature of the limbs and the separation of the natural parts from one another. Plants, however, are neighbors to themselves, and for this reason they multiply in many places. For the most part, the matter of plants extends downward,
26| [section 9] The shapes of plants, then, lie in the nature and the quantity of their seeds, while the flowers of plants and their fruits lie in their moistures and in their matter. The first motion, then, and concoction are established universally in all animals, and no animals depart from it. [section 10] In plants there is first the concoction, then the ripening, according to their nourishment. Each tree, then, keeps growing upward until it is filled out. The cause of this is that, in the case of each animal, its length is close to its own breadth, but in the plant it is far greater, because its root — that is, the fire and the water in it — hasten upward, so that the plant may be brought into being. [section 11] The difference among plants in their branches arises from the excess of their looseness of texture. For when the saps are compressed together, nature grows warm and hastens toward concoction, and from this the branches are shaped and the leaves grow, as we said before. [section 1] The falling of the leaves of trees occurs because of the onset of a sharp looseness of texture. For when the moisture, together with the matter, is concocted, it takes on a pyramid shape, and after this the leaves grow thin. And when the matter appears filled out by the concoction, then the upper ends of the pores are completely stopped up. And for this reason, since the leaves no longer have matter, they dry up and fall.
27| [section 2] But if the opposite of what we have said occurs, the plant does not fall into the loss of its own leaves. And again, when cold sets the plant in motion, the heat enclosed within it warms it, and the manifestation of the cold occurs outwardly at its extremities, and from this the leaves are made grey-green, and they do not fall, as is the case also with olives and myrtles and the rest. [section 3] Now whenever trees and plants have a strong power of drawing, fruit-bearing occurs together with this; and this comes about because nature makes use of concoction in frequent succession, and in each concoction it brings forth much fruit. And for this reason some plants also bear fruit many times within the year. [section 4] But the plant which is, as it were, of a watery nature bears fruit only with difficulty, on account of the dominance of its moisture and the widening of its own pores and the outflow from its own roots. But when the heat grows strong, its concoction becomes swift, and the moisture is thinned and does not congeal; and even so it again happens that fruit-bearing does not occur. [section 5] And this is found in all the slender herbs, and indeed also in certain vegetables. Now a dun-grey color occurs in places that are extremely hot, and in these there is little fruit from the moisture, because the pores are narrow. Whenever, then, nature wishes to bring about concoction, not having moisture sufficient for the matter, then the pores become narrower.
28| [section 6] Concoction, then, turns back on itself, and the heat makes it continuous, and at that point what appears is the mean between white and black in color. And when this comes about in this way, then the wood comes to be black, and everything approaching the dun-grey; and this one can see from ebony and elm. [section 7] Ebony sinks in water, because its parts are compacted together and its pores are narrow, and air does not enter into them. But wood from the white timbers is submerged for a different reason, namely the narrowness of the pores together with the excess of moisture that blocks the pores, so that air cannot get out of them. [section 8] The flower, when concoction begins, is made of fine matter only; and for this reason it precedes the plant, as we have shown. From this, then, we also show the cause for which plants put forth leaves first, and then fruits. That which becomes a color in the plant having narrow pores will be a sapphire color, and because its parts are compressed together, it inclines toward whiteness. [section 9] But when it arrives at a good mixture, it is grey-green. And the reason why some plants have no flowers at all is that, for the most part, this happens on account of the difference among the parts within them and the fineness, roughness, and thickness present in them.
29| [section 10] Palm trees, fig trees, and things like them have no flowers. And the plant that has thick bark spreads out in accordance with the extension of its moisture and the pressing together of its heat; and this is the case in the pine and the palm. [section 11] The plant that discharges milky sap has this in its middle part. For the heat below is stronger, and richness remains there. Whenever, then, the heat begins to concoct, the richness turns into its own proper moisture, and it congeals this with a slight congealing. [section 12] And as the place is heated, the moisture becomes oily, like milk, and a vapor rises from the moisture that draws that milk up to the extremities, and the moisture holds fast the heat that appears, and thus the milk congeals; for it is the nature of heat to cause congealing. [section 13] Now milk of a very thick congealing comes about precisely when cold shows itself in the tree; for being congealed after this, it comes out from its own place. And from this is gum. Warm gum comes forth in the act of dripping; whenever, then, it touches the air, it congeals and flows down in a temperate place, and it is like water,
30| [section 14] while another kind is poured out and congeals like stones or shellfish. But when it flows in a trickle, remaining in its own proper form, it becomes what is called amber-resin. And that which is altered becomes, to all appearance, like stone, extremely cold. Heat makes it become such as this; but when it is cold and flows down, it turns to stone. [section 15] Again, some trees are altered in winter, and become at one time green, at another grey-green, and neither their leaves nor their fruits perish, because the plants in which this happens have a thick heat above and a fine moisture in their roots; hence, in the course of the year, the moisture retains that color on account of the coldness of the air. [section 16] And when the heat comes up against the cold, the heat pushes the moisture outward, together with the color it has dyed, which follows along on the surface of the tree. But when the cold and the dryness turn again into activity, and the moisture retains the heat, then the grey-green color appears. [section 1]
31| Fruit becomes bitter when the heat and the moisture are not full in the concoction. For the cold and the dryness hinder the completion, and thus the fruit turns to bitterness. A sign of this is that the bitter thing, thrown into fire, becomes sweet. Trees that are born in sour water produce sweet fruit, because the sourness draws along with the heat of the sun, which is of its own proper quality. [section 2] And this is cold and dryness; and from this some small quantities of moisture remain within, sweet ones. The cavity of the tree is also heated, when the sun stays upon it, and thus the flavor of the fruit becomes a little astringent. And the more it is concocted, the more the sourness is dissolved little by little, until it is used up and the sweetness appears. [section 3] The fruit, then, will be sweet, but its leaves and twigs dry. But when ripeness is completed, the fruit becomes more bitter still. This is on account of the excessive heat together with scant moisture. For the moisture is used up, and the fruit makes the heat rise, and then the fruit is bitter. And also
32| [section 4] the stones become pyramid-shaped on account of the drawing-in of the heat and the excessive cold and moisture lying within, which are of the class of sour water. For the moisture remains in the middle and is compacted, and thins out the extremities. [section 5] Trees that are in temperate soil hasten their ripening before the winter days, because when the heat draws near a good mixture, and the moisture also becomes evident and the air clear, and the fruit does not need much moisture or concoction, then its ripening hastens, and it comes forth before the winter days. [section 6] In all trees, then, when they are first planted, the bitter or the harsh predominates, since the moisture, when it is at their extremities, concocts the regions that are in the middle of the trees, from which the matter of the fruits also comes, and dryness comes forward and follows upon the moisture, and thus the first concoction becomes sharp or bitter or harsh. [section 7] The cause is that concoction occurs by means of heat together with moisture. But when moisture and dryness prevail over the heat, the fruit that comes from it is at the beginning not well concocted, because the generation of the fruit at the beginning is without sweetness. But the fruits of the myrobalan trees, when they first appear, are sweet; though commonly they are harsh and, in their mixture, bitter.
33| [section 8] The cause is that the tree of these plants is loose-textured in its branches. In the season of ripening, when the pores are wide, heat follows upon moisture, and the fruits ripen, and at the start they are sweet. Then again, correspondingly, because of this looseness the tree draws in further passages, and coldness and dryness come to prevail over the hot and the moist, and from this the fruits change into astringency. [section 9] Again the sun prevails, together with heat, through the drawing off of the excess dryness in that seed which is on the surface of the trees, and coldness overcomes dryness, and the fruits are of strong astringency. From this, in turn, natural heat rises upward, and the heat of the sun from outside assists it, and heat and dryness prevail, and the fruits become bitter.
1| [section 1] They say that in Paeonia, on the mountain called Hesaenus, which marks the boundary between Paeonia and Maedica, there is a beast called the bolinthos, but by the Paeonians called the monaipos. [section 2] They say its whole nature resembles that of an ox, but that it differs in size and in strength, and further in its mane; for it has, running from the neck, like a horse, a mane hanging very deep, and running from the crown of the head down to the eyes. [section 3] Its horns are not like those of oxen, but bent back, with the point turned down beside the ears. Each of them holds more than half a choos, and they are very black, though they gleam as if polished. When the hide is stripped off, it covers a space for eight couches to recline on. When the beast is struck, it flees, but if it can no longer do so it stands its ground. [section 4] Its flesh is sweet to eat. It defends itself by kicking and by discharging its dung, to a distance of about four fathoms; it does this readily and often uses this device, and the dung burns so severely that it singes the hair off dogs. [section 5] They say it does this when it is disturbed, but does not burn when undisturbed. When they give birth, the largest of them gather together in a group and all give birth at the same time, and they discharge their dung in a circle around them; for the beast emits a great quantity of this excrement.
2| [section 1] They say that camels in Arabia will not mount their mothers, and even if one is forced to it, they refuse. Indeed it is said that once, since there was no other male for breeding, the keeper covered the mother up (disguised her) and put the young male to her. When he mounted her as if breeding, he did at that time, it seems, complete the act, but a little later he bit the camel-driver and killed him. [section 1] They say that the cuckoos at Helice, when they are about to lay, do not build a nest of their own, but lay their eggs in the nests of wood-pigeons or turtle-doves, and neither brood over them, nor hatch them, nor rear them themselves; but when the chick is born and reared, it drives out of the nest whichever birds it has been living among. It grows, it seems, large and handsome, so that it easily overpowers the rest. And they say the wood-pigeons take such pleasure in it that they themselves join in driving out their own chicks along with it. [section 1] The goats in Crete, when they are struck by an arrow, seek out, it seems, the dittany that grows there. For when they eat it, they immediately expel the arrowheads. [section 1] They say that some of the deer in Achaea, when they shed their antlers, go off to such places that they are not easily found. They do this because they have nothing with which to defend themselves, and because the places from which they shed their antlers are sore. In many of them ivy is seen growing on the place where the antlers were.
3| [section 1] They say that in Armenia a certain drug grows called leopard-bane. Whenever a leopard is sighted, they smear this on a sacrificial animal and let it loose. When the leopard touches it, it seeks out, it seems, human dung. This is why hunters put such dung in a vessel and hang it from a tree, so that the leopard, leaping up at it again and again and becoming exhausted, is overcome by it and falls into their hands. [section 1] In Egypt they say that plovers fly into the mouths of crocodiles and clean their teeth, pulling out the bits of flesh caught in their jaws; and the crocodiles enjoy this and do the birds no harm. [section 1] They say that the hedgehogs at Byzantium sense when north winds and south winds are blowing, and immediately change their burrows: when the wind is southerly they make their burrows in the ground, and when it is northerly, in the walls. [section 1] The goats on Cephallenia do not drink, it seems, as the other quadrupeds do, but each day they turn their faces toward the open sea and stand gaping, taking in the breezes. [section 1] They say that in Syria one of the wild asses leads the herd, and whenever a younger male among the colts mounts one of the females, the leader grows angry and pursues him until he catches the colt, and stooping down over its hindquarters, tears off its genitals with his teeth.
4| [section 1] They say that tortoises, whenever they eat a viper, eat marjoram afterward, and if they do not find it quickly, they die. Many countrymen, testing whether this is true, when they see a tortoise doing this, pull up the marjoram; and whenever they do this, a little later the tortoise is seen dying. [section 1] The genital of the weasel is said to be, in nature, unlike that of other animals, but solid throughout, like a bone, whatever state the animal happens to be in. They say it is among the best remedies for strangury, and is administered ground up. [section 1] They say that the woodpecker, the bird, walks on trees the way lizards do, both on its back and on its belly. It is said to feed also on the grubs found in trees, and to dig into the trees so deeply in search of the grubs that it brings the trees down. [section 1] They say that pelicans dig up the river mussels and swallow them, then, when they have taken in a great quantity, vomit them up, and then eat the flesh of the mussels but do not touch the shells. [section 1] They say that at Cyllene in Arcadia the blackbirds are white, and nowhere else, and that they utter varied sounds and, it is said, that they set out and travel toward the moon. And if anyone attempts to hunt them by day, they are very hard to catch.
5| [section 1] Some say that the honey called flower-honey occurs around Melos and Cnidus, fragrant in its scent but short-lived, and that bee-bread also forms in it. [section 1] Around Cappadocia, in certain places, they say honey is produced without honeycombs, and that it has a thickness like olive oil. [section 1] At Trapezus on the Black Sea, honey from the box tree is produced with a heavy smell; and they say that in the healthy it causes derangement, but in epileptics it cures them completely. [section 1] They also say that in Lydia a great quantity of honey is gathered from the trees, and that the inhabitants make little cakes from it without wax, and cut off pieces and use it worked in by vigorous rubbing. It also occurs in Thrace, but there it is not so solid, being more like sand. They say that all honey, when it congeals, keeps the same bulk, unlike water and the other liquids. [section 1] Chalcidian grass and almonds are most useful for making honey; for they say the greatest yield of offspring comes from them. [section 1] They say that bees are stupefied by perfume and cannot bear the smell; but some say that it is above all those who have been anointed with perfume that they attack.
6| [section 1] They say that among the Illyrians, the people called the Taulantians make wine out of honey. When they have pressed out the combs, they pour on water and boil it in a cauldron until it is reduced by half, then pour it out into earthenware jars, and having filled them halfway, set them on boards; and they say it ferments there for a long time, and becomes wine-like, and otherwise pleasant and strong. They say this has already happened to some people in Greece as well, so that it is no different from old wine; and when they later sought out the mixture used, they could not discover it. [section 1] They record that around Thessaly so many snakes were once bred that, had they not been destroyed by the storks, the people would have had to abandon the land. This is why they honor the storks, and it is not lawful to kill them; and if anyone kills one, he is liable to the same penalties as a murderer. [section 1] Likewise it is recorded that in Lacedaemon, at a certain period, so great a multitude of snakes came about that, because of a shortage of grain, the Laconians used them for food; hence, they say, the Pythia addressed them as "snake-necked." [section 1] On the island of Cyprus it is said that the mice eat iron. [section 1] (text breaks off)
7| They say that the Chalybes also collect gold from many people on a certain little island lying above them. This is why, it seems, they also cut open those who work in the mines. [section 1] It is said that, going from Susa to Media, at the second stopping-place there occurs an immense quantity of scorpions. This is why, whenever the Persian king passed through, he would stay three days, ordering all his men to hunt them; and to whoever caught the most he gave a prize. [section 1] In Cyrene, they say, there is not one kind of mouse but several, differing both in shape and in color; for some are broad-faced, like weasels, while others are spiny, which they call hedgehogs. [section 1] Around Cilicia, they say, there is a little pool of water into which, whenever choked birds and other animals have been dipped, they come back to life. [section 1] Among the Scythians called the Geloni, they say, a certain animal occurs, extremely rare, which is named the tarandos; it is said that this changes the color of its hair according to whatever place it is in. [section 2] For this reason it is hard to hunt [and also because of the change]; for among trees and in places, and generally wherever it may be, it becomes such in color. But the most marvelous thing is that it changes its hair; for the rest of the animals that do this, such as the chameleon and the octopus, change their skin. Its size is about that of an ox, and the shape of its face is like a deer's.
8| [section 1] It is said that a certain man in Abydus, deranged in his mind, would come to the theater for many days and watch as though people were performing, and would applaud; and when he was restored from his derangement, he said that he had lived that time most pleasantly. [section 1] And in Tarentum, they say, a certain wine-seller was mad by night but sold wine by day; for he kept the little key of his shop fastened to his belt, and though many tried to steal it and take it away, he never lost it. [section 1] On the island of Tenos, they say, there is a little bowl containing a mixed substance from which they kindle fire quite easily. And in Bithynia of Thrace, in the mines, there occurs what is called spinos, from which they say fire is kindled. [section 1] In Lipara, they say, there is a certain vent, into which, if they hide a pot, putting into it whatever they wish, they cook it by boiling. [section 1] There are also, in Media and in Psittacene of Persia, burning fires — the one in Media small, but the one in Psittacene great and pure in its flame; and for this reason the Persian king had kitchens built next to it. Both are in level places and not on heights. These are visible both by night and by day, but the ones around Pamphylia only by night.
9| [section 1] They say that also around Atitania, near the borders of the Apolloniatis, there is a certain rock from which the fire rising up is not visible, but when oil is poured onto it, it bursts into flame. [section 1] It is said that the regions beyond the Pillars of Heracles also burn, some continuously, some only by night, as the circumnavigation of Hanno records. And the fire in Lipara too is visible and flame-like, not indeed by day, but only by night. And they say that in Pithecusae there is something fiery and extraordinarily hot, though it does not actually burn. [section 1] Xenophanes says that the fire in Lipara once even died out for sixteen years, and returned in the seventeenth. They say that the stream of lava on Etna is neither flame-like nor continuous, but occurs only after many years. [section 1] It is said that around Lydia a very great fire once boiled up, and burned for seven days. [section 1] What happens in Sicily around the lava-stream is marvelous; for the breadth of the boiling-up of the fire is forty stades, and the height through which it is carried, three.
10| [section 1] They say that the stone in Thrace called spinos, when cut apart, burns, and when put back together with itself — just as with charcoal-dust — so too that stone, when set against itself and sprinkled with water, burns. And they say the mariea does the same thing. [section 1] Around Philippi in Macedonia, they say, there are mines from which the tailings that are thrown out grow and produce gold, and this is evident. [section 1] They say that in Cyprus too, around what is called Tyrrian copper, something similar happens. For, it seems, they cut it into small pieces and sow it; then, when water comes upon it, it grows and sends up shoots, and in this way is gathered in. [section 1] They say that also on the island of Melos, in the places that have been dug out of the earth, refillings occur again. [section 1] Around Paeonia they say that, whenever continuous rains occur, as the earth is washed away there is found the gold called unfired gold. And they say that in Paeonia the earth is so golden that many have found even lumps of gold weighing more than a mina. They say that a certain man, having found some, brought up to the king two lumps, one weighing three minas, the other five; these, they say, lie beside him on his table, and he makes a first offering from them before eating anything.
11| [section 1] They say that in Bactria the river Oxus carries down great quantities of gold nuggets, and that in Iberia the river called Theodorus casts up much gold around its banks, and likewise carries it down. [section 1] They say that in Pieria of Macedonia there is some unstamped gold buried by the ancient kings, and that of four chasms, from one of them gold grew up to the size of a span. [section 1] It is said that the origin of Chalybian and Amisenian iron is quite peculiar. For it forms, so they say, from the sand carried down by the rivers. Some say that they simply wash this and smelt it in a furnace; others say that the sediment produced from the washing, after being washed many times, is burned together, and that the stone called fire-resistant is mixed in with it — this stone being plentiful in the region. This iron becomes far finer than the rest. If it were not fired in a single furnace, it would, it seems, differ in no way from silver. They say it alone is not subject to rust, but that not much of it is produced. [section 1] They say that among the Indians bronze is so bright, pure, and rust-free that it cannot be distinguished by color from gold, but that among Darius's drinking-cups there are certain bowls, and several of them, which could not be told apart, except by smell, as to whether they were bronze or gold.
12| [section 1] They say that Celtic tin melts much faster than lead. A sign of its easy melting is that it seems to melt even in water; at any rate it discolors it quickly, as it seems. It also melts in cold weather, whenever ice forms, the heat within it being shut in and, they say, compressed together because of its weakness. [section 1] In the Pantheum there is an olive tree, called the fair-crowned. All its leaves grow the opposite way from those of the rest of the olive trees; for they have their green side outward rather than inward. It also puts out its young shoots, like the myrtle, in a size fitting for garlands. Heracles took a cutting from this tree and planted it at Olympia, and from it the crowns are given to the athletes. This tree stands beside the river Lissos, sixty stades distant from the river. It is walled around, and there is a great penalty for anyone who touches it. From this tree the Eleans took a cutting and planted it at Olympia, and from it they give the crowns. [section 1] In the mines around Pergamon in Lydia, which Croesus in fact worked, when a certain war broke out, the workers took refuge in them, and when the mouth was walled up they were suffocated; and much later, when the mines were cleared out, the vessels they had been using for their everyday needs were found turned to stone, such as jars and things of that sort. These, having been filled with whatever liquid they happened to hold, had been turned to stone, and so too had the bones of the men.
13| [section 1] In Lake Ascania the water is so full of natron that clothes need no other cleansing agent; and if one leaves them in the water too long, they fall apart. [section 1] Near Lake Ascania there is a village called Pythopolis, about one hundred and twenty stades from Cius, in which during winter all the wells dry up so completely that it is not possible to dip a vessel, but in summer they fill up to the brim. [section 1] The strait between Sicily and Italy rises and falls together with the moon. [section 1] And also that on the road to Syracuse there is a spring in a meadow, neither large nor having much water; but when a great crowd once gathered at the place, it supplied abundant water. [section 1] There is also a spring among the Palici in Sicily, about the size of ten couches; this shoots water up to a height of six cubits, so that those who see it think the plain will be flooded; and then it settles back to the same level again. There is also an oath there which is held to be sacred: for whatever someone swears, he writes it on a little tablet and throws it into the water.
14| [section 2] Now if he has sworn truly, the tablet floats on the surface; but if he has sworn falsely, they say the tablet becomes heavy and disappears, and the man is burned up. For this reason the priest takes pledges from him for the purifying of the sanctuary. [section 1] Demonesos, the island of the Carthaginians, has taken its name from Demonesos, the first man who worked it; the place has a mine of blue pigment and of chrysocolla. The finest of this finds a price equal to gold; for it is also a remedy for the eyes. [section 2] There is also there copper got by diving, at two fathoms' depth in the sea; from it comes the statue at Sicyon in the old temple of Apollo, and at Pheneus the statues called orichalc. They are inscribed: "Heracles son of Amphitryon, having taken Elis, dedicated this." [section 3] He took Elis under the leadership, in accordance with an oracle, of a woman whose father Augeas he had killed. Those who mine the bronze there become extremely sharp-sighted, and those who lack eyelashes grow them; for this reason physicians use the flower of copper and Phrygian ash for the eyes. [section 1] There is also there a cave called the Hollow; in it columns have formed, congealed from certain drippings. This is shown where it joins the floor; for at that point it is extremely narrow.
15| [section 1] Of the pair of eagles, one of the offspring becomes, in alternation, an osprey, until a pair is again formed. From ospreys comes the phene, and from these the percnoi and the vultures; but these last no longer keep the vultures distinct, but produce the great vultures, and these are barren. The proof of this is that no one has ever seen the nest of a great vulture. [section 1] They say something marvelous happens among the Indians concerning the lead there: when it is melted and poured into cold water, it leaps out of the water. [section 1] They say that Mossynoecian bronze is the brightest and whitest, not because tin is mixed into it, but because a certain earth peculiar to it arises and is smelted together with it. They say that the man who discovered the mixture taught it to no one; hence the bronze vessels made in those places in former times are of outstanding quality, but those made afterward no longer are. [section 1] In Pontus they say that in winter some of the birds are found hibernating, neither excreting, nor perceiving anything when their feathers are plucked, nor when they are set on the spit, but only when they are thoroughly burned by the fire. And they say that many of the fish too, when cut around and trimmed, do not perceive it, but only when they are thoroughly heated by the fire.
16| [section 1] The bee seems to signal the solstices by going out to work, a sign which beekeepers make use of; for they become still around that time. Cicadas too seem to sing after the solstices. [section 1] They say also that the hedgehog goes without food for as long as a year. [section 1] And that the gecko, when it sheds its skin, as snakes do, turns around and swallows it; for physicians keep watch for this, because it is useful for epileptics. [section 1] They say too that the fat of the bear, when it has congealed on account of the winter, during whatever time the bear lies hibernating, increases and overflows the vessels it is kept in. [section 1] In Cyrene they say the frogs there are entirely voiceless. And in Macedonia, in the territory of the Emathiotae, the pigs are single-hoofed. [section 1] In Cappadocia they say mules are fertile, and in Crete that black poplars bear fruit. [section 1] They say too that in Seriphos the frogs do not sing; but if they are carried to another place, they do sing. [section 1] Among the Indians, in the place called the Horn, they say small fish are found which wander about on dry land and then run back again into the river.
17| [section 1] Some also say that around Babylon certain fish remain in the burrows that keep moisture when the river dries up; that these come out onto the threshing floors to graze, and walk on their fins, and wag their tail; and that when pursued, they flee, and once they have gone in, they stand facing their pursuers; for often people approach and provoke them. They have a head like a sea-frog, but the rest of the body like a goby, and gills like other fish do. [section 1] They say that at Heraclea on the Pontus and at Rhegium fish are found by digging, and these especially in riverside and watery places. What happens is that sometimes, when the places dry up, at certain times the fish withdraw down into the ground, then, as it dries further, pursuing the moisture they pass on into the mud, and then, once it dries out, they remain in the moisture that is left, like creatures that survive in their burrows. But when the ground is dug up before the waters come again, then they move. [section 1] They also say that around Paphlagonia fish are found by digging at some depth, and that these are of good quality, even though there is neither visible water nearby nor rivers flowing in, but the earth itself generates life.
18| [section 1] They say that the deer in Epirus bury their right antler when they shed it, and that it is useful for many purposes. [section 1] They say too that the lynx covers up its urine, because it is useful for other purposes and, in particular, for engraving seals. [section 1] They say also that the seal vomits up its rennet when it is caught, and that it is medicinal and useful for epileptics. [section 1] It is said that on Mount Circaeum in Italy a certain deadly poison grows, which has such power that, if it is sprinkled on someone, it makes him fall down at once, and causes the hairs on his body to fall out, and makes the limbs of the whole body dissolve away, so that the surface of the body of those who perish from it is pitiful to see. They say that Aulus Peucestius and Gaius, who were about to give this to Cleonymus the Spartan, were caught in the act, and, on being examined by the Tarentines, were put to death. [section 1] On the island of Diomedeia, which lies in the Adriatic, they say there is a shrine of Diomedes, both marvelous and holy, and that around the shrine, in a circle, sit birds of great size, having large, hard beaks.
19| [section 2] They say that if Greeks put in at the place, these birds keep quiet, but if any of the barbarians who live nearby do, they fly up, and hovering over them, crash down onto their heads, and wound them with their beaks and kill them. [section 3] The story told is that these birds came from the companions of Diomedes, who were shipwrecked around the island, after Diomedes himself had been treacherously murdered by Aeneus, who was at that time king of those parts. [section 1] Among the Umbrians they say the flocks give birth three times a year, and that the earth yields them crops many times over what was sown; and that the women too are prolific, and rarely bear one child, but most bear two and three. [section 1] On the Electrid Islands, which lie in the innermost gulf of the Adriatic, they say there stand two statues dedicated there, one of tin and one of bronze, worked in the ancient manner. These are said to be the works of Daedalus, a memorial from long ago, from when he put in at these parts while fleeing Minos from Sicily and Crete. [section 2] They say these islands were built up in front of the mouth of the river Eridanus. There is also, it seems, a lake near the river, containing hot water; a heavy and noxious smell breathes off it, and no animal drinks from it nor does any bird fly over it, but instead falls and dies. Its circuit is about two hundred stades, and its width about ten.
20| [section 3] The local people tell the story that Phaethon, struck by the thunderbolt, fell into this lake. And that in it there are many poplar trees, from which what is called amber drips out. They say this substance is like gum, and hardens into something like stone, and that it is gathered by the local people and carried across to the Greeks. [section 4] They say Daedalus came to these islands, and having taken possession of them, set up his own image on one of them, and that of his son Icarus on the other. Later, when the Pelasgians who had been expelled from Argos sailed against them, Daedalus fled, they say, and made his way to the island of Icarus. [section 1] In Sicily, around the place called Enna, there is said to be a certain cave, around which, they say, a great quantity of other flowers as well grows in a circle at every season, but above all a boundless expanse is filled full with violets, which fill the neighboring country with fragrance, so that hunters, when their dogs are overpowered by the scent, are unable to track the hares. [section 2] Through this chasm there is an unseen underground passage, along which they say Pluto carried out his seizure of Kore. They say that in this place wheat is found that resembles neither the local wheat that they use, nor any other imported kind, but has some great peculiarity of its own. And by this they take it as a sign that grain first appeared among them there. That is also why they lay claim to Demeter, saying that the goddess was born among them.
21| [section 1] In Crete they say wolves and bears and vipers, and likewise the beasts akin to these, are not found, because Zeus was born on it. [section 1] In the sea outside the Pillars of Heracles, they say an uninhabited island was discovered by the Carthaginians, having every kind of timber and navigable rivers, and marvellous for its other produce as well, and lying a voyage of several days off; and since the Carthaginians, on account of its prosperity, mingled with it frequently, and some indeed even settled there, the leaders of the Carthaginians forbade anyone to sail to it on pain of death, and did away with all the settlers there, so that they would not spread word of it, nor a multitude gather against them, take possession of the island, and rob the Carthaginians of their prosperity. [section 1] They say there is a certain road, called the Heraclean Road, running from Italy all the way to Celtic territory and the Celtoligurians and the Iberians, along which, whether it is a Greek or a native who travels, he is watched over by those who dwell alongside it, so that he suffers no wrong; for whoever the wrong is committed against, those in whose territory it occurred pay the penalty. [section 1] They say that among the Celts there exists a drug called by them toxicon, which they say produces death so quickly that when the Celts who hunt shoot a deer or some other animal with it, they run up in haste and cut out the wounded part of the flesh before the drug spreads through, partly for the sake of eating it, and partly so that the animal will not rot.
22| [section 2] They say an antidote for this has been discovered, the bark of the oak; but others say it is a different leaf, which they call korakion (raven-plant), because it was observed by them that a raven, having tasted the drug and being badly afflicted, rushed at this leaf and, having swallowed it down, ceased from its pain. [section 1] In Iberia they say that when the woodlands were set on fire by some shepherds, and the earth was heated through by the timber, the region visibly flowed with silver, and after a time, when earthquakes followed and the ground was torn open, an immense quantity of silver was gathered together, which indeed brought the people of Massilia no ordinary revenue. [section 1] On the Gymnesian Islands, which lie off Iberia, and which they say rank after the so-called seven greatest islands, they say that olive oil is not produced from olives, but a very great quantity comes from the terebinth, and suits every purpose. And they say that the Iberians who live there are so fond of women that in exchange for a single female body they give the merchants four or five male bodies. [section 2] And when they serve as soldiers among the Carthaginians and receive their pay, it seems they buy nothing else with it but women. For it is not permitted for anyone among them to have gold or silver. And some such reason as this is given for why they are forbidden to bring in money: that Heracles made his campaign against Iberia on account of the wealth of its inhabitants.
23| [section 1] In the territory of the Massaliots, around Liguria, they say there is a certain lake, and that it boils up and overflows, and casts out so great a multitude of fish that it is not to be believed. And whenever the etesian winds blow, the ground is heaped up over it, and such a quantity of dust forms there that the surface of it is made solid, as if it were a floor. And the local people, cutting through it with tridents, readily draw out from it as many fish as they wish. [section 1] It is said that some of the Ligurians sling so well that, whenever they see a number of birds, they provoke one another as to which kind each will undertake to hit, on the assumption that they will all readily hit their mark. [section 1] They say this too is peculiar to them: the women, while working, give birth, and having washed the infant round with water, they immediately go back to digging and hoeing and managing the other tasks which they would have had to do even had they not given birth. [section 1] This too is a marvel among the Ligurians: they say there is among them a river whose current rises up high and flows aloft, so that those on the far side cannot be seen. [section 1] In Tyrrhenia there is said to be a certain island called Aethaleia, on which, from the same mine, bronze was formerly dug, from which they say everything worked in bronze among them was made; then it could no longer be found, and after a long time had passed, iron appeared from the same mine, which the Tyrrhenians who inhabit the place called Populonia still use to this day.
24| [section 1] There is a city in Tyrrhenia called Oenarea, which they say is exceedingly well fortified; for in its middle there is a high hill, rising thirty stades, and below there is woodland of every kind and springs of water. They say that the inhabitants, fearing that someone might become a tyrant, set over themselves as leaders those of their household slaves who had been freed; and these rule them, and each year they appoint others of the same kind in their place. [section 1] In Cumae, in the region of Italy, there is shown, it seems, an underground chamber belonging to the Sibyl, the oracle-singer, who they say remained a virgin though she lived to a very great age; she was by birth an Erythraean, but by some of those who dwell in Italy she is called the Cumaean, and by others she is called Melankraira. This place is said to be under the control of the Lucanians. [section 2] They say that in those regions, around Cumae, there is a river called the Cetus, into which, they say, whatever is first thrown grows a crust around it for most of the time and in the end turns entirely to stone. [section 1] They say that a robe was made for Alcimenes the Sybarite of such costliness that it was put on display at the festival of Hera at Lacinium, to which all the Italiotes come together, and that of all the things shown there it was admired most of all; and they say that Dionysius the Elder, having gained possession of it, sold it to the Carthaginians for a hundred and twenty talents.
25| [section 2] It was purple in color, and fifteen cubits in size, and on each side it was divided by figures woven into it, Susians above and Persians below; and in the middle were Zeus, Hera, Themis, Athena, Apollo, and Aphrodite. And along each edge was Alcimenes, and on each side of him, Sybaris. [section 1] They say that around the headland of Iapygia, from a certain place where, as the myth tells it, the battle of Heracles against the giants took place, much ichor flows, and of such a kind that, because of the weight of its smell, the sea in that region cannot be sailed. And they say that in many places in Italy there are many memorials of Heracles along the roads he traveled. Around Pandosia in Iapygia footprints of the god are shown, on which no one may set foot. [section 1] There is also, around the headland of Iapygia, a wagon-sized stone, which they say was lifted and moved from its place by him, and it happens that it can now be moved by a single finger. [section 1] In the city of the Orchomenians in Boeotia they say a fox appeared, which, being pursued by a dog, went down into a certain underground passage, and the dog went down into it after her, and, barking, made a great echoing sound as though there were some open space around it; and the hunters, struck by a divine notion, broke open the entrance and pushed their way in themselves; and seeing light coming in through certain openings, they were able to see the rest of it clearly, and they came and reported it to the magistrates.
26| [section 1] On the island of Sardinia they say there are structures arranged in the ancient Greek manner — many other fine and beautiful things, and also domed buildings carved with extraordinary designs; and these, they say, were built by Iolaus the son of Iphicles, when he took the sons of Thespius born from Heracles and sailed to those regions to settle them there, on the ground that they belonged to him by kinship with Heracles, because [section 2] Heracles had become master of the whole West. This island, it seems, was formerly called Ichnussa, because in its outline it is shaped very much like a human footprint, and it is said to have been prosperous and to bear produce of every kind in former times; for they tell in myth that Aristaeus, who they say was the most skilled farmer among the ancients, ruled over them, though before that the land had been overrun and held by great numbers of large birds. [section 3] Now, however, it no longer produces anything of that kind, because, after coming under the control of the Carthaginians, all the crops useful as food were cut down, and death was fixed as the penalty for the natives if anyone plants any such thing again. [section 1] On one of the seven islands called the islands of Aeolus, the one called Lipara, they tell in myth that there is a tomb, about which they say many other marvelous things as well, but on this they agree: that it is not safe to approach that place at night; for the sound of drums and cymbals can be heard, and laughter together with uproar, and the sound of castanets, quite distinctly.
27| [section 2] They say something even more marvelous happened concerning the cave: that a man, drunk, fell asleep in it before daybreak, and, being sought by his household for three days, remained missing, and on the fourth day, having been found, was carried away as though dead by his family to his own tomb, and, after receiving all the customary rites, suddenly rose up, and told what had happened to him. [section 3] This, then, seems to us rather too much like a myth; nevertheless it was necessary not to leave it unrecorded, since we are compiling a record of the things concerning that place. [section 1] Around Cumae in Italy there is a lake called Avernus, which itself, it seems, has nothing marvelous about it; for they say hills lie around it in a circle, no less than three stades in height, and that it is circular in shape, with a depth that cannot be surpassed. [section 2] But this does appear marvelous: although dense trees overhang it, and some lean down close over it, no leaf is ever seen resting on the surface of the water, but the water is so extremely clear that those who look at it marvel. [section 3] Around the part of the neighboring mainland not far off, warm water gushes out in many places, and the whole area is called Pyriphlegethon. As for its being said that no bird flies over it, that is false; for those who have been there say that a great number of swans occur on it.
28| [section 1] They say that the Sirenusae islands lie in Italy near the strait, on the headland itself, which lies in front of the place that juts forward and divides, with its two bays, the one that encloses Cumae from the one that encloses the place called Poseidonia; and on it a temple of the Sirens has also been established, and they are honored exceedingly by the people who dwell around, with careful sacrifices; and remembering their names, people call one Parthenope, another Leucosia, and the third Ligeia. [section 1] It is said that between Mentorica and Istriana there is a mountain called Delphium, having a high hilltop. Whenever the Mentores, who live on the Adriatic, climb up onto this hilltop, they can look out, it seems, at the ships sailing into the Pontus. [section 2] And there is also said to be a certain place among the distances in between, where, when a common market is held, the merchants coming up from the Pontus sell Lesbian, Chian, and Thasian wares, while those from the Adriatic sell Corcyraean jars. [section 1] They say too that the Ister, flowing out of the woodlands called the Hercynian forest, splits into two, and flows in one branch into the Pontus,
29| [section 2] and in the other empties into the Adriatic. And we have seen a sign of this not only in present times, but even more so among the ancients — namely, that the waters there are unnavigable; for they say Jason made his entry by way of the Cyanean rocks, and his exit from the Pontus by way of the Ister; and they bring forward not a few other proofs besides: in the region they show altars set up by Jason, and on one of the islands in the Adriatic a temple of Artemis founded by Medea. [section 3] They also say that he would not have sailed past the rocks called the Wandering Rocks, had he not sailed away from there. And on the island of Aethalia, which lies in the Tyrrhenian sea, they show, besides other memorials of the heroes, the thing said about the pebbles: for they say that along the shore there are pebbles of varied colors, and the Greeks who inhabit the island say that these took their coloring from the scrapings the heroes made when they anointed themselves; for from that time on, they tell in myth, such pebbles have neither been seen before nor come into being since. [section 4] And they say there are even clearer signs than these that the voyage out did not pass through the Symplegades, taking the poet himself as a witness for what happened in those places. For, in bringing out the difficulty of the danger, he says that it is not possible to sail past that place, but "together the planks of ships and the bodies of men the waves of the sea carry off, and blasts of ruinous fire."
30| [section 5] Now around the Cyanean rocks no fire is said to be sent up, but around the strait that divides off Sicily, fire-vents lie on both sides, and the island itself burns continuously, and the stream around Etna has often run across the land. [section 1] At Tarentum they say that at certain times sacrifices are made to the Atreidae, the Tydeidae, the Aeacidae, and the Laertiadae, and that a sacrifice is performed for the descendants of Agamemnon separately, on another day of their own, on which it is the custom for the women not to taste of what is sacrificed to those others. There is also a shrine of Achilles among them. [section 2] It is said that after the Tarentines took possession, the place they now inhabit was called Heraclea, but in earlier times, while the Ionians held it, Pleion; and even before those, it was named Sigeum by the Trojans who had occupied it. [section 1] Among the Sybarites, it is said, Philoctetes is honored. For after he was brought back from Troy he settled at the place called Mycalla in the territory of Croton, which they say is a hundred and twenty stades away, and they record that he dedicated the bow of Heracles in the temple of the sun-god Apollo there. [section 2] From there, they say, the people of Croton, when they gained mastery, dedicated it in their own temple of Apollo. It is also said that when he died he was laid to rest there by the river Sybaris, having gone to the aid of the Rhodians who had come with Tlepolemus to that region and joined battle with the barbarians who dwelt in that country.
31| [section 1] Around the part of Italy called Gargaria, near Metapontum, they say there is a temple of Athena Hellenia, where the instruments of Epeius are said to be dedicated, the ones he made for the wooden horse, he himself having given it its name. For Athena appeared to him in his sleep and demanded that he dedicate the instruments, and because of this, meeting with a delay in his departure, he was held wandering in that place, unable to sail out; from which the temple is called that of Athena Hellenia. [section 1] It is said that around the place called Daunia there is a temple called that of Athena Achaea, in which bronze axes and the arms of Diomedes' companions and of Diomedes himself are dedicated. In this place, they say, there are dogs that do no harm to the Greeks who arrive there, but fawn on them as if on their most familiar friends. All the Daunians and their neighbors dress in black, both men and women, for this reason, it seems. [section 2] For the Trojan women who were taken captive and brought to those regions, fearing that they would meet with a bitter slavery at the hands of the women already established there among the Achaeans, are said to have set fire to their ships, so that at the same time they might escape the slavery they expected, and also, since the men would then be forced to remain with them, might by joining with them get those men for husbands. And the poet has described them very well indeed; for one can see, it seems, that they too are trailing-robed and deep-bosomed.
32| [section 1] Among the Peucetians, they say, there is a temple of Artemis, in which is dedicated the bronze armlet renowned in those parts, bearing the inscription, "Diomedes to Artemis." The story told is that he put it around the neck of a deer, and it grew fast to the neck, and that in this way, being found later by Agathocles, king of the Sicilian Greeks, it was dedicated in the temple of Zeus. [section 1] On the headland of Sicily called Pelorias, so much saffron grows that among some of the Greeks who inhabit those regions the flower is not even recognized for what it is, while on Pelorias those who wish bring down large wagons, and in the spring season make their bedding and their tents out of saffron. [section 1] Polycritus, who wrote the history of Sicily in verse, says that in a certain place in the interior there is a small pool with a circumference of about the size of a shield, and it has water that is clear but a little turbid. If, then, someone in need of washing steps into it, it grows wider, and if a second person too, it spreads out still more; and in the end, growing large enough to hold fifty men, it widens out that far.
33| [section 2] But when it has taken in that number, it swells up again from the depths and casts the bodies of the bathers up and out onto the ground; and once this happens, it settles back again into its original shape and circumference. And this happens not only with human beings, but if any four-footed animal steps in, it suffers the same thing. [section 1] In the territory under Carthaginian control they say there is a mountain called Uranium, full of every kind of timber and richly decked out with many flowers, so that the surrounding regions, sharing in its fragrance over a great distance, offer travelers a most pleasant breath of air. Near this place, they say, there is a spring of oil, whose smell resembles that of cedar shavings. They say that whoever approaches it must be pure, and when this is so, it gushes out more oil, so that it can be drawn safely. [section 1] They say that near this spring also there is a certain naturally formed rock, great in size. This, they say, whenever it is summer, sends up a flame of fire, but when winter comes, from the same spot it sprays out a jet of water so cold that it differs in no way when compared to snow. And they say this is not hidden nor does it appear for only a short time, but the fire rises for the whole summer, and the water for the whole winter.
34| [section 1] It is also said that around the region of Thrace called that of the Sinti and the Maedi, there is a river called Pontus, in which certain stones are carried down that burn, and suffer the opposite of what charcoal made from wood does; for when fanned they are quickly extinguished, but when sprinkled with water they flare up and catch fire more finely. When they burn they give off a smell like that of asphalt, and so foul and pungent that no creeping creature can bear to remain in the place while they are burning. [section 1] They also say there is a certain place among them, not very small, but about twenty stades in extent, which bears barley that human beings use, but horses and cattle are unwilling to eat, nor will they touch it at all. And not even swine or dogs dare to taste the dung of the people who, having eaten a barley-cake or bread made from this barley, relieve themselves, since it kills them. [section 1] At Scotussa in Thessaly they say there is a small spring, from which flows water of such a kind that it quickly heals both ulcers and bruises, both of human beings and of pack animals; and if someone throws in a piece of wood not entirely broken but only split, it grows back together and settles again into the same...
35| [section 1] ...around Thrace beyond Amphipolis they say something monstrous and hard to believe happens, for those who have not seen it. For the children going out from the villages and the nearby places to hunt small birds take the hawks along to hunt together with them, and they do it in this way. [section 2] When they have gone forward to a suitable spot, they call out to the hawks, shouting their names; and these, when they hear the children's voice, come and drive the birds into a panic; and the birds, afraid of the hawks, flee for refuge into the bushes, where the children, striking them with sticks, catch them. And here is the thing one would marvel at most of all: whenever the hawks themselves catch one of the birds, they throw it down to the hunters, and the children, giving the hawks a portion of everything caught, go off. [section 1] Something marvelous is also said to happen among the Veneti. For countless myriads of jackdaws often descend upon their land and, when they have sown their grain, devour it; against these the Veneti, before the birds are about to fly in, set out gifts on the borders of their land, scattering seeds of every kind of fruit, and if the jackdaws taste them, they do not cross over into their territory, and the Veneti know that they will be at peace; but if they do not taste them, they expect an invasion to come upon them just as if from enemies.
36| [section 1] In Chalcidice on the Thracian coast, near Olynthus, they say there is a place called Cantharolethron, a little larger in size than a threshing floor, into which, when any of the other animals comes, it goes away again, but of the beetles that come into it not one does; instead they go round and round the place until they die of hunger. [section 1] Among the Thracian Cyclopes there is a little spring whose water is, to the eye, clear and transparent and like any other, but when any animal drinks from it, it dies on the spot. [section 1] They also say that in Crastonia, in the territory of the Bisaltae, the hares that are caught there have two livers, and that there is a certain place, about a plethron in size, into which whatever animal enters dies. [section 2] There is also another sanctuary there, a great and beautiful one of Dionysus, in which, they say, during the festival and the sacrifice, whenever the god intends to grant a good year, a great blaze of fire appears, and everyone who is occupied about the sanctuary sees it; but whenever he intends a barren year, this light does not appear, but darkness covers the place just as on any other night.
37| [section 1] In Elis they say there is a building about eight stades from the city, into which, at the Dionysia, they place three empty bronze cauldrons. Having done this, they call on any of the Greeks present who wishes to examine the vessels and to seal up the doors of the building himself. [section 2] And when they are about to open it, they show the citizens and the visitors the seals, and only then do they open it. Those who go in find the cauldrons full of wine, while the floor and the walls are undisturbed, so that no one can form any suspicion that they are contrived by some craft. They also say that among them there are kites which snatch meat from those who carry it through the marketplace, but do not touch that of those offering sacrifice. [section 1] In Coronea in Boeotia it is said that moles cannot live there, nor burrow in the ground, although the rest of Boeotia has a great abundance of them. [section 1] In Lusi in Arcadia they say there is a spring in which land-mice are born and swim about, making their home in it. The same thing is also said to occur at Lampsacus.
38| [section 1] In Crannon in Thessaly they say there are only two crows in the whole city. Whenever these rear young, it seems, they themselves move away elsewhere, and leave behind exactly as many of their offspring as there were of themselves. [section 1] In Apollonia, which lies near the territory of the Atlantini, they say that mined asphalt and pitch are produced, welling up out of the earth in the same way as springs of water do, no different from the Macedonian kind, but by nature blacker and thicker than that. Not far from this place there is a fire that burns the whole time, as the inhabitants of that region say. [section 2] The burning area is not large, it seems, but about the size of five couches at most. It smells of sulfur and alum, and around it, remarkably enough, deep grass grows, and large trees, not more than four cubits from the fire. It burns continually also around Lycia and Megalopolis in the Peloponnese. [section 1] It is also said that among the Illyrians the flocks give birth twice a year, and that most bear twins, and many bear three or four kids, some even five or more, and that they readily yield three half-choes of milk. They also say that the hens there, unlike those elsewhere, do not lay once, but two or three times a day.
39| [section 1] It is also said that in Paeonia the wild cattle grow far larger than any among the other peoples, and that their horns hold four choes, and in some cases even more. [section 1] Concerning the strait of Sicily many others besides have written, and this author too says a marvelous thing occurs. Out of the Tyrrhenian sea, he says, the swell comes on with a great rushing noise and strikes against both headlands, the one of Sicily, the other of Italy, called Rhegium, and being driven from the open sea into a narrow channel, when this happens it raises a towering wave with much roaring, over a very great stretch of its upward course, so that to those watching from far off the swell is plainly visible, appearing not like the ordinary rising of the sea but white and foaming, resembling the surf that occurs in the most unbearable storms. [section 2] And sometimes the waves from both headlands collide with one another and produce a confluence incredible to describe and unbearable to behold with the eyes; and sometimes, parting again after their collision with one another, they present so deep and terrifying a sight to those forced to watch that many cannot control themselves but fall down, their sight darkened by fear.
40| [section 3] And whenever the wave, after striking against whichever of the two places, and being raised up to its heights, is again carried down into the sea flowing beneath, then again, with much bellowing and with great and swift whirlpools, the sea seethes and is raised up, churned from its depths, and changes through every kind of color: at one time it appears dark, at another deep blue, and often it shows through as purple. [section 4] Its course and its length, and besides these its backward flow, no creeping thing can bear to hear of, let alone to watch; everything flees to the foothills lying below. And as the swell subsides, the whirlpools are carried up aloft, making their turnings so varied that they seem to produce movements like the coils of waterspouts or of certain other huge serpents. [section 1] They say that when the Athenians were building the sanctuary of Demeter at Eleusis, a bronze pillar was found enclosed within the rocks, on which was inscribed "This is the tomb of Deiope," whom some say was the wife of Musaeus, others that she was the mother of Triptolemus. [section 1] On one of the islands called the Islands of Aeolus they say a great number of palm trees grew, from which it is also called Phoenicodes. So what is said by Callisthenes could not be true, that the plant took its name from the Phoenicians of Syria who inhabit the coast.
41| [section 2] But some also say that the Phoenicians themselves were called [Phoenicians] by the Greeks because, being the first to sail the sea, wherever they landed they killed and slaughtered everyone. And indeed in the language of the Perrhaebians "to redden with blood" is phoinixai. [section 1] In the region called Ainiake, near the place called Hypata, it is said that an ancient pillar was found, which the Ainianes, wishing to know whose it was, since it bore an inscription in ancient letters, sent certain men to carry to Athens. [section 2] As these men were traveling through Boeotia, and were discussing their journey with some of the local people, it is said they were brought in to the place called the Ismenion at Thebes; for it was there, they were told, that the inscription of the letters might best be identified, since there were certain dedications there bearing letter-forms of similar ancient style. Hence it is said that, working out what was sought from what was already known, they wrote down these verses. [section 3] "Heracles dedicated this precinct to Cytherean Persephone, driving the herds of Geryon and leading Erytheia. And Pasiphaë, the goddess, overcame them with desire. And here, for my son by this woman, and for my wife Erythe, born of a nymph, daughter of Erythus, I gave this ground as a memorial of love, beneath the shady oak." [section 4]
42| That place too, called Erythus, took its name from this inscription, and because he brought the cattle from there and not from Erytheia — for they say the name Erytheia is nowhere spoken in the regions of Libya and Iberia. [section 1] In Libya, at the place called Utica, which lies, as they say, in the gulf between the Hermaean promontory and the Cape of Hippo, some two hundred stades beyond Carthage (and which is said to have been founded by the Phoenicians two hundred and eighty-seven years before Carthage itself, as is recorded in the Phoenician histories), they say there is mined salt, at a depth of three fathoms, white to look at and not solid but like the stickiest gum; and when it is brought up into the sun it hardens and becomes like Parian marble. They say little figures and other objects are carved from it. [section 1] It is said that the first Phoenicians who sailed to Tartessus brought back so much silver as return cargo, having imported oil and other seagoing wares, that they could no longer find room for the silver or take it aboard, but were forced, as they sailed away from those regions, to make all the other equipment they used out of silver, and indeed all their anchors as well.
43| [section 1] They say the Phoenicians who inhabit the place called Gadeira, sailing outside the Pillars of Heracles with an east wind for four days, arrive at certain deserted places full of reeds and seaweed, which are not submerged when the tide is out but are flooded when it is in; on these an extraordinary abundance of tunny is found, incredible both in size and in bulk, whenever they run aground; and they salt them and pack them into jars and carry them across to Carthage. Of these alone the Carthaginians do not permit the export, but because of their excellence in eating they consume them themselves. [section 1] In Pedasia in Caria a sacrifice to Zeus is performed, in which they send forth a certain goat, about which they say something marvelous occurs. For walking from Pedasa seventy stades through a great crowd of onlookers, it is not disturbed in its course nor does it turn aside from the road, but goes ahead, tied by a cord, before the man who holds the priesthood. It is also marvelous that there are always two ravens about the temple of Zeus, and no other approaches the place, and one of the two has the front of its neck white. [section 1]
44| Among the Illyrians called the Ardiaei, on the borders shared with the Autariatae, they say there is a great mountain, and near it a ravine, from which water leaps up, not at every season but in spring, in great quantity; and taking this, they keep it under cover during the day and set it out under the open sky at night. And when they have done this for five or six days the water congeals and becomes excellent salt, which they preserve chiefly for the sake of their livestock; for salt is not brought in to them, because they dwell far from the sea and hold no dealings with others. So it is for their livestock that they have the greatest need of it; for they salt them twice a year. And if they fail to do this, it happens that most of their livestock perish. [section 1] At Argos they say there occurs a kind of locust called the scorpion-fighter. For as soon as it sees a scorpion, it takes a stand against it; and the scorpion does likewise against it. And circling around it, the locust shrills; and the scorpion, raising its sting, turns to face it in the same spot, then little by little lets the sting down, and at last stretches it out fully, while the locust runs round in a circle. Finally the locust approaches and devours it. They say it is also good, as a remedy against the stings of the scorpion, to eat the locust.
45| [section 1] They say that the wasps in Naxos, when they have fed on the viper (its flesh is evidently agreeable to them), afterward, when they sting someone, cause such great pain that the sting appears more severe than that of vipers themselves. [section 1] They say the Scythian poison, in which they dip their arrows, is compounded from the viper. The Scythians, it seems, watch for the females that are already about to bear live young, and taking them let them putrefy for some days. And when it seems to them that the whole has decayed sufficiently, they pour human blood into a small pot and bury it in dung, having sealed it. And when this too has putrefied, they mix what settles above the blood, which is watery, with the viper's fluid, and in this way they make it deadly. [section 1] At Curium in Cyprus they say there is a certain kind of serpent whose power is like that of the asp in Egypt, except that if it bites in winter it accomplishes nothing — whether for some other cause, or because the creature becomes hard to move, frozen stiff by the cold, and altogether powerless, unless it is warmed. [section 1] In Ceos they say there is a certain kind of wild pear tree, from whose thorn, if one is struck, one dies.
46| [section 1] In Mysia they say there is a certain white kind of bear, which, when hunted, emits such a breath that it rots the flesh of the dogs, and likewise of the other beasts, and renders it inedible. And if someone forces his way close and approaches, they emit from their mouth a great quantity of phlegm, it seems, which they blow against the faces of the dogs, and likewise of men, so that it even chokes and blinds them. [section 1] In Arabia they say there is a certain kind of hyena which, whenever it catches sight beforehand of some animal, or a man steps upon its shadow, produces speechlessness and such a rigidity that the body cannot be moved. And it does this to dogs as well. [section 1] In Syria they say there is a creature called the lion-killer; for the lion dies, it seems, whenever it eats of it. Now the creature does not do this willingly, but flees the lion; but when hunters catch it and roast it and sprinkle it, like white barley-meal, over another animal, they say that the moment the lion tastes it, it dies at once. This creature also does the lion harm by urinating on it. [section 1]
47| It is also said that vultures die from the smell of perfumes, if one anoints them or gives them something perfumed to eat. And likewise beetles die from the smell of roses. [section 1] And in Sicily and in Italy, they say, the bite of geckos is deadly, and not, as with those among us, weak and mild. And there is also a kind of flying mouse, which, when it bites, causes death. [section 1] In eastern Mesopotamia of Syria and at Istrus, they say, certain little snakes occur which do not bite the natives but do great harm to strangers. [section 1] Around the Euphrates they say this happens in complete form. For many are seen along the banks of the river, swimming across to each side, so that those observed there in the evening appear at daybreak on the other side; and of those who rest there, they do not bite the Syrians, but do not spare the Greeks. [section 1] In Thessaly they say the serpent called the sacred one destroys everyone, not only if it bites but even if it merely touches; wherefore, whenever it appears and they hear its voice (it appears but rarely), both serpents and vipers and all the other wild creatures flee. In size it is not great but middling. And in Tenos they say it was once killed in the city, in Thessaly, by a woman, and that the death came about in this way.
48| [section 2] A woman drew a circle and set down the drugs, and she and her son stepped into the circle; then she began to imitate the voice of the beast, and it sang back and drew near. While it was singing, the woman fell asleep, and as it came nearer still she grew more overcome, so that she could not master her sleep. [section 3] Her son, sitting beside her, kept waking her with blows, at her own bidding, and telling her that if she fell asleep, both she and he would be destroyed, but if she forced herself and drew the beast on, they would be saved. And when the serpent came up to the circle, it withered away at once. [section 1] It is said that near Tyana there is a water sacred to Zeus of Oaths (they call it the Asbamaean), whose spring wells up very cold; it bubbles like a cauldron. To those who keep their oaths this water is sweet and gracious, but for perjurers justice is at their very heels. For it strikes at their eyes, their hands, and their feet, and they are seized with dropsy and wasting disease; nor can they even get away beforehand, but they are held fast right there and lament beside the water, confessing the oaths they broke. [section 1] They say that at Athens the sacred shoot of the olive puts out its growth in a single day and becomes quite large, but then quickly shrinks back again.
49| [section 1] When the craters on Etna burst open and the lava was carried over the earth this way and that like a torrent, the divine power honored the race of the pious. For some young men were overtaken by the stream because they were carrying their aged parents on their shoulders and trying to save them; but when the stream of fire came near them it split apart, turning its blaze aside, one part this way and one that, and kept the young men unharmed together with their parents. [section 1] It is said that the sculptor Phidias, when fashioning the Athena on the Acropolis, worked his own face into the middle of her shield and bound it to the statue by some hidden craftsmanship, so that necessarily, if anyone wished to remove it, he would have to take apart and destroy the whole statue. [section 1] They say that the statue of Bitys at Argos killed [the one responsible] for Bitys's death, falling upon him as he stood watching it. It would seem, then, that such things do not happen at random. [section 1] They say that dogs pursue wild beasts only as far as the peaks of the mountains called the Black Mountains, but turn back whenever they chase them up to that point. [section 1] In the river Phasis, they say, there grows a plant called white-leaf, which jealous husbands pick and scatter around the bridal chamber of a virgin, and so keep the marriage undefiled.
50| [section 1] In the Tigris, they say, there occurs a stone called, in the barbarian tongue, modon, very white in color; whoever keeps it upon him is harmed by no wild beast. [section 1] In the Scamander, they say, there grows a plant called sistron, resembling a chickpea, with seeds that rattle when shaken, from which it took its name; those who possess it fear neither any spirit nor any apparition whatsoever. [section 1] In Libya there is a vine which some call the mad vine, which ripens some of its fruit while other clusters remain sour, and others are still in flower for a certain short time. [section 1] Near Mount Sipylus, they say, there occurs a stone similar to a cylinder, which pious sons, whenever they find it, place in the precinct of the Mother of the Gods, and they never fall into wrongdoing through impiety, but are always devoted to their fathers. [section 1] On Mount Taygetus there grows a plant called charisia, which women, at the start of spring, bind about their necks, and by it are loved more tenderly by men. [section 1] Othrys is a mountain of Thessaly which breeds the snakes called sepai; these do not have one fixed color, but always come to resemble the place where they live. Some of them have a color like the land-snails of that country; in others the scaly skin is green. Those that dwell among sands take on the color of the sand. Their bite produces thirst. The bite itself is neither rough nor burning, but it is malignant.
51| [section 1] When the dusky viper mates with the female viper, the female bites off his head during their union. For this reason the offspring too, as though avenging their father's death, tear open their mother's belly. [section 1] In the river Nile, they say, there occurs a stone resembling a bean, which, if dogs catch sight of it, they do not bark. It also helps those who have become possessed by some spirit; for as soon as it is put to their nostrils, the spirit departs. [section 1] In the river Maeander in Asia, they say, there is a stone called sophron, the sensible one, by antiphrasis; whoever throws it into another person's lap, that person goes mad and murders one of his own kin. [section 1] The rivers Rhine and Danube flow beneath the north, the one passing by the Germans, the other by the Paeonians; in summer their streams can be crossed by ship, but in winter, frozen hard by the cold, they take on the shape of a plain and are ridden over on horseback. [section 1] Near the city of Thurii, they say, there are two rivers, the Sybaris and the Crathis. The Sybaris makes those who drink from it timid, while the Crathis makes people fair-haired when they bathe in it.
52| [section 1] In Euboea there are two rivers: from the one, sheep that drink become white — it is called the Cerbes — while the other, the Neleus, makes them black. [section 1] By the river Lycormas there grows a plant resembling a spear-point, which is excellent for helping dim eyesight. [section 1] They say that the spring Arethusa at Syracuse in Sicily stirs once every five years. [section 1] On Mount Berecynthus, they say, there occurs a stone called the knife, which, if anyone finds it while the mysteries of Hecate are being performed, drives him mad, as Eudoxus says. [section 1] On Mount Tmolus, they say, there occurs a stone resembling pumice, which changes its color four times in a day; it is seen by maidens who have not yet come, with time, to share in good sense. [section 1] At the altar of Artemis Orthosia there stands a golden bull, which lets out a cry whenever hunters come near. [section 1] Among the Aetolians, they say, moles can see, though dimly, and they do not eat earth but locusts. [section 1] They say that elephants are pregnant for two years — others say eighteen months — and that they have a difficult labor when they give birth. [section 1] They say that Demaratus, a pupil of Timaeus of Locri, fell ill and was speechless for ten days; on the eleventh day, slowly recovering his senses from the derangement, he said that he had spent that time more pleasantly than any other.
1| [section 1] That states of mind follow bodily conditions, and are not in their own right unaffected by the motions of the body, is entirely clear in cases of drunkenness and of sickness; for states of mind are seen to change greatly under the affections of the body. [section 2] And conversely it is evident that the body shares in the affections of the soul, in cases of erotic passion, fears, griefs, and pleasures. And still more, in the things that come about by nature one could see that body and soul are so related to one another, growing together as they do, that each becomes the cause of most of the other's affections. [section 3] For no animal has ever come to be of such a kind as to have the form of one animal and the mind of another; body and soul always belong to the same animal, so that a given kind of body must necessarily be followed by a given kind of mind. And further, those who are expert about each of the other animals are able to judge from its outward appearance — horsemen judging horses, and huntsmen dogs. [section 4] If these things are true (and they are always true), then it would be possible to practice physiognomics. Now those who have practiced physiognomics before us have gone about it in three ways, each along a single line. Some practice physiognomics from the genera of animals, positing for each genus some form of animal and a corresponding state of mind.
2| [section 5] Others, proceeding from these same genera, assumed that whoever has a body like the body of a given animal has also a soul like its soul. Others again did the same thing, but did not draw their evidence from all the animals, but from the human race itself, dividing it by nations, insofar as these differed in appearance and in character — for example Egyptians, Thracians, and Scythians — and made their selection of signs in a like manner. [section 6] Others again worked from the characters that show themselves on the surface, asking what disposition each expression follows upon — the expression of a man angry, or afraid, or in the grip of desire, and so for each of the other affections. It is possible to practice physiognomics along all these lines, and along still others besides, and to make one's selection of signs in dissimilar ways. [section 7] Now those who practice physiognomics from expressions of character alone go wrong, first, because some people who are not the same in nature have the same expressions on their faces — for instance the courageous man and the shameless man have the same expression, though far apart in their states of mind — and second, because at different times people do not keep the same expressions, but take on those of other people; for it has happened that people naturally given to distress have passed a day pleasantly and taken on the expression of a cheerful man, and conversely that a cheerful man has been grieved, so that the expression on his face has changed.
3| [section 8] Further still, one could draw sound inferences from these surface signs about only a few things. Those, again, who practice physiognomics from the beasts do not make their selection of signs correctly. For it is not possible, having gone through the appearance of each of the animals, to say that whoever is like that animal in body will also be like it in soul. For in the first place, speaking simply, no one would find a man so like a beast as all that — we resemble them only in some respect. [section 9] Further still, animals have few signs peculiar to themselves and many that are common to several kinds; so that when someone resembles an animal not in what is peculiar to it but in what is common, why should he be more like a lion than like a deer? For it is reasonable that the peculiar signs should signify something peculiar, and the common signs something common. The common signs, then, could give the physiognomist no clear information at all. [section 10] And if one were to pick out the signs peculiar to each of the beasts, one would not be able to say what they are signs of. For it is reasonable to expect a peculiar sign to signify something peculiar, yet nothing peculiar could be found belonging, at least in respect of mind, to any of the animals used in physiognomics; for the lion is not courageous alone, but many other things besides, nor is the hare cowardly alone, but countless other things as well.
4| [section 11] If, then, neither the common signs nor the peculiar ones yield anything clear when selected, one should not examine animal by animal, but should rather make one's selection from among human beings who undergo the same affection — for instance, if one is examining the signs of courage, one must take the courageous among the animals together as a single group and investigate what affections belong to all of them alike and to none of the other animals. [section 12] For if one were to make one's selection in this way and say that these are the signs of courage in the animals thus preferred, without first making sure that the affection of mind in question belongs to courage alone and not to something else besides, one would then be at a loss to say whether the signs belong to courage or to that other thing. Rather, one must make one's selection from the largest possible number of animals, and from animals that have no affection of mind in common other than the very one whose signs are under examination. [section 13] Now whatever signs are permanent would signify something permanent; but signs that come and go, how could they truthfully signify something in the mind that does not remain? For if one were to take as a sign something that is at one time present and at another absent, though otherwise permanent in kind, it could well be true, but it would not be a sound sign, since it does not always accompany the thing it is supposed to signify.
5| [section 14] Whatever affections arise in the soul without producing any change at all in the bodily signs that the physiognomist relies on could not be recognized by this craft — for instance, in matters of opinion and knowledge it is not possible to recognize a doctor or a lyre-player; for a man who has learned some piece of learning shows no change at all in the signs the physiognomist makes use of. [section 1] We must, then, define what sorts of things physiognomics is concerned with, since it is not concerned with everything, and from what sources each kind of sign is drawn, and then go on to explain the more conspicuous cases one by one. Physiognomics, then, as its very name states, is concerned with the natural affections of the mind, and with such acquired affections as, when they arise, alter the signs used in physiognomics. What these acquired affections are will be shown later. [section 2] I shall now state the classes from which the signs are drawn, and they are all of the following: physiognomists draw their signs from movements, from postures, from colors, from the character-expressions that show on the face, from the growth of hair, from smoothness of skin, from the voice, from the flesh, from the parts of the body, and from the whole shape of the body.
6| [section 3] Such, in general terms, is what physiognomists say about the whole classes within which the signs fall. Now if this account were unclear or hard to make sense of, what has been said would have to suffice as it stands. [section 4] But as things are, it is perhaps better to state more precisely, class by class, everything conspicuous among the subjects of physiognomics, giving the signs, saying what each of them is, and what it points to, wherever this has not already been made clear above. Colors, then, signify as follows: sharp, ruddy colors signify heat and a bloody constitution, while a fair-red complexion signifies good natural endowment, when this coloring occurs on smooth skin. [section 5] As for the growth of hair, soft hair signifies cowardice, and coarse hair courage. This sign has been taken from the whole range of animals. For the most cowardly are the deer, the hare, and sheep, and they have the softest hair; while the most courageous are the lion and the wild boar, and they carry the coarsest hair. [section 6] The same thing may be seen among birds too: in general, those that have coarse feathers are courageous, and those that have soft feathers cowardly, and the same thing can be seen part by part in quails and in cocks.
7| [section 7] Likewise the same thing occurs among the races of men: those living under the Bears are courageous and have coarse hair, while those toward the south are cowardly and carry soft hair. Hairiness around the belly signifies talkativeness. [section 8] This is traced back to the class of birds; for among bodily traits, hairiness around the belly is peculiar to a bird, and among mental traits, talkativeness. Flesh that is hard and naturally in good condition signifies insensitivity, while flesh that is smooth signifies someone naturally well-endowed but unsteady, unless this occurs on a strong body whose extremities are also firm. [section 9] Movements that are sluggish signify a soft mind, quick ones a hot-tempered one. As for the voice, one that is deep and strained signifies courage, one that is high-pitched and slack signifies cowardice. The shapes and the affections that appear on faces are read off by their resemblance to the affection. [section 10] For whenever someone undergoes an affection, his face becomes as it would be if he permanently had that expression; when someone is angry, the sign belongs to the same class as anger, that is, it is an irritable sign. The male is larger and stronger than the female, and the extremities of his body are stronger, fuller, better conditioned, and superior in every excellence.
8| [section 11] Stronger than the signs drawn from bodily parts are those taken from characters as they appear on the face, and those taken from movements and shapes. In general, to trust a single sign is naive; but when one takes several signs agreeing on one point, it is now more reasonable to suppose that the signs are true. [section 12] There is another method by which one might practice physiognomy; however, no one has yet attempted it. For example: if it is necessary that the irritable person, the person prone to distress, and the person of petty character be also envious, then even if there are no signs of envy itself, it would be possible, from those prior signs, for the physiognomist to discover the envious person as well; and this method, above all, would be the one proper to a person trained in philosophy. [section 13] For being able to see that, given certain things, something else must necessarily be so, we may suppose to be a mark proper to philosophy; and this is sometimes opposed to practicing physiognomy directly on the basis of the affections and the vices. [section 14] Concerning the voice: looking at it in terms of the affection, one might suppose that a high-pitched voice is assigned to the spirited person for two reasons. For the person who is indignant and angry tends to strain his voice and speak in a high pitch, while the person in a listless state relaxes his tone and speaks low.
9| [section 15] Among animals, in turn, the courageous ones are deep-voiced and the cowardly ones high-voiced: the lion and the bull, and the barking dog, and among cocks the spirited ones speak with a deep voice; but the deer and the hare are high-voiced. [section 16] But perhaps even in these cases it is better not to locate courage or cowardice in the voice's being deep or high-pitched, but rather to suppose that a vigorous voice belongs to the courageous, and a slack, weak one to the cowardly. [section 17] It is best, whenever the signs do not agree but conflict, to posit nothing, unless one can distinguish which signs are more trustworthy than which; and above all to refer them to species rather than to whole genera. For these are more similar to the thing under investigation; we are not doing physiognomy on the whole human race, but on certain individuals within that race. [section 1] Signs of the courageous person: coarse hair; an upright bodily posture; bones, ribs, and the extremities of the body strong and large; a belly that is broad and drawn in; shoulder blades that are broad and set apart, neither too tightly bound together nor entirely loose; a neck that is strong, not overly fleshy; a chest that is fleshy and broad; a hip drawn in; calves pulled in at the lower end; a bright, keen eye, neither too wide open nor entirely closed; skin on the body somewhat rough in color; a forehead that is sharp, straight, not large, lean, neither smooth nor entirely wrinkled.
10| [section 2] Signs of the cowardly person: thin, soft hair; a body that is hunched down, not brisk; calves drawn up toward the top; a somewhat sallow complexion about the face; eyes weak and blinking, and the extremities of the body weak, and small legs, and hands thin and long; loins small and weak; a posture that is tense in movement; not bold but supine and dazed-looking; the character shown on the face changeable, downcast. [section 3] Signs of the naturally well-endowed person: flesh that is rather moist and soft, not overly well-conditioned nor very fatty; the parts around the shoulder blades and neck rather lean, and likewise around the face; the parts around the shoulder blades bound close together, and the lower parts loose; the ribs supple; the back rather lean; the body reddish-white and clear; thin skin; hair neither too coarse nor too dark; a bright, moist eye. [section 4] Signs of the insensitive person: the parts around the neck and the legs fleshy, knit together, and bound close; the hip-socket round; the shoulder blades drawn up high; a forehead large, rounded, fleshy; a dull, sallow-green eye; the shins around the ankle thick, fleshy, and round; jaws large and fleshy; loins fleshy; legs long; neck thick; face fleshy, quite long. The movements, the posture, and the character that appears on the face are read off in the same way, by resemblance.
11| [section 5] Signs of the shameless person: a wide-open, bright eye; eyelids bloodshot and thick; slightly stooped; shoulder blades raised high; a posture not upright but tilted somewhat forward; quick in his movements; the body reddish; the complexion bloodshot; a round face; the chest drawn up. Signs of the modest person. [section 6] Slow in his movements, with slow speech and a breathy, gentle voice; a dark eye without brightness, neither too wide open nor entirely closed, blinking slowly; for eyes that blink quickly signify in some cases cowardice, in others a hot temper. [section 7] Signs of the good-tempered person: a forehead of good size, fleshy, and smooth; the region about the eyes rather low. The face appears rather sleepy-looking, neither piercing nor pensive. In his movements let him be slow and relaxed; in posture and in the character shown on his face let him appear not hasty but good-natured. [section 8] Signs of the ill-tempered person. Faces that are wrinkled, and lean eyes that are broken/downcast — and the breaking of the eyes in this way signifies two things at once, the soft and feminine on the one hand, and the downcast and ill-tempered on the other. In posture, low; in his movements, worn out. [section 9] Signs of the effeminate man: an eye that is broken/melting; knock-kneed; the head tilted to the right; the movements of the hands turned palm-upward and slack; and two kinds of gait, one in which he sways his hips as he goes, the other in which he holds his loins rigid; and a darting glance about with the eyes — of the sort Dionysius the sophist would have had.
12| [section 10] Signs of the harsh/bitter person: a face drawn back in a grimace; dark-skinned, lean; the features of the face pinched thin; the face wrinkled and fleshless; straight-haired and dark-haired. [section 11] Signs of the spirited person. An upright body, well-ribbed in posture, high-spirited, reddish; shoulder blades set apart, large, and broad; extremities large and firm; smooth about the chest and the groin; well-bearded; the growth of hair abundant, coming down low. [section 12] Signs of the gentle person. Strong in appearance, well-fleshed; flesh moist and abundant; of good size and well-proportioned; posture inclined backward; the growth of hair drawn back. Signs of the ironic/dissembling person: the features about the face plump, and the region about the eyes wrinkled; the face appears sleepy in character. [section 13] Signs of the small-souled person. Small-limbed, delicately built on a small scale, lean, small-eyed and small-faced — of the sort a Corinthian or Leucadian would be. Those fond of dice are weasel-elbowed and are also dancers. Those fond of abuse are the ones whose upper lip is raised; and in general their build is forward-leaning, reddish. [section 14] Compassionate people are those who are delicately built, fair-skinned, with moist eyes, and with the nostrils pinched thin at the top, and who are always weeping. These same people are also fond of women, tend to father female offspring, are erotic in temperament, retentive of memory, naturally gifted, and warm-blooded. The signs of these traits have already been stated. The compassionate person is the wise one, and the cowardly one, and the modest one; the pitiless person is the ignorant and shameless one.
13| [section 15] Good eaters are those in whom the distance from the navel to the chest is greater than the distance from there to the neck. Signs of lustfulness: a fair complexion, and hairiness with straight, thick, black hair; temples hairy with straight hair; an oily little eye, and a wanton one. [section 16] Fond of sleep are those who have the upper parts of the body larger, and who are vulture-like and hot, having flesh in good condition, and are graceful in form, and hairy about the belly. Those with good memories are those who have the upper parts smaller and graceful and more fleshy. [section 1] It seems to me that the soul and the body are affected together with one another; and the state of the soul, when it is altered, alters along with it the shape of the body, and again the shape of the body, when it is altered, alters along with it the state of the soul. For since it belongs to the soul to be distressed and to rejoice, it is evident that those who are distressed look gloomier and those who rejoice look cheerful. [section 2] Now if it were the case that, once the soul is dissolved, the shape it had impressed on the body still remained, then even so the soul and the body would be affected together, but they would not continue together throughout. But as it is, it is evident that each follows the other. This can be made especially clear from the following.
14| [section 3] For madness seems to be a condition of the soul, and physicians, purging the body with drugs and using certain regimens besides these, free the soul from madness. So by the treatments applied to the body, at one and the same time the shape of the body is loosened and the soul is freed from madness. [section 4] Since, then, both are loosened together, it is clear that they continue together with one another. It is also evident that shapes resembling the powers of the soul come to be attached to bodies, so that in animals everything is indicative of some one and the same thing. And of the many things animals do, some are affections peculiar to each kind of animal, others are common. [section 5] Now with respect to the peculiar functions of the soul the bodily affections too are peculiar, and with respect to the common functions the affections are common. Common, then, are wantonness and excess in matters of sex. Now wantonness is common to the beasts of burden, while the disposition toward sexual matters is common to donkeys and pigs. [section 6] Peculiar to dogs is being abusive, and to donkeys being free from grief. How one must divide the common from the peculiar has now been stated. But for all these matters much familiarity is needed, if one is to be capable of stating each of them for himself.
15| [section 7] For since the things that are observed on the body are said to be referred back to the resemblances that arise from animals and from actions, and certain other appearances arise from states of heat and of cold, and some of these signs that show themselves on bodies employ small differences and are called by the same name — for example the pallors that come from fear and those that come from exertion (for these employ the same name, and have but a small difference from one another) — since the difference is small it is not easy to recognize it, except for one who has acquired a discernment for the shape through familiarity with it. Now the quickest and best method is that from this overall discernment, and by using it in this way one can distinguish many things. [section 8] And it is useful not only in general but also for the selection of the signs; for each of the things selected must also fit, being of the sort that what is selected requires. [section 9] Further, in the selection of the signs, one must also use the syllogism, which one must employ wherever a case arises, adding to what is present what is fitting to it — for example, if someone is shameless and stingy, he would also be a thief and illiberal, a thief as a consequence of shamelessness, and illiberal as a consequence of stinginess. In each such case, then, one must fit the method to it in this manner.
16| [section 1] Now I will first try to distinguish, among animals, in what ways they properly differ with respect to being brave and cowardly, just and unjust. One must divide the class of animals into two forms, male and female, attaching to each form what is fitting to it. [section 2] They are alike as follows. We find that among wild animals we try to tame, the females are gentler and softer in soul than the males, and less robust, and more receptive of feeding and of being handled. So, being such, they would presumably be more faint-hearted than the males. [section 3] This is evident from our own case too, since when we are mastered by spirit we are harder to persuade otherwise, and we are especially strong in yielding nothing anywhere, and we are carried toward using force and doing whatever it is that our spirit is impelled toward. [section 4] It seems to me too that the females become more mischievous than the males, and more impulsive and less courageous. Now women, and the creatures reared about us, are quite evidently so; and as for the wild animals, all herdsmen and hunters agree that they are as has been said. [section 5]
17| But this too is clear, that in every kind the female has a smaller head than the male, and a narrower face, and a more slender neck, and weaker breasts, and less rib, and heavier-fleshed hips and thighs than the male, but knock-kneed and with thin shins, and daintier feet, and the whole shape of the body more pleasing rather than more noble, and less sinewy and softer, employing moister flesh. [section 6] The males are in all these respects the opposite, their nature being more courageous and more just in kind, while that of the female is more cowardly and more unjust. This being so, it appears that of all animals the lion has partaken most completely of the form of the male. [section 7] For it has a mouth of good size, a face rather square, not overly bony, an upper jaw that does not project forward but is balanced with the lower, a nose thicker rather than thinner, gray eyes, hollow, not overly round nor overly long, of moderate size, a brow of good size, a forehead square, somewhat hollow in the middle, and toward the brows and the nose, beneath the forehead, something like a cloud raised up. [section 8]
18| Above the forehead, along the nose, it has hairs slanting away as if brushed back, a head of moderate size, a neck of good length, of proportionate thickness, having tawny hair, neither bristling nor overly turned back; the parts about the collarbones looser rather than tightly closed; robust shoulders, and a youthful chest, and the back between the shoulders broad and well-ribbed and fairly well-backed; an animal less fleshy about the hips and thighs; legs strong and sinewy, a vigorous stride, and the whole body jointed and sinewy, neither too hard nor too moist. [section 9] It walks slowly, and takes long strides, and sways at the shoulders when it moves. Such, then, is the lion with respect to the body; with respect to the soul it is generous and free, great-souled and eager for victory, and gentle and just and affectionate toward those it associates with. [section 10] The leopard, of the animals reputed to be brave, is more feminine in form, except with respect to the legs; with these it works together and produces some effect of strength. [section 11] For it has a small face, a large mouth, small eyes, whitish, hollow, but rather shallow; a forehead somewhat long, more rounded toward the ears than flat; a neck very long and thin, a chest without ribs, and a long back, fleshy hips and thighs, but the parts about the flanks and belly rather smooth; its color mottled, and the whole of it unjointed and disproportioned.
19| [section 12] Such, then, is the bodily form; but as to the soul, it is petty and thievish and, to put it generally, deceitful. The animals that share most conspicuously in what seems to be courage have already been discussed, both as to the male form and the female form. As for the rest, whatever they happen to be, it is now easy to go through them. Whatever features from the animals it is fitting to observe together for the purpose of physiognomizing will be stated in the selection of signs. [section 1] The selection of signs as applied to human beings is taken up as follows. Those whose feet are well-formed and large, well-articulated and sinewy, are vigorous in soul; this is referred to the male sex. Those who have feet that are small, narrow, and unarticulated, more pleasant to look at than sturdy, are soft in soul; this is referred to the female sex. [section 2] Those whose toes are curved are shameless, as are those whose nails are curved; this is referred to the birds with hooked talons. Those whose toes are pressed close together are timid; this is referred to the narrow-footed quails among marsh birds. [section 3] Those whose ankles are sinewy and well-articulated are strong in soul; this is referred to the male sex. Those whose ankles are fleshy and unarticulated are soft in soul; this is referred to the female sex.
20| [section 4] Those who have shins that are well-jointed, sinewy, and strong are strong in soul; this is referred to the male. Those who have shins that are thin and sinewy are lustful; this is referred to birds. Those who have shins extremely full of flesh, as if on the verge of bursting, are disgusting and shameless; this is referred to fitness of look. [section 5] Those who are knock-kneed are effeminate; this is referred to fitness of look. Those who have thighs that are bony and sinewy are strong; this is referred to the male. Those who have thighs that are bony and full of flesh are soft; this is referred to the female. [section 6] Those who have a sharp, bony rump are strong; those who have a fleshy, fat one are soft; and those who have little flesh, as if wiped away, are ill-natured; this is referred to monkeys. [section 7] Those who are narrow-waisted are fond of hunting; this is referred to lions and dogs. And one could observe that among dogs too, the ones fondest of hunting are the narrow-waisted ones. Those whose belly is lean are strong; this is referred to the male. [section 8] Those who are not lean-bellied are soft; this is referred to fitness of look. Those whose back is of good size and strong are strong in soul; this is referred to the male. Those who have a narrow and weak back are soft; this is referred to the female.
21| [section 9] Those who are well-ribbed are strong in soul; this is referred to the male. Those who are narrow in the ribs are soft in soul; this is referred to the female. Those who are swollen out from the ribs, as if puffed up, are talkative and foolish talkers; this is referred to oxen or to frogs. [section 10] Those whose distance from the navel to the top of the chest is greater than their distance from the top of the chest to the neck are gluttonous and dull in perception — gluttonous because they have a large vessel in which to receive food, and dull in perception because the organs of perception occupy a narrower place, joined as it is to the part that receives food, so that the perceptions are weighed down by the filling or emptying of the stomach. [section 11] Those who have a chest that is large and well-articulated are strong in soul; this is referred to the male. [section 12] Those who have an upper back that is large, well-fleshed, and well-jointed are strong in soul; this is referred to the male. Those whose upper back is weak, fleshless, and unjointed are soft in soul; this is referred to the female. Those whose upper back is extremely hunched, with the shoulders drawn together toward the chest, are ill-natured; this is referred to fitness of look, because the parts that ought to be visible in front are hidden.
22| [section 13] Those who have a sway-backed upper back are empty-headed and foolish; this is referred to horses. But since it should be neither extremely hunched nor hollow, one must seek the mean for what is well-formed by nature. [section 14] Those whose shoulder-tops and shoulders are well-jointed are strong in soul; this is referred to the male. Those whose shoulders are weak and unjointed are soft in soul; this is referred to the female. I say the same things as were said about the feet and thighs. [section 15] Those whose shoulders move freely are free in soul; this is referred to from the appearance itself, because generosity of spirit suits the form as it appears. Those whose shoulders move stiffly, drawn together, are illiberal; this is referred to fitness of look. [section 16] Those whose collarbones move freely are perceptive; for when the parts around the collarbones move freely, they readily receive the motion of the perceptions. Those whose collarbones are constricted are dull in perception; for when the parts around the collarbones move stiffly, they are unable to admit the motion of the perceptions. Those who have a thick neck are strong in soul; [section 17] this is referred to the male. Those with a thin neck are weak; this is referred to the female. Those whose neck is thick and full are spirited; this is referred to spirited bulls. Those whose neck is of good size but not overly thick are great-souled; this is referred to lions. Those whose neck is thin and long are cowardly; this is referred to deer. Those whose neck is overly short are treacherous; this is referred to wolves.
23| [section 18] Those whose lips are thin, and slack at the very corners where they join, so that the part of the upper lip near the corners overlaps the lower, are great-souled; this is referred to lions. One could observe this also in large and vigorous dogs. [section 19] Those whose lips are thin and hard, raised at the canine teeth, being disposed this way are well-bred; this is referred to swine. Those who have thick lips, with the upper hanging down over the lower, are foolish; this is referred to donkeys and monkeys. Those whose upper lip and gums protrude are given to abuse; this is referred to dogs. [section 20] Those who have a thick tip of the nose are lazy; this is referred to oxen. Those who have a nose thick from the tip on are dull in perception; this is referred to swine. Those who have a sharp tip of the nose are slow to anger; this is referred to dogs. Those who have a nose rounded at the tip, but blunt, are great-souled; this is referred to lions. [section 21] Those who have a thin tip of the nose are bird-like. Those whose nose is hooked, curving right from the forehead, are shameless; this is referred to crows. Those who have an aquiline nose, articulated from the forehead, are great-souled; this is referred to eagles.
24| [section 22] Those who have a concave nose, rounded in front of the forehead, with the roundness rising upward, are lustful; this is referred to roosters. Those who have a snub nose are lustful; this is referred to deer. Those whose nostrils are wide open are prone to anger; this is referred to the affection that occurs in anger itself. [section 23] Those who have a fleshy face are lazy; this is referred to oxen. Those who have thin faces are diligent, while those with fleshy ones are cowardly; this is referred to donkeys and deer. Those who have small faces are small-souled; this is referred to the cat and the monkey. Those whose faces are large are sluggish; this is referred to donkeys and oxen. [section 24] But since it should be neither small nor large, the middle state between these would be the fitting one. Those whose face appears petty-looking are illiberal; this is referred to fitness of look. [section 25] Those from whose eyes something like little pouches hang down are heavy drinkers; this is referred to the affection itself, for in those who have fallen heavily into drink there stand before the eyes things like little pouches. In those who have risen from sleep, the same marks hang over the eyes, and such people are fond of sleep; this is referred to the affection, because in those risen from sleep something hangs down over the eyes. [section 26] Those who have small eyes are small-souled; this is referred to fitness of look and to the monkey. Those who are large-eyed are sluggish; this is referred to oxen. The one who is well formed by nature, then, should have eyes neither small nor large. Those who have deep-set eyes are malicious; this is referred to the monkey. Those who are bug-eyed are foolish; this is referred to fitness of look and to donkeys.
25| [section 27] Since one should be neither bulging-eyed nor hollow-eyed, the middle state prevails. Those whose eyes are slightly hollow are great-souled; this is referred to lions. Those whose eyes are more hollow than this are gentle; this is referred to oxen. [section 28] Those who have a small forehead are unintelligent; this is referred to pigs. Those who have an excessively large one are sluggish; this is referred to oxen. Those who have a rounded one are dull of perception; this is referred to donkeys. Those who have a longer flat one are dull of perception; this is referred to dogs. [section 29] Those who have a square forehead in due proportion are great-souled; this is referred to lions. Those who have a clouded one are self-willed; this is referred to the bull and the lion. Those who have a fixed, staring one are flatterers; this is referred to the affection that arises — one might observe this in dogs, since dogs, whenever they fawn, have a smooth forehead. [section 30] Since, then, the clouded state indicates self-will and the smooth one indicates flattery, the state between the two would fit well. Those who have a sullen forehead are hard to please; this is referred to the affection, since those who are distressed are sullen. Those who look downcast are given to lamenting; this is referred to the affection, since those who lament look downcast. [section 31]
26| Those who have a large head are keen of perception; this is referred to dogs. Those who have a small one are dull of perception; this is referred to donkeys. Those who are pointed-headed are shameless; this is referred to the hook-taloned birds. Those who have small ears are apelike, and those who have large ones are asslike; one might also observe that the best of dogs have ears of moderate size. [section 32] Those who are excessively dark-skinned are cowardly; this is referred to Egyptians and Ethiopians. Those who are excessively fair-skinned are also cowardly; this is referred to women. The complexion that contributes to courage must be the mean between these. Those who are tawny-haired are stout of heart; this is referred to lions. Those who are excessively red-haired are thoroughly cunning; this is referred to foxes. [section 33] Those who are sallow and disturbed in complexion are cowardly; this is referred to the affection that arises from fear. Those who are honey-pale are chilled; and cold things are hard to move, and since the parts of their body are hard to move, they would be slow. Those whose complexion is ruddy are quick, because everything in the body that is heated by motion turns red. [section 34] Those whose complexion is flame-colored are prone to madness, because the parts of the body when violently heated take on a flame-like color, and those heated to the extreme would be prone to madness. Those whose complexion about the chest is inflamed are quick to anger; this is referred to the affection, for in those who are angered the region about the chest becomes inflamed.
27| [section 35] Those in whom the veins about the neck and temples are stretched taut are quick to anger; this is referred to the affection, since this happens to those who are angered. Those whose face flushes are prone to shame; this is referred to the affection, since the face flushes in those who feel shame. [section 36] Those whose cheeks flush are given to drink; this is referred to the affection, since the cheeks flush in those who are drunk. Those whose eyes flush are beside themselves with anger; this is referred to the affection, since those who are driven out of themselves by anger have flushed eyes. [section 37] Those whose eyes are excessively dark are cowardly, for the excessively dark color has appeared to signify cowardice. Those whose eyes are not excessively dark but incline toward the tawny color are stout of heart. Those whose eyes are grey-blue or pale are cowardly, for the pale color has appeared to signify cowardice. Those whose eyes are not grey-blue but bright are stout of heart; this is referred to the lion and the eagle. [section 38] Those whose eyes are wine-colored are lustful; this is referred to goats. Those whose eyes are fiery are shameless; this is referred to dogs. Those who are pale-eyed and have disturbed eyes are cowardly; this is referred to the affection, since those who become afraid turn sallow with an uneven complexion. Those who have glistening eyes are lecherous; this is referred to cocks and ravens.
28| [section 39] Those who have hairy legs are lecherous; this is referred to goats. Those who are excessively hairy about the chest and belly never persist in the same pursuits; this is referred to birds, because they have the chest and belly covered with the most hair. Those who have an excessively bare chest are shameless; this is referred to women. Since, then, one should be neither excessively hairy nor bare, the middle state is best. [section 40] Those who have hairy shoulders never persist in the same pursuits; this is referred to birds. Those who have an excessively hairy back are shameless; this is referred to wild beasts. Those who have a hairy nape behind the neck are free and generous; this is referred to lions. Those who are bearded at the tip of the chin are stout of heart; this is referred to dogs. [section 41] Those whose eyebrows meet are hard to please; this is referred to the resemblance of the affection. Those whose eyebrows are drawn down toward the nose but drawn up toward the temple are simple-minded; this is referred to pigs. Those who have bristling hair on the head are cowardly; this is referred to the affection, since those who become terrified also bristle. [section 42] Those who have hair that is extremely curly are cowardly; this is referred to Ethiopians. Since, then, both bristling hair and extremely curly hair indicate cowardice, hair with only a slight curl would tend toward stoutness of heart; this too is referred to the lion.
29| [section 43] Those whose hair, at the part of the forehead near the top of the head, sweeps back are free and generous; this is referred to lions. Those who have hair growing forward on the forehead down toward the nose are illiberal; this is referred to fittingness of appearance, because what shows itself is slavish. [section 44] A long-strider who is also a slow-strider would be sluggish in undertaking but capable of completing, since to stride long is effective, while to stride slowly is dilatory. A short-strider who is also a slow-strider is sluggish in undertaking and not capable of completing, since to stride short and slowly is not effective. A long-strider who is also a quick-strider is not quick to undertake but is capable of completing, since speed is effective for completion, while length of stride by itself is not effective for undertaking. [section 45] A short-strider who is also a quick-strider is quick to undertake but not capable of completing. The same considerations apply to the carriage of the hand, forearm, and upper arm. Those who sway their shoulders while holding them straight and extended are loose-jointed like weasels at the elbow; this is referred to horses. [section 46] Those who sway their shoulders while stooped are high-minded; this is referred to lions. Those who walk with their feet turned outward and with feminine legs are referred to women. Those who bend and rub their bodies about are flatterers; this is referred to the affection. [section 47] Those who lean to the right in walking are effeminate; this is referred to fittingness of appearance. Those who have quick-moving eyes are sharp and rapacious; this is referred to hawks. Those who blink are cowardly, because it is in the eyes that people first show a turn to flight.
30| [section 48] Those who ogle, and those in whom one eyelid has come down over the eyes while the gaze stands fixed in the middle, and those who draw their gaze up under the upper eyelids while looking languidly, and those whose eyelids droop, and in general all who look languid and melting — these are all referred to fittingness of appearance and to women. [section 49] Those who move their eyes only after a long interval, having a whitish film over the eye, as though the eyes were fixed in place, are thoughtful; for whenever the soul becomes intently occupied with some thought, the gaze too comes to a stand. [section 50] Those who speak loudly in a deep tone are insolent; this is referred to donkeys. Those who speak beginning from a deep note and ending on a high one are despondent and given to lamenting; this is referred to oxen and to what is fitting to that voice. Those who converse in a high, soft, broken voice are effeminate; this is referred to women and to fittingness of appearance. [section 51] Those who speak loudly in a deep tone that is not twisted are referred to robust dogs and to fittingness of appearance. Those who speak in a soft, slack voice are gentle; this is referred to sheep. Those who speak in a high, screeching voice are lustful; this is referred to goats. [section 52]
31| The very small are excessively quick-witted; for since the flow of the blood occupies a small space, the motions arrive very quickly at the seat of thought. But the very large are slow; for since the flow of the blood occupies a large space, the motions arrive slowly at the seat of thought. [section 53] Those among the small who have dry flesh, or also colors that arise in bodies through heat, accomplish nothing; for since the flow is in a small space and swift because of its fiery character, thinking never stays fixed on the same object, but shifts from one thing to another, before the dominant impulse can run its course. [section 54] Those among the large who have moist flesh, or also colors that arise through cold, accomplish nothing; for since the flow is in a large space and slow because of the cold, it does not manage to complete its arrival at the seat of thought. [section 55] Those among the small who have moist flesh and colors due to cold become capable of accomplishment; for since the motion is in a small space, the sluggishness of the mixture supplies the proportion that lets it first accomplish its object. [section 56] Those among the large who have dry flesh and colors due to heat become capable of accomplishment and perceptive; for the heat corrects the excess of their size in flesh and color, so that it becomes proportionate for accomplishing.
32| [section 57] It has been said, then, that bodies exceeding in size, or falling short through smallness, It has been stated, then, in what circumstances bodies that exceed in size or fall short through smallness are effective, and in what circumstances they are ineffective.. But the nature midway between these is strongest with respect to the senses and most capable of accomplishing whatever it applies itself to; for since the motions do not travel far, they easily arrive at the intellect, and they do not pass beyond it by only a little. [section 58] So the person most complete for accomplishing whatever he sets before himself, and So the person who is going to be most complete at accomplishing whatever he sets before himself, and at perceiving, must be moderate in size., must be moderate in size. Those of disproportionate size are unscrupulous; this trait is referred back to passivity and to the female. For if the disproportionate are unscrupulous, the proportionate would be just and courageous. [section 59] The reference of proportion should be made to the tractability and good natural endowment of bodies, not to the appearance of the male, as was distinguished at the start. And it is proper to refer all the signs mentioned above to fittingness with respect to both male and female; for these have been divided by the most complete division, and it has been shown that the male is more just than the female, more courageous, and, to put it generally, better. [section 60]
33| In the whole selection of signs, some signs indicate the underlying subject more clearly than others. Clearer are those that occur in the most decisive places. The most decisive place is that around the eyes, the forehead, the head, and the face; second is that around the chest and shoulders; then that around the legs and feet; least of all is that around the belly. In general, these places furnish the clearest signs, in which the greatest fittingness of intelligence shows itself.
1| [section 1] Simple colors are those that go along with the elements, for example fire and air and water and earth. Air and water are by nature white in themselves, while fire and the sun are yellow. Earth too is by nature white, but through staining it appears many-colored. [section 2] This is clear in the case of ash: once the moisture that produced the staining has been burned out, it becomes white, though not entirely, because it has been stained by the smoke, which is black. That is also why lye becomes yellow, the flame-colored and black element coloring the water. [section 3] Black color follows the elements as they change into one another. The other colors, easily observed, arise from these by mixture as they blend with one another. Darkness arises when light fails. Black appears to us in three ways. [section 4] Either it is what is by nature altogether not seen (for from all such things some black light is reflected back), or it is what has no light at all traveling from it to the eyes; for what is not seen, when the surrounding place is seen, produces an impression of black. And all such things appear black to us from which light is reflected back sparsely and weakly.
2| [section 5] That is also why shadows appear black. Likewise water too, when it is roughened, as with the ripple of the sea; for because of the roughness of the surface, few of the rays striking it and the light being scattered, the shaded part appears black. And a cloud, when it is strongly dense, appears black for this same reason. [section 6] On the same principle, water and air too, whenever the light does not pass through them completely. For these too seem to be black when they have depth, because the rays are reflected back only very sparsely; for all the intervening portions of light within them seem black on account of the darkness. [section 7] That darkness is not a color but a privation of light is not hard to learn, from many other things and especially from the fact that darkness is not even perceptible as to how large it is and what shape it happens to have, as the other visible things are. [section 8] That light is the color of fire is clear from the fact that no other color than this one is found belonging to it, and from the fact that it alone becomes visible through itself, while the other things become visible through it. But this needs further examination, for some things that are not fire nor forms of fire evidently produce light by their nature.
3| [section 9] Unless, then, the color of fire is light, yet light is not the color of fire alone, but it is possible that this coloring does not belong to fire only, while light is nevertheless its color. At any rate it happens that the seeing of fire comes about by nothing else than light, just as the seeing of all other bodies comes about by the visible appearance of body. [section 10] Black color happens to arise when air and water are thoroughly burned through by fire; that is why all things that are burning turn black, as wood and coals do once the fire is quenched, and as the smoke from a pot does, when the moisture present in the pot is separated out and burned. [section 11] That is also why the blackest smoke is that from fatty and oily things, such as olive oil and pitch and pinewood, because these burn most and produce a continuous flame. These things also turn black wherever water flows through them, whenever, after first growing moss, the moisture then dries out, as with the plaster on walls. [section 12] Likewise too with stones lying underwater; for these too, once they have grown moss, later become black in color when they dry out. These, then, are the simple colors, and this is their number.
4| [section 1] The other colors, arising from these by blending and by degree of more and less, produce many varied impressions of color. By more and less, as with crimson and purple; by blending, as with white and black, when mixed they produce the impression of gray. That is why black, when shaded, mixed with light becomes crimson. [section 2] For we observe that black, mixed with the light of the sun and with the light from fire, always becomes crimson, and that all black things, when set on fire, change in color to crimson; for smoky flames and coals, when they are thoroughly burned through, appear to have a crimson color. [section 3] Purple becomes bright-flowering and brilliant, whenever weak rays of the sun are blended with a moderate white and shaded color. That is why around sunrise and sunset the air sometimes appears purple-like, when the sun is near rising or setting; for the rays, being weak at that time, strike most against air that is shaded. [section 4] The sea too appears purple-like, whenever the waves, being raised up, are shaded by their slant; for the weak rays of the sun striking against their slant make the color appear purple. This is also observed to happen with feathers; for stretched somehow toward the light, they have a purple color.
5| [section 5] When less light strikes, it becomes murky, which they call gloomy; but when much is blended with the primary black, it becomes crimson. Being bright-flowering and gleaming, it changes into a flame-like color. For one must understand it in this way with respect to the blending of colors with one another, forming the mixture out of a color already observed as the underlying one, and not treating the coming-to-be of all of them as alike. [section 6] For among colors there are some not simple, yet each bears the same relation to some one of the compound colors that the simple colors bear to themselves, because the simple colors belong to a mixture of one thing, and it is not easy to signify in the whole, and it produces its effect similarly when considered further. [section 7] For when speaking of the blending that makes purple or crimson, one must likewise describe the coming-to-be for those colors mixed from these and producing a different color, and not create a similar impression. [section 8] For this reason one must take and consider the blending on the basis of what has already been established, namely that the wine-dark color arises whenever bluish-gray rays are blended with unmixed black that gleams, as with the berries of grape-clusters; for the color of these too appears wine-dark as they ripen; for as they turn black, the crimson changes into purple.
6| [section 9] One must, in the manner shown, consider all the differences of colors, taking the resemblance from motion according to the very appearance, likening the blending present in each, and bringing conviction to bear on the particular cases where an impression arises in some process of coming-to-be and blending. [section 10] And one must carry out the study of all these not as painters do, mixing these colors together, but by combining with one another the reflected rays proceeding from the things mentioned; for in this way one could best observe the blendings of colors according to nature. [section 11] The proofs and similar evidence must be sought in those cases where the coming-to-be of the colors will be evident. These are chiefly the light from the sun and that from fire, and air and water; for these, blended by more and less, produce, one might say, practically all the colors. [section 12] One must also grasp the resemblance from the other colors as they are blended with the rays; for coals and smoke and verdigris and sulfur and feathers, blended some with the rays of the sun, others with those of fire, produce many varied changes of color. And some things must also be examined through ripening, as they occur in plants and fruits and hair and feathers and all such things.
7| [section 1] We must not overlook the many forms and the endless variety of colors, or through how many causes they come about. We will find that it happens either because light and shadows are taken in unequally and unevenly — for shadows and light differ greatly among themselves in more and less — so that both by themselves and mixed together with colors they produce changes of color; or because the things being blended differ in quantity and in power; or because they stand in ratios that are not the same. [section 2] For purple has many differences, and crimson, and white, and each of the others as well, both in more and less and in their mixture with one another and in their purity. And it makes a difference too whether the thing blended is bright or gleaming, or on the contrary dull and lusterless. [section 3] Now gleaming is nothing other than a continuity and density of light. For a golden appearance arises when yellow, sun-like color, having been strongly compressed, gleams. That is why the necks of doves and drops of water appear golden, the light being reflected back.
8| [section 4] There are things which, when smoothed by rubbing and by certain powers, take on other and varied hues, as silver does when rubbed, and gold, and bronze, and iron. [section 5] And certain kinds of stones produce different colors, as also . . . for being black they draw white lines, because the original composition of all such things is out of small, dense, black particles, but since, in their formation, all the pores through which the dye has passed have been colored by this dyeing, they have come to present a different appearance of color. [section 6] But what is rubbed off from them no longer becomes golden-looking, or bronze-looking, or bears any other such hue, but is altogether black, because the pores through which the dye has passed are broken open when they are rubbed, and are by nature the same throughout. [section 7] For since the former color is no longer visible to us because the dye has been torn apart, we see the color that belongs to them by nature — which is why they all appear black. But when each of these is rubbed smooth and even, as against a touchstone, they lose that black and take back their color again, in the joining and continuity, the color of the dye showing through.
9| [section 8] Among things that are burned or dissolved or melted in fire, those have the most colors whose smoke is fine and airy and whose colors are shadowy, as the smoke from sulfur and from corroding bronze vessels, and those that are dense and smooth, as silver. [section 9] Among other things, those have shadowy colors that also share in smoothness, as water and clouds and the plumage of birds; for these too, through their smoothness and through the rays that fall on them, blending now this way, now that, produce differing colors, as darkness also does. [section 10] We see none of the colors pure as it truly is, but all blended with others; for even if with nothing else, they appear altered and not as they are when blended with the rays of light and with shadows. [section 11] That is why things viewed in shadow and in light and in sunlight, and in a harsh or a soft ray, and lying at one slant or another, and according to other differences too, appear different. And so with light near fire and near the moon, and the light of lamps — which is why the light of each of these has a different hue.
10| [section 12] And also through the mixture of colors with one another; for as they pass through one another they are colored. For when light, falling upon certain things, is colored by them and becomes crimson or grass-green, and the reflected light then falls upon some other color, it is blended by that in turn and takes on some other combination of color. [section 13] And this happens continuously, though at times imperceptibly, reaching our sight blended out of many colors, but producing the sensation of some one color that most prevails. That is why things seen through water appear more water-colored, and things in mirrors have colors like those of the mirrors. And the same must be thought to happen with the air. [section 14] So that all hues are mixtures of three things: the light, and that through which the light appears — for instance water and air — and third, the underlying colors from which the light happens to be reflected back. [section 15] White and transparent, when very rarefied, appears air-colored in hue; but in all dense things a kind of mist appears over them, as in water and glass and air when it is thick. For since the rays fail on every side because of the density, we cannot see clearly into the things within.
11| [section 16] The air, when viewed close up, appears to have no color at all — for through its rarity it is overmastered by the rays, being separated off by them as they are denser and shine through it — but when it is viewed in depth, it appears in color closest to blue-black, on account of its rarity. [section 17] For where light is lacking, there, being interrupted by darkness, it appears blue-black. But when it is condensed, like water too, it is the whitest of all things. [section 1] Everything that is dyed takes its color from the things that dye it. Many things are dyed with growing flowers, many with roots, many with bark or wood or leaves or fruit. Further, many with earth, many with scum, and many too with soot from lamp-black. Some are dyed with the juices of animals, as purple is with the murex. [section 2] Some are dyed with wine, some with smoke, some with lime, some with sea water — as the hair of sea creatures, for all of these turn reddish from the sea. And this holds in general for whatever has its own distinctive color. [section 3] For always, from all of these, together with the moisture and heat, the colors pass into the pores of the things being dyed, and when the dye dries out, it takes on the colors from those things. That is why it is often washed out of them, the flowers running out from the pores.
12| [section 4] Astringent substances too produce many differences and combinations in dyeing, and so do the states of the things being dyed, as has been said before about blending. Black wool is also dyed, but it does not come out equally bright in color, because while their pores are dyed as the flowers enter into them, the intervening spaces of the hair take no dye at all. [section 5] These, being white and lying side by side with the colors, make all the flowers appear brighter; the black spaces, on the contrary, appear shadowy and dark. That is why what is called dusky-purple becomes more richly flowered than either black or white; for its flower appears less diluted in this way, being blended with the rays of the black. [section 6] For by itself the intervening space between the pores is not seen, on account of its smallness — just as tin blended with bronze is not seen, nor anything else of that kind. And the colors of dyed things are altered through the causes stated. [section 1] That hair, and plumage, and flowers, and fruits, and all plants undergo all their changes of color together with their ripening, is clear from many instances; but what the starting points of color are for each of the things that grow, and what changes they undergo from what, and through what causes they undergo them, and whatever other difficulties happen to attend these matters — all this must be examined on the basis of such considerations.
13| [section 2] In all plants, then, the starting point of the colors is the grass-green. For shoots and leaves and fruits are all grass-green at the start. One can see this also in rainwater: wherever the water stands for a longer time, as it dries out again it becomes grass-green in color. [section 3] And it is reasonable that this should be the first of the colors to form in everything that grows. For all waters, left standing for a time, at first become yellow, being mixed with the sun's rays, but little by little, growing black, mixing again with the yellow, they become grass-green. [section 4] For moisture, as has been said, aging by itself and drying out, turns black, just as the plaster linings in cisterns do. Of these, whichever are always under water become entirely black, because the moisture in them, being kept cool, does not dry out by itself; but whatever is pumped out and exposed to the sun becomes grass-green, because the yellow is mixed with the black. [section 5] So the more the moisture turns black, the more the grass-green becomes strongly saturated and leek-colored. That is why the old shoots of everything are far blacker than the young ones; the younger ones are more yellow, because the moisture in them has not yet turned black.
14| [section 6] For as their growth becomes slower, and the moisture remains in them for a long time, because moisture that is strongly chilled turns black, the color becomes leek-colored, mixed with pure black. [section 7] In whatever cases the moisture does not mix with the sun's rays, their color remains white, unless in time it dries out and turns black first. That is why the parts above ground of everything that grows are at first grass-green, while the parts below ground, stalks and roots, are white. [section 8] And shoots, while under the earth, are white; but once the earth is removed, at the very start, as has been said, they all become grass-green, because the moisture that filters through the shoots into them has this very nature of color, and is quickly used up in the growth of the fruits. But when they no longer grow, because the heat can no longer master the nourishment flowing in, but on the contrary the moisture is broken down by the heat. [section 9] And when all the fruits ripen, and the moisture present in them is concocted together by the heat of both the sun and the air, each takes on the colors proper to it from the plant, just as with flowers that are dyed.
15| [section 10] That is why they take on color little by little, and especially those turned toward the sun and its warmth. So their colors, in every case, change together with the seasons. This is evident: for all those of grass-green color, once they ripen, change into the color that belongs to them by nature. [section 11] For indeed they become white and black and gray and yellow and blackish and shadow-colored and crimson and wine-colored and saffron-colored, taking on almost all the differences among colors. [section 12] Since most colors arise from several being mixed together, it is clear that the colors in plants too must have these same mixtures; for the moisture, filtering through them, and washing itself out together with them, takes on all the powers of the colors. [section 13] And as this moisture is concocted together during the ripening of the fruits by the heat of both the sun and the air, each of the colors forms on its own, some faster, some slower, just as happens also with the dyeing of purple. [section 14]
16| For with this too, whenever they cut it and wash out from it all the moisture, and pour this in and boil it in pots, at first nothing at all is visible in the dye among the colors, because as each of them, with the moisture, is boiled together little by little, and the colors still present in them mix with one another, they take on many varied differences; for black and white and dusky and sky-colored, all of these too appear then, once boiled together, so that because of the mixture none of the other colors is any longer visible by itself. [section 15] The very same thing happens with fruits too. For in many of them, because all the concoctions of color do not occur at the same time, but some form earlier and some later, they change from one color into another, just as grapes and dates do. [section 16] For some of these at first become crimson, but as the black forms within, they change again into wine-color; and finally they become dark-blue, once the crimson too is mixed with a great deal of pure black. [section 17] For the colors that come on later, whenever they master the earlier ones, alter the earlier colors. This is especially evident in black fruits; for nearly all of them, as has been said, at the beginning change from grass-green, become slightly crimson, and turn tawny, but they quickly shift again away from the tawny, because of the pure black present in things of this kind.
17| [section 18] This is shown by the fact that the twigs and the tendrils and the leaves of all such plants are black, because this color is present in them in the greatest amount; since it is clear that the black fruits share in both colors, for the juice of all such fruits becomes wine-colored. And in their coming to be, the crimson colors precede the black ones. [section 19] This is shown by the fact that the ground under dripping water, and generally wherever a moderate outflow of water happens to occur in shady places, changes everywhere first from grass-green into a crimson color, and the ground becomes as if blood had just been freshly spilled at that spot, at the point where the grass-green color receives its concoction; and finally this too becomes strongly black and dark-blue. [section 20] The same thing happens with fruits as well. And that when later colors form, whenever they master the earlier ones, the color of the fruits changes, is easy to see through cases like these. [section 21] For the fruit of the pomegranate and the leaves of roses at first become white, but finally, once the juices within them are colored by the concoction, they take on color, and change again into the color of purple and crimson.
18| [section 22] Some plants have even more colors than these upon them, as with the sap of the poppy and the dregs of the olive; for this too at first becomes white, just like the fruit of the pomegranate, and having turned white, changes again into a crimson color, and finally, mixed with a great deal of black, becomes dark-blue. [section 23] That is why the leaves of the poppy are crimson at the top, because their concoction there happens quickly, but black near the base, since this color already prevails in them there, just as with the fruit; for that too finally becomes black. [section 24] In whatever plants there is only one color, white or black or crimson or purple, in all of these the fruits always keep the same nature of color once they have changed, one time only, out of grass-green into another color. [section 25] In some cases the flowers happen to be the same color as the fruits, as with the pomegranate: for its fruit becomes crimson, and so does its flower. But in others the color differs greatly, as with the laurel and the ivy; for the flower of both of these is in every case yellow, while the fruit is black in some, crimson in others.
19| [section 26] The same holds for the apple tree too: its blossom is white tinged with purple, but its fruit is yellow. The poppy's blossom is crimson, but its fruit is in one case black, in another white, because the ripening of the juices present in them occurs at different times. [section 27] This is easy to see from many cases: some fruits, as has been said, take on many differences together with their ripening. That is why quite different scents and juices turn out to accompany blossoms and fruits. [section 28] This is even more evident in the blossoms themselves: of the same petal, one part is black and another crimson, and in some cases one part is white and another purple-like. This is no less evident in the iris: this flower too has many varied colors in it, owing to differences in ripening, just as grape-clusters do, when they happen to be already ripening. [section 29] That is why in all flowers the tips ripen most, while the parts near the base become much paler in color. For in some cases the moisture is, so to speak, burned out before it can undergo its proper ripening.
20| [section 30] That is why flowers remain constant in color, while fruits change as they ripen: flowers, because of the small amount of nourishment in them, are quickly ripened through, while fruits, because of the abundance of moisture in them, pass through all their natural colors together with their ripening. This is evident, as has been said before, also in dyed blossoms. [section 31] At first, when dyers dip the fleeces in as they dye with purple, they turn dusky, black, and gray-blue; but once the color has been thoroughly boiled down, it becomes a rich, brilliant sea-purple. [section 32] So it necessarily follows that many blossoms likewise differ from fruits in color, some going beyond and some falling short of their natural colors, because in some cases the ripening is incomplete and in others complete. [section 33] Blossoms and fruits, then, turn out to differ from each other in color for these causes. The leaves of most trees become yellow in the end, because, as the nourishment gives out, they are dried up before they can change into their natural color — since, in fact, some fruits that fall off also become yellow in color, because in these too the nourishment gives out before their ripening is complete.
21| [section 34] The same holds too for grain and for all growing plants: these also turn yellow in the end. For the moisture in them, no longer able to turn black because it dries up quickly, produces the change of color. [section 35] For the moisture, turning black and mixed with green, becomes, as has been said, grass-green; and as the black continually grows weaker, the color changes back little by little into green, and in the end becomes yellow — since, indeed, the leaves of the pear and of the andrachne (strawberry tree) and of certain others become crimson as they ripen. [section 36] Except that whichever of these also dry up quickly become yellow, because in them the nourishment gives out before ripening is complete. The differences among plants, then, most plausibly turn out to occur for the causes stated. [section 1] Hair and feathers and hides — of horses and cattle and sheep and human beings and all the other animals — also become white, gray, tawny, and black through the same cause: white, when the moisture is dried up by the ripening while it still has its own color; black, on the contrary, when, in their generation, the moisture around the skin, as in all other cases, turns black through growing old and taking a long time, on account of its quantity. For in all such creatures both the flesh-color and the hides become black.
22| [section 2] They are gray, tawny, yellow, and have the other colors whenever the moisture dries up before it can completely change into the black color. And in whatever creatures this happens unevenly, the colors likewise turn out mottled. [section 3] That is why everything follows the skin and its color as well, since in reddish people the hair also becomes reddish-white, and in dark people it becomes black; and if vitiligo breaks out over some part of the body, everyone gets white hair in that spot too, just as with mottled animals. [section 4] In this way all hair and feathers follow the skin, both part by part and over the whole body. Hooves, cloven hooves, beaks, and horns behave in the same way as these: they too become black in black animals and white in white ones, because in all these cases as well the nourishment is filtered through the skin into the outer covering. [section 5] That this is the cause is not hard to see from many instances. For the heads of all infants are at first reddish, because of the scantiness of the nourishment. This is evident: for all infants at first grow hair that is weak, sparse, and short.
23| [section 6] As they grow older, the hairs turn black again as they take on color, because of the abundance of nourishment now flowing in. The same holds for the pubic hair and the beard: when people first begin to reach puberty and grow a beard, these hairs too are at first quickly reddish, because the small amount of moisture in them dries up; but as more nourishment is carried to that region, they turn black again. [section 7] The hairs on the body remain reddish for the longest time, because of the lack of nourishment there, since at whatever time they do grow, they too turn out to blacken in the same way as the pubic hair and the hair of the head. This is evident: for hairs that have length are, for the most part, blacker near the body and yellower at the tips. [section 8] This is so of the hairs of sheep, horses, and human beings, because very little nourishment is carried to these parts, and it dries up quickly. And in dark-feathered birds too, the feathers are blackest of all nearest the body and yellower at their tips. [section 9] It is the same way, too, with the feathers around the neck, and in general with whatever receives little nourishment. This is clear: for before they turn gray, all hairs change and become reddish, because once again the nourishment gives out and they dry up quickly.
24| [section 10] In the end they become white, before the moisture can turn black, since the nourishment in them is being ripened through too quickly. This is most evident in beasts of burden: in all of them the hair turns white. For since these regions are not able to draw in nourishment as well, because of the weakness of the heat, the moisture, drying up quickly, becomes white. [section 11] The hair around the temples goes gray more than anywhere else, and in general the hair over the weak and worn-out regions. That is why, above all other colors, it is into this color that a thing changes, whenever it departs from its own proper nature. [section 12] Indeed, a hare has before now turned white, and a deer and a bear have at times appeared black; and quail, partridge, and swallow have done the same. For whenever such creatures are weak at birth, all of them, because of the scantiness of nourishment, are ripened through before their proper time and become white. [section 13] In this way children too sometimes have white hair on their heads, eyelids, and eyebrows right from birth, just as, in every other creature, this same affliction clearly comes upon each of them toward old age, through weakness and scantiness [of nourishment]. [section 14]
25| This is why most animals that are white turn out weaker than the black ones; for before their growth is complete, they become white through being concocted on account of the scantiness of their nourishment, just as with fruits that happen to be diseased — for these too are concocted much more on account of weakness. [section 15] But animals that become white while differing greatly from the rest — horses and dogs, for instance — all such animals change from their natural color to white because of good nourishment. For in these, the moisture, not lingering but being used up for growth, does not become black. [section 16] For most such animals are moist and well-fleshed because of good nourishment. That is also why white hair-coats do not change color. This is evident: black hair, before turning gray, first becomes tawny, once its nourishment is already running short and is being concocted more, and finally becomes white. [section 17] Yet some suppose that all things become black because their nourishment is burned up by heat, just as blood and each of the other fluids are — and in this they are mistaken. For some animals in fact become black right from the start, such as dogs, goats, and cattle, and in general all those whose skins and hair-coats have nourishment at the outset, and less of it as their age advances.
26| [section 18] And yet that ought not to be so; rather, in every case the hair should become black at the peak of life, at the time when their heat is strongest, and all of them should turn gray earlier, right at the start. For in every case the heat is far weaker at the very first than it is at the time when their hair-coats begin to turn white. [section 19] This is evident also in white-coated animals. For some of these get the whitest color right at the start — namely those which have the most nourishment at the outset among them, and in which the moisture is not dried up before its season; but as their age advances they turn tawny, since less nourishment flows into them later on. [section 20] Others become tawny at the start but whitest at the peak of life, just as with birds too, whose colors change again once their nourishment runs short in them. This is shown by the fact that all of them become tawny about the neck as well, and in general wherever nourishment is scarce and running short in them. [section 21] This is clear: just as tawny changes into black and black in turn into tawny, so too white changes into yellow. This happens also in plants; for some, from the later stage of concoction, run back again to the earlier one. This is especially evident in the case of the pomegranate.
27| [section 22] For at the start the seeds, and the leaves too, become crimson, because their nourishment is scanty and gets concocted; later they change again into a grass-green color, once much nourishment is flowing in and the concoction is no longer able to master it in the same way; and finally, when the nourishment is by now being concocted, the color again becomes crimson. [section 23] To put it generally, the same holds for other hair-coats and plumages as well: all of them undergo these changes — in some cases, as has been said, because their nourishment is running short in them, in others, on the contrary, because it is in excess. [section 24] This is why different hair-coats become whitest and blackest at different times of life, since even the plumage of ravens eventually changes into a tawny color, once their nourishment is running short in them. [section 25] But no hair-coat ever becomes crimson, or sea-purple, or green, or takes on any other such color, because all such colors come about only when the sun's rays are mixed in with them, whereas in all hair-coats the changes of the moisture occur inside the flesh, and they receive no such mixing. [section 26]
28| This is clear: none of the plumage is of that sort right from the start; rather, even the mottled birds are, so to speak, all black at first — the peacock, the dove, and the swallow, for instance. Later they take on all such variegated colors, once their concoction is already occurring outside the body, in the feathers and the plumes themselves; so that it turns out, just as with plants, that in these creatures too the concoction of colors occurs outside the body. [section 27] This is also why the remaining animals — aquatic creatures, reptiles, and shelled creatures — have color-forms of every kind, since much concoction occurs in them as well. From what has been said, then, one could best grasp the theory concerning colors.
1| [section 1] All voices and noises come about either from bodies striking one another or from the air striking against bodies, not because the air is shaped, as some people suppose, but because it is moved in a similar way, being contracted and stretched and gripped, and further, colliding with itself because of the blows produced by the breath and by the strings. [section 2] For whenever the breath that falls upon it strikes the neighboring air, the air is at once carried forward by force, pushing on in the same way the air next to it, so that the voice stretches out in every direction the same, as far as the motion of the air also happens to reach. For the force of its motion spreads out over a greater distance as it occurs, just as the winds that blow off rivers and off the land also do. [section 3] Of voices, those are dim and clouded that happen to be choked off close by, while those are clear that stretch out far and fill the whole continuous space. We all breathe the same air, but we send out breath and voices that differ because of the differences in the vessels underlying them, through which in each case the breath makes its way out to [the] outer place.
2| [section 4] These are the windpipe, the lung, and the mouth. Now the greatest difference in the voice is produced by the blows of the air and by the shapings of the mouth. [section 5] This is clear: for all the differences among articulate sounds come about through this cause, and we see the same people imitating the voices of horses and frogs and nightingales and cranes and pretty much all the other animals, using the same breath and windpipe, merely by sending the air out of the mouth in different ways. [section 6] Many birds too, when they hear other voices, imitate them for the reason stated. Now when the lung is small and dense and hard, it can neither take in much air into itself nor send it out again, nor can it make the blow of the breath strong or vigorous. [section 7] For because it is hard and dense and bound together, it cannot undergo expansion over a large space, nor again, by contracting itself from a large interval, squeeze out the breath forcibly, just as we ourselves cannot with bellows, when they are hard and cannot easily be either expanded or compressed.
3| [section 8] For this is what makes the blow of the breath vigorous: when the lung, contracting itself from a large interval, squeezes out the air forcibly. This is evident: for none of the other parts either can deliver a strong blow from a small distance. [section 9] For it is not possible either with the leg or with the hand to strike violently or to throw the thing struck far, unless one takes, with each of the two, a large interval for the blow. Otherwise the blow becomes hard because of the tension, but the thing struck cannot be driven far, since catapults too cannot throw far, nor can a sling, nor a bow, if it is stiff and cannot be bent, and the bowstring cannot be drawn back over a large space. [section 10] But if the lung is large and soft and well-toned, it can take in much air, and send this out again, dispensing it as it wishes because of its softness and because it easily contracts. But when the windpipe is long and narrow, such creatures send the voice out with difficulty and with a great deal of force, because of the length of the breath's passage.
4| [section 11] This is clear: for all creatures that have long necks utter their sounds with force, for example geese and cranes and roosters. This is most evident in the case of these same creatures: for players fill the bombykes (the deep-toned pipes) with difficulty and with much strain, because of the length of the distance. [section 12] Further, when the breath, compressed inside because of the narrowness of the passage, falls out into the outer place, it is at once dispersed and scattered, just as currents carried through narrow straits also are, so that the voice cannot hold together or stretch out over a large space. At the same time the breath in all such creatures is necessarily hard to manage and does not serve them easily. [section 13] Those creatures in which the interval of the windpipe is large: in such creatures the breath does get out easily, but as it travels within it is dispersed because of the wide space, and the voice becomes empty and not compact; further, such creatures cannot articulate with the breath, because their windpipe does not press together. [section 14] Those whose windpipe is uneven and does not have the same width throughout are bound to share in all these difficulties at once. For their breath is necessarily forced to serve them unevenly, being compressed in one place and again dispersed in another.
5| [section 15] When the windpipe is short, the breath is necessarily sent out quickly and the blow of the air becomes stronger, and all such creatures speak in a higher pitch because of the speed of the breath's passage. But it is not only the differences of the vessels, but also all the affections that alter the voices. [section 16] For whenever the lung and the windpipe are full of a great deal of moisture, the breath is torn apart and cannot make its way out to the outer place continuously, because it keeps striking against obstruction and becomes thick and wet and hard to move, just as happens in catarrhs and in drunkenness. [section 17] But if the breath is entirely dry, the voice becomes harder and torn apart; for moisture, when it is thin, holds the air together, and produces a certain simplicity in the voice. So the differences of the vessels, and of the affections that occur about them, each produce voices of this sort. [section 18] Voices seem to be located in the places where each of them arises, but we hear all of them only when they fall upon our hearing. For the air pushed by the blow travels continuously up to a certain point, and then bit by bit is stirred more and more, and by this we recognize all sounds, both those that occur far off and those that occur near.
6| [section 19] This is clear: for whenever someone takes a piece of pottery, a pipe, or a trumpet, and, putting it to another person's ear, speaks through it, all the sounds seem to be entirely close to the hearing, because the air traveling through is not scattered but the voice is kept uniform by the instrument that contains it. [section 20] Just as in painting, when someone makes one part of the coloring resemble what is far off and another part what is near, one part seems to us to recede from the picture's surface and the other to stand out, though both are on the same surface, so too with sounds and voice: when one sound falls upon the hearing already broken up and another continuous, though both arrive at the same place, the one seems to be far off from the hearing and the other close by, because the one is like a thing heard from far off and the other like a thing heard from near. [section 21] Voices become clearest above all in proportion to the precision of the articulate sounds. For it is impossible, unless these are completely articulated, for the voices to be clear, just as with the seal-impressions of signet rings, when they are not stamped precisely. This is why children cannot speak clearly, nor drunkards, nor old men, nor those who happen by nature to be lispers, nor in general all those whose tongues and mouths are hard to move.
7| [section 22] For just as bronze vessels and horns, resonating together, make the sounds coming from instruments clearer, so too in the case of speech the breaths that fall out from the mouth produce a great deal of unclarity, whenever they are not shaped in a like manner. [section 23] They not only display some unclarity of their own, but also impede the sounds that are articulated, since the motion concerning hearing that they produce is unlike the others. This is why we understand better when listening to one person than to many speaking the same things at once, just as with strings; and much less well when someone plays the flute and the lyre together at the same time, because the sounds are confused by one another. [section 24] This is nowhere more evident than in the case of concords: for it happens that both sounds are hidden by each other. Voices become unclear, then, for the causes stated, but they become brilliant just as with colors: for there too, the colors that are most able to move sight turn out to be the most brilliant of colors. [section 25] In the same way one must suppose that the most brilliant of voices are those that, striking the hearing, are most able to move it. Such are the clear ones, and the dense, and the pure, and those able to carry far; for in fact among all the other objects of perception as well, the stronger, denser, and purer make the perceptions clearer.
8| [section 26] This is clear: for at the very end all voices become dull, as the air is by then dispersing. It is clear too in the case of flutes. For those of the second-register reeds that have the tongues set aslant give off a softer sound, but not equally brilliant; for the breath, being carried, at once falls into an open space, and is no longer carried taut and compact, but scattered. [section 27] But with harder reeds the sound becomes harder and more brilliant, if one presses them more with the lips, because the breath is carried more forcefully. The brilliant voices, then, come about for the causes stated; and this is why the so-called grey voices are thought to be no worse than the white ones. [section 28] For the rougher voices, and those somewhat blurred and not having their brilliance too plainly evident, are more fitting for the passions and for the older ages. At the same time, because of their tautness, they are not equally tractable: for what is carried by force is hard to manage. For it is not easy either to tighten it as one wishes, or to relax it. [section 29] In flutes, and in the other instruments too, the sounds become brilliant whenever the breath that falls out is dense and taut. For it is necessary that the strikings of the outer air too become of this kind, and that the voices, being of such a compact character, be transmitted to the hearing in just this way, as also smells and light and degrees of heat are.
9| [section 30] And indeed all these things, when they appear more rarefied to perception, become less distinct in meaning, just as flavors too when mixed with water and with other flavors. For that which each thing provides of its own to perception is what makes its powers unclear when mixed. [section 31] Among the other instruments, the sounds of horns, being dense and continuous as they fall upon the air, make the voices dim; this is why the horn must have a nature of growth that is even and smooth and has not run out too quickly. [section 32] For such horns must necessarily become softer and more porous, so that the sounds are torn apart and do not fall out through them continuously, nor carry equally well, because of the softness and rarity of their pores. [section 33] Nor again should its nature be one that grows with difficulty, nor should its structure be dense and hard and hard to traverse; for at whatever point the sound, as it travels, meets an obstruction, there it takes its stopping-point and no longer passes through to the outer place, so that dull and uneven sounds fall out from horns of this kind. [section 34] That the carrying happens along a straight path is evident in the case of masts, and generally in the case of large timbers, when people test them. For when they strike from one end, the sound is carried continuously to the other end, provided the timber has no break in it; but if it does, the sound, having advanced only that far, stops there, torn apart.
10| [section 35] It also bends around knots, and is not able to travel straight through them. This is plainly evident too in the case of bronze-work, when they file down the hanging folds of drapery on statues, or the wing-like projections, by making them meet flush: this is why they give off a hiss and a great deal of ringing and clatter. [section 36] But if one binds them round with a band, the sound stops; for the vibration, having advanced only that far, when it meets the soft material, makes its stopping-point there. The roasting of horns also contributes a great deal to good tone. [section 37] For horns that have been thoroughly roasted have a sound resembling that of pottery, because of the hardness and the burning; but if one roasts them less, they give off a softer sound because of the softness, but are not equally able to carry well. [section 38] This is why they select by age: the horns of old animals are dry and hardened and porous, while those of young animals are entirely soft and have a great deal of moisture in them. The horn must be, as has been said, dry and evenly dense and straight-running and smooth. [section 39] For that is the way it would most happen that the sounds too are carried through them dense and smooth and even, and that the strikings of the outer air become of this kind, since among strings too the smoothest are the best and the most even throughout, and have a working that is alike on every side, and their joins of sinew are undetectable; for it is in this way that these too come to produce strikings of the air that are most alike.
11| [section 40] The tongues of flutes too must be dense and smooth and even, so that the breath may pass through them smooth and even and not torn apart. This is why yoke-animals that have been soaked, and have drunk their fill of moisture, become more tuneful, while dry ones sound bad; for air is carried soft and even through what is moist and smooth. [section 41] This is clear: for the breath itself, when it has moisture in it, strikes far less against the reeds and is torn apart much less; whereas dry breath is caught up more, and its striking becomes harder because of the force. The differences among sounds, then, come about for the causes stated. [section 42] Harsh are those voices that strike upon the hearing with force; this is why they above all supply tension. Such are the ones that are harder to set in motion and are carried with the greatest force; for what yields quickly is not able to withstand the blow, but springs away first. [section 43] This is clear: for overly massive missiles are carried with the most violent motion, and so are currents carried through narrow channels; for these too become most violent right at the narrow places, being unable to yield quickly, but being pushed on by great force. The same thing happens as well in the case of voices and of noises.
12| [section 44] This is evident: for everything forced becomes hard, just as with chests and hinges, when they are opened by force, and with bronze and iron. For from the anvils too the iron comes out hard or soft, according as they hammer it while it is already cooled and hard. [section 45] Again, this is so with the file, when they file and score iron tools and saws, since among thunderclaps too the most violent ones are the hardest, and among rains those called torrential are hard in the same way, on account of their violence. For the speed of the breath makes the sound sharp, while the force makes it hard. [section 46] This is why it happens not only that the same people produce a sharper sound at one time and a duller one at another, but also a harder one and a softer one. And yet some suppose that voices become hard because of the hardness of the windpipe, and they are mistaken: for this contributes only a small amount, if anything at all, but the real cause is the blow given to the breath violently by the lung. [section 47] For just as bodies are, in some cases, moist and soft, and in others hard and taut, in the same way the lung too is so. This is why in some the breath comes out soft, and in others hard and forceful, since it is easy to see that the windpipe itself contributes only a small power in this regard.
13| [section 48] For no windpipe is hard in the same way that pipes are; but nonetheless, though the breath travels through it and through these instruments alike, some play the pipes softly and others harshly. This is clear too from perception itself: for if one strains the breath more violently, the sound at once becomes harder because of the force, even if it was softer before. [section 49] The same holds also for the trumpet: this is why everyone, when they are celebrating, relax the tension of the breath in the trumpet, so as to make the sound as soft as possible. This is evident also in the case of instruments. For strings that have been over-tightened, as has been said, make the sounds harder, and so do horns that have been over-baked. [section 50] And if one plucks the strings with the hands violently and not softly, the strings must necessarily give back their response in the same violent way. But strings that are less tightly stretched, and horns that are rawer, make the sounds softer, and so do longer instruments. [section 51] For the blows of the air become both slower and softer because of the length of the passage, while those from the lower-pitched strings are hardest because of the tension of the strings. This is clear: for even on the same instrument the sounds turn out harder when one does not pluck the strings at the middle, because the parts nearer the crossbar and the tuning-peg are more tightly stretched.
14| [section 52] It also happens that instruments made of reed have softer sounds; for the sounds, striking against something soft, do not rebound with force in the same way. Voices become rough, on the other hand, when the blow does not happen as a single stroke to all the air at once, but is scattered in many places in small portions. [section 53] For each of the parts of the air, striking the hearing on its own, as though coming from a separate blow, makes the perception disjointed, so that the sound is intermittent in one part and strikes more violently in another, and the contact with the hearing becomes uneven, just as when something rough strikes against our skin. [section 54] This is most evident in the case of the file: because the blow of the air happens at once in many small portions, the noises that strike the hearing from these are rough, and more so when they are rubbed against something hard, just as in the case of touch: for hard and rough things produce a more violent perception. [section 55] This is clear also in the case of liquids flowing: for the sound of oil is far less noticeable than that of all other liquids, because of the continuity of its parts. Voices are thin whenever the breath that comes out is small in quantity.
15| [section 56] This is why the voices of children are thin, and those of women and eunuchs, and likewise those of people weakened by illness or exertion or lack of nourishment: for they are unable, because of their weakness, to send out much breath. [section 57] This is clear also in the case of strings: for from thin strings the sounds too become thin and narrow and hairlike, because the blow of the air also occurs over a narrow space. For whatever kind of starting-points of motion the blows of the air have, sounds of that same kind result in striking the hearing — for instance sparse or dense, soft or hard, thin or thick. [section 58] For since one part of the air is always moving another in the same way, it makes the whole sound uniform, just as also holds in the case of high and low pitch: for the successive speeds of the blow, each following upon the other, preserve the sounds as similar to their starting-points. [section 59] The blows of the air produced by the strings are many and separate, but because the interval of time between them is so small that the hearing cannot perceive the gaps, the sound appears to us as one and continuous, just as also happens with colors: for things that are separated often seem to us to run together, when they move quickly.
16| [section 60] The same thing happens also in the case of harmonies. For because the one set of sounds is absorbed within the other, and their endings occur together, the sounds that come between them escape our notice. [section 61] For in all harmonies the blows of the air occur more often from the higher-pitched notes, because of the speed of their motion; but the last of these sounds happens to strike our hearing at the same time as the one arising from the slower note. [section 62] So that, since the hearing is unable to perceive, as has been said, the sounds in between, we seem to hear both notes together as one continuous sound. Voices are thick, on the contrary, when the breath that comes out is copious and comes out all at once; this is why men's voices are thicker, and those of full-grown pipes, and more so when someone fills them with breath. [section 63] This is evident: for if one presses the bridles together, the sound becomes higher and thinner. And if one draws down the pan-pipe reeds, or if instead one blocks them off, the bulk of the sound becomes much greater, because of the quantity of breath, just as also happens with thicker strings.
17| [section 64] Voices also become thick in those whose voices are breaking, and in those who are hoarse, and after vomiting, because of the roughness of the windpipe and because the sound, not passing straight through but catching and coiling upon itself there, takes on bulk, and most of all because of the moistness of the body. [section 65] Voices that are thin and dense are clear-ringing, as with cicadas and locusts, and the voices of nightingales, and in general all voices that, being thin, are accompanied by no foreign noise. For in general the clear-ringing quality lies neither in bulk of sound, nor in relaxed and low tones, nor in the contacts of the notes, but rather in sharpness and thinness and precision. [section 66] This is why, among instruments too, those that are thin and taut and have no horn have clearer-ringing sounds; for the noise coming from water, and in general whenever some accompanying noise arises from something, blurs the precision of the notes. Voices that are unsound and worn are those that, though carrying on continuously up to a point, then get torn apart. [section 67] This is most evident in the case of pottery: for every vessel cracked by a blow produces an unsound ring, since the motion is torn apart at the point of the blow, so that the resulting sounds no longer come out continuous. The same thing happens likewise with cracked horns and with strings that have been frayed.
18| [section 68] For in all such cases the sound travels continuous up to a certain point, and then it is torn apart, at whatever point the underlying thing is not continuous, so that a single blow is not produced but a divided one, and the sound appears cracked. [section 69] For these are pretty nearly similar to rough sounds; except that rough sounds are torn apart from one another into small parts, while most cracked sounds have continuous beginnings and then take on a division into several parts. [section 70] Aspirated are those voice-sounds in which we at once expel the breath from within together with the sound; smooth, on the contrary, are those which come about without the expulsion of breath. Voices come to be broken off when people are no longer able to send out the air with a blow, but the region around the lung gives way in them through its distension. [section 71] For just as with tools, and with shoulders too, it happens that at the last moment they give way after being held taut, so too with the region around the lung. For the breath is carried out light, because the blow it gives is not forceful. And at the same time, because their windpipe has been made severely rough, the breath cannot be carried out continuous, but torn apart, so that their voices come to be as if broken off.
19| [section 72] And some people suppose that it is on account of the stickiness of the lung that the breath cannot pass through to the outer region — mistakenly; for such people do speak, but they cannot make themselves heard, because the blow of the air does not occur with tautness, but they only produce voice, as if the breath were forcing its way from the throat itself. [section 73] The affection of stammerers concerns neither the veins nor the arteries, but the motion of the tongue. For they move it with difficulty whenever they need to utter a different sound. That is why they say the same word for a long time, unable to say what comes next, because the motion, and their lung, keep being carried continuously toward the same impulse on account of the quantity and the force of the breath. [section 74] For just as it is difficult to shift the whole body of runners who are running forcefully, out of their impulse into another motion, in the same way it is also difficult part by part. That is why they often cannot say what comes next, but say what comes after that easily, whenever they make a different beginning of the motion. And this is clear: for this happens often to people who are angry too, because the carrying of their breath becomes forceful.
1| [section 1] Are there indivisible lines, and in general, in every quantity, is there something without parts, as some people say? For if the many and the large exist in the same way as their opposites, the few and the small, and what has virtually infinite divisions is not few but many, then it is clear that the few and the small will have finite divisions; and if the divisions are finite, there must be some magnitude without parts, so that in everything there will be something without parts, since indeed the few and the small exist. [section 2] Again, if there is a form of a line, and the form is prior among things that share a name, and the parts are prior in nature to the whole, then the line itself would be divisible, and in the same way the square and the triangle and the other figures, and the plane itself in general and the body; for it will follow that certain things are prior to these. [section 3] Again, if there are elements of body, and nothing is prior to the elements, while the parts are prior to the whole, then fire would be indivisible, and in general each of the elements of body, so that not only among the intelligible things but also among the perceptible things there is something without parts.
2| [section 4] Again, by Zeno's argument there must be some magnitude without parts, if indeed it is impossible in a finite time to touch things infinite in number, touching each one in turn, and yet the moving thing must first arrive at the half, and of what is not without parts there is always a half. [section 5] But if what is carried along the line does touch the infinitely many things in a finite time, and what is faster covers more in an equal time, and the motion of thought is fastest of all, then thought too would touch the infinitely many things one by one in a finite time; so that if touching each one in turn is what counting is, it is possible to count the infinite in a finite time. [section 6] But if this is impossible, there would be some indivisible line. Again, from what the mathematicians themselves say, there would be some indivisible line, as they claim, if lines measured by the same measure are commensurable; and all lines that are commensurable are measured by it. For there would be some length by which all are measured. And this must be indivisible. [section 7] For if it is divisible, its parts too will be a measure of something; for they are commensurable with the whole. So that some part would measure a half that is double, since this would be an impossible measure.
3| [section 8] Likewise the lines measured once by it, like all the lines compounded from the measure, are composed of parts without parts. And the same thing will result also in the case of plane figures; for all the squares on rational lines are commensurable with one another, so that the measure of them will be without parts. [section 9] But then, if some measure is to cut a certain ordered and determinate line, it will be neither rational nor irrational, nor any of the other kinds just spoken of, such as an apotome from two names; rather, in their own right they will have no natures at all, but relative to one another they will be rational and irrational. [section 10] But in the first place, it is not necessary that what has infinite divisions should not be small and few; for we call a place, and a magnitude, and in general the continuous, small, and we apply the term "few" to some of these, and yet we still say they have infinite divisions. Again, if lines are in the composite, the term "small" is applied in respect of these indivisibles, and infinitely many points are present within it. [section 11] Insofar as it is a line, division is by a point, and likewise, in whatever way you take it, every line that is not indivisible would have infinite divisions. Some of these ratios run to great length and are infinite. Every line that is not indivisible can be cut in the ratio assigned. Again, if the large is composed of certain small things, either the large will be nothing, or what has finite divisions will not be large.
4| [section 12] For the whole has the divisions of its parts in like manner. It is reasonable that the small should have finite divisions and the large infinite ones — this is what they claim. So it is clear that the large and the small should not be spoken of in these terms, as having finite and infinite divisions respectively. [section 13] And if because the few, even in numbers, has finite divisions, one should also claim the small in lines has finite divisions, this is foolish. For there, generation is from things without parts, and there is something which is the starting principle of numbers, and every number that is not infinite has finite divisions; but with magnitudes it is not the same. [section 14] Those who construct indivisibles among the forms take on, perhaps, the lesser assumption compared to the one previously laid down, namely positing forms of these things; and in a way they destroy these very things by the arguments through which they demonstrate them. For indeed, through these very arguments the forms are destroyed. Again, in the case of the bodily elements, it is foolish to claim they are without parts. [section 15] For even if certain people do in fact declare this, still, with regard to the inquiry now before us, they are assuming the very thing at issue from the start. And the more it might seem that the original point is being taken up again, the more it seems that body and length are divisible, both in their bulk and in their intervals.
5| [section 16] Zeno's argument does not, in this same way, establish that what is carried touches the infinitely many things in a finite time. For time too is spoken of as infinite and as finite, and a length has just as many divisions. [section 17] Nor indeed is thought's touching each of the infinitely many things, one by one, the same as counting them — even supposing one were to conceive of thought as touching the infinitely many things in this way. And this is perhaps impossible; for the motion of thought is not among continuous and underlying things, as is the motion of things carried along. [section 18] But even if it is possible for it to move in this way, this is not counting; for counting is proceeding with a halt at each stage. But it is perhaps absurd, for those unable to resolve the argument, to be enslaved to their own weakness, and to deceive themselves still further with greater deceptions, propping up their incapacity. [section 19] As for the claim about commensurable lines, that all of them are measured by one and the same thing, this is thoroughly sophistical and least of all in keeping with the hypothesis used in mathematics; for mathematicians do not lay it down in this way, nor is it useful to them. And at the same time it is self-contradictory to claim both that every line becomes commensurable, and that there is a common measure of all the commensurable lines.
6| [section 20] So it is ridiculous, when professing to demonstrate a point by appeal to those men's own opinions and from what they themselves say, to veer off instead into an eristic and sophistical argument, and one so weak besides. For it is weak in many ways, and it is possible in every way to escape both the paradoxes and the refutations. [section 21] Again, it would be absurd that some people should have been talked into making lines indivisible on account of Zeno's argument, merely because they had no answer to it, while on account of the straight line's motion into the one-and-a-half motion, which necessarily at once must be cut, since infinitely many arcs and intervals fall between, and again on account of the easily-credited fact about equal circles, that whatever moves must move through the greater semicircle, and however many other such things have been observed concerning lines showing that it is not possible for such a motion to occur so that it does not fall first on each of the intermediate points — for these are far more generally agreed upon than those other claims. [section 22] That, then, it is neither necessary nor plausible that there be indivisible lines, on the basis of the arguments stated, is clear. And it would become still clearer from the following. First, from the things demonstrated and laid down in mathematics, which it is not right to disturb with less trustworthy arguments.
7| [section 23] For neither the definition of a line nor that of a straight line will fit the indivisible, because it is neither between two things nor has a middle. Further, all lines will be commensurable. For all will be measured by the indivisibles, both those commensurable in length and those commensurable in square. [section 24] But the indivisibles are all commensurable in length, since they are equal; so also in square. And if this is so, the square will be divisible. Further, if the area applied to the greater line produces the width, then the area equal to the sum of the squares on the indivisible and on the foot-long line, applied to the two-foot line, will produce a width smaller than the partless one; the width on the indivisible will be smaller. [section 25] Further, if a triangle is constructed from three given straight lines, one will also be constructed from indivisibles. And in every equilateral triangle the perpendicular falls on the midpoint, so it will also fall on the indivisible. Further, if the square is constructed from the partless ones, with a line falling through the middle and a perpendicular drawn, the side of the square is equal in power to the perpendicular and to half the diagonal, so it is not the smallest. [section 26] Nor will the area on the diagonal be double that on the indivisible. For when an equal area is subtracted, the remainder will be less than the partless one. For perhaps the diagonal would in that case describe a quadruple area, and one could draw other such conclusions besides; for the theory is, so to speak, opposed to everything in mathematics.
8| [section 27] Again, contact of the partless is single, but of a line it is twofold: for a line touches another whole with whole, and also at its extremity, from opposite ends. Further, a line added to the whole does not make the whole greater; for partless things put together will not make anything greater. [section 28] Further, nothing continuous comes to be out of two partless things, because everything continuous has more than one division; and every line other than the indivisible is continuous, so an indivisible line would not be continuous. Further, if every line other than the indivisible is divided into both equal and unequal parts, and not only into three indivisibles or odd numbers generally, then the indivisible is undivided. [section 29] And likewise even if it is cut in half; for this holds of every line composed of an odd number. But if not every line is cut in half, but only the one composed of an even number, while the one divided in half can be cut into as many parts as possible, then in this way too the indivisible will be divided, whenever the line composed of an even number is divided into unequal parts. [section 30] Again, if what is moved will, in the time in which it moves the whole distance, move half of it in half the time, and in a lesser time less than half, then if the length is composed of an odd number of indivisibles, the middle division of the indivisibles will be eliminated, provided it traverses the half in half the time; for the time and the line will be divided in the same way.
9| [section 31] So none of the composite lines will be cut into equal and unequal parts, nor will they be divided in the same way as the times. There will be no indivisible lines. And it belongs to the same argument, as has been said, to make all these things out of partless units. Further, every line that is not infinite has two limits; for a line is defined by these. [section 32] But the indivisible is not infinite, so it will have a limit. It is therefore divisible; for the limit is one thing and that of which it is the limit another. Or else there will be some line, besides these, that is neither infinite nor finite. Further, there will not be a point in every line. For it will not be in the indivisible: for if there is only one point in it, then a line will exist, and then a point; but if there are more, the line is divisible. [section 33] So if a point does not exist in the indivisible, it will not exist in a line at all; for the other lines are composed of the indivisibles. Further, either none of the points will have anything between them, or a line will be between them; and if a line is between them, and there are more points in all the lines, that line will not be indivisible. Further, there will not be a square on every line; for it will have length and breadth, so it will be divisible, since it is one thing in one respect and another in another, [section 34] and if the square is divisible, so is the line. Further, the limit of the line will be a point, not a line. For the point is a limit, while the indivisible is only an extremity. For if it is a point, the limit of the indivisible will be a point, and one line will be greater than another line by a point. But if the point exists in the indivisible, because the limit of the connecting lines is the same, there will be some limit of the partless one,
10| [section 35] and in general, how will a point differ from a line? For the indivisible line will have nothing distinctive as against the point, except the name. Further, the same argument holds likewise for the plane, and a body too is indivisible on this view. For if one of these is indivisible, the others too will follow, because the one is divided in respect of the other. [section 36] A body will not be indivisible, because there is depth and breadth in it, nor could a line be indivisible: for a body is divided according to a plane, and a plane according to a line. Since, then, the arguments by which they attempt to persuade us are weak, and all the opinions opposed to those that carry conviction are false, it is clear that there could be no indivisible line. And it is clear from these arguments that a line could not be composed of points either. [section 37] For pretty much the same arguments, in most cases, will apply. For the point must necessarily be divided, whenever equal parts are cut from an odd number, or unequal parts from an even number. And it follows that a part of a line is not a line, nor a part of a plane a plane. [section 38] And a line will be greater than another line by a point; for it will exceed it by the things it is composed of. That this is impossible is clear both from the results in mathematics, and further it will follow that what is carried traverses the point in time, if indeed it traverses the greater line in more time, and the equal line in an equal time, and the excess of time is itself time.
11| [section 39] But perhaps time too is composed of nows, and it belongs to the same argument to speak of both. If, then, the now is the beginning and end of time, and the line of the point, but the beginning and the end are not continuous but have something between them, then neither the nows nor the points would be continuous with one another. [section 40] Further, the line is a certain magnitude, but the composition of points produces no magnitude, because it does not occupy a greater place either. For when a line is placed upon a line and coincides with it, the breadth does not become any greater. And points too exist in the line, yet the points would not occupy a greater place, so they would not produce a magnitude. [section 41] Further, if everything touches everything either whole with whole, or part with part, or whole with part, and the point is partless, it would touch as a whole. And what touches whole with whole must necessarily be one. For if something remains outside, or the other does not exist in the same way, it would not touch whole with whole. [section 42] But if the partless things are together, then several of them occupy the same place that the one alone did before; for of things that are together and have no extension in the same respects, the place of both is the same, and the partless has no dimension, so a continuous magnitude could not be composed of partless things. Therefore the line is not composed of points, nor is time composed of nows,
12| [section 43] Further, if a line is composed of points, point will touch point. So if AB and CD are drawn out from K, the point in KD will also touch K. So it will touch some other point too: for the partless touches the partless, whole to whole. So it will occupy the same place as K, and points that touch will be in the same place as one another. [section 44] And if they are in the same place, they also touch: for things that are primarily in the same place must touch; and then in this way a straight line will touch a straight line at two points. For the point in AK, and the point in KC, each touches a further point. So the line from CD touches at several points. [section 45] The same account holds even if a line touched another not through these points but in some other way whatever. Further, the line of a circle will also touch a straight line at several points. For at the point of contact, the point in the circle and the point in the straight line touch each other too. [section 46] But if this is not possible, then neither is it possible for point to touch point; and if they do not touch, then the line will not be composed of points either — for it is not necessary that they touch. Further, how then will there be a straight line and a curved line at all? For the joining of points will make no difference between the straight line and the curved one.
13| [section 47] For the partless touches the partless whole to whole, and it is not possible to touch in any other way. So if the lines are different but the joining is undifferentiated, then the line will not come from the joining, and so not from points either. Further, the points must either touch one another or not touch one another. [section 48] Now if what is next in succession must touch, the same account will hold; but if it is possible for something to be next in succession without touching, then note that we call nothing continuous except what is composed of things that touch. So on this reasoning too the points must touch one another, if the line is to be continuous. [section 49] Further, if it is absurd for point to be upon point, so that there should be a line even upon a point — since a line would then be a plane — the things stated are impossible. For either the points are next in succession, in which case the line will be cut at neither of the points but in between them, or they touch, in which case there will be a line that is the place of a single point. But this is impossible. [section 50] Further, everything would be divisible and would be resolved into points, and the point would be a part of body — if indeed body is composed of planes, the plane of lines, and lines of points. And if each thing consists of the primary constituents present in it, and these are elements, then points would be the elements of bodies. So neither set of elements would be synonymous in species with what they compose.
14| [section 51] It is clear, then, from what has been said, that a line is not composed of points. But neither is it possible for a point to be taken away from a line. For if it can be taken away, it can also be added; and when something is added, what results from the addition will be greater than what was there at the start, provided that what is added is of such a kind as to make one whole together with it. [section 52] So one line will be greater than another line by a point. But this is impossible. In its own right, then, this is not possible; but incidentally it is possible to take a point away from a line, since it is present in the line that is taken away. For if, when the whole is taken away, both the starting-point and the limit are taken away with it, and the starting-point and limit of a line was a point, then it is possible to take away a line, and a point could be taken away along with it. [section 53] But this taking-away is incidental. And if the limit touches, what it touches is not the limit either of itself or of anything belonging to it. But the point, insofar as it is the limit of a line, does touch. So insofar as it does, a point will be greater than a line, and the point will be composed of points; for of things that touch, nothing lies between them. [section 54] The same account holds also in the case of a section: if the section is of a point, and the section touches something, this holds also for solid and plane; and likewise the solid is composed of planes and lines. But it is not true to speak in terms of a point, nor is it true that the smallest of the things composing a line has thereby been said to be the smallest of the things present in it. For the smallest, of the things of which it is the smallest, is also less than them.
15| [section 55] In a line nothing else is present except point-like things and lines. But a line is not greater than a point in this way; for neither again is a plane greater than a line in this way. So the point will not be the smallest thing in the line. And if the point is comparable with the line, while "the smallest" applies in three respects, the point will not be the smallest of the things in the line. [section 56] And other things too are present in length besides points and lines; for it is not composed of points. But if the point, being in place, were a length or a plane or a solid or something composed of these, then — since the things of which the line is composed are in place, for so too is the line — and since neither body nor plane nor anything composed of these is present in the line, there will be nothing at all in length besides points and lines. [section 57] Further, if, of what is in place, the greater is called length, surface, or solid, while the point is in place, and what is present in length besides points and lines is none of the things aforesaid, then the point will not be the smallest of the things present in it.
16| [section 58] Further, that which is the smallest of the things in a house is not so called by being set against the house itself; and likewise in the other cases too. So neither will the smallest thing in a line be so called as compared with the line. So "the smallest" will not fit, since what is not in the house is not the smallest of the things in the house. And likewise in the other cases too. [section 59] For it is possible for a point to exist by itself, independently. Of such a point it will not be true to say that it is the smallest thing in a line, because the point is not an indivisible joint. For a joint is always the boundary of two things, whereas a point is the boundary even of a single line. Further, the one, the point, is a limit, while the other, the joint, is rather a division. [section 60] Further, on this reasoning the line and the plane would be joints; for they stand in an analogous relation, since a joint is in some way a differentiated thing — which is why Empedocles too composed the verse, wherefore it must rightly — but the point belongs also among the things that are unmoved. Further, no one has infinitely many joints in his body or in his hand, but he does have infinitely many points. Further, a stone has no joint and does not possess one, but it does have points.
1| ON XENOPHANES, ON ZENO, ON GORGIAS. [part Xenoph] ON XENOPHANES [section 1] He says that if anything is, it is eternal, since it is not possible for anything to come to be out of nothing. For whether all things have come to be or not all of them, either way they are eternal. For they would come to be out of none of them. For if all things come to be, nothing pre-exists; and if certain things always exist, and other things are always being added to them, then the one would have become more and greater. [section 2] But that by which it is more and greater would have come to be out of nothing; for the greater does not belong to the lesser, nor does the greater exist in the smaller. And being eternal, it is unlimited, because it has no beginning from which it came to be, nor an end at which what has come to be would at some point have ended; and whatever is a whole and unlimited, is. For if there were more than two, these would be limits with respect to one another. [section 3] And the one is alike in all its parts; for if things were unlike, being more than one, one could no longer posit a single thing but many. And being eternal and measured and alike in every way, the one is unmoved. For it could not be moved unless it withdrew into something. And it would be necessary for it to withdraw either into what is full or into what is empty. Of these, the one, the full, would not receive it, and the other, the void, is nothing at all.
2| [section 4] Being of this sort, the one is free from pain and free from suffering, sound and free from disease, neither rearranged in position, nor altered in form, nor mixed with anything else. For according to all these, the one would become many, and what is not would be generated, and what is would be forced to perish. [section 5] But these things are impossible. For even if one were to say that some one thing is a mixture out of several things, and that there are many things in motion into one another, then the mixing, taken as a composition of several things into one, would either be, by their separation, something like a screening-off of the things mixed — in which case, when the things mixed are separated out from one another, then, given that there is a screening-off in the rubbing-together, each thing would become apparent as the first things are removed, the things placed under one another among the things mixed — and neither of these turns out to happen. [section 6] But in this way many things would exist even for us, only in the sense of appearing so. So since it cannot be this way, the things that are cannot be many either, but it is not correct that they seem to be so. For many other things too appear so in every act of perception. [section 7] But an account does away neither with the same things coming to be, nor with what is being many, but shows it to be eternal and unlimited and in every way like itself. Should one, then, first not begin by taking up every opinion, but always take as starting point what is most secure?
3| [section 8] So if all the things that seem to be so are not correctly grasped, presumably it is not fitting to make use even of this doctrine — that nothing could ever come to be out of nothing. For this too is one of the not-correct opinions, one that we have taken up, on the strength of a certain kind of perception, in the case of many things. [section 9] But if not all the things that appear to us are false, but there are, among these too, some correct beliefs — or if it is possible to show which of such qualities seem most correct — these must be taken up, and they must always be more secure than the conclusions that are going to be shown from those arguments. For even if there were two opinions opposed to one another, as he thinks — if he says that many things have not come to be, it is necessary that they come from things that are not. [section 10] But if this is not possible, then the things that are, are not many. For what is would come to be, because it is possible for it to be unlimited. And if so, it is also one. Now for us, the argument on both sides equally shows nothing more that it is one than that it is many. [section 11] But if one of the two opinions is more secure, then the conclusions drawn from it are shown more surely. But as things actually stand — since we hold both these beliefs — the things that are, are also in motion. And of the two, this latter belief is the more credible, and everyone would more readily give up the former opinion than this one.
4| [section 12] So even if it turns out that the statements are contrary, and it is impossible both for things to come to be out of what is not and for things not to be many, these would refute one another — but why should it be more this way than the other? Indeed someone might even assert the contraries of these. For he has neither shown that the opinion from which he starts is correct, nor has he taken it as more secure than the very thing he is trying to prove by it. [section 13] For it is taken to be more plausible that things come to be out of what is not than that things are not many. And indeed it is said, and quite emphatically, on this subject, both that things which are not come to be, and that many things have not come to be out of things that are not — and this is said not only by ordinary people, but some of those who are reputed to be wise have said it too. [section 14] Hesiod, for instance, says: first of all, chaos came to be, and then earth of the broad breast, the ever-secure seat of all, and Eros, who is preeminent among all the immortals. [section 15] And he says the other things came to be, and these out of nothing. And many others too say that nothing is, but everything comes to be, saying that the things that come to be, come to be out of things that are not. So this much is clear, that it seems to some, at least, that things could come to be even out of things that are not.
5| [section 1] But whether the things he says are possible or impossible, this must be set aside. But whether the conclusion actually follows from what he takes as premises, or whether nothing prevents it from being otherwise as well, must be adequately examined; for this might perhaps be a different matter from that one. [section 2] And first, once it is posited — what he first takes — that nothing could come to be out of what is not, is it necessary that all things be ungenerated, or does nothing prevent some things from having come to be out of others, and this proceeding to infinity? Or does it even bend back in a circle, so that the one thing has come to be out of the other, with something always existing in this way, and each thing having come to be an infinite number of times out of the others? [section 3] So, given the premise that nothing could come to be out of what is not, nothing would prevent all things from having come to be, and nothing prevents one from applying to that unlimited totality any of the names that go along with the one. For that man too attaches 'all things exist and are said' to the unlimited. And nothing prevents their coming-to-be from being in a circle, even if they are not unlimited. [section 4] Further, if all things come to be, and nothing is, as some say, how could the one be eternal? But indeed he argues for the being of some one thing as something that is and is posited. For if, he says, it did not come to be, then let it be eternal — as though it were necessary for being to belong to things.
6| [section 5] Further, even granting as much as possible that what is not cannot come to be, nor can what is not perish, still, what prevents some of these things from having come to be, and others being eternal, as Empedocles too says? [section 6] For he too, granting all the same points — that it is impossible for anything to come to be out of what is not, and that it is unaccomplishable and impracticable for what is to be destroyed (for it will always be set down wherever one keeps pressing it) — nonetheless says that of the things that are, some are eternal — fire and water and earth and air — while the others come to be and have come to be out of these. [section 7] For there is, as he thinks, no other coming-to-be for the things that are, but only a mixing and interchange of things mixed; and it is on these grounds that 'nature' is the name men use. But he says that coming-to-be applies to the eternal things also in the sense that they come to be, since he thought this simply impossible. [section 8] For how, he will say, could there be increase, and whence would it have come? But he says that by the mingling and combining of fire and the things that go with fire, many things come to be, and by their being interchanged and separated out they perish again, and that in respect of mixture there are many, and in respect of separation likewise, but in respect of nature there are four, without the causes, or one; or even if these should straightway be unlimited, out of which, by their being combined, things come to be, and by their being separated, perish — as indeed some say Anaxagoras too states, that the things that come to be, come to be out of things that always are and are unlimited.
7| [section 9] Even if this were so, not all things would be eternal, but some would be coming to be, and would have come to be out of things that are, and would be perishing into certain other substances. Again, nothing prevents the universe from being a single substance in form, as both Anaximander and Anaximenes say — the one asserting that the universe is water, the other, Anaximenes, that it is air — and as many others have claimed the universe to be one in this way. [section 10] This one thing, then, by shapes and by greater and lesser number, and by becoming rarefied or dense, produces the whole as many things, both existing and coming to be, and unlimited in number. And Democritus too says that water and air, and each of the many things — this being what it is — differ by configuration. [section 11] What, then, prevents the many things from coming to be and perishing in this way too, with what is always changing from what is into what is, by the differences of the one just mentioned, while the whole becomes neither more nor less? Again, what prevents bodies from at one time coming to be out of other things, and again perishing back into them? [section 12] But even if one were to grant this too, and there were something ungenerated as well, on what ground is it any more shown to be unlimited? For he says it is unlimited if, while it is, it has not come to be. For he holds that the beginning and end of coming-to-be are limits.
8| [section 13] And yet, from what has been said, what prevents a thing that is ungenerated from having a limit? For he holds that if a thing came to be, it has as its beginning that from which it would have come to be, if things do come to be. What, then, prevents it, even if it did not come to be, from having a beginning — not, indeed, one from which it came to be, but a different kind — and from being bounded relative to other things that are likewise eternal? [section 14] Again, what prevents the whole, being ungenerated, from being unlimited, while the things coming to be within it are bounded, having a beginning and an end of coming-to-be? Again, as Parmenides says, what prevents the universe, though it is one and ungenerated, from nonetheless being bounded, and being everywhere like the bulk of a well-rounded sphere, evenly balanced from the middle in every direction? For it must be neither any larger nor any smaller in one direction than another, as far as it extends. [section 15] Having a middle and extremities, it has a limit even while being ungenerated, since even if, as he himself says, it is one, and this is a body, it has parts other than itself, if these parts are all alike. For he says the universe is alike in this way, not . . . (text breaks off) . . . to anything else which you see to be bounded — he refutes whether the unlimited can be alike in any respect. [section 16] For a thing that is alike is alike to something else, so that, being two or more, it could not be one, nor could it be unlimited. But perhaps he means alike with reference to itself, and says that it is all alike because it is uniform in its parts, being entirely water, or earth, or some other such thing.
9| [section 17] This man is clearly claiming that each thing, being a body of two parts, is one, and is not unlimited. For the whole is unlimited, so that these bound one another while being ungenerated. Again, if it is both eternal and unlimited, how could it be one thing, being one body? For if it consisted of unlike, partless elements, it would be many — and he himself claims that it is so. [section 18] But if what-is is entirely water, or entirely earth, or whatever it is, it would have many parts, as Zeno too attempts to show of a thing that is one in this way. There would then be more parts of it, of lesser and smaller size, and in every such respect it would be different, with no body being added to it or taken away from it. [section 19] But if it has no body, no breadth, and no length at all, how could it be unlimited? What prevents there being many such things, countable in number? What prevents there being more than one thing, each unlimited in magnitude? As indeed Xenophanes says that the depth of the earth and of the air is unlimited. [section 20] Empedocles too makes this clear; for he rebukes certain people for saying such things are impossible, holding that, if the depths of the earth and the abundant ether are unlimited — as has vainly been poured out from the mouths of many mortals who have seen but a little of the whole — this is what results. Again, there is nothing strange in a thing being one and yet not alike in every respect.
10| [section 21] For if it is entirely water, or fire, or some other such thing, nothing prevents one from calling what-is more than one, if indeed each part is alike to itself throughout. And indeed one part may be rare, another dense, even though there is no void within the rare part. [section 22] For nothing prevents this: in the rare, the void is not separated off apart in certain parts, as though part of the whole were dense and this other part were rare, the whole being disposed in this way; rather, being equally full throughout, it is nonetheless equally less full than the dense. [section 23] And if it is, it is ungenerated, and for this reason it might be granted to be unlimited, and that it is not possible for one thing and another to each be unlimited. For this reason, too, at this point it must already be called impossible as well: for how could the unlimited, to the extent that the void is not present, fail to be a whole? He says it is unmoved if there is no void; for everything moves by changing place. [section 24] Now, first, this does not seem right to many; rather, they hold that there is something empty, though this is not itself a body — just as Hesiod too, in his account of the coming-to-be of things, says that Chaos came to be first, meaning that a space existed first, before the things that are. The void we are looking for is something of this sort, like a kind of vessel set in the midst of things.
11| [section 25] But indeed, even if there is no void, things might move none the less, since Anaxagoras too, who worked on this very question, and for whom it was not even enough to declare that it does not exist, nonetheless says that the things that are move, though there is no void. Likewise Empedocles says that things are always moving together continuously throughout all time, saying that there is nothing empty belonging to the whole. [section 26] From where, then, could anything come upon it? And when things are combined into a single form, so as to be one, he says that nothing is empty and nothing superfluous. For what prevents things from being carried into one another and shifting round together, any given thing into another, and that thing into a further one, and so back into the first, with something else always changing in turn? [section 27] Again, as for the change of form that occurs while the thing itself remains in the same place — which both other thinkers and he himself call alteration — [nothing] in what he has said prevents things from moving in this way, when what was white becomes black, or what was bitter becomes sweet. [section 28] For neither the absence of void nor the fact that the full does not admit it prevents alteration. So it is not necessary that all things be eternal, nor that what is be one, nor unlimited, but rather many unlimited things — nor that what is one be alike, nor unmoved, whether it is one or several things.
12| [section 29] Given these points, nothing in what he himself has said prevents the things that are from being rearranged and altered — whether the universe is one and there is motion, things differing in greater and lesser number and something being added by alteration; or, if something is added, not to the body itself; or if there are many things, mixing and separating out together with one another. For it is reasonable that mixture is neither the kind of addition-on-top nor the kind of composition he speaks of. [section 30] So that either they are straightaway separate, or, once what lay in front has been turned away, one set of things is carried apart from another, separately from each other — but rather they are so composed and arranged that, whatever is mixed alongside whatever else, a part of it is mixed in, in such a way that they are not taken up as merely juxtaposed but as mixed, and it has no parts of any kind whatsoever. For since there is no smallest body, every part is mixed with every part, and likewise so is the whole. [part Zenon] ON ZENO. [section 1] He says it is impossible, if something is, for it to have come to be — saying this with reference to the god. For what has come to be must necessarily have come to be either from things like it or from things unlike it. But neither is possible. For it is no more fitting for a like thing to be begotten by a like thing than to beget it (since all the same properties belong reciprocally to things that are equal or alike to one another); nor could an unlike thing come to be from an unlike thing.
13| [section 2] For if the stronger came to be from the weaker, or the greater from the less, or the better from the worse, or conversely the worse from the better, then what is not would have come to be from what is—which is impossible. For this reason, then, god is eternal. And if god is the strongest of all things, he says it follows that he is one. [section 3] For if there were two or even more, he would no longer be the strongest and best of all. For each god among the many, being similar to the rest, would be of that same sort. But this is what it is to be god and to have the power of god—to rule and not to be ruled—while everything else is a thing ruled. So that, to the extent that something is not the stronger, to that extent it is not god. [section 4] If, then, there were several, and some were stronger than others and some weaker, they would not be gods; for it is the nature of god not to be ruled. And if they were equal, god would not have the nature that requires him to be strongest; for the equal is neither better nor worse than its equal. So that, if god exists and is of this sort, god is one alone. For neither could he do all that he might wish, if there were more than one.
14| [section 5] For if there were several, no one of them could be the only one. And being one, he is similar in every way, seeing and hearing, and having the other senses in every part. For if not, the parts of god, being parts, would rule and be ruled by one another—which is impossible. And being similar in every way, he is spherical; for he is not of this sort in one place and not in another, but in every way. And being eternal and one and spherical, he is neither unlimited nor limited. What is unlimited is what is not; for this has neither a middle nor a beginning and end nor any other part, and such is the unlimited. But what is not, being of this sort, could not be what is, and things would come to limit one another if they were several. [section 7] The one is similar neither to what is not nor to the many; for the one has nothing against which it will come to a limit. And the one, being of this sort—which he says god is—neither moves nor is movable. For what is not is unmoved; for neither could anything else come into it, nor could it go into anything else, [section 8] while what is more than one moves. For one thing must move into another. Now into what is not, nothing could move; for what is not is nowhere at all. But if things changed into one another, then what changes would be more than one. For these reasons, then, two things or more than one would move, while what is nothing is at rest and unmoved.
15| [section 9] The one neither rests nor moves; for it is similar neither to what is not nor to the many. And god is in every respect so disposed—eternal and one, similar and spherical, neither unlimited nor limited, neither at rest nor unmoved. [section 1] Now, first of all, this man too assumes, like Melissus, that what comes to be comes to be from what is. Yet what prevents what comes to be from coming to be not from something similar, but from what is not? Further, god is no more ungenerated than everything else, if indeed everything has come to be from something similar or from something dissimilar—which is impossible. [section 2] So that either nothing exists besides god, or all the other things are eternal too. Further, he assumes that god is strongest, calling this the most powerful and the best. But this is not the common belief; rather, according to custom the gods are held to be superior to one another in many ways. So he has not taken this admission about god from what is generally believed. [section 3] And in saying that god is strongest, he is not to be understood as meaning that god's nature is of this sort relative to something else, but relative to his own condition, since with respect to another there would be nothing to prevent his surpassing them not by his own excellence and strength, but through the weakness of the others.
16| [section 4] No one would want to say that god is strongest in this sense, but rather that he himself is in the best condition possible, and that nothing is lacking to him, and that he fares well and finely; for perhaps, for one so disposed, that other thing would follow at the same time. And nothing prevents there being several gods disposed in this way, all disposed as well as possible, and strongest in relation to other things, without being strongest in relation to one another. [section 5] But there are, it seems, other points too. He says god is strongest, and this must belong to someone in some respect; but it is in no way fitting that, being one, he see and hear all things; for it is not that, if he does not also see in this direction, he sees worse in this direction—rather, he simply does not see there. But perhaps what he means by ‘perceiving in every direction’ is that he would thereby be in the best condition, being similar in every way. [section 6] Further, being of this sort, why would he be spherical, rather than having some other shape, on the ground that he hears in every direction and rules in every direction? For just as when we say that white lead is entirely white, we mean nothing other than that whiteness is worked into it in all its parts—so what prevents ‘seeing, hearing, and ruling in every direction’ from being said in the same way there too, meaning that whatever part of it one takes, that part will be found to have this attribute? And just as white lead need not for this reason be spherical, neither must god be spherical for this reason,
17| [section 7] Further, how is it possible for a thing to be neither unlimited nor limited, if it is indeed a body and has magnitude—if this is what unlimited means: that which has no limit while being receptive of a limit? A limit arises in magnitude and in multitude, and in every quantity, so that if a thing having magnitude has no limit, it is unlimited. Further, being spherical, it must necessarily have a limit. [section 8] For it has extremities, if indeed it has a middle, this being the point most distant from those extremities. And it has a middle, being spherical; for this is what ‘spherical’ means—that which reaches from the middle equally to the extremities. A body has extremities or limits; this is where it differs from what is not. For even if what is not is simple, it does not follow that what is, is unlimited. [section 9] For what prevents some of the same things being said both of what is and of what is not? For no one now perceives what is as not being, and likewise someone might not now perceive what is not as being; yet both are speakable, so that they may be thought. [section 10] What is not, is not white; if, then, for this reason all existing things are white—so that we may not signify the same thing of what is and of what is not—then nothing prevents some existing thing from not being white either. Could the unlimited, in the same way, also admit some other negation? Unless, rather, as was said before, everything is unlimited by not having a limit, rather than by not having it in some other sense.
18| [section 11] So that what is, too, either is unlimited or has a limit. But perhaps it is also strange to attach unlimitedness to what is not. For we do not call everything unlimited that has no limit, just as we would not say that what is not is unequal either. Further, god would not have a limit by being one—but not a limit relative to another god. And if there is only one thing, then only god and the parts of god would exist. [section 12] Since this too is strange: that because it happens that the many are limited in relation to one another, the one should for this reason have no limit. For many of the same things belong both to the many and to the one, since being too is common to them. It would perhaps be strange, then, if for this reason we should refuse to say that god exists, on the ground that the many exist, so that he not be similar to them in this respect. [section 13] Further, what prevents god, being one, from being limited and having limits? As Parmenides too says that, being one, he is on every side like the mass of a well-rounded sphere, evenly balanced from the middle. For a limit must perhaps belong to something, yet not in relation to something else; nor is it necessary that what has a limit have its limit in relation to something, as being limited in relation to what is not adjacent to it as unlimited—rather, to be limited is to have extremities, and having extremities does not necessarily mean having them in relation to something.
19| [section 14] For some it does not follow that the whole is also limited. Again, regarding the claim that the one and being are unmoved — namely that being too is in motion — this is perhaps just as absurd as the points made before. [section 15] And further, might one not suppose that 'not being in motion' and 'being unmoved' are not the same thing, but rather that the one is a negation of being in motion — like 'not equal,' which can also be said of what does not exist, if that is true — while the other, 'unmoved,' is already said in the sense of possessing some positive character, like 'unequal,' and applies to the opposite of being in motion, namely being at rest, since, roughly speaking, negations formed with the alpha-privative are said of contraries? [section 16] So 'not moving' is true of what does not exist, but 'being at rest' does not belong to what does not exist. Likewise, 'being unmoved' does not signify the same thing either. But this man uses 'being at rest' of it, and says that what does not exist is at rest, because it has no transition. [section 17] And, as we also said above, it is perhaps absurd that, if we attach something to what does not exist, this should not be true to say of what exists too — especially when what is said is a negation, of the sort that 'not moving' and 'not changing' are. For otherwise, as was also said, he would be stripping away many of the predicates that belong to the things that exist.
20| [section 18] For it would not even be true to say that 'many' is 'not one,' if what does not exist is also 'not one' — or rather, in some cases the contraries seem to result according to just as many negations: of these, if there is a plurality, it must be either equal or unequal, and if there is a number, it must be either even or odd. Likewise, if there is a body, it must be either at rest or in motion. [section 19] Further, if it is for this reason that god and the one do not move — namely, that the many move by passing into one another — what prevents god too from moving into something else? For no other reason, except that there is only one god. But if he too is composite, what prevents the parts of ... moving into one another ... in a circle ... god? For surely such a thing is not one, in the way Zeno says the many exist by nature. [section 20] For he himself says that god is a body, whether calling it this whole universe, or whatever else he calls it. For being bodiless, how could it be spherical and remain so, when in that case it could neither move nor be at rest, since it would be nowhere at all? But since it is a body, what would prevent it from moving, as has been said?
21| [part Georg] On Gorgias. [section 1] He says that nothing exists; and if it exists, it is unknowable; and even if it exists and is knowable, still it cannot be shown to others. And as to the claim that nothing exists, he puts together what has been said by others — all those who, in speaking about the things that exist, appear to declare, as they think, contrary conclusions: some, that being is one and not many; others, on the contrary, that it is many and not one; and some, that things are ungenerated, others demonstrating that they are generated — and from both sides he constructs his syllogism. [section 2] For he says it is necessary: if anything exists, it must be either one or many, either ungenerated or generated; if it is neither one nor many, neither ungenerated nor generated, then it would be nothing at all, for if a thing did not exist, it would have to be one or the other of these. That it is neither one nor many, neither ungenerated nor generated, he attempts to show, partly in the manner of Melissus, partly in the manner of Zeno, after his own first demonstration, in which he argues that neither being nor not-being exists. [section 3] For if not-being is not-being, then what does not exist would be no less than what exists; for what does not exist is not-being, and what exists is being, so that things are no more such as to exist than such as not to exist.
22| [section 4] But if nevertheless not-being exists, he says, then being is not its opposite. For if not-being exists, then being [or] not-being ought to belong to it as well. So it would not follow, he says, even in this way, that nothing exists — unless being and not-being are the same thing. But if they are the same, then in this way too nothing would exist; for what does not exist does not exist, and neither does what exists, since it is the same as what does not exist. This, then, is the same argument as Melissus's. [section 1] But it does not follow from anything he has said that nothing exists. For as to the points he actually demonstrates, he argues as follows: if not-being exists, or is, then, to put it simply, it would also be similar to what does not exist. But this neither appears to be so, nor is it necessary; rather, as with two things, one existing and one not existing, the one exists, and it is not true of the other, of what does not exist, that it exists. [section 2] So it is not the case, on account of its not existing, that both being and not-being fail to exist, nor that one or the other of the two fails to exist. For nothing, he says, would distinguish not-being from being, if not-being too were something. No one, he says, holds that not-being exists in any way at all. But even if what does not exist is indeed not-being, still in this way what does not exist would not be similar to what exists; for the one is not-being, while the other exists as well.
23| [section 3] But if it is also true, simply put, that not-being exists — which would indeed be astonishing — well, if this is so, which follows more, that all things exist, or that they do not exist? For, in this way at least, the opposite seems to result. For if not-being exists and being exists as being, then all things exist; for both the things that exist and the things that do not exist, exist. For it is not necessary, if not-being exists, that being should also not exist. [section 4] If, then, one grants even this — that not-being exists but being does not exist — still, things would exist no less; for the things that do not exist would exist, according to his own account. And if being and not-being are the same, then in this way too it is no more the case that something would not [be]. For as he himself also says, if not-being and being are the same, then both being does not exist, and so does not-being. [section 5] So that, turned around, one can equally say that nothing exists, as that all things exist. For not-being exists, and being exists, so that all things exist. After this argument he says: if it exists, it must be either ungenerated or generated. And if it is ungenerated, he takes it to be unlimited, on Melissus's postulates; but what is unlimited could never exist.
24| [section 6] For it would be neither in itself nor in another; for in that way there would be two things or more, the thing contained and that in which it is contained — but being nowhere, it would not exist either, according to Zeno's argument about place. For these reasons, then, it is not ungenerated; but neither, indeed, is it generated. For nothing could come to be, either from what exists or from what does not exist. [section 7] For if what exists changed, then what exists would no longer exist, just as, if what does not exist came to be, it would no longer be what does not exist. Nor, indeed, could it come to be from what exists. For if what does not exist does not exist, then nothing could come to be from nothing; and if what does not exist does exist, then for the same reasons it could not come to be from what exists, it could not come to be from what does not exist either. [section 8] If, then, it is necessary that, if anything exists, it must be either ungenerated or generated, and it is impossible for it to be either of these, then nothing could exist. Further, he says, if it exists, it is either one or many; but if it is neither one nor many, it would be nothing. And as for being one ... also that the one would be bodiless, or else caught up in Zeno's argument. But if it is one, it could not ... be, nor not ... nor many.
25| [section 9] For if it is neither one nor many, he says, it could not have moved either. For it could move in no respect; or it would no longer exist, or it would remain in the same condition — but the one state would not exist, and the other, not existing, would have come to be. Further, it either causes motion or is moved, and if it is transferred while not being continuous, what-is has been divided, and is nothing in that respect; so that it moves in every part, it is divided in every part. [section 10] But if this is so, all things do not exist. For, he says, at the point where it has been divided, what-is is deficient, calling the being-divided the void instead of the void, just as is written in the arguments called those of Leucippus. If, then, it is nothing, the demonstrations declare everything to be so. For what is thought must exist, and what is not, if indeed it is not, must not even be thought. [section 11] But if this is so, no one would say there is any falsehood, not even if he should say that chariots race on the sea. For all these things would then exist. For indeed the things seen and heard exist for this reason, that each of them is thought; but if not for this reason, then, just as the things we see are no more existent than not, so too the things we see are no more real than the things we think. [section 12] For just as there many might see these things, so here many of us might think these things. So then, more things are of this sort, but which are the true ones is unclear. So that even if things exist, to us at least the things are unknowable.
26| [section 13] But even if they are knowable, how, he says, could one make them clear to another? For what one has seen, how, he says, could one state this in speech? Or how could it become clear to that other person on hearing it, if he has not seen it? For just as sight does not know sounds, so too hearing does not hear colors, but sounds; and the one speaking speaks, but conveys neither color nor the thing itself. [section 14] So what someone does not conceive, how could he ask to conceive it from another by speech or by some sign of a different thing — unless, on the one hand, by having seen a color, and on the other by ⟨…⟩ ; for from the start it does not speak but perceives color, but rather an account, but rather an account, so that it is not possible to think a color, but only to see it, nor to think a sound, but only to hear it. [section 15] But even if this is granted, the speaker both knows it and recognizes it as he speaks. But how will the hearer conceive the same thing? For it is not possible for the same thing to be at once in several separate subjects; for then the one would be two. [section 16] But even if, he says, it were in several and remained the same, nothing prevents it from appearing not alike to them, since those subjects are not in every way alike, even being in the same condition — if they were in some such state, and yet were not two. And it is evident that not even a person himself perceives things alike as himself at the same time, but perceives different things by hearing and by sight, and differently now and formerly.
27| [section 17] So that it would hardly be that anyone perceives the whole same thing as another. Thus it is not the case — even if there is some one thing that is known — that anyone could make it clear to another, both because things are not expressible in speech, and because no one conceives the same thing as another. But all these puzzles, in this way too, belong to other, older thinkers, so that these must also be examined in the inquiry concerning those.
1| ON BREATH.
2| What is the persistence of the innate breath, and what is its growth? For we see that it becomes greater and stronger both with change of age and with the condition of the body. Or, as with the other parts, this happens by something being added. Nourishment is added to ensouled things, so we must consider what this nourishment is and where it comes from. There are two ways by which it occurs: either through breathing, or through the concoction that comes with the taking in of food, as with the other parts. Of these, one might think it seems no less to be not this way through nourishment: for body is nourished by body, and breath is a body. What then is the way? Clearly, by a kind of drawing and concoction from the vein. For blood is the final nourishment, and it is the same for all things. So then, just as it takes nourishment into its own vessel, so also it takes nourishment into what is contained, for the sake of the heat. Air conducts this, producing the activity, and by adding the power of concoction to itself, it grows and nourishes itself. There is perhaps nothing strange in this itself, but rather in the claim that it first came to be from nourishment. For what is connatural with the soul is purer — unless one should also say that the soul comes to be later, once the seeds are differentiated and come into their nature. And if it is a residue of all nourishment, by what route is this sent off? Not by exhalation, for that is not reasonable, since it takes in again immediately. It remains, then, clear that it is through the passages of the windpipe. What is excreted is either finer or coarser. Either way it is strange, if this is to be the purest of all things. And if coarser, there will have to be some larger passages. And if it takes in and sends out through the same passages, this itself is unreasonable and strange. This, then, is roughly the account of growth and persistence from nourishment.
3| The growth from breathing, as Aristogenes thinks (for he thinks that breath too, once concocted, is nourishment — not the air within the breath; and that this is distributed into the vessels, while the residue is sent out again) has more difficulties. For by what is the concoction performed? It is likely by the breath itself, as with the other cases. But this itself is strange, if it does not differ from the air outside; for in that case it would be the heat that does the concocting. And indeed it is also reasonable that it is coarser, mixed as it is with moisture from the vessels and from the mass of the body as a whole, so that the concoction would tend toward the bodily. But that the residue, if it comes about, is finer, is not plausible. The speed of the concoction is also unreasonable. For exhalation follows immediately after inhalation. What then is it that changes and alters so quickly? One would suppose it is above all the heat, and perception bears this out: for the exhaled breath is warm. Further, if what is concocted is in the lung and the windpipe, then the power of the heat is in these — but this is not what they say; rather, they say that the nourishment is heated in the motion of the breath. And if it draws the nourishment in from something else, as it were, or receives it from what moves it, this is more astonishing still.
4| At the same time, this is also not itself the first mover. Further, breathing reaches only as far as the lung, as they themselves say, while the innate breath extends through the whole. And if it is distributed from this both to the lower parts and to the others, how is the concoction so quick? For this is more astonishing still and a greater difficulty, since it does not send the air down to the lower parts immediately once concocted. And yet this would seem necessary, given that the concoction occurs in the lung, and the lower parts too share in the breathing. What follows is thus even greater and more paradoxical: the concoction occurs, as it were, only by a kind of passage and contact. This too is unreasonable, and still more so, if the account of the nourishment and of the residue is the same. And if it is through some other of the internal parts, the same accounts apply as before — unless one should say this: that a residue does not occur from all nourishment, nor in all cases, just as it does not for plants either, since it is not possible to get one from each of the parts of the body either. But if not, at least not from every part. But perhaps the growth of the vessels is the same as that of the other parts, and as these widen and separate, more air flows in and out.
5| But if there is something necessary present in it, this very thing is what is being sought — what the natural amount is, and how it becomes greater in a healthy way; from this it would become clear. But for creatures that do not breathe, what is the nourishment of the innate breath, and what is its growth? For it is no longer from outside for these. But if it is from the internal parts and the common nourishment, this is reasonable for them too; for like things come from the same things, and in the same way. Unless, then, for these too it is from outside, just as they also perceive smells. But in that case a kind of breathing occurs. About this one might well raise a difficulty as to whether it is really so, both putting forward this very point and the drawing-in of nourishment (for there is a drawing of breath at the same time), and further disputing on the score of cooling, on the ground that these creatures too need it. And if it occurs in them through the diaphragm, then clearly the entry of air is by this route too, so that it is something like breathing. Except that it is not determined what the drawing is, and by what. Or if it is not a drawing, how does entry occur? Unless, then, it happens automatically. This, then, is itself also a matter for separate consideration. But for water-creatures, what is the nourishment and growth of the innate breath?
6| For apart from the fact that they do not breathe, we also say that there is no air present at all in the moist element. It remains, then, that it is through nourishment — either not in the same way for all, or these water-creatures too grow through nourishment; for one of these three must be the case. This, then, is our account concerning the growth and nourishment of breath.
7| Concerning breathing, some do not say for the sake of what it occurs, but only the way in which it occurs — Empedocles and Democritus, for instance; others do not even say the way at all, but treat it as something obvious. But it is necessary to make clear this very point too: whether it is for the sake of cooling. For if the heat is in the upper parts, it would no longer need cooling in the lower parts. But the innate breath extends through the whole, and its starting point is from the lung. And it seems that breathing too is distributed into all the parts by continuity, so that this must be shown not to be so. And it is strange if it does not need some motion and, as it were, nourishment. But if it breathes through to everything, it would no longer be for the sake of cooling. And indeed the distribution is, besides, imperceptible, as is its speed. And again, the matter of the ebb-and-flow, if it is indeed from all the parts, is astonishing, unless it happens in some other way from the extremities. The primary and proper ebb-and-flow is from the region around the heart. In many cases the relation of actualities and potentialities is like this. It is strange, all the same, if it is also distributed into the bone; for indeed they say this too comes from the arteries. For this reason, as has been said, we must inquire concerning breathing — both for the sake of what, and in which parts, and how. Further, the conveyance of nourishment does not appear in all cases to occur through arteries, for instance to the vessels themselves and to certain other parts; yet plants live and are nourished. These matters, however, belong more properly to the discussion of nourishment.
8| Since there are three motions of the breath in the windpipe — respiration, pulse, and a third, the one that draws in and processes nutriment — we must speak about each: where it occurs, how, and for the sake of what. Of these, the motion of the pulse is evident even to perception, to those touching any part whatever; the motion of respiration is evident up to a point, but for the most part known by reasoning; the motion of nutriment is, so to speak, entirely known by reasoning, though from what happens it is also grasped by perception. Respiration, then, clearly has its principle from within — whether we should call this a capacity of soul, or soul itself, or some other mixture of bodies which of itself produces such a drawing. The nutritive motion would seem to derive from respiration; for this is given back in return, and resembles the true motion. But if not, the body evens everything out in its timing by such motion. Or, if the simultaneity makes no difference, all the parts must be examined. The pulse is something peculiar, distinct from these — in one respect it might seem to be accidental, if indeed, whenever there is an abundance of heat in moisture, what is turned to vapor must, because it is trapped within, produce a pulse; but it seems present at the origin and first, if indeed it is innate in the first parts —
9| for it is in the heart most of all and first, and from there it passes to the other parts as well. Perhaps this necessarily accompanies the underlying substance of the animal, arising from its activity. A sign that the pulse has nothing to do with respiration: whether someone breathes rapidly or evenly, forcefully or gently, the pulse remains alike and the same; rather, its irregularity and intensification occur in certain bodily affections and in the soul's fears, hopes, and agonies. Whether the pulse is also present in the arteries, and whether, being the same in rhythm, it is regular, must be examined; it does not, at least, resemble that in the parts far removed. It appears least of all to occur for the sake of something, as has been said. For, on the other hand, respiration and the intake of nutriment — whether as wholly distinct from one another or as one related to the other — appear to occur for the sake of something and to have some rational account. But of the three, is it reasonable that the pulsatile and the respiratory motions come first? For nutriment belongs to what already exists. Or not? For breathing occurs once the creature has been released from the one carrying it, while the influx and nourishment occur both while it is being formed and once it has been formed; but the pulse occurs immediately at the beginning, as the heart is being formed, as is evident in eggs.
10| So this — the pulse — is first, and it seems to belong to some activity and not to a trapping of breath, unless indeed this trapping contributes to the activity. The breath from respiration is carried into the stomach — not through the gullet (for this is impossible) — but there is a passage alongside the loin, through which the breath is carried by respiration from the gill into the stomach and out again; this is evident to perception. The matters concerning perception also present a difficulty. For if only the windpipe perceives, is it by the breath passing through it, or by its bulk, or by its body? Or, if air is the first thing subject to the soul, is it by the more authoritative and prior thing? What, then, is the soul? They say it is the capacity that is the cause of such motion. But clearly one would not be right to censure those who speak of the calculative part and the spirited part; for they too speak of them as capacities. But if indeed the soul is in this air, this air being common, or being affected somehow and altered, then reasonably the soul, being ensouled, would be carried toward its kindred, and like grows by like. Or not? For the whole is not air, but air is something contributing to this capacity — or rather, it is not the thing that produces this capacity; and what produced it is the principle and the underlying basis.
11| In creatures that do not breathe, it is so that the internal breath remains unmixed with what is outside. Or is that not so, but rather it is mixed in some other way? What, then, is the difference between the breath in the windpipe and the breath outside? It is reasonable that they differ, and perhaps necessarily so, in fineness. But further, is it hot in its own right, or by something else? For the internal breath appears just like the external; but it is helped by cooling. Which is it, then? Outside it is mild, but once enclosed as breath, it is as if condensed and distributed in some way. Or must it necessarily take on some admixture, since it moves about amid moisture and bodily masses? It is not, then, the finest, if indeed it is mixed. And yet it is reasonable that the first receptacle of soul — unless indeed the soul too is of such a kind, and not something pure and unmixed — is the windpipe alone, which is receptive of breath, and not the sinew. They differ also in that the sinew has tension, while the windpipe tears easily, as does the vein too. The skin is composed of vein, sinew, and windpipe — of vein, because when pricked it gives off blood; of sinew, because it has tension; of windpipe, because it has the capacity for transpiration. For the windpipe alone is receptive of breath. The veins have passages, in which the heat, being present as though in a forge, heats the blood —
12| for the blood is not by nature hot, but is melted down like fusible substances; hence the windpipe also solidifies, and has moisture both in itself and in the coats that surround its cavity. This is evident both from dissections, and from the fact that both the veins and the windpipes connect into the intestine and into the stomach — vessels which it is likely draw in the nourishment. From the veins the nourishment is distributed into the flesh, not through the sides but through the mouth of the vessel, as though through pipes. For from the great vein and the windpipe, along each rib, fine little veins stretch out from the lateral veins, and windpipe and vein lie alongside each other; and the sinews and veins attach to the bones both at their midpoints and at the joints of their heads, through which fish receive their nourishment and breathe; and if they did not breathe, they would die immediately once taken out of the water. That the veins and windpipes connect into one another is also evident to perception. This would not happen unless the moist needed breath and breath needed moisture, since heat exists in sinew, windpipe, and vein — but the heat in the sinew is the hottest and, as it were, most vein-like.
13| It would be strange, then, for heat to occupy the place of breath, especially since that place exists for the sake of cooling. But if heat produces something and, as it were, rekindles heat by heat, this could happen. Further, for all things possessing innate heat, its persistence is in some way natural, so long as nothing opposes or cools it. That all things need cooling is nearly evident from the fact that the blood in the vein holds in the heat as though sealing it off; hence, whenever the blood flows out, the heat is released and the creature dies, because the liver has no windpipe at all.
14| Is the seed carried through the windpipe, as also being compressed, and is this true only at the moment of emission? In these creatures the transformation from blood also appears to occur through the fact that the sinews are nourished from the bones; for they attach to them. Or is this not even true? For there is a sinew in the heart too, and yet the sinews are attached from the bones. It does not connect at another point, but terminates in flesh. But this proves nothing; for the nourishment could just as well come from the bone. Rather, the bones themselves get their nourishment from the sinew. For this too would be strange, the bone being by nature dry and not having moist passages; but nourishment is moist. We must examine, if indeed the sinew is nourished from the bones, what the nourishment of the bone itself is — or whether passages carry it into the bone both from the vein and from the windpipe. In many places these passages are quite evident, especially into the spine. Those from the bones are continuous, as in the case of the ribs; but in what way these come from the stomach, or how the drawing takes place. Or is it that most bones are cartilage-free, as the spine is — but this is not for the sake of motion, but for the sake of connection.
15| But we must also know, if bone is nourished from sinew, what nourishes the sinew. We say it is from the moisture around it, which is viscous. We must say where this moisture comes from and how. The claim that flesh comes from vein and artery, on the ground that blood comes out everywhere when the body is pricked, is false, at least in the case of other animals — birds, snakes, fish, and egg-laying animals generally. This is peculiar to animals rich in blood, since even in small birds, when the breast is cut, what appears is serum, not blood. Empedocles says the nail comes from sinew by solidification. Is skin related to flesh in the same way, then? But in shell-covered animals and soft-shelled animals, how does nourishment come from outside? For the opposite seems rather to be the case — that it comes more from within than from outside. Further, what is the passage from the stomach, and by what means does it occur? And again, the conversion of these into flesh, unaccountable though it is. For this appears something quite astonishing, and altogether impossible. Is it, then, that different animals have different nourishment, and blood is not the nourishment for all — except that the rest come from this?
16| We must therefore examine the nature of bones either in relation to motion or to support, and to covering and enclosing, and further, whether some serve as starting-points, as the pole does. I mean, in relation to motion — of foot, hand, leg, or elbow — both bending motion and locomotion alike; for locomotion is not possible without bending either. And support, too, lies more or less in these same bones. As for covering and enclosing: for instance, the bones in the head enclose the brain, and — for those who hold that marrow is a starting-point — enclose the marrow as well. The ribs serve the function of enclosing. The spine is both a starting-point and a fixed part, from which the ribs too extend for enclosure. For there must necessarily be something of this sort, since everything that moves does so from something at rest. And at the same time there must also be that for the sake of which motion occurs. In this connection some indeed place the starting-point in both the spinal marrow and the brain. And besides these, there are bones for the sake of joining and enclosing, such as the collarbone — whence perhaps also its name. And each is well suited to its use. For bending would not occur, neither of the whole nor of the parts, without such bones as these — the spine, the foot, the elbow.
17| For the bending must be inward, for the sake of use. And likewise that of the foot and of the other joints must be of this kind too. Everything is for the sake of something, including the bones within these joints — for instance the bone in the elbow, for the sake of the rotation of the elbow and the hand. For we would not be able to move the hand prone and supine without this bone, nor to raise and bend the feet, unless there were two such bones involved in the motion. In the same way the other cases must be examined too — for instance the motion of the neck, and whether its bone is one single bone. We must also consider whatever bones serve for grasping or for binding together, such as the kneecap at the knee — but also why other joints do not have one. Now all the bones that serve motion do so together with sinews, but perhaps especially those most concerned with practical action, such as those around the elbow, legs, hands, and feet. The others serve for the sake of binding, wherever it is needed. For in some cases perhaps there is none, or only a little — the spine, for instance — and yet there is bending. For indeed the bonding of the vertebrae to one another is by serum and a mucous moisture. And some bones are also bound together by sinews, such as those around the joints.
18| For all these matters there is a better account, such as we are now seeking; but we must examine the starting-points sufficiently, and for the sake of what they exist. It would not seem that the bones exist for the sake of motion, but rather the sinews, or their analogue, in which the motive breath is present first, since even the stomach moves, and the heart has sinews; but these are not present in all animals, only in some, and it is necessary that they also have sinews for this kind of motion, or else for [text breaks off] — for the octopus walks only a little, and badly. For we must take this as a starting-point: that either it belongs to all, or it exists for the sake of something else — but in relation to each animal's own proper motion, feet belong to land-animals; and of these, two belong to the upright ones, but more to those entirely upon the ground, whose matter is more earthy and colder. And it is possible for some to be entirely footless. For flying creatures move by force in this way, having wings, and the form of these is proper to their nature. And these differ between the more strongly-flying and the shorter-winged. They have feet for the sake of feeding and for rising up, except the bat — which is why its food too comes from the air. And it has no need of rest; for they do not need it by any other means. The shelled water-animals are somewhat-footed because of their weight. These, then, serve for change of place. As for whatever serves other uses, the inquiry itself indicates the particular features of each, including whatever is not obvious — for instance, why the many-footed creatures are the slowest, even though the four-footed are faster than the two-footed: is it because their whole bodies lie close upon the ground? Or because they are cold by nature and hard to move? Or for some other cause?
19| Those who deny that heat is what is at work in bodies, or who hold that the cutting motion and power of fire is some single, uniform thing, are not speaking correctly. For indeed it does not do the same thing to all inanimate things alike; rather, it condenses some, rarefies and melts others, and solidifies others. In the case of ensouled things, then, we must suppose it works in just this way, thinking of the fire of nature by analogy with that of craft. For indeed in the crafts too, the goldsmith's fire produces a different result from the bronzesmith's and the carpenter's, and so does the cook's fire. But perhaps it is truer to say it is the crafts that do this; for they use fire as an instrument, softening, melting, and drying things, and some also giving them shape. And natures do this same thing too — which is indeed the source of their differences from one another. So it is absurd to judge the matter by looking only at what is external. For whether being heated and set afire is a separating, or a thinning, or whatever else it may be, the results will differ according to those that make use of it. But the crafts use it as an instrument, whereas nature uses it at once also as matter. This part is not the difficult one; rather, the difficult thing is to grasp in thought the nature itself that makes use of it, which, along with the perceptible affections, will also account for the resulting form. For this is no longer a matter of fire, nor of breath.
20| That such a power should be mixed in with these is astonishing. And this same astonishing thing holds also concerning the soul; for it is present in these. For this reason it is not wrong to hold that the same thing — whether the soul as a whole, or some part of it — is what does the making, and that the motion, being always alike, constitutes an actuality; for so too does nature, from which coming-to-be also proceeds. But then what is the difference between the heat in each particular case? Whether we take it as instrument, or as matter, or as both. For the differences among fires are a matter of more and less. And this is more or less as in mixture and non-mixture; for the purer fire is more so. And the same account holds also for the other simple bodies. For necessarily, since the bone and flesh of a horse are different from those of an ox, they must differ either by being composed of different materials or by their use. If, then, they are different materials, what are the differences of each of the simple bodies, and which are they? For these are what we are seeking. But if they are the same materials, they would differ in their ratios of mixture. For necessarily it is one or the other of two options, just as in other cases: the blend of wine and honey differs because of the underlying ingredients, whereas differences within wine itself, if indeed there are differences, are because of the ratio. This is why, for Empedocles too, the cause of the nature of bone is a simple one: since if all bones have the same ratio of mixture, then those of horse, lion, and man ought to be indistinguishable.
21| But as things stand, it differs in hardness, softness, density, and the rest. Likewise flesh too, and the other parts. Further, the parts within the same animal differ in density and looseness and the rest, so that the blend is not the same. For being quick and fine and large and small would belong to quantity, while being hard and dense, and their opposites, belong to the quality of the mixture. But those who speak this way must know how the thing that produces this could be different. And yet this is a matter of more or less, both in what exists in its own right and in what is mixed in, or else of being fired within something else, the way things that are boiled and roasted are. And this is perhaps true: for the agent is mixed in at the same time and produces the effect that belongs to nature. So the same account holds for flesh as well; for the differentiae are the same. And much the same holds for vein and artery and the rest. So one of two things follows: either the account of these is not single with respect to the mixture, or the accounts must not be taken in terms of hardness and density and their opposites.
1| From Aristotle's On Signs [section 1] BOREAS (the North Wind). At Mallus this wind is called Pagreus; for it blows from great cliffs and twin mountains lying alongside one another, which are called the Pagrica. At Caunus it is called Meses. At Rhodes it is called Caunias; for it blows from Caunus, troubling their harbor, the Acania. At Olbia, the one near Mygalus in Pamphylia, it is called Gaureus; for it blows from an island called Gauris. Some think this wind is Boreas, among them the Lyrnantians who live near Phaselis. CAECIAS. At Lesbos this wind is called Thebanas; for it blows from the plain of Thebe above the Elaitic gulf of Mysia, and it troubles the harbor of the Mytilenaeans, and especially the Maloeis; but among the Aicaniae it is what others take to be Boreas. APELIOTES. At Tripolis in Phoenicia this wind is called Potameus, and it blows from a plain like a great threshing-floor, enclosed by Lebanon and Mount Bapyrus; and it is for this reason called Potameus. It troubles the Poseidonium. [section 4] In the Issic gulf and around Rhosus it is called Syriandus; for it blows from the Syrian Gates, which the Taurus and the Taurosian mountains stand apart to form. In the Tripolitan gulf it is called Marseus, from the village of Marsus. At Proconnesus, at Teos, in Crete, in Euboea, and at Cyrene it is called Hellespontias.
2| [section 5] It troubles most of all Caphereus in Euboea and the Cyrenaean harbor called Apollonia; for it blows from the Hellespont. At Sinope it is called Berecyntias, blowing from the region of Phrygia. In Sicily it is called Cataporthmias, blowing from the strait. Some think this wind is Caecias, calling it Thebanas. [section 6] EURUS. At Aegae in Syria this wind is called Scopeleus, from the Rhosian headland; at Cyrene it is called Carbas, from the Carbanians of Phoenicia, and for this reason some also call the same wind Phoenicias. There are also those who take it to be Apeliotes. [section 7] ORTHONOTUS. Some call this wind Eurus, others Amneas. Notus, by contrast, is called by the same name among everyone; the name comes from its being productive of sickness; abroad it is called Catombros, but under either name it is Notus. Leuconotus likewise: its name comes from what happens with it, for the sky whitens. . . . [section 8] LIPS. This wind too takes its name from Libya, whence it blows. ZEPHYR. This wind too has its name from blowing out of the west. Now the west . . . IAPYX. At Tarentum this wind is called Scylletinus, from the place Scylletium. In the region of Horaleon in Phrygia. By some it is called Pharangites; for it blows out of a certain ravine near the Pegaeum.
3| [section 9] Among many peoples it is called ARGESTES. THRACIAS: in Thrace it is called Strymonias (for it blows from the river Strymon); in the Megarid it is called Sciron, from the Scironian rocks; in Italy and Sicily it is called Circias, because it blows from Circaeum. [section 10] In Euboea and Lesbos it is called Olympias, the name coming from Pierian Olympus; it troubles the people of Pyrrha. I have also set down for you their positions, how they lie and how they blow, having drawn beneath them a circle of the earth, so that they might be placed before your eyes as well.
1| [book A] [section 1_col1] Goods. He also divided things up in this way, Aristotle says:: of goods, some are in the soul, some in the body, some external. For example, justice and practical wisdom and courage and temperance and things of this kind are in the soul; beauty and good condition and health and strength are in the body; friends and the happiness of one's country and wealth are among the external goods. Goods, therefore, are of three kinds: some are in the soul, some in the body, some external. [section 5_col2] Goods. Goods are divided into three. For of them, some are in the soul, some in the body, some external. Those in the soul are practical wisdom, justice, courage, temperance, and the other things of this kind; those in the body are strength, beauty, health, good condition, and the other things of this kind; those external are friends, wealth, good repute, and the happiness of one's country. Of goods, therefore, some are in the soul, some in the body, some external.
2| [section 2_col1] Friendship. Of friendship there are three kinds: one of it is natural, one is comradely, one is hospitable. We call natural, then, that which parents have toward their offspring and kin toward one another; and the other animals too have been allotted a share of this. We call comradely the friendship that arises from familiarity and belongs to no kinship at all, but is, for example, the friendship of Pylades toward Orestes. Hospitable friendship is that which arises toward strangers from a formal introduction and through letters. Of friendship, therefore, one kind is natural, one comradely, one hospitable; but some add a fourth, the erotic kind. [section 58_col2] Friendship. Friendship is divided into four. For one of it is kinship-friendship, one comradely, one hospitable, one erotic. Kinship-friendship is, for example, that of a father toward his sons and of brothers toward brothers and of the other members of a household; comradely friendship is that in which people who have become friends through familiarity share; hospitable friendship is that which makes people friends through letters and formal introduction; erotic friendship is that which, through desire, provides a sharing in friendship for the fine. [section 3_col1] The Constitution.
3| Of the constitution there are five kinds: one of it is democratic, another aristocratic, a third oligarchic, a fourth kingly, a fifth tyrannical. It is democratic, then, in those cities where the multitude holds power and chooses the offices and the laws through itself; it is aristocracy where neither the rich nor the poor nor the notable rule, but the best men of the city preside over it. It is oligarchy whenever the offices are chosen on the basis of property assessments; for the rich are fewer than the poor. Of kingship, one kind is according to law, the other according to lineage. The kingship at Carthage, then, is according to law; for it is up for purchase. But the kingship in Lacedaemon and Macedonia is according to lineage; for they establish the kingship from a certain family. Tyranny is that in which people are ruled after being deceived or coerced by someone. Of the constitution, therefore, one kind is democracy, one aristocracy, one oligarchy, one kingship, one tyranny. [section 7_col2] The Constitution.
4| The constitution is divided into five. For one part of it is democracy, one aristocracy, one oligarchy, one tyranny, one kingship. Democracy is that in which the multitude of the city holds sway; aristocracy is that in which the strongest lead, not through lineage or wealth but through virtue; oligarchy is that in which certain people, having made the property assessments high, govern on that basis, or, having forced the multitude through a political faction, administer the city; tyranny is that in which someone, having deceived or forced the multitude, administers the city; kingship is when a king, either according to law or according to lineage, administers the affairs of the city. Of the constitution, therefore, one part is democracy, one aristocracy, one oligarchy, one tyranny, one kingship. [section 4_col1] Justice. Of justice there are three kinds: one of it concerns the gods, one concerns human beings, one concerns those who have departed. For those who sacrifice according to the laws and take care of the sacred things clearly show piety toward the gods; those who repay loans and deposits act justly toward human beings; those who take care of tombs clearly show justice toward those who have departed. Of justice, therefore, one kind is toward the gods, one concerns human beings, one concerns those who have departed.
5| [section 4_col2] Justice. Justice is divided into three: one of it is toward god, one toward human beings, one toward those who have departed. Justice toward god is thanksgiving accompanied by piety and the fulfilling of his commandments; justice toward human beings is lawfulness in contracts and in the other matters reckoned as just; justice toward those who have departed is to bury them and to perform the other customary rites for them. Of justice, therefore, one part is toward god, one toward human beings, one toward those who have departed. [section 5_col1] Knowledge. Of knowledge there are three kinds: one is practical, one productive, one theoretical. House-building and shipbuilding are productive; for it is possible to see a finished work of them. Politics and flute-playing and lyre-playing and the like are practical; for it is not possible to see a finished work of them, but rather the people are doing something — the one plays the flute or the lyre, the other engages in politics. Geometry and harmonics and astronomy are theoretical; for their practitioners neither do anything nor produce anything, but the geometer studies how lines stand in relation to one another, the student of harmonics studies pitches, and the astronomer studies the stars and the universe. Of the branches of knowledge, therefore, some are theoretical, some practical, some productive.
6| [section 8_col2] Knowledge. Knowledge is divided into three: one part of it is theoretical, one productive, one practical. Theoretical knowledge is that whose chief business [and] is contemplation, such as geometry and arithmetic and harmonics and the like; productive knowledge is that whose chief business is the completion of a work, such as house-building and statue-making and other things of this kind; practical knowledge is that whose chief business is action, such as medicine and generalship and politics and other things of this kind. Of knowledge, therefore, one part is theoretical, one productive, one practical. [section 6_col1] Medicine. Of medicine there are five kinds: one is pharmaceutical, one surgical, one dietetic, one diagnostic, one first-aid. Pharmaceutical medicine heals illnesses by means of drugs; surgical medicine restores health by cutting and cauterizing; dietetic medicine relieves illness through regulating diet; diagnostic medicine works through recognizing the illness; first-aid medicine relieves pain through giving immediate help. Of medicine, therefore, one kind is pharmaceutical, one surgical, one dietetic, one diagnostic, one first-aid.
7| [section 61_col2] Medicine. Medicine is divided into five: one part of it is pharmaceutical, another surgical, another dietetic, another diagnostic, another therapeutic. Pharmaceutical medicine cures illnesses by means of drugs; surgical medicine 〈heals by cutting and cauterizing; dietetic medicine〉 relieves illness by means of regimen; diagnostic medicine, by knowing the disease, cures the patient in that way; therapeutic medicine heals the sick by means of remedies. [section 7_col1] Law. There are two divisions of law: one part of it is written, the other unwritten. That by which we conduct our public life in cities is written; that which arises from custom is called unwritten — for example, not walking naked in the marketplace, or not putting on a woman's cloak. For no law forbids these things, but nevertheless we do not do them, because we are restrained by unwritten law. Of law, then, one part is written, the other unwritten. [section 20_col2] Law. Law is divided into two: one part of it is written, one unwritten. The written is that in accordance with which we transact contracts and settle our other dealings with one another and manage all such matters; the unwritten is that in accordance with which customs grow up and persist in cities.
8| [section 8_col1] Speech. Speech is divided into five, of which one is the kind that those engaged in public affairs use in the assemblies, which is called political; a second division of speech is that which orators write and deliver for display and 〈for the lawcourt, such as〉 encomia and denunciations and accusations 〈and defenses〉... this sort is rhetorical in kind. A third division of speech is that which private individuals converse in with one another; this manner is called private. A further division of speech is that which people who question and answer each other briefly converse in; this speech is called dialectical. A fifth division of speech is that which craftsmen converse in about their own craft; this is called technical. Of speech, then, one part is political, another rhetorical, another private, another dialectical, another technical. [section 16_col2] Speech. Speech is divided into five: one part of it is rhetorical, another political, another dialectical, another technical, another private. The rhetorical is both epideictic and accusatory and defensive; the political is deliberative and hortatory; dialectical is that which briefly makes clear, by questioning, what one intends; technical is that which craftsmen speak concerning each [of the] matters proper to their own craft; private is that which private people speak to one another, conversing day by day.
9| [section 9_col1] Music. Music is divided into three: one part is by the mouth alone, such as song; a second is by the mouth and the hands, such as singing to the lyre; a third is by the hands alone, such as playing the lyre. Of music, then, one part is by the mouth alone, another by the mouth and the hands, another by the hands. [section 60_col2] Music. Music is divided into three: one part of it is the work of the mouth alone, one of the hands and the mouth, one of 〈the hands alone. Now the〉 work of the mouth alone is such as songs and warblings and the like; that of the hands and the mouth is such as choral flute-accompaniment and [flute-playing] and similar things; that of the hands is lyre-playing and the like. [section 10_col1] Good birth.
10| Good birth is divided into four kinds. One: if the ancestors were fine and good and just, those born of them are said to be well-born. Another: if the ancestors held power and had been rulers, those born of them are said to be well-born. Another: if the ancestors were famous — for example from generalship, from crowned contests — for we call those born of them well-born too. A further kind: if a person is himself noble in soul and great-souled, he too is said to be well-born; and this is the best kind of good birth. Of good birth, then, one part is from decent ancestors, another from powerful ones, another from renowned ones, another from the person's own nobility of character. [section 10_col2] Good birth. Good birth is divided into three: one part of it is to be born from renowned and famous parents, such as from kings and rulers [to have been born], or people holding some other reputation; another is from serious and just people, such as from Xenophon and Neilos and the like; another is from the excellence of the person himself, as when he is noble and magnificent and just and the like. Of good birth, then, one part is to be born from renowned and famous ancestors, one from serious and just ones, one from the excellence of the person himself.
11| [section 11_col1] Beauty. Beauty is divided into three: one part of it is praiseworthy, such as fine form seen by sight; another is useful, as an instrument and a house and the like are beautiful for use; and things relating to laws and pursuits and the like are beautiful for benefit. Of beauty, then, one part is for praise, another for use, another for benefit. [section 62_col2] Beauty. Beauty is divided into three: one part of it is praiseworthy, such as fine form seen by sight; another is useful, as an instrument and a house and the like are beautiful for use; and others are for benefit, as a good law and pursuits and the like are beautiful for benefit. [section 12_col1] The soul. The soul is divided into three: one part of it is the rational, another the appetitive, another the spirited. Of these, the rational is the cause of deliberating and reasoning and thinking and all such things; the appetitive part of the soul is the cause of desiring to eat and to have intercourse and all such things; the spirited part is the cause of being confident and feeling pleasure and pain and anger. Of the soul, then, one part is rational, another appetitive, another spirited.
12| [section 1_col2] The soul. The soul is divided into three: one part of it is rational, one spirited, one appetitive. The rational is that by which we reason; the appetitive is that by which we take up our desires; the spirited is that by which we feel spirit and anger and confidence and defend ourselves and the like. Of the soul, then, one part is rational, another spirited, another appetitive. [section 13_col1] Virtue. Of complete virtue there are four kinds: one practical wisdom, another justice, another courage, a fourth temperance. Of these, practical wisdom is the cause of doing things correctly; justice is the cause of acting justly in associations and dealings; courage is the cause of not [fleeing] in dangers and frightening things, but standing firm; temperance is the cause of mastering the appetites and being enslaved by no pleasure, but living in an orderly way. Of virtue, then, one part is practical wisdom, another justice, a third courage, a fourth temperance. [section 2_col2] Virtue. Virtue is divided into four: one part of it is practical wisdom, one justice, one courage, one temperance. Practical wisdom is in the rational part; justice arises in all these parts together; courage is in the spirited part; temperance is in the appetitive part. Of virtue, then, one part is practical wisdom, one justice, one courage, one temperance.
13| [section 14_col1] Rule. Rule is divided into five parts: one is rule by law, one by nature, one by custom, a fourth by lineage, and a fifth by force. Now those who rule in cities, once they have been chosen by the citizens, rule by law; those who rule by nature are, for example, males — not only among human beings but also among the other animals, for in most cases everywhere the males rule the females; rule by custom is of the sort that tutors exercise over children and teachers over their pupils. Rule by lineage is said to be of the sort the Spartan kings exercise, for their kingship comes from a certain lineage. And in Macedonia they rule in the same way, for there too kingship is established from lineage. Those who rule by having used force or deceived people, against the will of the citizens, this sort of rule is said to be by force. Of rule, then, one kind is by law, one by nature, one by custom, one by lineage, one by force.
14| [section 63_51_col2] Rule.
15| Rule is divided into five parts: one is rule by law, one by nature, one by custom, one by lineage, and a fifth by force. Now those who rule in cities, whenever they are chosen by the citizens, these rule by law. Rule by nature exists not only among human beings but also among the other animals, for in most cases everywhere the males of animals rule the females. Rule by custom is of the sort in which tutors rule children and teachers rule their students. Rule by lineage is said to be of the sort in which, when a father who is king dies, a son succeeds him, and again this son's son after him, and so on in succession. And all who rule by having used force, against the will of the citizens, this sort of rule is said to be by force. Rule is divided into three: one part of it is by nature, one by force, one by order and position. By nature, then, the male rules the female, and the stronger rules the weaker, as for example among cattle the bull, among sheep the ram, and all such cases; by force, as for example masters rule slaves and tyrants rule cities, and all such cases; by order and position, as for example whatever is placed first — from this comes the opening of the tragedy, "O ancient Argos," and among the letters alpha, and among numbers the unit.
16| [section 15_col1] Rhetoric. There are six forms of rhetoric. For whenever people urge going to war or forming an alliance with someone, this form is called exhortation; whenever they urge not going to war nor forming an alliance, but keeping the peace, this form is dissuasion. A third form of rhetoric is whenever someone claims to be wronged by another and shows him responsible for many evils; this form is named accusation. A fourth form of rhetoric [is called defense], whenever someone shows that he himself is doing no wrong nor committing any other outrage; this they call defense. A fifth form of rhetoric is whenever someone speaks well of another and shows him to be admirable and good; this form is called encomium. A sixth form is whenever someone shows someone to be base; this form is called blame. Of rhetoric, then, one part is encomium, one blame, one exhortation, one dissuasion, one accusation, one defense. [section 17_col2] Rhetoric. Rhetoric is divided into five: one part of it is accusation, one defense, one deliberation, one encomium, one blame. [section 16_col1] Speaking correctly.
17| Speaking correctly is divided into four: one is what one must say, one is how much one must say, a third is to whom one must speak, and a fourth is when one must speak. Now what one must say is whatever is going to be advantageous to the speaker and to the hearer; how much one must say is neither more nor less than what is sufficient. As to whom one must speak: if you are conversing with older people who are at fault, you must address them in words fitting for older people; and if with younger people, you must speak to them in words fitting for younger people. When one must speak is neither too soon nor too late; otherwise one will miss the mark and speak badly. [section 52_col2] Speaking correctly.
18| Speaking correctly is divided into five: one part of it is how much one must say, one is where one must say, one is to whom one must say, one is when one must say, one is what one must say. Now how much one must say is neither more nor less than what is sufficient; where one must say is in a place, such as in the marketplace, in the gymnasium, in a place of leisurely discussion, and in other proper places; to whom one must speak means what is fitting for each [and what is fitting to whomever it is fitting], for example to older people [or to younger people], and to base or to agreeable people, and to enemies or friends; when one must speak, for example neither too soon nor too late nor in between, without regard for the right moment, but at the opportune time; what one must say, for example what is advantageous and beneficial both to oneself and to one's friend. [section 17_col1] Beneficence.
19| Beneficence is divided into four: it is done either by money, or by bodily aid, or by knowledge, or by speech. By money, whenever someone comes to the aid of a person in need so as to supply him with money; by bodily aid, people benefit others whenever, being present, they come to the aid of those being struck; those who educate and heal and teach some good thing benefit by knowledge; and whenever one person goes into court as an advocate for another and speaks some fair word on his behalf, this person benefits by speech. Of beneficence, then, one kind is through money, one through bodily aid, one through knowledge, and a fourth through speech. [section 44_col2] Beneficence. Beneficence is divided into four: one part of it is to benefit by speech, one by knowledge and skills, one in respect of money, and one through bodily aid. By speech, then, those benefit who act as advocates and join in pleading cases and offer praise, and such people; by knowledge and skill, those who educate and heal and those who produce things useful for life; in respect of money, those who take charge of the [for] use of money; and by bodily aid those benefit who ward off harm and come to the aid of those being struck, and in such mishaps.
20| [section 18_col1] The outcome of things — the causes. The outcome of things is divided into four kinds: things reach their outcome by law, whenever a decree is made and the law brings it to completion; things reach their outcome by nature, such as the day, the year, and the seasons. Things reach their outcome by craft, such as the builder's craft — for one completes a house — and shipbuilding — for one completes ships. Things reach an outcome by chance whenever the result turns out otherwise than one supposes. Of the outcome of things, then, one kind is by law, one by nature, one by craft, one by chance. [section 48_col2] The outcome of things — the causes. Each of the things that are is brought to completion through four causes: either through chance [as being unpredictable though bearing on what is useful], or through knowledge, or through nature, or through force and necessity. Things that come about through chance are what is completed of itself and without forethought; things that come about through knowledge are houses and ships and all such things; things that come about through nature are, for example, human beings and trees and all animals; and through force and necessity, for example, the taming of irrational animals, and their subjugation, and mastery over slaves, and tyrannies, and such things.
21| [section 19_col1] Power. Power is divided into four kinds: one is what we can do by thought, [for example] to reason and to suppose; another is what we can do by the body, such as to walk and to give and to take, and things of that sort; a third is what we can do by a multitude of soldiers and money, from which a king is said to have great power; and the fourth division of power is being acted on and acting well or badly, such as being ill and being educated and becoming healthy and all such things. Power, then, is partly in thought, partly in the body, partly in an army and in money, and partly in acting and being acted on. [section 33_col2] Power. Power is divided into five: for one part of it is in the soul, one in the body, one in actions, one in some things that are not, and one in being acted on or acting. In the soul are the things we learn and think; in the body are, for example, motions and the other powers by which we are able to do something with the body; in actions are, for example, military powers — for a person is said to have great power when money and many soldiers have been gathered together. Among things that are not, power belongs to some of them, namely as many as are capable of coming to be or being made; and in being acted on or acting, as many as are capable of being destroyed or of destroying.
22| [section 20_col1] Kindness to people. There are three kinds of kindness to people: one that comes about through addressing others, as when some people greet everyone they meet and, taking their right hand, hail them; another kind, when someone is ready to help everyone who has met with misfortune; and there is another kind of kindness to people, in which some are fond of giving dinners. Kindness to people, then, is partly through addressing others, partly through doing good, and partly through entertaining and enjoying company. [section 21_col1] Happiness.
23| Happiness is divided into five parts: one part of it is good deliberation, another is good perception and health of body, a third is good fortune in actions, a fourth is good reputation among people, and a fifth is abundance of money and of what is useful for life. Good deliberation comes from education and from becoming experienced in many things. Good perception comes from the parts of the body — for example, if someone sees with the eyes and hears with the ears and perceives with the nose and mouth what needs to be perceived; that sort of thing is good perception. Good fortune is when a person acts on what he has in view, succeeding in doing what the serious person ought to do; good reputation is when someone is well spoken of. Abundance is when someone is so disposed toward the uses of life that he can both do good to friends and discharge public duties generously and abundantly. Whoever has all these is completely happy. Happiness, then, consists partly in good deliberation, partly in good perception and health of body, partly in good fortune, partly in good reputation, and partly in abundance. [section 22_col1] Crafts — Sciences.
24| Crafts are divided into three: one is first, one second, one third. First, then, is mining and woodcutting, for these are preparatory. Bronze-working and carpentry are transformative: bronze-working makes weapons out of iron, and carpentry makes pipes and lyres out of wood. The using craft, such as horsemanship, uses bridles; the military craft uses weapons; music uses pipes and the lyre. Of craft, then, there are three kinds: one first, one second, one third. [section 53_col2] Crafts — Sciences. The sciences [of the first and of the second] are divided into three: for some of them are first, some second, some third. First, then, are the preparatory ones — mining, woodcutting, and stone-cutting; second are the productive and transformative ones, such as bronze-working, which takes iron and reshapes and makes it into bridles and weapons and things of that sort, and carpentry, which takes wood and reshapes and makes it into pipes and ships and houses and things of that sort, and stone-working, which takes stones and reshapes and makes them into walls and houses and things of that sort. Third, again, are the using crafts: horsemanship takes the bridle and uses it well, and the military craft uses weapons, and so on for such things; and again flute-playing takes the pipes and uses them well, and piloting takes the rudder, and so on for the other such things.
25| [section 23_col1] The good. The good is divided into four kinds: one of which we say is the person who possesses virtue, good in his own right; another we say is virtue itself and justice, that these are good; a third is, for example, suitable food and exercise and medicines; and a fourth we say is good, such as flute-playing and acting and things of that sort. Of the good, then, there are four kinds: one is possessing virtue, another is virtue itself, a third is beneficial food and exercise, and a fourth we call good is flute-playing and acting and poetic craft. [section 36_col2] The good. The good is divided into four: for one part of it is virtue and justice, one is the person who possesses virtue, one is the advantageous, and one is the pleasant and what produces enjoyment — virtue and justice, because each of these is said to be good; the person who possesses virtue, such as a horse or a man or things of that sort, for each of these too is said to be good if it possesses virtue. The advantageous is, for example, exercise and medication and all the other things conducive to health and good condition, for each of these too is said to be good for whomever it benefits. And the pleasant and what produces enjoyment — for example, an actor and a flute-player — is said to be good not because it benefits but because it gives pleasure [to be good].
26| [section 24_col1] Existing things. Of existing things, some are bad, some are good, and some are neither. Of these we call bad the things capable of always harming, such as lack of self-control, folly, injustice, and things of that sort; and the things opposite to these are good; and some things sometimes benefit and sometimes harm, such as walking and sitting and eating, [or] things wholly incapable of either benefiting or harming — these, then, are neither good nor bad. Of existing things, then, some are good, some are bad, and some are neither of these. [section 55_col2] Existing things. Each of existing things is divided into three: for it is either good or bad or neither. The good, then, is whatever benefits someone and does not harm; the bad is whatever always harms; and the neither is whatever will sometimes harm and sometimes benefit, such as walks and sleep and hellebore and things of that sort, or will neither harm at all nor benefit. [section 25_col1] Good order. Good order is divided into three: one, if the laws are good, we say is good order; another, if the citizens abide by the established laws, we also say this is good order; and a third, if, there being no laws, they conduct their civic life well according to customs and practices, we also call this good order. Of good order, then, one part is that the laws be good; another is that they abide by the existing laws; and a third is that they conduct their civic life by good customs and practices.
27| [section 14_col2] Good order. Good order is divided into three: one part of it is to use good laws; one part is, if the existing laws are not base, [not] to obey them; one part is to conduct public life by good customs, if there are no written laws. [section 26_col1] Lawlessness. Lawlessness is divided into three: one is when the laws are bad, both toward foreigners and toward citizens; another is when people do not obey the laws in place; another is when there is no law at all. Of lawlessness, then, one part is that the laws are bad; another is when people do not obey the existing laws; a third is when there is no law. [section 15_col2] Lawlessness. Lawlessness is divided into three: one part of it is to make use of bad and mediocre laws; one part is not obeying the laws laid down, if they are good; one part is conducting public life by bad customs, if there are no laws at all. [section 27_col1] Opposites.
28| Opposites are divided into three. For instance, we say goods are opposite to evils, as justice to injustice and practical wisdom to folly, and the like. Evils are opposite to evils, as extravagance to stinginess, and being tortured unjustly to being tortured justly; such evils are opposite to evils. And heavy is opposite to light, fast to slow, black to white, as neutral things opposite to neutral things. Of opposites, then, some are opposite as goods to evils; some as evils to evils; some as neutral things to neutral things. [section 23_col2] Opposites. Opposites are divided into three. For one kind of them is as good to evil, as health to disease and beauty to ugliness, and the like; another is as neutral to neutral, as whiteness to blackness and lightness to heaviness, and the like; another is as a thing-to-be-avoided to a thing-to-be-avoided, as extravagance to stinginess, heat to cold, and thinness to fatness, and the like. [section 28_col1] Goods.
29| Of goods there are three kinds. Some are things that can be possessed, some are things that can be shared in, some are things that must belong. Things that can be possessed are those it is possible to have, as justice and health. Things that can be shared in are those it is not possible to have, but it is possible to share in them; for instance, the good itself is not something it is possible to have, but it is possible to share in it. Things that must belong are those it is possible neither to share in nor to have, but which must belong; for instance, being good and being just are goods. And these are neither things one can have nor things one can share in, but being good and being just must belong. Of goods, then, some are things possessed, some things shared in, some things that must belong. [section 29_col1] Deliberative advice. Deliberative advice is divided into three: one part of it is drawn from past times, one from future times, one from present times. What is drawn from the past consists of examples, as what the Spartans suffered by trusting. What is drawn from present circumstances is, for instance, pointing out that the walls are weak, the men cowardly, the grain supply small. What is drawn from the future is, for instance, urging by way of suspicion that the embassies not be wronged, so that Greece does not become disreputable. Of deliberative advice, then, some is drawn from the past, some from the present, some from the future.
30| [section 18_col2] Deliberative advice. Deliberative advice is divided into three: one part of it is from the past, one from the present, one from the future. What is from the past is, for instance, when examples show that people before us, by disobeying, fell into irreparable evils. What is from the present is, for instance, when present circumstances show that if our walls are unrepaired and we are unarmed, while our enemies are equipped with all these things, we must consider how we will be able to fight. What is from the future is, for instance, pointing out what will result, saying: see to it that, if the enemy sails against us, your land is not destroyed and the bodies of many are not wasted in vain, and that you are not compelled, no less than now, to do these very things which it is now possible for you to do without danger. [section 30_col1] Sound. Sound is divided into two: one part of it is ensouled, one soulless. Ensouled sound is the voice of animals; soulless sound is notes and noises. Of ensouled sound, one kind is articulate, one inarticulate. The articulate is that of human beings, the inarticulate that of animals. Of sound, then, one kind is ensouled, one soulless.
31| [section 24_col2] Sound. Sound is divided into four: one part of it is ensouled, one soulless, and one articulate, one inarticulate. Ensouled sound is that of animals; soulless sound is, for instance, echoes and noises and the sound of the lyre and the pipes. Articulate is the voice of human beings and of certain animals, as nightingales, swallows, sparrows, and the like; inarticulate is the unstructured kind, as clicking sounds, echoes, noises, and the like. [section 31_col1] Beings. Of beings, some are divisible, some indivisible. Of the divisible, some are of like parts, some of unlike parts. Things without parts are those that admit no division and are not composed of anything, as the unit, the point, and a musical note. Divisible things are those composed of something, as syllables, chords, animals, water, and gold. Things of like parts are those composed of like elements, where the whole differs from the part in nothing but quantity, as water, gold, and everything molten, and the like. Things of unlike parts are those composed of unlike parts, as a house and the like. Of beings, then, some are divisible, some without parts; and of the divisible, some are of like parts, some of unlike parts.
32| [section 26_col2] Beings. Again, of beings, some are divisible, some without parts, and of the divisible, some are of like parts, some of unlike parts. Divisible things are whatever admits division, as a house, a cloak, silver, a possession, and the like; things without parts are whatever is indivisible, as the unit, the point, the mark, a musical note, and the like. And of divisible things, then, some are of like parts, whose parts too are alike, as water, fire, bronze, and the like; some are of unlike parts, whose parts are unlike, as a house and the like. [section 32_col1] Beings. Of beings, some are said in their own right, some relative to something. Things said in their own right are those that need no addition in their description; these would be, for instance, man, horse, and the other animals. For none of these requires interpretation through something else. Of things said relatively, those that need some addition in their description, as the greater than something, and the faster than something, and the finer, and the like; for the greater is greater than something less, and the faster is faster than something. Of beings, then, some are in their own right, some said relative to something. Thus also the first things were divided, according to Aristotle.
33| [section 67_col2] Beings. Among beings, some exist in their own right, while others are relative. Now those that exist in their own right are things like man, house, garment, gold, and everything that simply speaking is not necessarily what it is by being something else, while the relative ones are things like the double and knowledge — for the double is spoken of in relation to the half, and knowledge in relation to something else. [book B] [section 3] Vice. Vice is divided into four. For one part of it is folly, one is injustice, one is cowardice, one is licentiousness. Folly is in the rational part, injustice occurs in all these parts, cowardice is in the spirited part, licentiousness is in the appetitive part. Of vice, then, one part is folly, one is injustice, one is cowardice, one is licentiousness. [section 6] Evils. Evils are divided into three. For some of them are in the soul, some in the body, some external. Those in the soul are things like folly, injustice, cowardice, licentiousness, and other such things; those in the body are things like disease, weakness, ugliness, enmity, and other such things; those external are things like poverty, enemies, a city's disrepute, and other such things. Of evils, then, some are in the soul, some in the body, some external.
34| [section 9] Ignorance. Ignorance is divided into three. For one part of it concerns the theoretical, one the practical, one the productive. The ignorance concerning the theoretical is the ignorance found in theoretical studies, that concerning the productive is that found in productions, that concerning the practical is that found in actions. Of ignorance, then, one part concerns the theoretical, one the productive, one the practical. [section 11] Low birth. Low birth is divided into three. For one part of it is being born from parents who are disreputable and base, one is being born from parents who are unjust and wicked, one is from the very vice of the person who has it. Being born from disreputable and base ancestors is, for example, when the ancestors are ignoble by nature or otherwise obscure. Being born from unjust and depraved ancestors is, for example, when they are traitors or have some other injustice and depravity. Being from the very vice of the person who has it is, for example, when he himself is unjust or a wrongdoer, or people hold some other bad opinion of him. Of low birth, then, one part is being born from disreputable and base ancestors, one is being born from unjust and depraved ancestors, one is from the very vice and depravity of the person who has it.
35| [section 12] Motion. Motion is divided into three. For one part of it is motion in place, one is motion by alteration, one is motion in its own right. Motion in place is shifting from place to place, as with those who run, jump, sail, and other such motions. Motion by alteration is as with those who grow, age, waste away, and other such things. Motion in its own right is as with wheels, spinning tops, the universe, and other such things. Of motion, then, one part is in place, one is by alteration, one is in its own right. [section 13] Rest. Rest is divided into three. For one part of it is staying still, one is discord, one is the assessment of the heavy and the light. Staying still is being at rest in itself, as is the condition of the dead and of stones, and other such things. Discord is that of citizens, or enemies, or other animals, arising from enmity or fighting. The assessment of the heavy and the light is, for example, testing the heavy and the light by means of a balance.
36| [section 19] Time. Time is divided into three. For it is either past, or present, or future — which they also call 'about to be.' In the past there are memories and the act of remembering, for everyone remembers past things. In the present there are the sciences, and forms of knowledge, and calculations, and the actions being performed. In the future there are expectations and hopes and everything of that kind. [section 21] The desire to act. The desire to act is divided into three. For one part of it is for the pleasant, one for the fine, one for the advantageous. The desire for the pleasant is serving one's appetites; the desire for the fine is for the sake of honor and good repute; the desire for the advantageous arises for the sake of gain and benefit. [section 22] The naming of beings.
37| The division of the naming of beings falls into five. For the things said of them are spoken of either as one in relation to many, or as many in relation to many and to one, or as unlike [as] in relation to like, or as like in relation to like, or as one in relation to one. Now those spoken of as one in relation to many are, for example, 'swiftest,' 'greatest,' 'finest,' and such things. Those spoken of as many in relation to many and to one are, for example, 'these are more than those,' 'these are greater than those,' 'these are finer than those,' and other such things. Those spoken of as unlike [as] in relation to like ⟨are such-and-such; and those spoken of⟩ as like in relation to like are, for example, 'brothers' in relation to brothers, and 'friends' in relation to friends, and such things. Those spoken of as one in relation to one are, for example, 'this one is finer than that one,' 'this one is faster than that one,' and such things. Beings are divided into three. For some of them are in respect of substance, some in respect of accident, some in respect of affection. Those in respect of substance are, for example, being a man and each of the beings' being what it is; those in respect of accident are, for example, running and sleeping and other such things; that in respect of affection is, for example, feeling pleasure and feeling pain and feeling confident and feeling afraid and such things.
38| [section 25] Beings. Beings are divided into three. For some of them are in respect of substance, some in respect of accident, some in respect of affection. Those in respect of substance are, for example, being a man and each of the beings' being what it is; those in respect of accident are, for example, running and sleeping and other such things; that in respect of affection is, for example, feeling pleasure and feeling pain and feeling confident and feeling afraid and such things. [section 27] The division of the better, etc. The division of the better and the worse, and the finer and the uglier, and the whiter and the blacker: each of these is spoken of in three ways — either in relation to its opposite, or to itself, or to a mean. For example, the good is said to be better than its opposite, as practical wisdom is better than cunning and folly; and the good is said to be better than the mean, as of that which is neither good nor bad; and a thing is said to be better than itself insofar as it is good compared to something good, if the other is less so. Likewise too with the fine: for it is said to be finer than the ugly, and finer than that which is neither ugly nor fine, and it is also said to be finer than a thing that is fine but less so. Likewise too the whiter is spoken of: for the white is said to be whiter than the black, and whiter than that which is neither black nor white, which is the mean. And in the case of the other things spoken of in this way, the same manner must be said to hold. So it is in three ways that a thing is called better and worse, finer and uglier, whiter and blacker.
39| [section 28] The elements that a city is administered from. The elements from which a city is administered are divided into three. For one of them consists in the fighting part of mankind, one in the part capable of deliberating, and one in the part that works. Now the fighting part is the vigorous part, the part capable of deliberating is that of the older men, and the working part is that of the craftsmen and farmers and others of that sort. If any of these is absent, the city is not easily administered. [section 29] Coming-to-be. Coming-to-be is divided into four. For one kind of it is changing from not-being into substance, as when a son who did not exist comes to be, and a statue that did not exist comes to be, and all such cases; one is changing from place to place and being placed in another, as with those who sail and those who journey and everything of that sort; one is a change of state and disposition, as when one becomes educated from being uneducated, and an old man from being young, and a friend from being an enemy; and one is a change of circumstances, as when one becomes poor from being rich, and a ruler from being a private citizen, and a private citizen from being a ruler, and other such cases.
40| [section 30] The true. The true is divided into three. For one part of it is the thing's being true, one is the account's being true, and one is both together. A thing is true when it is so and not otherwise, as that god is immortal; for the thing is so and not otherwise. And to say 'this is a true account' is true of the true; for the account is a thing that falls under this account. And to say that human beings are ensouled — both the account is true and the thing. [section 31] Falsehood. Falsehood is divided into three. For one part of it is the thing's being false, one is the account's, and one is both together. Now the thing is false when it is not as it is said to be but otherwise, as that the one sitting is standing, or the white is black. And the account will be false when someone says that a true account is false, as when one speaks the account concerning god [as when one speaks], that god is immortal, and someone claiming this to be false — that account is false; for there is no thing at all falling under this account, only the account. But whoever says that day is night will state both the thing and the account to be false.
41| [section 32] Honor. Honor is divided into three. For one part of it is in terms of monetary value, one in terms of praise, and one in terms of a certain service and care. Now the part in terms of monetary value is worth in selling and buying, as when we say things are worth their price. The part in terms of praise [is], as the honors given in cities for certain actions, and gifts bestowed. The part in terms of service and care is, for instance, that we honor god by a certain service and care, and we honor our parents likewise, and similarly the other things done through service. [section 34] The judgment of the sciences. The judgment of the sciences is divided into three. For one part of it holds if they concern better or finer things, one if they concern things more useful and more pressing, and one if they concern things more exact and more directed toward demonstration. Now the part concerning better and finer things is, for instance, the art of statue-making and the art of image-making and the art of dyeing purple and such arts. The part concerning useful and more pressing things is, for instance, the art of equipment-making [equipment-craft] and building and such arts. The part concerning more exact things and more directed toward demonstration is the mathematical sciences and philosophy.
42| [section 35] The general. The general is divided into three. For one is a general by law, or one by a certain power and mastery of affairs, or one by knowledge. Now the one by law is, for instance, those chosen in the cities; the one by knowledge is he who possesses the knowledge of generalship; the one by a certain power and mastery of affairs is, for instance, one appointed by someone, or one who has become master of money and soldiers by himself, on his own authority. [section 37] The methods directed at problems. The methods directed at problems are divided into three. For some of them are critical, some theoretical, and some contentious. Critical are those by which we distinguish the better from the worse, as whether justice or courage is better. Theoretical are those by which we examine such a question as whether disease is the same as health and good condition, or not. Contentious are those by which we demolish definitions, as that the best condition of bodies is not good condition. [section 38] Pain.
43| Pain is divided into three. For one part of it is felt over the things it is fitting for the prudent person to be pained at, one is felt over [the goods and evils belonging to others and] the other things that are of no concern to us at all. Now the part felt over the things it is fitting for the prudent person to be pained at is, for instance, over one's own misfortunes, or those of one's own relatives or friends, or of the city as a whole, and over other such things. The part felt over [the goods belonging to others is a kind of envy and malice and everything of that sort; and the part felt over all evils and goods and all] the other things that are of no concern to us at all — the part felt over the evils belonging to others is pity, and the part felt over their goods is envy [, and the part felt over the other things of no concern to us at all is envy and malice]. [section 39] Pleasure. Pleasure is divided into four. For one part of it concerns the rational element, one concerns the spirited element, one concerns the appetitive element, and one concerns the perceptions. Now the [learning] pleasure concerning the rational element is that which comes from learning and discovering, and things of that sort. The pleasure concerning the spirited element is, for instance, that of mastering and conquering and taking revenge, and pleasures of that sort. The pleasures concerning the appetitive element are those arising from food and sexual intercourse and such things. The [perceptual] pleasure concerning the perceptions is, for instance, that which comes through seeing and tasting and smelling, and pleasures of that sort.
44| [section 40] Good order. Good order is divided into four. For one part of it concerns the soul, one concerns the body, one concerns the multitude, and one concerns motions. Now the good order arising in the soul is called orderliness, the good order in the body is called beauty, the good order in motion is named good rhythm, and the good order in the multitude, for instance obedience toward rulers, is called good order. [section 41] Disorder. Disorder is divided into four. For one part of it is in the soul, one in the body, one in the multitude, and one in motion. Now the disorder arising in the soul is called profligacy or licentiousness, the disorder in the body is called ugliness, the disorder in the multitude is called disobedience, and the disorder in motion is named bad rhythm. [section 42] Problems in philosophy.
45| Philosophical problems are divided into five kinds. For one of them is political, one dialectical, one natural, one ethical, one rhetorical. Political is what is proposed concerning laws and certain punishments, for example whether one ought to punish offenses against foreigners or offenses against citizens, or dissimilar offenses, or other such things. Dialectical, for example whether the same knowledge applies to contraries or a different one, and other such things. Natural, for example whether there is one world-order or several, and other such things. Ethical, for example whether one ought to gratify friends in everything, or in some things but not others, and other such things. Rhetorical, for example if someone accuses or defends on behalf of poets — for example, why did Odysseus's companions, though he was the most prudent of men, put him ashore asleep on the island — and such things. [section 43] Punishment. Punishment is divided into four. For one part of it is removal, one a matter of a sum of money, one a matter of degradation, one a matter of bodily maltreatment. Removal is, for example, in the case of incurable offenses, which is called retribution. Those that are a matter of a sum of money are, for example, the fines by which the laws punish. Those that are a matter of degradation are, for example, the disenfranchisements that occur in cities — for example, that a man who has thrown away his shield, or embezzled a deposit, be disenfranchised, and the other legal disenfranchisements. Those that are a matter of bodily maltreatment are, for example, those who flog and those who revile, and such people.
46| [section 45] Error. Error is divided into three. For one part of it is committed with injustice, one with ignorance, one with misfortune. To err with injustice is, for example, to be impious toward god, and to treat friends badly, and the wrongdoings that occur in cities; to err with ignorance is, for example, in grammar and arithmetic and such branches of knowledge — for these come about not with injustice but with ignorance. To err with misfortune is, for example, the case of those who miss their target, and those who miss their way, and those who err involuntarily. [section 46] Misfortune. Misfortune is divided into three. For one part of it lies in actions, one in occasions, one in chance occurrences that happen of themselves. To be unfortunate in actions is to be harmed and to suffer loss; to be unfortunate in occasions is to come too late, and too early, and to miss [the] due moment [and] [occurring]; to be unfortunate in chance occurrences that happen of themselves is, for example, the sudden blows and the harms that befall one from the unexpected. [section 47] Private goods and goods held in common.
47| Private and common goods are divided into five. For some of them are private to god, some private to humans, some common to god and humans, some common to humans and the other animals except god, and some common to all. Private to god is being eternal, and such things; private to a human is being temperate and just, and such things; common to god and humans is being excellent — for it belongs both to god and to an excellent human being to be excellent. Private to a human is self-control, which is a turning away from some evil, whereas for god it is right to say that evil neither comes to be nor exists; and other such things. Common to humans and the other animals except god is courage — for this is a resisting of some danger and fear; and all such things. Common to all is the fine. [section 49] The telling of falsehoods. The telling of falsehoods.
48| The telling of falsehoods is divided into four. For one part of it lies in boastfulness, one in irony, one in mockery, one in a telling of falsehoods that involves harm. The boaster lies toward more and greater — for he is one who pretends, wanting to know what he does not know and to have what he does not have. The one being ironic lies toward less — for the rich man, if he is being ironic, says he is poor, and the wise man says he is not wise. The one telling falsehoods in mockery does so along with jesting — for example, one who calls defeat victory, or calls the bad fine, and the uneducated wise. The one who lies with harm is, for example, one who bears false witness, and one who denies a debt, and other such people. [section 50] The liar. The liar is divided into two. For one lies willingly, the other unwillingly. The one who lies willingly deceives some people and creates deception in others; the one who lies unwillingly, having himself been deceived, lies on account of the deception that is in him. [section 54] Purification and cleansing.
49| Purification and cleansing are divided into three. For one part of them is by law, one by nature, one by craft and by matter. By law, then, purification is . . . (text breaks off) . . . by nature, for example, that of the air, when it clears, and when the waters are clean, and foods, and all such things. By craft and by matter, for example, the washing of bronze vessels and of garments, and such things. [section 56] The similarity of goods [that exist].
50| The similarity of goods [that exist] — those concerning the soul, those concerning the body, and those that are external — is as follows: the first are similar to the first, the second to the second, the third to the third, the fourth to the fourth. Some goods are in the soul, some in the body, some external. For practical wisdom, being in the soul, is the cause of the soul's being disposed in the best way; good condition is the cause of the body's being disposed best; good reputation is the cause of external things being disposed best — for the man of good reputation does what he wishes. Each of these goods, then, plays the leading role, and it is by this that the similarity is first grasped. And again, justice is in the soul and is the cause of order among the parts of the soul, while comeliness, being in the body, is good order among the parts of the body — the cold and the hot and the dry and the wet — and good fortune, being external, is a kind of good timing in the coincidence of affairs. So by this too the similarity of these goods is grasped. And again, courage, being in the soul, is a kind of strength and vigor against fears and such things, while strength, being in the body, is strength against toils and hardships, and friends, being external, provide this same strength for help from outside — for the man who has many friends is stronger in the city. By this too the similarity of these goods is grasped. And again, temperance, being in the soul, adorns the soul and makes it live in due measure, while beauty, being in the body, adorns the body and renders it well-proportioned, and wealth, being external, is a provider and adorner of human beings. By this too the similarity of these goods is grasped.
51| [section 57] The resemblance of evils. The resemblance of the evils concerning the soul, the body, and external things is this: in the soul there is injustice, which disposes the soul in the worst way; in the body there is disease, which disposes the body in the worst way; and among external things there is misfortune, which disposes external actions in the worst way. And it is in this respect that the resemblance among these evils is taken. Again, in the soul folly is a kind of sickness and an irrationality of the soul, while in the body a bad bodily condition is a sickness, and among external things it is ill repute; for ill repute produces a kind of degradation, sickness, and neglect with regard to other things in one's external actions. And it is again in this respect that the resemblance among these evils is taken. Again, cowardice, being in the soul, makes souls panic-stricken and inferior to every fear, while weakness in the body makes bodies give way under every hardship, and among external things enemies make a man weak with regard to external actions and easy to despise; for a man with many enemies finds nothing comes easily to him. And cowardice makes people easy to despise in the face of fear, while weakness makes the body easy to despise in the face of hardships, and enmity does so in the actions of life. Again, prodigality and licentiousness make the soul shameful and disordered, while bodily ugliness, being in the body, makes the body shameful and disordered, and poverty, being external, makes life shameful. And it is in this respect that the resemblance among these evils is taken.
52| [section 59] The loss of knowledge. The loss of knowledge is divided into three. For one case is when that of which there is knowledge is destroyed, another is when forgetting occurs, and another is when the one who has the knowledge is destroyed. Now if that of which there is knowledge is destroyed — for example Socrates — there is no longer knowledge, for it has been destroyed. And if forgetting occurs, in this way too we lose the knowledge. And if the man who has the knowledge is destroyed, it is necessary that the knowledge be destroyed along with him and be lost. [section 64] Animals — genus and species.
53| We must examine what the difference among animals is with respect to one another. We say, then, that of animals some are mortal and some are immortal. Mortal are those whose nature it is to perish and to share in blood, such as man and ox and animals of that kind; immortal are, for example, angels. Of mortal animals, some are winged, some are aquatic, and some are land-dwelling. Land-dwelling are, for example, man, dog, horse, and such; aquatic are ... and such, and in general those whose way of life is in water; winged are, for example, birds and wasps and bees, and all the others [such] that are borne through the air by their own nature. All such things seem to differ from one another both in soul and in body. That "animal" is predicated of all of these in common is clear; but each of them has some differentia, as we have said, for one of them is land-dwelling, another aquatic, another winged, another immortal. And what is predicated in common of all of them we say is the genus. Each of these is an animal, but the animals as divided must be called species.
54| The same holds in the same way for shape and for number. For of the triangle and the rest we say that shape is common, since each of these is precisely something that is a shape. It is clear, then, that shape would be a genus of these, and these are species of shape; for we shall divide shape into triangle and quadrilateral and the rest. Likewise the odd and the even are species of number, for number is predicated of them in common. And since the genus seems . . . to be prior to the species, and "prior" is not said in a single sense, let us speak about it. [section 65] The prior — the posterior.
55| "Prior" is said in five ways. For a thing will be called prior either by nature, or in time, or in potentiality, or in position, or in order. In position, for example, is the sort of thing we are accustomed to say of counters set out, that this one is prior to that one. In order, for example, the commander of a battalion is prior to the captain of a company, and the captain of a company is prior to the private, and A is prior to B. In potentiality we say the general is prior to the soldier, and in general the man in power is prior to the private citizen. In time, for example, father is prior to son, and everything older is prior to what is younger. By nature prior is, for example, the unit is prior to the pair, and the part is prior to the whole, and the genus is prior to the species; and in general, whatever things do not reciprocally imply each other's destruction — of these, whichever one, when destroyed, carries the other along with it in destruction is prior, while what is by nature destroyed along with the other is posterior. For example, when the unit is destroyed, the pair is destroyed, and every number, but when the pair is destroyed, nothing prevents the unit from existing; therefore the unit is prior by nature to the pair. Likewise, when the part is destroyed the whole is destroyed, but when the whole does not exist, nothing prevents the part from existing. And it is clear that in as many ways as "prior" is said, in that many ways "posterior" too will be said; for we shall speak of the posterior either by nature, or in time, or in position, or in order, or in potentiality.
56| [section 66] The simultaneous. In as many ways as "prior" and "posterior" are said, in that many ways "simultaneous" too will be spoken of — either by nature, or in position, or in potentiality, or in time, or in order. In position, then, such things are simultaneous as are equal in place, for example we say that things running are simultaneous, and things standing still. In order such things are simultaneous as, for example, those who stand in the same rank. In potentiality we call simultaneous things that are capable of nothing more than one another. In time we say such things are simultaneous as exist at the same time. And by nature we must call simultaneous both things that reciprocally imply each other's destruction and things that cannot exist apart from one another, for example the double and the half; for these reciprocally imply each other's destruction, and it is impossible for the one to exist apart from the other, since if the double is destroyed there will be no half, and if the half is destroyed there will be no double, and it is impossible, when the double exists, for there to be no half. Now that these things have been demonstrated in this way, it is consistent next to speak about the things that are. [section 68] The contraries.
57| The contraries are divided as follows. Of things that are, some have a contrary, others do not. To gold, for example, and to man and to a garment and such things nothing is contrary, but to virtue and to the good and to the hot there is something contrary; for to the good the contrary is the bad, to virtue vice, and to the hot the cold. Now of contraries themselves, some have an intermediate, others do not. Between the good and the bad there is something intermediate, but between motion and rest there is nothing intermediate, for of necessity everything either is in motion or is at rest. And between life and death there is nothing intermediate, for of necessity whatever is capable of receiving life either lives or has died. | The contraries themselves are spoken of in three ways: either as good is contrary to bad, for example injustice to justice and licentiousness to temperance and such things; or as one thing that is neither good nor bad is contrary to another that is neither good nor bad (for example [text breaks off]) — for none of these is either bad or good; or as bad is contrary to bad, [bad] namely excess to deficiency, and the things spoken of in terms of excess and deficiency, for example being excessively chilled is contrary to being excessively heated, for these are spoken of in terms of excess; and the deficient degree of heat is contrary to the deficient degree of cold, for these too are contraries in terms of deficiency.
58| [section 69] On affirmation and negation. After this, then, we must examine how we speak of affirmation. We say, then, that every predication by which we show that something belongs is an affirmation, for example that the man is sitting, or that the garment is white, and everything said in this manner. Negation is such a thing as that the man is not sitting, and that the garment is not white, and in general that to which the addition of "not" or "no" signifies that something does not belong.